In “Louise and Vincent,” a conflicted narrator prepares to share her story ...Middle East

This book won the 2024 Colorado Authors League award for Historical Fiction.

New Orleans, Louisiana 10 July 1940

My heart leaps when I hear the click of high heels ascending the rickety stairs to my apartment. It’s surely the woman I’ve promised to speak with about Vincent. I’ve waited most of my life for someone to ask me about him, so I should be ecstatic. Yet now that the time has arrived, I’m terrified. I don’t know if I’ll be able to remember everything that happened and relate it to her without breaking down. Even more important, I fear I won’t be believable. I have no proof to back up my version of events, so she might think I’m just an old kook.

Maybe I should let this opportunity go and take the secret to my grave. If I don’t answer the door, perhaps she’ll leave. But the day is hot and humid, typical for July in New Orleans, and my windows are open. An old box fan rattles away in one of them.

No, she’ll know I’m here. Besides, I chose to do this. I’m the last person alive who knows the complete story, and I owe it to Vincent’s memory to tell someone before I, too, pass beyond this life.

When I hear a knock, I struggle out of my chair and limp to the door, my joints complaining about the sudden movement. I pause with one hand on the knob and think about how I came to be in this situation.

A letter arrived from the Chicago Art Institute last week, forwarded by my publisher. In addition to writing a book, I’ve painted many pictures, so I tore open the letter, hands shaking with anticipation. Maybe the Institute wanted to buy something for their collection. But I quickly understood that the letter wasn’t about my paintings. Instead, an art historian named Dr. Danielle Dupree asked if I was the Louise Ravoux who’d once lived in Auvers-sur-Oise, France. “If you are,” she went on, “could I come and speak with you about your experiences there? I will explain more when we meet.”

The only plausible reason she would track me down, fifty years after I fled to the States, would be to ask about Vincent. On my own, I’m not important, despite my book and my paintings that are only known locally. But Vincent certainly is, and he’s growing more so as his paintings soar in value.

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Without allowing myself to question my decision, I wrote back that I would see her.

And here she is, four days later.

I take a breath and open the door.

The young woman on the stoop appears to be in her midthirties—the same age as my grandson, William. Her brown hair hangs in frizzled waves to her shoulders, and her wrinkled gray suit has sweat stains under the arms. She must have walked directly from the train station in the midday sun. I’m impressed by this level of dedication.

I’ve chosen a light-blue cotton dress that was expensive when I bought it, back before the Depression wrecked my business and I lost all my money. With my shaky hands, I’d struggled to style my short white hair, but I eventually managed it. I’ve always liked to look as good as my situation will allow, but at eighty-five, good is a relative term.

Dr. Dupree smiles and introduces herself. I invite her in, and we sit on the hard wing chairs on either side of the sofa. If she sits there without complaints today, I might allow her to use the comfortable sofa on her next visit. I reserve it for friends and family, and at this point, she is neither.

The woman glances around the room at the many paintings hanging on the walls but doesn’t inquire about them. She’s polite—I’ll give her that. She must be eager to ask who painted them. When—or if—I tell her, she’ll probably be astonished.

She folds her hands on her lap, catches her breath, and begins. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. I wanted to speak with you for two reasons. One is professional and the other personal. I’ll start with the professional reason.” She pulls a folding fan from her pocketbook and waves it in front of her flushed face for a moment.

After so long in New Orleans, I no longer fight the heat. As I’ve aged, I’ve even grown to welcome it. Clearly, that is not the case with her. I will offer her something to drink after I hear what she has to say.

In a moment, she continues. “As you know, I’m an art historian.

I specialize in the works of Vincent van Gogh, and I’m trying to put together the true story of his last days. Your name came up as someone I should interview.”

She stares at me, waiting for my nod. When I finally give it to her, she continues. “I have looked for you for years, Mrs. Ravoux.”

“I’m called Madame Ravoux, if you please, Dr. Dupree.”

She starts and blushes. “Oh. Yes. I apologize, Madame Ravoux.

And please call me Danielle.”

“Louise and Vincent”

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I clear my throat. “How did you find me, Danielle? I lost touch with everyone in Auvers many years ago.”

A twinkle lights up her eyes. “I happened upon a cookbook you wrote on French cooking. I didn’t know if you were the person I sought, but since you had the same surname, I wrote to your publisher.” She laughs. “You know the rest.”

“Well.” I nod. “And what do you want to know?”

“Were you really the proprietress of the Ravoux Inn in Auvers-sur-Oise while van Gogh was there?”

“I was one of the innkeepers, along with my husband, Arthur.” I straighten in the chair and give her a tight smile. After all these years, I still dislike thinking about Arthur.

She lets out a breath. “I’m so happy to meet you, Madame Ravoux. I would love to hear anything you have to say about van Gogh.”

“That’s why I invited you. But first, I’d like to hear your personal reason for being here.”

Her eyes fill with tears. “I’m named for my grandmother. She was Danielle Dubois, and I believe she was a friend of yours in Auvers.”

My friend’s face flashes before my eyes: vibrant, pretty, sassy. I peer at this young woman, but I don’t see a resemblance.

