The Lost Carousel of Provence Page 9

  Cady couldn’t hold back anymore. She hiccupped, tears spilling down her cheeks. Maxine’s stout arms wrapped around her, and Cady sobbed into the bodice of her ugly flowered polyester tunic.

  After a few moments, Maxine held Cady at arm’s length, wiped the tears from her face with an old-fashioned cotton handkerchief, and said:

  “Now that that’s taken care of, let’s you and I go learn to read.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  1900

  ANGERS

  Maëlle

  Monsieur Maréchal, the foreman, barks his orders to the men. At first he had scared Maëlle, but now she appreciates his focused demeanor, his habit of remaining silent when not issuing demands or rebukes. Sometimes, over their morning tea, they speak of the smell of the ocean in the morning, of her hometown by the sea, and of the promise of the new century. He has two grown daughters, and he enjoys arguing with Maëlle about her views on a new future for women.

  And she realizes how much she has to learn. Not only concerning the craft, but about the history of carousels. Monsieur Maréchal insists she can never be a gifted carver if she doesn’t understand the origin of the art of the carousel.

  “The word comes from the Italian garosello, which means ‘little battle.’ It was a training method used in Turkey and the Middle East, brought back to Spain and Italy during the Crusades,” he tells her as he watches her sand the fourth coat of gesso on a prancing horse. “They became common in France after a jousting accident killed King Henry II, Catherine de’ Medici’s husband. Knights started practicing spearing suspended rings with their lances, rather than risking hurting each other.”

  Monsieur Maréchal pauses to point out a few spots Maëlle has missed; the primer must be absolutely smooth for the paint and gilt to adhere properly.

  “Then in 1662, for the birth of the dauphin, Louis XVI held a huge, glorious festival in front of the Tuileries in Paris. Fifteen thousand guests watched as knights competed in extravagant jeux de bagues. The location of the grand affair is known today as the Place du Carrousel.”

  “I hope to visit Paris one day, to see it,” Maëlle says, breathless at the thought.

  “There is much more than that to see in Paris,” says Monsieur Maréchal, with a nod. “And I have no doubt you will get there one day, Maëlle. You are ambitious, and smart. Just”—he glanced toward Léon, who labored over a small pig, the sinuous movements of his biceps clear under his muslin shirt—“remember what you are working toward, and you will achieve your dreams.”

  * * *

  • • •

  One day Monsieur Bayol tells Maëlle she will be working with Léon to learn the art of gilding.

  “So, you have worked yourself into the position you wanted, I see,” Léon says, looking down at her with a slight smile on his lips.

  Maëlle is so pleased she cannot keep the grin from her face.

  “As in most aspects of life, gilding is primarily about proper preparation,” Léon says, his voice suddenly businesslike. “First, the bare wood must be perfectly smooth, the holes and nicks and joints filled and sanded, then cleaned of all dust. Afterward we seal the wood with rabbit-skin glue.”

  The amber liquid reeks, but Maëlle does not shrink from the stench. With every stroke she is closer to her dream.

  “Afterward, several coats of gesso are applied. The gesso is left in the double boiler—don’t forget to stir it—and is always applied warm.” There is a tiny gas burner in one corner of the studio. “Then the coat of gesso is left to dry overnight. And then there is recarving, which is a painstaking process where all the sculpted details that got lost with layers of gesso are recarved to achieve the desired profile.” He gestures to the dizzying array of chisels, veiners, gouges, planers, and bobs that are laid out on the primary worktable. Part of Maëlle’s job is to keep the precious tools cleaned and oiled and sharpened.

  “In a big factory such as this one, if a worker is good at carving, that may be his only job, as it requires a lot of skill. Or, of course, if Monsieur Bayol is available, he likes to add his special flourishes at this point. The outside, or ‘romance’ side, of the animal is always the most ornately decorated.”

