Fen wanted desperately to go and explore, or even just to linger and run her fingertips along the rough stone wall as it met the cast-iron railings, but Rose kept them on a short leash and soon they had circumnavigated the building and were finally crossing the river via the wooden slatted bridge known as the Pont des Arts. This simple bridge joined the quaysides between the great building of the Institut de France and that of the Palace of the Louvre.
Once over the water, the three of them entered the art gallery through a nondescript side door, an intriguing thing in itself given the magnificence of the building, and Rose led them through corridors and doorways that would never usually be visited by mere tourists.
‘What a maze!’ Fen exclaimed at they climbed another staircase, having been up and down two already.
‘These would have been the suites and bedrooms when this was a palace in Louis XIV’s day,’ Rose explained. ‘Before he waltzed off to Versailles, that is.’
‘I never knew this was a proper palace,’ James was trying his best to make conversation.
Rose shook her head in despair as she carried on at pace along the grand corridor. ‘Well, why did you think it was built? The clue is in the name, young man, Palais du Louvre! This is our equivalent to your Buckingham Palace.’
‘Except we let our royals keep their heads,’ James muttered, but luckily it seemed it was only Fen who heard, and mouthed a ‘how rude’ at him, much to his amusement.
Finally they came to a stop outside a beautifully painted white-and-gold door. Rose turned the handle and called out as she entered, ‘Henri! C’est moi!’
Fen and James held back until Rose called them in.
‘Come, come! Meet Henri Renaud, my partner in crime.’
A bespectacled man, who had been sitting behind a large partner’s desk, was rising out of his seat as Rose pushed Fen and James forward to meet him. He was smaller than average, perhaps only as tall as Fen, and dwarfed by Rose with her magnificent pink turban. He was well-dressed and Fen guessed him to be in his mid-fifties, about the same age as Rose and her own parents. In fact, he had that sort of paternal look about him, and it saddened Fen to think that he’d lost his wife and child.
‘Partner in no such thing,’ he said warily, regarding the people in his office over the top of his spectacles. He shuffled the papers on his desk, and if Fen and James hadn’t been so stunned by the beauty of the palatial room, with its floor-to-ceiling windows, ornately gold-framed mirrors and shiny parquet flooring, they may have noticed him subtly turn those papers upside down so they couldn’t be read.
‘We are safe to talk openly, Henri.’ Rose collected herself and sat down in front of the large partner’s desk. For this visit, she had chosen to replace the turquoise velvet housecoat with a long patchwork overcoat, while the pink turban had been securely fixed in place with a feathered pin. She looked uniquely suited to the grand apartment that they now found themselves in, the rest of them so dull and under-dressed by comparison. She gestured for Henri to sit himself down again too and introduced Fen and James to him.
‘Ah, Fen Churche, like the station in London, yes?’
‘Yes, monsieur,’ Fen was gracious enough to say no more about the joke she’d heard a thousand times or more in her lifetime.
‘And Captain Lancaster. Enchanted to meet you both. Although I can’t think why Rose here would suggest we were doing anything criminal…’ He cocked his head to one side and looked at her, turning the accusation back to her. ‘Even in jest.’
Rose held his gaze, Fen noticed, then laughed. ‘Henri, you take everything too literally.’ She spread her coat out around her and sat more comfortably in the chair.
‘I suppose I’m still too wary, even though the danger of being found out has passed,’ Henri said, noticing that Fen was looking at a small bronze statuette of a female reclining nude, which was on his desk. It was simply rendered, and not explicit in any way – angular, but elegant – she reminded Fen of Simone.
‘She’s beautiful,’ Fen murmured as Henri reached over and picked up the small figurine and handed it to her to look at properly. The bronze was heavy in Fen’s hands, its solidity at odds with the elegance of the sculpture. Fen could just about make out a signature on the flat underside of the piece but didn’t recognise the artist’s name.
‘She’s a degenerate,’ Henri said, shaking his head. ‘I mean that purely in the artistic sense. She is beautiful, you are right. It takes a good eye to see through labels and experience art for how it makes you feel. She’s been on my desk for several years now and is very dear to me.’
Degenerate… Rose had used that word last night to describe the works of art sold by the Nazis to fund their war effort.
Fen carefully placed the small statuette back down on the desk and smiled at Henri. It must have taken quite some bravery on his part to champion this artist while he carried on his work with the Germans, and she said as much to him.
‘Yes, I received a fair few comments, let’s say, from Müller and his goons,’ Henri sighed. ‘But I was only brought on board because I could see the value in artworks they would have otherwise assigned to the rubbish pile of history.’
‘Or worse, burned,’ Rose said. Then she flicked her hand in Fen and James’s direction and carried on, ‘Now, run along and enjoy the exhibits. Henri and I have work to discuss and you both need some culture. There’s a door to the main galleries at the end of this corridor. I’ll
