Inside the drawers I found fresh paints and fresh brushes, as well as pastels, oils, vine charcoal, leaves of thick paper, and rolls of rough canvas. I sighed. He'd left me everything I could possibly need; everything I could want for that matter, or even imagine. And he'd deprived me of all my precious excuses. I had nowhere to be. I wanted for nothing. He was coercing me into the very thing I'd been desiring and dreaming of for years—to draw and paint all day. Without deterrent. Without distraction. And now, watching as that dream condensed into a reality right in front of me, I felt at once elated, and somewhere hovering near the edge of a nervous breakdown. The pressure I'd expected. Its intensity I had not. I steadied my breath. There was but one thing to be done about it. I removed a red, a blue, and a green pastel from the upper drawer, and I started spinning.
I'm not sure how long I went without stopping, but several hours must have slipped by at least. The moment my pastel met the page, my mind dissociated itself from the passage of time, and a sense of space dilated to become my only means of orientation. I traced out some anastomotic ivy tendrils, and the dangling, velvety bells of a foxglove flower. I even channeled my inner-O'keeffe for a while, shading in the flesh-red petals of an iris. Painting the roses red... I smirked. Stieglitz would've made a fine Mad Hatter.
I could have kept at it until well after dusk. I could have gone on by candlelight, filling leaf after leaf of paper until I'd rubbed my pastels into oblivion. I could have. But my coffee consumption that morning was a bit too intemperate. I needed to pee. Badly. And by and by the urge was only magnified by the incessant trickling of Niobe's tears, softly filling up the fountain. I abandoned the glasshouse, cursing myself for not having asked Jules about the washroom when I had the chance.
It's really rather embarrassing how fast I got myself lost. I glanced around an unfamiliar corridor, dancing to-and-fro to keep myself continent, and chose the first door that looked even the least bit promising. I hurried toward it down a dim and windowless hall, and pulled the handle.
Nothing happened. I tried again, pushing this time, but it still didn't budge. My brow creased, and I stepped back slowly, distraught. Is it...is it locked? Gradually, the heaviness inside my bladder was replaced by a cool and ominous stone cementing itself to the pit of my stomach. Tabarnac... I frowned, trying hard not to panic. What is he hiding in there?
It was perhaps not completely rational to feel such a profound existential foreboding when faced with a locked door. But given what I already knew of Dmitri's indelicate proclivities, I couldn't help but imagine the most dreadful and draconian of possibilities. In my mind's eye, I saw a pastiche of The Pit and the Pendulum—some damp and torch-lit dungeon, replete with shrew's fiddles, scold's bridles, and a dismal oubliette; newly vacant, awaiting its next wretched tenant.
I backed away a bit further before turning. Even then, couldn't help but glance over my shoulder. More than likely, I had it all wrong. It was nothing, and I had only to worry about the devils I knew, not the imaginary ones that he kept locked away. Be that as it may, I still wanted nothing more at that moment than to put a healthy distance between myself, and whatever the hell was hidden behind that door.
Without any real sense of where I was headed, my feet hastened me all the way back to the foyer, where upon rounding the last corner, I ran headlong into Jules who was coming from the opposite direction. I swallowed a shriek as I stumbled backward. He caught me by the elbow just before I could fall.
"Mon Dieu!" he set me upright. "Je suis vraiment désolé, Madame. Vous vous êtes fait mal?"
"Pas du tout," I shook my head, embarrassed. "Je vais bien, ne t'en fais pas." Suddenly, the urge in my bladder returned as my adrenaline dwindled, "I was, um... I was just looking for the washroom, actually."
"Bien entendu," he straightened his tie. Our collision had left it lopsided. "This way, and then to the left, Madame," he gestured. "And perhaps then you would care to return to the parlor? I was just on my way to fetch you," he folded his hands, "C'estpresquel'heuredugoûter."
... Goûter? My brows arched as I scurried away down the hall. Christ, he's treating me like a child, isn't he? I lingered at the sink to splash some cold water on my face. With each beat, my heart was still thrashing against my chest, but little by little its pace was returning to normal. I gazed at myself in the mirror. You are pale, Penny Foster. I pinched my cheeks to give them some color, and sighed. You really think you're cut out for this? I shut off the water, and rubbed my eyes. He's not even home yet, and you're already falling apart at the seams...
