Cezanne's Quarry Read Online Free

conversation no longer deterred, Martin headed toward the cathedral. When he turned a corner, out of Franc’s sight, he grabbed at his stomach. Unable to hold it in any longer, he bent over and vomited into a sewer. Then he wiped his mouth with his sleeve, leaned against the wall, and took several deep breaths. The gaslight lamps cast strange shadows on the narrow, empty streets, but his ears were no longer assaulted by the buzzing of insects. Instead he heard the comforting, civilized sounds of Aix’s many fountains, gurgling, as they brought the city’s famous waters up from the earth. Martin took advantage of this bounty at the side of the cathedral, cupping his hands and filling his mouth with the cool, clear liquid. He dipped into the stone fountain again and again, washing his hands and face until the water poured over his beard and ran in rivulets under his collar. He watched as the grit of the quarry swirled away from him.
    “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” So said the priests, and his mother, quite often. But even she knew it was not so simple a process.
    Martin took a few steps back to look up at the great church and caught a glimpse of a smiling statue. When he was a boy, his mother had taken him to many churches, in an endless search for the right altar, the right saint, and the one prayer that would grant her a second child. At every stop she taught him lessons of faith and morality.
    “Look, my boy,” she once instructed, pointing to a beautiful figure on the façade of some great church. “She represents the impious Worldly Woman. Her smile seems so comely, so benevolent, but look here.” She had made him twist around so he could see the serpentine figures etched on the back of the statue. “See those worms eating at her. It happens to all of us, of course, when we die. The body rots. But this, this is what happened to her soul—and the soul of everyone who touched her, who was corrupted by her, when she was alive!”
    Martin smiled, remembering the nightmares that lesson had inspired. He had been too young to understand the allure of worldly temptations. So contrary to his mother’s intentions, he had become far more frightened of the consequences of earthly death than of spiritual decay. Today he had witnessed that natural reality in the poor human body of Solange Vernet. Had he also seen proof of her spiritual corruption? As he turned toward his room, Martin wondered what kind of dreams he would have that night.

Wednesday, August 19

Judges of Instruction are a Pouncing sort of race.
    —Nicolas Freeling, Flanders Sky 2

2
    “W AKE UP, WAKE UP, M. M ARTIN.” The rough hand of Louïso shook Martin into consciousness. “You must have had quite a night,” the old woman muttered in her Provençal drawl. “Your bedcovers are all over the place.” Martin struggled to focus on the gnarled, disapproving finger pointing down at him. As he lifted his eyes, he caught sight of an empty wine bottle and lump of stale bread held firmly against Louïso’s ample chest. He groaned as he recognized the debris from his table. No wonder the Picards’ day woman was in such a bad temper.
    “I did not think you would want to sleep all day, so I brought you some bread from the baker and made you a bowl of café au lait ,” she continued. “I’ll leave you so you can get dressed.” Before Martin could respond, she turned and, swaying heavily from side to side, headed out the door.
    Martin leaped out of bed and opened the shutters. The bright sunlight confirmed his fears. He was late. He slumped down in the chair in front of his table. His first murder case, and he felt terrible. It was that wine, drunk to get him through the night without thinking about the grotesque being that Solange Vernet had become. Martin grabbed the covers lying on the floor and flung them onto the bed. Even with the wine, Solange Vernet had still managed to haunt his dreams, mouthing soundless pleas that he could neither hear nor