Their job was not confined to shifting things around—they were also responsible for making inventories of incoming lots, and this was what caused their downfall. In 2009, it was alleged that some of them had been unable to resist the temptation to make certain valuable objects go ‘missing’, including a Courbet painting. Such scams were especially easy, it was said, when houses were cleared and their contents put up for sale to pay death duties. Grieving relatives had usually helped themselves to the best items, so they weren’t going to notice the disappearance of grand-mère’s antique clock, her silver candlesticks or (apparently) her pre-Impressionist painting.
According to an article in the Figaro newspaper, a group of Savoyards were also accused of a much more subtle scam—when a load of furniture arrived, they would take the doors off a wardrobe or the cushions off a chair and then buy the incomplete object at auction at cut price. The wardrobe or chair would then be reassembled and sold, in perfect condition, for a hefty profit.
Their whole operation was foolproof, the Figaro said, because if a complaint was made, the missing item or parts would instantly be ‘found’ and all suspicions quashed.
At the end of 2009, eight of the 110 porters were tried for theft, at which point the French media pounced upon the story with unrestrained glee. Here was one of Paris’s oldest art establishments being forced to wash its dirty lingerie in public. It was reported that, by holding on to fraudulently acquired objects for six months and then selling them at Drouot via a ‘friendly’ auctioneer, some of the Savoyards were doubling their already ample salary of 4,000 euros a month.
In August 2010, a judge ruled that the Savoyards were collectively answerable to a series of highly imagistic charges—association de malfaiteurs en vue d’un ou plusieurs crimes (frequenting wrongdoers with a view to committing one or more crimes), complicité de vols en bande organisée (conspiracy to commit organized-gang theft) and recel de vols en bande organisée (receiving stolen property as an organized gang)—the kinds of accusations usually aimed at Corsican gangsters. The Savoyards’ reign had come to an end, and they have since been officially disbarred from working at Drouot, and replaced by polo-shirted newcomers.
The auction house has also appointed, for the first time ever, a director general who is not an auctioneer—he’s a manager and, effectively, security man in chief.
Despite the scandal, the auction house’s Zola-esque frenzy of activity hasn’t slowed down. Look at the calendar of upcoming sales on their website, drouot.com, and on almost any given day (including Sundays) you can find sales of anything from nineteenth-century drawings and vintage haute couture to clocks, coins, books, militaria, and (in the week I am looking at now) buttons, oriental art, carpets, wine, perfume bottles, picture frames (‘ancient and modern’) and Armenian paintings.
Drouot has more than a dozen sales rooms, and it is fascinating to wander in, browse the objects laid out for pre-auction viewing, and then drop into a sale that is in full swing. There is nothing to stop anyone going in to watch, and there’s little danger of buying anything by accident, even if you have the most violent nervous twitch, because if you’re not a regular, you really do have to wave energetically and catch the auctioneer’s eye to bid.
Even so, ordinary members of the public have as much chance as the professionals of picking up a real bargain. Dealers will usually stop bidding for an object once the price reaches half of what they think they can sell it for, and they won’t buy anything they’re not sure of getting rid of, so if you see a faded painting in a battered frame and can be bothered to wait for its number to come up (lots go at a rate of about one per minute), then you have an excellent chance of winning the auction.
And it really does feel like winning a Parisian game. The object you covet is solemnly carried forward by a porter, the auctioneer reads out its description, and then you quickly find out if anyone else has taken a fancy to it. If they have, and put in a low bid, you can have the satisfaction of seeing their surprise when you pitch in with a higher offer. After that, it’s like poker—a matter of nerves. You have to decide your maximum limit and play to it. Hold out, and your opponent might give up. If not, and you go beyond your limit, you can end up with a serious case of post-adrenalin depression. You ‘won’, but at what cost? Did you really pay 100 euros for that dust-encrusted mishmash of paint and its cracked square of peeling wood? Weren’t you planning to spend no more than 20? And was that a glimmer of disdain in the auctioneer’s eye as his hammer came down?
Well no, it probably wasn’t, because Drouot, rather like one of Paris’s old bordels, is a place where all tastes are equally valid. One man’s coffee stain is another man’s abstract masterpiece, and as you carry your prize away, you are on an equal footing with the person who has just bought a Louis XVI commode or a Louis Vuitton suitcase. What’s more, these days there’s no danger that you’ll see a sly grin on a Savoyard’s face as he recognizes something that had ‘gone missing’.
Painting by numbers
If you do decide to try your luck—and your nerve—at an