Jules was waiting back in the parlor, standing alongside a rolling brass tea cart. He'd brought out yet another overwrought tray of savory baked goods, sliced terrines, a little smoked salmon, and fresh fruit. He poured the tea, and sat me down on a gray settee beside the fire.
"Pardonnez-moi mon impertinence, Madame," he handed me the steaming cup, "but I must know. What did you think of our little garden?"
My hand was still a bit unsteady as I raised it to my lips.
"It's...like a dream, I guess," I answered softly, and set down the tea before I could spill it. "Much prettier than I could've imagined."
He grinned, "Mais oui. It was taken from Alphonse Balat's design for les Serres Royales de Laeken," he offered me the tray, and half-reluctantly I stole a couple of morsels from the upper tier. "Le maître de la maison—he was an amateur botanist, and a president of the Grand Trunk Railway. C'est vraiment dommage. He had the glasshouse commissioned with the 1910 renovations," he sighed, "but I'm afraid he drowned before it was finished."
I knitted my brow, "he drowned?"
"Oui. On the Titanic, Madame," he nodded, "His poor widow. She carried out the project just as he'd intended. She had the fountain added in memoriam," he picked up the fire poker, still smiling sadly, and stoked the logs. "To this day, Madame, I think there are no finer jardins d'hiver in Montreal."
I believed him. But the garden wasn't nearly the most pressing matter on my mind at that moment. I sipped my tea, and swallowed.
"You know so much about this house, Monsieur."
He nodded proudly, "All there is, Madame."
"Then maybe you could tell me," I leaned forward, lacing my fingers, "what in world happened to all the locks around here?"
He didn't respond right away. I watched his face darken slightly.
"Une autre triste histoire," he lifted the kettle, and poured another cup. "Monsieur Caine removed them some years ago."
"Mais pourquoi?"
He pursed his lips, and touched the arm of a leather wingback, "If I may, Madame..."
I shook my head, shocked to realize he was asking me for permission to sit, "Bien sûr. Please."
"Merci," he settled into the chair. "I imagine Monsieur Caine has told you something of his ex-femme?"
"...Emily," my jaw tensed, "What about her?"
"I imagine he has told you," he sipped, "that she was prone to fits?"
"You mean," I leaned closer, "You mean she had seizures?"
"If only, Madame," he wrinkled his nose. "Manias. Jealousies. Paranoia. Depressions. I did not know her well," he shook his head, "but I knew her well enough to know how unwell she was. L'âme torturée."
I watched him take off his tinted glasses, and wipe the lenses with a white handkerchief. His eyes gazed blindly into the firelight, and with a shiver it occurred to me that the gesture was entirely rhetorical. Much like Madame, Monsieur Partout was a well-practiced raconteur.
"There was one night. She'd been quarreling with Monsieur," again he sipped his tea, "La maison a été un désastre. Furniture upset. Porcelain smashed on the floor. A rare Renoir, slashed clear through with a dinner fork. Monsieur said to me he was going out. He wanted to clear his head. And Madame," he set aside the saucer, "she locked herself inside the bedroom..."
The skeletal chill crept down my spine. I had a dreadful sense that I knew where this story was headed.
"Had I known, I surely would have sent for him sooner," his voice faltered. "When Monsieur returned, he broke down the door. He barely discovered her in time."
His words hollowed out; as if all at once my insides had decided to wilt, and wither away. Just a husk of Penny Foster stayed behind, drinking her tea, and nibbling her goûter.
"She...tried to kill herself?"
"Qui sait?" he sighed. "She told the doctors it was only an accident. Perhaps it was. But they kept her at the hospital for observation. And by the time she returned," he shrugged, "Monsieur had stricken off every lock in the house."
No. Not all of them, Monsieur... A long, somber silence followed, broken only by the crackling of the fire, and our taking turns to quietly slurp the tea. Then he stood, adjusted his lapels, and re-buttoned his jacket.
"I fear I may have been too bold, Madame. It is not my place to comment on Monsieur Caine's affairs. Nor to distract his guests while they are trying to dine," he lowered his chin, "I hope you will forgive the indiscretion."
"Il n'y a rien à pardonner," still empty, my voice was vaporous. "I'm glad we spoke, Monsieur."
He pursed his lips again, "Avez-vous besoin d'autre chose?"
"Non merci," I murmured. "I'm...a little tired, actually. I think I might lie down for a while."
He nodded, smiling gently, "Of course, Madame."
