The private house, known as an hôtel particulier, was one of a number of similar residences standing on this famous street, hidden behind high walls built of pale stone. Immense wooden doors, studded with huge nails and painted dark green, were opened by a man in a striped uniform a moment after the chauffeur had rung the bell.
As the Mercedes rolled into the cobbled courtyard, Laura saw that there was a concierge’s cottage to the right, a fountain in the center of the yard, and two wonderful old white chestnut trees growing against the ivy-clad walls. The trees had shed many of their leaves and so looked somewhat bereft on this cold December afternoon.
Hercule helped Laura out of the car, and together they walked up the wide front steps. These led to double doors made of thick glass encased in wrought iron, which had been worked into a scroll design. Before he had even rung the bell, the doors were opened by a manservant dressed in a dark suit and a bow tie.
Nodding, Hercule said, “Bonjour, Pierre.”
The butler inclined his head. “Monsieur, Madame. Entrez, s’il vous plaît.” As he spoke, he opened the door wider to give them access to the foyer, which was like a long gallery in its architecture. French doors on the wall facing the front door where they had just entered led outside. Laura glanced through them quickly as they were taken down the gallery by Pierre; she could see gardens, a lawn surrounded by trees, and in the center a fountain that echoed the one in the front courtyard.
“Madame la comtesse attends you in the salon vert, Monsieur,” the butler murmured.
Laura could not help smiling warmly when she saw Jacqueline, Comtesse de Antoine-St. Lucien. She was the daintiest, prettiest little woman Laura had ever set eyes on. She could not have been more than four feet ten or eleven inches, and she was slender, with widely set, bright green eyes, blond hair stylishly cut, and an almost cherubic face, hardly lined at all. There was something very girlish and pretty about her, even though Laura guessed she must be in her early seventies or thereabouts.
Jacqueline was standing in front of the fire in the salon vert, pale green in color, and she smiled back at Laura and hurried forward.
“Hercule!” she exclaimed. “So nice of you to come, and to bring your friend.”
Hercule kissed her on both cheeks and said, “I am so happy to see you, Jacqueline. And may I present Laura Valiant. Laura, this is the Comtesse de Antoine-St. Lucien.”
“I am delighted to meet you, Mademoiselle,” Jacqueline said, shaking Laura’s hand.
“And I you, Countess,” Laura responded, smiling at this perfectly groomed and elegantly dressed diminutive woman.
“May I offer you something? Coffee, tea, a drink perhaps?”
“No, thank you,” Laura said.
Hercule shook his head. “Nothing for me either, Jacqueline. But thank you.”
“Then do let us sit down,” the countess replied, smiling graciously and leading them across the room to a grouping of comfortable chairs near the fireplace.
Almost at once, Hercule began speaking to her about the château near Loches in the Loire Valley, where she was having some repair work done to the roof. This gave Laura a chance to look around.
Her eyes scanned the room quickly, took in the eau de nile walls, the pale green silk upholstery on the chairs and sofas, and the matching taffeta draperies. The pale green walls made a soft and beguiling backdrop for the paintings in the room, which included a Bonnard, a Degas, and a Cézanne. And, of course, the Renoir, which was hanging above a bombé-fronted chest set against a small side wall.
Laura was itching to get up, to go and look at it, but her natural good manners forbade this.
It was Hercule who suddenly rose and said, “Ah, the Renoir, Jacqueline, I must look at it again, if I may.”
“But of course, Hercule,” she answered. “Please do, and you also, Mademoiselle Valiant. Please, go and see it.”
“Come, Laura,” he said, turning to her. “I know you are eager to look at all of the countess’s works of art.”
“Yes, I am,” she admitted.
They walked over to the Renoir and stood gazing at it, both of them entranced by its beauty and grace.
Hercule said, “I have seen this many times over the years, Laura, and I must admit, I never tire of it. But then, Renoir was the great master, as we both know.”
“And this is just gorgeous,” Laura murmured, sounding slightly awed. Nonetheless, she could not help wondering if her Canadian client would find the painting too small. In her dealings with him in the past, he had usually favored larger canvases. On the other hand, the painting was a little jewel; the skin tone of the model glowed like luminescent pearl under the picture light, and the woman truly came alive, as did the landscape and the pool near the rock she was seated on. Laura hoped that her client would buy it.