  Maëlle listens with care, but more than this, she watches Léon. The way his jaw moves as he speaks, the dark whiskers that shadow his cheeks. The way he impatiently pushes his white shirtsleeves up to his elbows, displaying hard, muscular forearms, the bones and sinew undulating as he applies the tools to the wood.

  She leans in to catch a whiff of his scent: paint and fresh-sawn wood, but also something entirely his. He smells like the fennel that used to grow wild in the fields outside her hometown.

  Maëlle has spent much of her life around men, dreaming with her brother, working with her father, interacting with her neighbors. But this is different. When she was young, Maëlle often wished she were a boy. She longed to run and fish and hunt, to carve and create like her father. She had never cared for cooking and sewing—much less cleaning—like her sisters and mother. But when Maëlle declared she would never marry, her mother told her she would change her tune when she fell in love. Maëlle had disagreed at the time, but now she wonders: Is this that feeling? The elusive sensations never roused by the butcher’s son, or the widower farmer, or any of the other boys from town in their striped sweaters who stank of fish guts and brine from their time at sea?

  All Maëlle knows is that for the first time in her life she finds it hard to concentrate on learning a new skill. Her heated gaze skips over Léon’s hands, his arms . . . his mouth. She loses track of what he is saying, imagining the feel of those lips touching hers.

  After the recarving, Léon and Maëlle stand back as Monsieur Bayol comes to inspect the piece. He picks up a sharp veiner—a tool like an ice pick—to add a few details, making hmmm sounds as he studies the depth and detail of the carving. Then he nods and moves on.

  Léon glances at Maëlle and smiles. In a conspiratorial whisper, he murmurs: “When I first started working here, I would have given my right arm for a nod like that. Monsieur Bayol is a great man, a great artist.”

  Maëlle understands. It is like striving to please her father, but . . . more so.

  “Now, the final coat of gesso must be sanded again.”

  “Again?”

  “There is never enough sanding,” he says with a smile, taking her hand in his. He guides her palm to the figure, brushing her fingertips over the swoops and swirls of the horse’s mane.

  “You feel how smooth it is? Like velvet.”

  She is speechless; her skin burns where he touches her.

  “Now, we apply three or four coats of a soft clay—in this case, we will use yellow bole. Do you see the consistency?”

  The bole looks more like a creamy mud than paint. Léon applies it with a long-handled, soft-haired brush that reaches into the deepest indentations of the crevices, the nooks, the cavities.

  “Then more sanding and we apply one coat of red bole on the areas of highest relief. A final sanding and only then are we ready for the gold.”

  They wait until most of the heavy work has finished and the workers are heading home for the day; then Léon tells Maëlle to shut all the windows.

  “The gold leaf is tissue-thin, you see? The slightest breeze will blow it. We always cut it on a special cushion.”

  The precious gilt gleams in the late afternoon light, wafting in air currents no one else feels.

  “The glue, called size, is made of water and melted gelatin. It is applied with this special brush, made of goat hair.” Léon shows her the flat, broad brush, wrapped with a copper ferrule, and sets the horse on an incline to keep the glue from puddling. “We work in small sections so the size doesn’t dry.”

  He places the loose leaf on the cushion and cuts it into sections with a sharp knife.

  “Never, ever, touch the gold. The slightest o
il from your fingers will mar it. To lift it, use the gilder’s tip, like this.” He shows her the “tip,” a short-handled brush made of fine, long strands of sable. “But you can run the hairs along your cheek for a tiny bit of adhesion. You see?”

  He lifts the soft bristles to her face, runs them along the apple of her cheek. It feels like he is rubbing a newborn kitten along her skin. The breath leaves her body in a whoosh.

  “Feel how soft?”

  Maëlle can only nod.

  The gold leaf is so delicate that it clings to the brush, and Léon brings the gilt to the carved surface, glistening with glue.

  “You must be very precise; overlapped areas will not burnish the same as a single layer, and we must not waste the precious metal. Afterward, we use a small dry mop, which has a soft, domed tip, made of squirrel hair. The round shape reaches the deepest profiles. Tamp the leaf down on the surface to be sure the metal leaf adheres fully. The goal is for it never to ‘sink’ into the glue, but for the metal to sit on top so it can gleam properly.”