Hesitantly, I nod. “Yes, she was my friend. She ran one of the other inns. But she moved to Paris to marry, and we lost touch. I haven’t heard from her since I left France.”

We sit in silence for a few moments, each with our own thoughts.

Finally, she says, “My parents are Cécile and Tomas Dupree. Do you remember Cécile, Danielle’s daughter?”

I don’t think of her often now, but I couldn’t forget her if I tried. Cécile had a role in the tragedy that brought me to America. If she’d acted differently, Vincent might’ve been sitting here with me instead of moldering in his grave. But I don’t need to mention that. I merely nod.

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“My parents moved to Chicago when I was small, but as a teenager, I used to spend summers with my grandmother in Paris. Grandmère would take me to art museums, and we regularly visited the van Gogh paintings. She told me she’d been slightly acquainted with him in Auvers and that there was an important story about his time there that hadn’t been told. She said it wasn’t hers to tell, but if I found you, you might consent to relate it.”

When I don’t respond, Danielle goes on. “She would have loved to know I found you. Maman and Papa brought her over to Chicago two years ago, when the Nazis started gaining power in Europe. The move was hard for her, and I’m sad to say she passed away three weeks ago.” She looks away, rubbing her eyes. After a moment, she continues, “When we cleared out her things, I found your cookbook. Inside was a recent note from Grandmére, instructing me to find out if the author was the woman she’d known. If so, I should meet with you as soon as possible.” She pauses. “And here I am, madame.”

I feel a momentary pang for my friend’s passing. But too many friends have died for me to grieve someone I haven’t seen for so long.

“I’m sorry she passed,” I say politely. “What was the cause?” “Breast cancer was the official diagnosis, but personally, I think she died from a broken heart, knowing the Nazis occupied her beloved Paris.”

I understand that sentiment and share it. I wish that my elder daughter, Adeline, had been willing to leave Paris, or that I’d been healthy enough to go over there and bring her home when it was still possible. The worry and grief might cause my heart to break too.

But cancer… I lost my younger daughter, Germaine, to cancer ten years ago, and I wouldn’t wish a death like that upon anyone.

I clear my throat. “Danielle was a good friend for a short time. I don’t understand, though, why she was so insistent that you contact me.”

After a moment, she replies, “I’m not sure, either, to be honest. Along with the cookbook and the note was a small package she insisted I give you but not until I’d heard your story about that time. Its contents are for your eyes only, and I was not to open it. I’ve done as she asked.” She pauses. “But that’s for later. For now, I’m eager to learn: did you know Vincent van Gogh well?”

I can’t stall any longer, so I inhale deeply and respond. “Yes, I did. He stayed at our inn for the last seventy days of his life. He was my painting instructor, among other things. I remember those days fondly.”

She leans forward. “Will you tell me about it?”

My heart lurches again. I grasp the arms of the chair and hold myself upright. “Yes. But you must allow me to recount it in my own way. Vincent’s time in Auvers was inextricably bound up with my own, so you will need to hear my story first. And I have no tangible proof that any of what I’m about to tell you is true, other than my words. You’ll have to make up your own mind. Is that agreeable to you?”

“Definitely. I want to know everything. Is it all right if I take notes?”

When I nod, she pulls out a notebook.

I clear my throat again and try to make my warbly old voice strong and confident. “I warn you—the Vincent I knew wasn’t the madman people make him out to be. As far as I can tell, that’s a tale someone made up to sell more paintings.”

I shrug at her questioning look. “Oh, yes, he had spells of epilepsy or something similar for a year and a half before his death, starting when he mutilated his ear. I don’t know if the doctors were ever certain what was wrong with him. But when he arrived at our little inn, Vincent was completely normal. He had just left the asylum where he’d lived for a year, so he was timid about being in regular society after so long, but for the time he stayed with us, I never had the slightest fear that he would harm himself or anyone else.”

The lump in my throat has grown larger, so I cough to clear it. “Please bear with me as I arrange my thoughts.” I lean back in the chair, welcoming its solidity. “I’ve never told the story to anyone.”

Danielle’s face lights up, although, to her credit, she tries to hide it. “You’re fine. Start wherever you want.”

This is all happening too quickly. Then I remember what I was going to do. “First, would you like some iced tea? It’s a hot day and a long story, so I’ll need to drink something so my voice stays strong. And I imagine you’re thirsty after your long walk.”

She nods. “Thank you. Shall I get it?”

“Yes, please. It’s in the kitchen, just through there.” I’m relieved to remain in my chair as I consider how to start. “And bring the canapés that are on the table.”

When we are settled again, I allow the past to meet me, surround me, and carry me back into its warmth. The rattle of the fan, the stranger before me, and the weight of my old body disappear. I am thirty-three again, young and disillusioned about the future—until Vincent, the love of my life, changes everything.

Diane Byington has written novels about marathon runners, time travelers, astronauts, and artists. In addition to writing her own novels, Byington is a developmental editor who helps other writers reach their dreams of publication. She also enjoys painting, kayaking, and photographing sunsets. She lives in Longmont, Colorado. 

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