I watched him vanish out of the parlor, wheeling along the little cart in front of him. With no small show of effort, I pulled myself up, and staggered upstairs. My mind was a swirling mess by the time I made it to my room, and I collapsed face-first on the bed in a stupor.
Comment dit-on 'what-the-fuck' en francais? I groaned into the duvet. My thoughts were made of sea foam. Each time I tried to gather them up, they dissolved between my fingers. So she tried it... I rolled over, staring into the drooping, white canopy above the bed. And he stopped her.
I blinked. My eyes were stinging, and wet. Granted, according to Jules the girl was unstable. But I couldn't help but wonder. I couldn't help but wonder what made her that way. In what little I had witnessed, being close to Dmitri was both dizzying, and addictive. And I couldn't deceive myself into believing it was healthy. Like all addictions, in the long term it was undoubtedly deleterious. Even deadly...
I blinked again. Camus said there was only one philosophical problem. I think Pope proved there were two—the second being mixed metaphor—when he changed 'sea' to 'siege' in Hamlet's soliloquy. 'Être ou ne pas être...' I thought of Diane Arbus, her quiet eyes hidden behind the camera lens, and of Sylvia Plath setting out some milk and buttered bread for her children. My shoulder tingled, and I shut my eyes.
My mind just starting to spin out of control again, when my phone rattled on the nightstand, and plucked me up out of my spiral. I leaned over, dazed, to take a look. I had sixteen new texts, all but two of which were from Marie. I glanced over the most recent.
*OMFG penny!! A man came by & took yr stuff... r u really not coming home???*
Tabarnac. I thumbed through a few of its predecessors.
*sooo...did he blow yr mind last night???*
*penny???*
*r u ignoring me??????*
*fine. im going to the theatre with R. meet up later. K?*
*omg omg omg omg omg*
*call me call me call me!*
*plz...*
*im freaking out!!*
I sighed. I suppose it was careless of me to have not gotten in touch with her straight away that morning. Had she pulled the same stunt on me, I probably would've called in the Royal Canadian Mounties before I even rolled out of bed. Marie, thankfully, was less given to the toxicities of wild-eyed worry. Nonetheless, she did seem awfully worked up. I dialed, and she answered on the first ring.
"Penny?"
"It's me," I scrunched my eyes, bracing for myself for her rebukes. "...I'm fine. Sorry I didn't call earlier."
"Mon Dieu, Penny! You have no idea," she moaned, "All is ruined. Ma vie est terminée."
I paused. I... don't think she's talking about me moving out. I sat up against the headboard, and resisted the urge to roll my eyes. If anxieties were the vice of my psyche, then histrionics were undoubtedly hers. Even so, I always strove to give her the benefit of the doubt; there was always the slim chance that she was in genuine crisis. And it sounded as though she'd been crying.
"What is it?" I asked, "Are you fighting with Renault again?"
"Mais non. It's worse, Penny. Much worse. It's the theatre," she sniffled, "C'est parti."
"What?" I creased my brow, confused, "What do you mean 'gone'?"
"Just that," she sniffled again. "We went in to rehearse this morning, and the doors were all chained shut. They shut us down. C'est fini. C'est passé maintenant."
"I...don't understand," I murmured.
"Moi non plus," she sighed hotly. "It's the owner. He wasn't paying his taxes, and the CRA has seized the place until he pays."
"God. That's awful," I blushed for having assumed she was hysterical. I wanted to help her, "Do you think... Is there any way you could find some other venue?"
I thought of The Lord Chamberlain's Men, moving their Globe across the Thames slat by slat.
"There's no time, Penny. Even if there was," she choked back a sob, "There's no money. Renault and I—we put every dime we have into this show."
Oh, Marie... She started to cry. I held my tongue so as not to add insult to injury, but even with what exquisitely little I knew about theatre production, I was pretty sure investing your own money was one of those eternal and inviolable no-no's. ...And aren't you supposed to have insurance for this sort of thing? I stayed silent, and waited patiently until she was ready to speak.
"I just... I just don't know what we'll do, Penny. I'm so lost."
"Quel désastre," I breathed. "I'm so sorry. I can't imagine."
"Merci," she blew her nose. "I know how much you would like to call me a fool right now."
I flushed. It surprised me sometimes; how well she could really read me.
"C'est vrai. I am a fool. But I am losing my mind right now—I wish you were here to keep me sane." She paused, and blew her nose again. "...Have you truly moved in with him?"