  “What of the spots you’ve missed?”

  “For touch-ups, we use a pointed gilder’s brush. And now, this will be your job: to burnish the gold to a high sheen with an agate burnisher.”

  He hands her a polished rock with a metal handle and leads her to an already complete figure of a cow with small areas of gold gilding on its harness and saddle blanket.

  She dons a pair of white cotton gloves. Though they are too big for her, and stained from use, they make her feel elegant, like a lady. Léon shows her how to run the smooth, cool stone along the gilt to bring out a high sheen.

  “And now,” he announces, pulling off his own gloves with a flourish, “c’est l’heure vert.”

  “It’s the ‘green hour’?”

  “Exactament. Time to meet my friends for an absinthe.”

  Maëlle looks up at him expectantly.

  At that moment, Monsieur Maréchal walks in, making his last rounds of the factory for the evening. His sharp eyes flicker back and forth between the two of them; he does not seem pleased to see them standing so close to each other.

  “Keep your mind on your work, little girl,” Maréchal says. “You must burnish this cow tonight before you are done with your workday. And remember: Gold gilt is delicate, and precious. It can be ruined far too easily.”

  “Oui, monsieur,” says Maëlle. “I understand.”

  Maréchal casts a severe look at Léon, who merely smiles and wishes him a good night. Then the foreman takes his hat and jacket from the peg near the door and walks out.

  “One last thing to know about gold gilt,” says Léon in a quiet voice, his gaze returning to linger on Maëlle’s face. “It should never be left without its proper ending; only burnishing will bring out its true luster. See you tomorrow, little girl.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  PRESENT DAY

  PARIS

  Cady

  Late in the afternoon on the following day, Cady returned to the Musée Carnavalet carrying a pink box tied with rough twine and sealed with a gold foil sticker from the Pâtisserie des Rêves. She had spent a good fifteen minutes perusing the displays in the gloriously pink, sweet-smelling shop. Each pastry was more beautiful and enticing than the last, but she finally settled on a pastel rainbow of macarons, an elegant fraisier—a tiny white cake topped with crème brûlée—and a slice of Black Forest cake with shaved dark chocolate and sprinkled with powdered sugar.

  “Just a little thank-you for setting up the meeting with Jean-Paul Mirassou,” Cady said to Madame Martin. “He was very nice.”

  “He is single,” Madame Martin said knowingly.

  Cady’s mouth open and closed, guppy-like.

  Madame Martin laughed. She held the pink box to her nose, closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply. Setting it to the side, she patted it as though it were a cherished pet.

  “I apologize for being so forward. I am very fond of Jean-Paul. He was engaged to be married, but they broke up on the eve of the wedding. The poor man needs someone to take care of, and I have always thought he would make a very good husband. I have known him since he was a child. He acts very serene, but in reality . . .” She trailed off with a shake of her head.

  “Jean-Paul mentioned that the current owner of Château Clement is a novelist,” Cady said, to change the subject. “Have you read his work? I bought a translation of The Château, but even in English it’s a little . . .”

  “Difficult to understand?” Madame Martin scoffed. “To say the least. I never cared for that sort of experimental fiction. Give me a good romance any day.”

  “I was hoping it would give me some insight into the history of the château. Jean-Paul said that around the turn of the twentieth century Yves and his wife commissioned a carousel from the Bayol factory. An entire carousel for just one family. Hard to imagine.”

  “Today’s wealthy families might own a private jet, or an island retreat. Different times, different indulgences.”

  “True.”

  “Of course, most of the châteaux owners lost everything over the course of the World Wars. Not only were many buildings damaged and looted, but afterward economic changes and increased taxes meant huge landholdings were no longer profitable. Unless, of course, the owners could produce wine, or turn their homes into hotels or resorts.”

