Free The Mystery of the Lost Cezanne by M. L. Longworth Page A

suffers,” Paul said. “But, thankfully, in silence.”
    M. Alphéron smiled. He knew how difficult Cézanne Senior could be. Demanding, impatient, opinionated. “I have bad news,” M. Alphéron went on. “I’ve mixed the first batch of medicine for your father. But the rest will have to wait until the end of the day; my shipment of morphine has been delayed.”
    â€œJust my luck!” Cézanne exclaimed. “I had planned on going to Gardanne to paint!”
    â€œI’m sorry, Paul. Had we decided to extend the train lines to pass through Aix, as they did in Avignon—”
    Cézanne raised his thick hand in protest. “I’ve heard enough of that. We were right to protect our town from the coming industrialization. Have you been to Paris lately? Trains and smoke everywhere! The whole city is black from coal soot.”
    â€œI’ve never been to Paris, Paul,” M. Alphéron said, smiling.
    Cézanne went on talking as if he hadn’t heard. “And L’Estaque, where I painted in peace for years . . . now look at it! It may as well be a
quartier
of Marseille! Factories and chimneys are cropping up along the shore—”
    â€œAh, that I’m truly sorry to hear. The last time I visited your parents at the Jas, they showed me three of your L’Estaque paintings. All wonderful.”
    The assistant tried not to make noise as he dusted andrearranged the heavy ceramic jars that lined the shelves of M. Alphéron’s pharmacy. He had been to L’Estaque twice and only saw a few fishing boats, some fishermen’s shacks, and the sea. What in the world could one paint there? And as for Paris, he dreamed of going. He thought about it day and night.
    â€œAh,” Cézanne said, grunting. He was thankful for the compliment but found it so hard to say so. “Well, there’s nothing to be done. I’ll be back later in the day.”
    â€œWhy don’t you walk north of Aix today?” M. Alphéron suggested. “Up past my house the garrigue is still bright and green, despite the cold weather. And the sky is blue.”
    Cézanne didn’t like the suggestion of where to paint, or what to paint. He had been thinking of the bridge in Gardanne all the previous night. But if he had to be back at the pharmacy in the late afternoon, he didn’t have much choice. “
Merci, mon ami,”
he replied, shaking M. Alphéron’s hand. “I’ll take your advice.” He would walk north of Aix; it was a part of town he was less familiar with, but there were fine views of the mountain from the hills, and, as the druggist had observed, the sky was blue.
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    Although the family desperately needed money, Manon was thankful not to have to work today. She had packed a lunch—some dried bread, a slice of the wild boar sausage that one of her brothers-in-law had cured and given to Manon and Mme Solari, and two dried figs. She would head up north of Aix and walk until she tired. She had, along with her lunch in a cloth bag, her book of Provençal wild flowers that Émile Zola had given her. It was winter, but all year long some plants bloomed in her beloved countryside. She wished that her love of plants could give her work; she so desperately wanted a passion as Philippe had with his sculpting. Even her sister Isabella was obsessed with tending her mulberry trees.
    Manon had spent more time at home that morning than she had wanted to; her mother needed her help making ravioli. Her sister Clara had come, too, to help, and Manon had overheard them whispering about her. What would become of Manon? Would she ever marry? Why did she not weep for Jean-Auguste?
    She walked quickly uphill and out of town. She knew every fine house, and every small one, by heart. Her brother, Philippe, always told her that she had one foot in nature and one foot in town. He was the only one