I closed my eyes, afraid to answer, "I have."
"Salope," she forced a tired and congested giggle. "You are crazy, of course. But you know, I am proud of you."
I scoffed, "...really?"
"Oui," she sighed, starting to calm down. "He took you to bed once, and now he will not let you leave? I am thinking he has contracted Foster fever. Très contagieux"
I smirked, blushing. If she only knew...
"He is something though, yes?"
"Something... " I swallowed, "he is that." I paused, "Did he really send someone over there for my stuff?"
"Oui. Un courrier. The boy left an hour ago," she answered. "And I kept tearing up while I packed your things, Penny. Je suis une épave aujourd'hui."
"I'm sorry," once more, I apologized. "You really shouldn't have had to do that."
"De rien," she murmured. "Actually, Renault asked me to move in with him a week ago, but I told him it was impossible. I couldn't leave you out on the street. But now," she sighed, "who knows what will happen?"
"Oh..." my throat tightened. "I, um... I had no idea. That's great. Really," I'm not sure how convincing I sounded. "I'm so happy for you."
It was indefensibly selfish of me, but my first thought was not about how glad I ought to be that they were working things out, and getting so serious. I was worried about what would happen to me if Marie indeed moved out, and for some unforeseen reason I felt the need to flee Lacoste. But that was my problem, not hers. I kept my qualms to myself.
"So you swear you're not mad at me?"
"Mais non," she said, "I dislike the timing, of course. But what can one do? Le monde est fou, yes?"
"Je suis d'accord," I breathed. "But...what will you two do about the theatre? Have you thought of a plan?"
"Je ne sais pas," she sighed. "Renault is putting together a protest tomorrow. I don't know what good it will do. But he's been calling the cast and crew all day. He wants us to convince everyone we can to be there."
"Oh..." I bit into my lip, praying silently that she wouldn't ask.
"Will you come, Penny?"
"I... I, um..."
"S'il te plaît," she begged. "Please? Promise me you'll come. I think I will go crazy without you."
I felt a cold sweat bead on my temples. I knew it was foolish of me. I knew intuitively that he'd never allow it. But I had neither the strength nor cruelty to tell her no. I gritted my teeth. 'It is a far, far better thing I do...'
"...Alright."
"You'll be there?"
"Yes," I shivered. "At least, I'll do my best. I promise."
"Ah! Merci, Penny. Merci," she sang. "You don't know what it means to me."
"De rien," I murmured. "Besides, I owe you one, don't I?"
We said our goodbyes, and I promised to tell her all about Dmitri tomorrow. I was lying, of course. When at last we hung up, I tossed my phone onto the nightstand, and dug my hands into my forehead. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot... It was remarkable, really, how much the promise I'd made distressed me. I wanted to curl up into a little ball at the foot of the bed, and just vanish. It was outlandish for me to ever think that he might let me go. I'd had to fight tooth-and-nail the night before just for him to let me keep my job. But it was equally outlandish that he had the power to dictate my whereabouts in the first place. These were distortions within distortions; moving water in a convex mirror.
Even so, when the time came, and he did forbid it, I knew that I would never disobey him. I didn't yet have the proper parlance to describe what was between us, but already I understood that by its very nature it was absolute. He could have told me to stand out in the snow barefoot that evening, and I, with hardly a word of protest, would have done it. That's the sort of mastery he had over me. I'd have stood there for him—shaking, shivering, and furious—until either he brought me back inside and warmed me up beside the fire, or with teeth chattering and lips blue, I collapsed in a head into the snow.
It was, I suppose, neither wise nor harmless. But it was real. And so long as I was to survive at Lacoste, it was something I'd have to learn to bridle, or else embrace. If I didn't, the sheer dissonance of it; the constant, quaking conflict would sooner or later implode upon me. I rubbed my eyes harder, trying to massage some measure of sense back into my head.
"Miss me, Miss Foster?"
I heard his voice, and I believe my heart stopped beating.
He stood in the doorway, leaning loosely against the jam. My lips parted, but they didn't answer. There was something about the look of him; he seemed at once brighter and darker than physics should permit, as if the contrast was cranked up in my retinas. He stepped closer.
"Or aren't you the type to pine?"
I did what I could to feign a languid coolness, sitting up, and leaning my chin on one hand.
"Honestly," I raised my eyes, "I hardly noticed you were gone, Monsieur"
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