After another moment or two lingering in front of the Renoir, Hercule took hold of Laura’s arm and drew her across the room, first to look at the Degas, then the Bonnard, and finally the Cézanne. All three paintings were, like the Renoir, total perfection, prime examples of the artist’s work. Laura couldn’t help wondering if any of these were for sale, especially the large Cézanne.
Eventually they went and joined the countess in front of the fire, and Laura turned to her and said, “The Renoir is exquisite, and so are your other paintings, Countess. It is quite an experience to be in a room that contains four such masterpieces. A room in a private home, I mean.”
“Merci, Mademoiselle Valiant. You are very kind, and I must say, they are all paintings that make me feel happy when I look at them. But then, I have never liked anything that makes me sad or depressed. I have the need to be uplifted by art.”
“Absolutely!” Hercule exclaimed. “I agree with you, Jacqueline. Now, I would like to take Laura to the dining room, to show her the Gauguins. He is one of her favorite painters. Is he not, Laura?”
She nodded.
Jacqueline stood up. “I shall accompany you.” And so saying she glided across the Aubusson rug and led them down the gallery to the dining room at the far end.
Its walls had been sponge-glazed in a cloudy dusty-pink color, and this shade also made a wonderfully soft background for the paintings. In this instance they were breathtaking primitives by Paul Gauguin, three altogether, each one hanging alone. There was one on the long central wall, and the others had been placed on two end walls. The fourth wall in the room was intersected by windows that filled the room with natural northern light, perfect for these particular works of art.
All three paintings were of dark-skinned Tahitian women, either by the sea or in it, or sitting in the natural exotic landscape of the Polynesian islands. The dark skin tones were highlighted by the vivid pareos the women wore around their loins, the colorful vegetation, and the unusual pinkish-coral color Gauguin had so frequently used to depict the earth and the sandy beaches of Tahiti. The dusty-pink walls of the dining room echoed this warm coral, and helped to throw the dark-skinned beauties into relief.
Laura was mesmerized. She had never seen Gauguins like these outside a museum, and they were impressive. All three paintings were large, dominant, just the type of art her other important client, Mark Tabbart, would give his right arm for, as he so frequently proclaimed to her. “They are magnificent,” she exclaimed, glancing at the countess, and before she could stop herself, she rushed on. “I would buy any one of these, or all of them, if you would consider selling.”
“They are the most fabulous Gauguins,” Jacqueline murmured. “Gauguin painted all three in the same year, 1892, and what extraordinary examples of his work they are. I could never sell them, I love them far too much. But even if I had the desire or the need to auction them to the highest bidder, I am afraid, Mademoiselle Valiant, that I could not. The paintings belonged to my husband, and he left them to our son Arnaud and his wife, Natalie. I have them to enjoy for my lifetime, but I do not own them.”
“I envy you living with them,” Laura said. “They are so beautiful, they a
re … blinding.”
“Perhaps we should talk about the Renoir,” Hercule interjected. “As you know, Jacqueline, Laura has a client who may well be interested in it, and, of course, there is Claire Benson, who wishes to photograph it on Monday.”
Jacqueline said, “Let us go back to the salon vert, where we can sit and discuss everything in comfort.”
Later that afternoon, when Hercule dropped Laura off at the hotel, she thanked him profusely, then said, “I will phone my client in Toronto, and hopefully I will be able to give the countess an answer by Monday, perhaps even sooner.”
Hercule nodded. “That will be perfectly all right, Laura.” After helping her out of the Mercedes and walking her to the door of the hotel, he said, “I shall come in with you for a moment, if I may. I want to talk to you about two things. About paintings. And about Claire.”
Taken aback, Laura stared at him. “What about Claire? Is there something wrong? You sound odd.”
“I think perhaps I sound worried, Laura, but let us not stand here. Please, let us go into the hotel and have a cup of tea, or something else if you wish.”
“Yes,” she said swiftly, “yes, of course, Hercule.” She was unable to keep the sudden concern out of her voice as she spoke.
They went into the lobby together, and Laura said, “I don’t think I want tea. I’d prefer a drink. Can we go to the bar, please, Hercule?”
