The Devil in Montmartre Read Online Free PDF

success in the male-dominated art world. Calculating and opportunistic, she had entered into the deception on the theory that it was a small price to pay for recognition, patronage, and lucrative commissions. Betsy was one of the wealthy women she had deceived.
    Betsy listened patiently, but she could not help interrupting: “Please Marcia, why dredge up the past? It’s too painful.”
    “Life is painful, dear. You’ve been kind, generous, and forgiving but those lies I told you still weigh on my conscience. I’m now confronted with the horrible realization that my art, my life’s work, has been a lie. Since childhood, I’ve tried to see beauty in nature, to capture beauty’s essence and transform it into art. And my paintings have been popular and sold well because I painted the world as people wanted to see it, not as it really was. But can beauty exist without truth? I’ve asked myself that question over the years, without having reached a conclusion.
    “When I first saw Virginie, her beauty ignited the flame of my artistic passion, a flame, I might add, that had been guttering of late. I wanted to paint more than the beauty I saw; I needed to get under her skin, to penetrate her very essence. I desired the most intimate knowledge of her, to discover her secret so that truth and beauty could be merged into one ineffable image on canvas. That’s why, after sketching Virginie at the Atelier I invited her to a nearby boîte for drinks and conversation. Despite our different life experiences, we seemed like kindred spirits, sharing our innermost secrets. She opened up to me, revealing a world I could have hardly imagined. She had suffered a cruel childhood and was haunted by a memory of her aunt and uncle slaughtering Virginie’s pet pig, Buttercup.”
    Betsy listened sympathetically to a story of physical and mental abuse, until she interrupted: “Please dear, that story is too awful to relate. And what in heaven’s name has it to do with art?”
    “That story has inspired me. But there’s more. Virginie told me about a revenge fantasy. It gave her strength to endure her aunt’s beatings. The fantasy took place in the slaughterhouse where the Mercier’s had slaughtered Virginie’s pet. Madame Mercier came out of the chute, naked, covered with filth, crawling on all fours and grunting like a swine. Buttercup followed, walking upright with a prod in her human-like hand. Prodding Madame’s rump, the anthropomorphized pig growled in Virginie’s voice, ‘Move your arse you ugly sow, before I flay it raw!’
    “Virginie waited by the gate, mallet in hand. When Madame entered the shed she glanced up in terror as the girl gleefully poleaxed her squealing aunt. Then, assisted by Buttercup, Virginie hoisted, stuck, boiled, singed, scraped, butchered, and dressed Madame Mercier, grinding what was left into feed for her porcine friends. Pretty little Buttercup always got the most generous portion.”
    Betsy made a face as though she’d smelled something offensive. “How disgusting. But then, you were always drawn to the macabre. Thank goodness it hasn’t affected your painting.”
    Marcia smiled. “Virginie’s tale of cruelty and imagined revenge gave me an idea. I would paint her experiences as an indictment of child abuse. It would be something entirely new, at least in my art; a plea for tormented children, the victims of indifference and intolerance.
    “Until now, I’ve avoided social comment like the plague. I’ve spent my life earning good fees and prizes painting pretty pictures for the well-heeled bourgeoisie, so I suppose my deathbed conversion will strike many as insincere. Do you think I’m a hypocrite?”
    Betsy took Marcia in her arms and held her close. She pitied her longtime companion, but could not forget Marcia’s past transgressions. Even in her present condition, Marcia might be lying to cover-up an affair. Betsy closed her eyes, her jealous mind conjuring a vision of the beautiful