  “Is that why so many were left to fall into ruin?”

  She nodded. “The word château means castle, though it is applied to everything from a massive medieval stone fortress to a delicately detailed, slightly large house. The government stepped in to salvage some of the more noteworthy or historic châteaux, but can’t afford to restore them all, much less maintain them. It is a great shame.”

  “You said your husband is from Provence. Has he been to Château Clement?”

  “Oh no, I don’t think so. Not inside, anyway. Apparently, the owner doesn’t much like people.”

  “I just can’t figure out why my rabbit, which apparently wasn’t carved by the Bayol atelier, would contain a photo of a woman standing in front of a carousel that Bayol did make for a private residence.”

  “Have you considered that perhaps your rabbit was carved at a later time? Perhaps someone tried to copy a Bayol rabbit from the carousel, for the woman he loved—the woman in the photo! You said there was a love note. . . .”

  “Now I see why you like romance novels,” Cady said with a smile. “You’re right—a man could have written the note for his love, but what would explain the lock of hair?”

  “Perhaps she gave it to him, and he put it all together in the rabbit as a memento. As an engagement gift, perhaps.”

  “That is a nice version of events,” Cady said, though she wasn’t convinced. “How do you suppose it got to the United States?”

  “Historical objects often end up going overseas,” Madame Martin said. “As I mentioned, the château might have been looted at some point. Many artifacts were sold after the war as well, when France was struggling to get back on her feet. Americans had more money, and tourists love to bring home souvenirs.”

  Madame Martin’s phone rang and she picked it up.

  While she waited, Cady studied a large framed map of Paris that hung over a crammed bookcase, pleased that she was quickly able to pick out where she was now, at the Musée Carnavalet in the Marais, and the general location of her apartment in the Latin Quarter, and even the Abbey Bookstore. Having a sense of where she was in relation to the Seine, Cady realized, was a huge help in staying oriented in Paris.

  Madame Martin hung up the phone and raised her eyebrows at Cady. “Guess who’s here?”

  “Who?”

  “Jean-Paul,” Madame Martin said in a loud whisper, like a schoolgirl.

  Cady couldn’t help but smile. Just yesterday she had pegged Madame Martin as a stern historian. But then, Cady reminded herself, s
he had never been a good judge of character.

  Jean-Paul strode into the office but stopped in his tracks when he saw Cady. “Cady, bonjour, what a lovely surprise.”

  She stood and they traded kisses; then Jean-Paul greeted Madame Martin, calling her tante, or aunt.

  “I just came by to thank Madame Martin for introducing us,” Cady said.

  Jean-Paul’s eyes lit on the pink bakery box.

  “But I realize now I should have brought you some treats as well,” Cady added. “To thank you for escorting me all over Paris yesterday.”

  “Just a small slice of the city, really,” he said, his voice dropping slightly. “And it was my pleasure.”

  “Or maybe you would prefer American bourbon? I was told they don’t have much of it here, so my friend sent a bottle with me.”

  He smiled. “I do like whiskey, but honestly, no thanks are necessary.”

  “Jean-Paul, can you imagine?” Madame Martin said. “Cady is reading Le Château, by Fabrice Clement. She is hoping to find out more about the carousel they had at Château Clement.”

  The shift in his mood was subtle, but this time Cady was sure of it: The subject bothered Jean-Paul. He appeared relaxed and easygoing, but something told her there were secrets tucked within that handsome frame. Then again, Cady kept her own cards close to her chest as well. She certainly wasn’t going to call anyone else on the carpet for such a sin.

  “I believe I am done for the day,” announced Madame Martin. “Let’s go have apéro.”

  “What’s apéro?” Cady asked.

  “A little drink, and perhaps a snack. I know a lovely little café around the corner.”

  “Actually, Tante, I have dinner plans,” began Jean-Paul, checking his watch.

  “Nonsense,” replied Madame Martin. “You have time for a quick drink.”

  He ducked his head. “I suppose I do.”