“Mais oui, let us do that.” They walked on quietly without saying another word, and went downstairs to the bar. It was only when they were finally settled at one of the small tables in the dimly lit, rather clubby-looking Bar Anglais that Laura spoke.
“Why are you worried about Claire? Please tell me, Hercule.”
“I will, in due course. First, let us order. What would you like?”
“A glass of white wine, please.”
Hercule beckoned to the waiter, ordered for Laura, and asked for a scotch and soda for himself. Then he sat back in the black leather chair and said, “I’ll get to Claire in a moment. First I want to talk to you about paintings.” He paused and added, “Something serious about paintings.”
Looking at him alertly, she nodded. “Please tell me, Hercule.”
“It is about Gauguin’s paintings. It is very important that you let me know whenever one comes onto the market in the States. Providing you know this, of course, and if you are interested in it for a client. I am asking you to do this for your own protection.”
“Of course I’ll tell you. What’s this all about?”
“There are several Gauguin paintings that are, well … questionable. I know your great interest in him as an artist, and how much you love his work, and I do not want you to make any mistakes. I do not want you to make a commitment without talking to me.”
“You mean there are some fakes around?”
“I am going to tell you a story about a Gauguin, and you will find it interesting, I believe.” He paused, stared at her intently. “Laura, this is confidential. What I am about to tell you is for your ears only; it must remain between us. At least for the moment.”
“I would never discuss it with anyone,” she reassured him. Her eyes were eager, the expression on her face expectant.
“Many years ago, there was a collector,” he began. And slowly, carefully, he recounted a story to her.
She was rapt, and hung on to his every word.
When he had finished his tale, he added, “Now to Claire. I don’t think she is well. In fact, I would go so far as to say that she is ill.”
Laura gaped at him, then said, “She told me you’d given her a lecture about her weight.”
He nodded. “She has lost much weight. She says she has been on a régime. However, it is not so much the weight loss that troubles me. It is … the look of her, Laura.”
Frowning, shaking her head, Laura murmured, “I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Yesterday, at the studio, there was a moment when she was talking to me from the set, and she had—” He stopped, looked off into space, as if trying to remember something, and then he said, “She looked very peaked, no, that is not it. What is the word I am looking for … she looked pinched … drawn … as if the skin of her face were stretched very tightly over her bones.” He took a deep breath, and added very quietly, “Her face was like a death mask, and it frightened me, Laura.”
“Hercule! That’s awful! An awful thing to say,” she exclaimed, and shuddered.
The waiter brought their drinks, and they were silent until he disappeared behind the bar again. Then Hercule continued. “I have the most terrible apprehension for her. I cannot explain it. You see, I love her—” He cut himself off and stared at Laura, suddenly at a loss.
She said swiftly, “I know you love her, Hercule, and I’ve known it for a long time. You don’t have to be embarrassed or feel shy with me. I do understand. And I’m glad you love her, glad you care so much about Claire.”
Looking relieved, he answered with a slight nod, “I am pleased I have told you this, and I thank you, my dear, for your understanding.” He lifted his glass and took a sip of his scotch.
Laura, also sipping her drink, asked a moment later, “What do you mean when you say you feel apprehensive?”
“As I told you, I do not think she is well, but I cannot explain why I feel this, not in a rational way. I reviewed the time I had spent with her at the studio, and certainly she had been energetic, as she always is. But—” He cut himself off again, sat back drinking his scotch and soda; his eyes were troubled, his shoulders taut with anxiety.
Laura could see how upset he was, and she waited until he had collected himself before she said slowly, “What do you think is wrong with Claire? You say you think she’s ill, but with what?”
He lifted his hands in that typical gesture of his and shook his head. “Alas, I do not know, Laura.” He sighed and continued. “I push the worry away, as I did when we were at Jacqueline’s earlier. Yet it creeps back into my mind. Has she … has she confided anything in you?”
Laura shook her head and answered softly. “She’s still very angry. About her bad marriage, about men, or perhaps one man. It seems to eat her up at times, consume her. Perhaps it’s just that, the anger, the disappointment. Plus working hard, being tired occasionally.” Leaning forward, Laura put one hand on his arm. “Try not to worry so much. I don’t think she’s sick, Hercule, I really don’t.”
