Frederick waved his arm and began to tell the story Joe had heard from Martineau in the chapel. The two men pulled surprised faces at each other behind Jacquemin’s back.
The Devil’s Bride was intended to intrigue an audience newly eager to rediscover and celebrate its roots, the painter told them. And what rich roots! The ancient Provençal tongue had been recently resurrected by the poet Mistral; folk tales going back to the Roman occupation and still being passed down by word of mouth in the villages had been discovered and preserved in print. In music too, discoveries had been made. Folk songs, shepherd’s chants, gypsy tunes and love songs from the time of the troubadours had been coaxed from elderly inhabitants with long memories.
The story, the music, the setting, all were rooted in this soil, Frederick explained to the accompaniment of enthusiastic nods from Martineau, but the work would have an appeal for the whole world. If they could only find a costume designer with the genius of Léon Bakst, they would have a runaway success. There would be tours to America as well as the capitals of Europe.
‘So, we lure the audiences in,’ he explained. ‘No discordant bassoons, no dull-coloured sets, no ragged costumes to scare them off. We appeal to the world!’ He pointed to the first leaf of his painting.
In the background, a white castle thrust its pinnacles up into a vividly blue sky and on the grassy expanse at its feet all was prepared for a wedding. White birds flew; branches and garlands framed the scene which would be filled by colourfully clad dancers. Frederick had painted in a few figures, resplendent in a form of medieval dress. Joe peered more closely at these and wondered whether anyone else would notice that perhaps the genius costume designer had been found. But this was no idealized Sleeping Beauty castle. His eye searched for the discords. A second glance showed, sneaking in already amongst the springtime colours, a more sinister palette of dark red and grey. The splendid white château had its roots in a soil the colour of blood or embers.
‘Explain the characters, would you. Be brief. I’m sure we’re all familiar with the story,’ Jacquemin invited.
Swallowing his offence, Frederick made the introductions. ‘On your left, gentlemen, the ducal parents of the groom, splendidly attired. These will be elderly dancers who won’t need to stretch their limbs or perform any vigorous steps so we can go to town on the costumes. On the right, the parents of the bride, likewise presented. The groom I have portrayed as a Nijinsky figure. Handsome with wonderful thighs. The central figure: the bride. We do not know her name. Dressed in white to conform to the old story and modern custom, though in medieval times I believe she would …’ The frosty eye of the Commissaire nudged him back on course again. ‘White. Yes. Clinging and simple. But glittering. Much frosting: silver and diamonds winking at her throat and wrists to indicate her wealth. And in this she is quite distinct from another girl over here in the half background, standing in the shadows—do you see her? The second female lead. The Odile to the bride’s Odette, if you will. This is Aliénore, the penniless cousin who is secretly in love with the bride-groom. She is wearing a dark blue dress, the replica of the one the bride wears, but she has no jewels. The two girls do a pas de deux which reveals the girlish innocence of the one, the calculating jealousy of the other—’
‘We’ll imagine that. Carry on to the second act, will you?’
Their eyes followed Frederick’s pointing finger. They noted the red fissure in the castle’s foundations had increased in size. Ragged-edged, it oozed hellfire colours: thunderous purple, streaks of soot black, sparks of sulphurous yellow.
‘And the audience will suddenly see movement here. On stage, I plan to stretch a diaphanous curtain over the crack, red-lit from above, and have dancers writhing behind it,’ Frederick explained. ‘And then, the bride having been left behind on stage while everyone goes off inside for the ceremony, she does a solo dance which turns into a pas de deux when a second character makes his entrance. Up from the roots of the castle comes the Devil. At this stage he’s not terrifying but mesmerizing. Clad all in red, of course, handsome and charming. And—masked. Clearly he’s fallen in love with the bride. He woos her. Nothing doing. She skips off into the castle and he does a dramatic solo full of power and rage. Not a creature to be thwarted!’
‘And we can see what’s going on here,’ said Jacquemin, stepping on. ‘The party’s moved indoors. If I remember the story correctly, the bride encourages her friends to play a last game of childhood before she becomes a wife. A game of hide and seek. Which seems here to be going terribly wrong.’ He looked closely at the third leaf. ‘Looks exactly like the great hall we’ve just left. But decorated and en fête, of course.’
‘A wide stage so that we can put on the formal wedding dances, performed to the traditional tunes, and then the wild scurrying of the young folk as they play their game. And, in the same stage set, the discovery that the girl is missing—with the resulting turmoil. The lighting dies and one part of the stage only is illuminated: over here.’ Frederick moved aside and pointed to the bottom left-hand corner which they now saw to be the grey-painted outline of a dungeon. Two figures were standing hand in hand, in quiet menace. The bridegroom and his lover Aliénore were pitilessly watching the scene before them. Two further figures were dancing together, limbs entwined—amorously or in a frantic struggle—it was hard to tell. The Devil had the young bride by the waist and was wresting her from her hiding place to drag her down even deeper into the bowels of the château.
Martineau pointed an accusing finger at the groom and Aliénore. ‘There they are—the guilty pair. In a moment, they’ll spring to life, clang shut the door and nothing more will be heard of the bride for a hundred years. Death! The Devil is Death! But this devil has a face. Look! Can you see what I’m seeing?’
With his free hand the Devil was tugging the mask from his face.
‘Good Lord! I hadn’t noticed!’ said Joe in surprise. ‘But we know him! Isn’t that …’
‘Monsieur Guy de Pacy. Masquerading. Or not,’ said Jacquemin with satisfaction. ‘Interesting, and we look forward to hearing more from you on what prompted your choice of subject, Ashwell. But at last, here we are at the fourth and final setting. Will you unveil it, or shall I?’
Frederick shrugged truculently. ‘I left it covered over because … well, in the circumstances … respect … sensibilities …’ he mumbled and seemed unwilling to proceed. ‘Not because I had anything to hide!’
Martineau moved forward to attend to the drapery.
‘This is experimental, you understand. The ballet could well end with the third act. I’ve added this scene as the final chapter in the folk story. An awful warning—the wages of sin and all that.’
‘And can you tell us at what precise time you put the last brushstroke to it? I’m assuming that the last flourish could well have been your signature?’ Jacquemin leaned over and pretended to examine the scrawling black letters in the corner. ‘It’s always a puzzle to me—that men who have superb control over their fingers and their brushes seem to be incapable of forming their letters with any elegance. F. J. Ashwell, it says,’ he reported unnecessarily. ‘And it bears yesterday’s date. I’m assuming that whatever time you give us will, of course, correspond to the time the laboratory comes up with when they examine the sample of plaster I’ve sent them.’ He pointed to a gap six inches square chiselled from the bottom of the painting.
‘All this has been reported also by Miss Jane Makepeace who observed Estelle Smeeth and the child Marius some yards away on the other side of the courtyard at the same time. Estelle—the young lady who had become, unwittingly, the subject of your last act. A piece devised and worked on for some hours before the young lady died. Completed, down to the signature, minutes before her death. Now, Sandilands, you see why I demand an explanation at the very least. Though a confession is, in fact, what we’re looking at!’