“I’ve met her, I believe,” Loffredo said. “An artist, but like Elena, difficult to find. I hope we have better luck this afternoon.”
A waiter in vest and apron came to take their order.
Rosa studied the menu. “Just a snack you understand. We’ve missed the noon meal, but we want to have a full meal tonight. Your menu is so tempting, I don’t know what to choose.”
“Then I suggest some of our excellent pate to start, and perhaps two bottles of wine, a Cabernet and a Medoc. You’ll want to try our dessert. Everything we serve is delicious, but we are renowned for our pastries.”
“You would be. Monsieur Procopio was born in Palermo,” the madam said and adjusted her hat.
The waiter nodded.
“I know what I want,” Loffredo said. “The coq au vin here is delicious.”
Arcangelo and Teo ordered the same. Tessa wanted to try the trout served with almonds and boiled potatoes, Serafina ordered salmon and a small salad, and Rosa ordered the gnocchi and sea bass.
“Any response to the advertisement?” Rosa asked as she watched the waiter bone her bass.
“What are you talking about?” Tessa asked.
Serafina told her about placing a notice in the papers, asking for information about Elena. Their food arrived, succulent and steaming. Serafina was amazed at the cuisine. She thought soon they’d have a meal not up to their high standards, but as yet that had not happened. She had to admire French cuisine. She straightened, wishing Gesuzza had not tightened her corset so much. Besides, small waists were no longer the style. She’d have a word with Rosa after the meal.
All talk stopped while they were served, but when the waiters left, Tessa told them she’d found the studios of Renoir and Degas. Neither artist knew Elena, although Degas said there are a few wealthy women, hangers on, who come to his studio from time to time, usually at inappropriate times.
“His studio was a mess, Mama, it looked like he’d never cleaned it,” Tessa said, taking a bite of her trout. “But my favorite is Renoir. So handsome, charming, too, but he’s interested only in painting.”
“Had he heard any news of Elena?” Serafina asked. She speared some lettuce and smiled at its flavor as she took a bite.
Tessa shook her head. “And I also knocked on Victorine’s door, but there was no answer.”
Teo wiped sauce from his lips. “Why don’t you send me and Arcangelo to the south of France looking for Elena?”
Serafina shook her head. If she sent them now, they’d flounder, she explained. She had no leads, nowhere to point them to begin the search, and the south of France was vast.
Loffredo agreed. “We have an old address for her in Arles, another in Aix. She stayed there during the Siege, but they’re both apartments she let some five years ago. She gave them up when her friends moved back to Paris after the Commune.”
Conversation stopped while busboys cleared the table and waiters brought cafe and desserts, a collection of sweets.
“Something the cook made for you, Madame,” the waiter said, and presented Rosa with a silver tray filled with cannoli, enough for everyone, in addition to their orders of profiteroles and bowls of creme brulee and piping hot cafe. The madam bit into one, and the shell crackled, pronouncing the cannoli shells passable.
Serafina showed Loffredo the envelope the concierge had given her. It contained the notice La Presse had run along with a letter written on what Tessa said was charcoal paper, a grayish blue tone, smudged in spots and written in crude block letters. “I know where she is.” It was the only line, and it was signed by Zacharie Honore with an address on the Rue Maitre Albert, close to Victorine’s studio.
The street was narrow, the neighborhood quiet on a hazy afternoon when Serafina and Loffredo knocked on the door and waited. And waited some more.
“Another chasing of the wayward goose. I’m beginning to think we’ll never find her,” Serafina said. “Let’s go, I’m so sorry.”
They’d gotten halfway down the street when someone called out, “Yes?”
Turning back, they saw the head of a young man with ragged hair.
“We search for Zacharie Honore.”
“You see him before you,” the man said, wiping his palms on the sides of his pants.
He smelled of oil and turpentine and his breath was foul. Serafina moved back a few paces. She noticed that his shoelaces were missing. His neck, face, and hands were dirty, a failed painter with blotchy skin and a purple nose. She looked at Loffredo who shrugged.
Honore led the way down several steps to his studio, a small airless room, part of the building’s cellar, he explained. An oil lamp was the only light. An empty easel stood in the corner. Pots of linseed oil, vials of pigment, a sack of plaster and rabbit skin glue stood on a worktable next to a few worn brushes. A roll of linen and wooden stretchers were stacked in the corner. In the far corner finished canvases were strewn about, their lines and colors unappealing.
“You answered a notice in La Presse.”
He nodded.
“How do you know Elena?” Loffredo asked.
“A few years ago, we were… friends. I met her through a mutual friend, a poet, Paul Verlaine. Not here now, he’s in prison. And of course through Victorine, we both know her.”
“You were lovers?”
He shrugged. “She helps me and I help her.”
“This is your studio?” Serafina asked. “Your work?” She pointed to the paintings.
He had a prolonged coughing fit. “Last year’s work. Haven’t painted in a while. I’ve been ill.” His hands began to tremble and he hid them beneath the seat of his chair.
Loffredo rubbed his chin. She could feel the heft of his sorrow. They watched as Honore coughed again.
Serafina wished she could help him. “You need fresh air. I suggest we go to a cafe. Do you know a place close by?”
“Down the street, closer to the quay. Too expensive for me, but there’s a bistro you would like.”
They walked down the street with Honore. She watched Loffredo drinking in the fresh air. When they were seated, the painter ordered steak and pommes frites. Loffredo asked him where they could find Elena.
He didn’t answer at first, he was too busy shoveling in his food. Serafina noticed his hands were filthy. He was eating with them, not bothering with utensils, stuffing chunks of meat into his mouth. She turned away.
“She’s in Aix, close to Cezanne’s studio.” He looked at them, wary. His lips were coated with animal fat. It dribbled down his chin.
“Do you have the address?”
“I…”
“Do you have her address or not?” Serafina asked.
“I do. You must understand,” he said, interrupted by coughing, “she asked me not to tell anyone. I’m to meet her there next month, and she will have paintings for me to show to our friends.”
Slowly he brought out a piece of paper, worn in spots where it had been folded many times. He handed it to Loffredo who opened it and read. “The note is written in her hand.”
Honore’s gaze was furtive. “My reward?”
Serafina opened her reticule and drew out an envelope.
His fingers shook as he opened it and counted the bills.
After they left Honore, she and Loffredo walked along the Seine until they found a place to sit.
“Remember Les Halles?” he asked. When she nodded he said, “I saw Honore with a companion at the small bar. They were quite drunk, do you remember them?”
Serafina shook her head. “I saw only you.” She stopped then and reached up and kissed him. It was a real kiss, a kiss worthy of Paris.
“How far has Elena sunk?” He buried his head in her shoulder and wept.