Her words seemed to help him to relax, and the tight lines around his eyes eased slightly. “I hope you are correct. When you love a woman as I love her, it is worrying if she seems … well, not herself.”
Taking the plunge, Laura said, “Why don’t you tell her how you feel, Hercule? Tell her you love her?”
“Oh, but I could not do that, Laura. Never, never. Claire does not feel the same way about me as I feel about her. I am afraid. Yes, I admit that to you, Laura, I am afraid to tell her. I do not want to lose her, you see, and I might, if she … knew how I truly felt. Being her friend and part of her life is so important to me.”
“You ought to tell her. You might be surprised how she reacts.”
“Laura, how can you of all people in the world say that to me? Mon Dieu! You have just told me that she is angry about her failed marriage, about him. No, there is no room for me in her life, as much as I want there to be.”
His gently spoken words seemed to strike at Laura, and she flinched inside. She sat back in her chair, thinking how sad it was that Claire was being so cruel to herself, and was, in a way, punishing herself without reason. No room for me in her life. She replayed his words of a moment before in her mind, and she knew it was true, and that this was indeed a tragedy. Hercule was much older, but he was a good-looking man, well built, tall, and strong as an ox, and he was a kind and loving human being. He would have looked after Claire, protected her, given her so much.
He said, “Maybe I worry about nothing. Is that what you are thinking?”
She shook her head. “No, I was thin
king how sad it is that Claire has this attitude about … life.”
“You do not think she is ill?”
“No, I do not. In fact, I’m positive she isn’t, at least not in the way you mean. Not physically.”
“Mentally?” he asked, his voice growing slightly sharper; he stared at her intently.
“No. I don’t mean that either. She’s very sane, our Claire. But she is a tormented woman, Hercule, and I don’t know how to help her. I have tried for years.”
“Do you think … she still loves her ex-husband?”
“No. I think she is filled with hatred for him.”
Hercule was silent for a moment, sat nursing his drink. Eventually he lifted his head and looked into Laura’s eyes, and his own were moist with tears. “What a terrible waste. How tragic that is … to cut yourself off … to deny yourself the possibility of love in that way.”
“Yes,” Laura said, her voice a whisper.
Later that evening, after a light supper in her room, Laura worked on her papers for a while. But for once in her life her concentration was fleeting. Finally, she put down her pen and sat back in her chair.
She was troubled about Claire.
Not in the way Hercule was, not about her physical health, but about her mental state. Claire had harbored a dislike of Philippe ever since their breakup, perhaps even before that. But now it had turned to hatred and Laura couldn’t understand why.
Claire had changed in the last six months. In the summer, when she and Doug had been in Paris, Claire had been much more relaxed, more at ease with herself. Now Laura realized that Claire was taut, full of tension, and at times she could be quite volatile.
Laura could not help asking herself why there had been this change. She’s alone and lonely, Laura thought, rising, walking across the room to the window. Parting the curtains, she looked down into the courtyard below. In spring and summer it was a garden restaurant; now it was devoid of flowers and furniture, a simple paved yard flooded with light from the windows of the rooms that looked down onto it. Empty, cold, uninviting. Like Claire’s life. If only she could meet someone. A nice man of the right age with whom she could fall in love, perhaps settle down with. But Laura knew instinctively that this would not happen because Claire would not permit it to happen. She’s her own worst enemy, Laura muttered under her breath, loving her friend but at the same time feeling suddenly somewhat disturbed and critical about her behavior. I want to help her and I don’t know how to do that, Laura said to herself, remembering how difficult that had always been, even when they were children. Claire had tried to be so independent and brave, but Laura had always sensed, even then, that she was afraid. Claire had been … timid. That was a good word to use to describe her. Her grandmother had once said that: “Claire’s a scared little thing, isn’t she? So timid and reluctant.” She had often wondered what Claire was frightened of when they were little, and once or twice she had asked her, but Claire denied her fear. There was one thing, and it came rushing back to Laura. Her grandmother had never really liked Claire’s parents. She had said her mother was ineffectual and her father a womanizer. But those were not reasons for Claire to be frightened, were they?
A Sudden Change of Heart Page 6