the little girl, the model.' Briefly, she struck the pose again. 'You don't see it? The line of the arm? The tilt of the head? The expression of childish abandon?'
Now, I don't know how familiar you are with the works of Marcel Duchamp. Nude Descending a Staircase? We are talking about the prime mover of Dadaism here, one of the original Cubo-Futurists, the man we all have to thank for Conceptual Art, and this picture was right up there: a swirl of hard-edged overlapping forms like steel plates arranged in a complex spiral. You might be able to find the line of an arm or the tilt of a head if you were willing to be open-minded about it, but an expression? Of childish abandon, no less? Not bloody likely.
When I couldn't think of what to say, she gave a sigh of exasperation. 'Naturally, monsieur, one changes with time. I am, ah, sixty-eight years of age, as it happens.'
Oddly enough, I believed her-not about the sixty-eight, but about having posed for Duchamp. 'You knew him then, madame? You were a model?'
'No, no,' she said, gratified by the question. 'I had an uncle who was Duchamp's chess partner for a time, and he recommended me to the artist as a sitter. Only that once. No, my life was given to music, not art. I was an opera singer. Somewhat before your time, I'm afraid. My name is-' She drew herself up. One of those hairline eyebrows rose as she peeked at me from under lowered lids. '-Gisele Gremonde.'
'Gisele Gremonde,' I repeated wonderingly. 'Why, of course. You were famous for… wasn't it-'
'My Gilda-yes, that's right,' she purred. 'And my Violetta.'
'Of course!' I exclaimed. No, of course I'd never heard of her, but it seemed like the right thing to do.
Madame Gremonde turned into a prima donna before my eyes, taking back her cognac and re-seating herself as if she were on stage, regal and straight-backed. She finished her glass, picked up another, and gestured graciously toward the tray. 'Please help yourself, monsieur.'
But it didn't last. As she drank from the new glass, looking over its rim at the Duchamp, her eyes overflowed. Tears slid down her cheeks, leaving two oily tracks. Her mascara, her chins, and her body in the chair all slumped at once. She put down the glass and rubbed at her nose with a damp, wadded handkerchief that had been in her hand all along.
'Do you want to know the truth?' she asked, snuffling back the tears. 'Would you like to hear the entire, sad, miserable story?'
I may be a pushover, but I knew I definitely didn't want to hear the entire miserable story. I put my glass on the table. 'Madame, I've taken up too much of your time already. I've enjoyed-'
'Rene has had that painting for over forty years, did you know that? He bought it in 1951, to please me. It hung in his Paris apartment for many years. We used to look at it from our chairs at breakfast.'
'At breakfast?' I was caught in spite of myself. 'Are you- were you and Vachey-?'
'We were not married, no. Of course, Rene would have left his wife at a word from me, that was common knowledge, but my operatic schedule would not permit it, you see, and always my art came first. But we were very great friends.' Her loose, crimson mouth wobbled, then firmed. 'Well. That was some years ago. I bear no malice. Passion runs its course. One moves on to the new.'
She laid a heavy hand on my forearm. 'But always it was to be mine, this painting, you understand? He promised it to me some day, to me. And now I learn he has conveniently forgotten. I learn…' Her face was mottled with an angry flush. 'Why should the Louvre have it? Does a freely given promise count for nothing once love is spent? Is the Louvre in such need of another picture?'
She still had hold of me. I patted her hand clumsily. 'Madame-'
'So you see, he's not so wonderful as you think, is he? Oh, yes, and I could tell you a few other things too.'
She used my arm to push herself ponderously up. Luckily, I saw it coming, or we both might have wound up on the floor. She leaned heavily against the glass doors to Vachey's study.
'Do you see that book, the blue one on its side, on the end of the shelf there? The fat one? Wouldn't you like to know what's in it?'
'Actually, madame, I think I'd better-'
'I'll tell you, monsieur. The private record of all his 'great discoveries,' nothing less. You follow me?' Her eyes had turned cunning now, and mean. 'All of them. Where they really came from, what they really are. Yes, that's right.' With a drunk's malevolent snigger she held up a key she'd dug out of her sequined purse. 'You see what I have?'
The key scratched clumsily at the door plate and found the slot. The tumblers turned. The door opened slightly. 'Come, I'll show you. Don't be afraid.'
Rude or not, it was past time to get out of there. I put on an awkward dumb show of seeing someone I knew near the bar, excused myself, and fled.
The truth is that I had come within a hair of taking her up… his 'great discoveries'… where they really came from, what they really are. If Gisele knew what she was talking about, which was hardly a sure thing, everything I needed to know might be right there in that book. All I'd had to do was walk through that door with her and find out. But that kind of unethical adventuring is out of my line. I don't believe in prying uninvited into other people's offices, however virtuous the ends, and, to be honest, I don't have the stomach for it.
I mean, what if I got caught?
As you can imagine, the conversation hadn't done much to ease my mind. I slipped back into the gallery to look at the Rembrandt again. The longer I looked, the fishier it got, but I attributed that to the effects of Madame Gremonde and the cognac. Still, it made me nervous, and I decided again to leave it for tomorrow when I would be both fresh and sober. For now, I wanted to see how Charpentier was doing with the Leger.
Violon et Cruch. A relatively straightforward painting, as Legers go, about two feet by three, of a violin and a jug on a small table against a gaudy background of geometric patterns; squares, diamonds, circles, rectangles. I didn't have a clue as to whether it was real or fake, or good or bad. My impression-and that's all it was in this case; not even a guess- was that it wasn't a bad picture, presuming, of course, that you liked Legers. The colors were bright, the lines clean, the perspective attractively screwy, and the objects entertainingly distorted.
It seemed to me, in fact, to be a rather happy, even comic, picture, but you could never tell that from the sober, expectant group standing in front of it and taking up almost the whole of the alcove in which it hung. They were, I gathered, hoping to be in on a further exchange between Vachey and Charpentier.
The two men stood in a cleared space in front of the painting, Charpentier studying it down his nose, his head thrown back, his arms behind him, hands clasping elbows. Vachey stood beside him, radiating confidence. When I came in, I got a little smile from him.
After a minute or two Charpentier let a long, noisy snort out through his nose, brought his arms from behind him, and reclasped them in front the same way, each hand on the opposite elbow.
'So,' he said.
'So?' said Vachey.
Charpentier looked at him with surprise. 'You want to hear now? Here, in public?'
'Why not? What do I have to be afraid of? I already know what it is.'
'All right. Well, you happen to be correct. I congratulate you. Without doubt, it comes from the hand of Fernand Leger.'
No one said anything, but you could feel a spark crackle through the room. In a corner I saw Froger looking as if he didn't know whether to yip for joy or to weep.
Vachey smiled at Charpentier, so self-assured-or self-controlled-that not a glimmer showed through of the relief he must have felt. I was impressed. Nobody can be that sure of a painting.
'Not a very good one, however,' Charpentier said.
Vachey caught his breath, as if he'd been punched in the chest, then responded hotly. 'Not a-not a very good-how can you-'
'Well, what do you expect me to say?' Charpentier out-growled him. 'Do you want the truth or don't you? The composition is unsure, the handling of the oils lacks his finest sensitivity, the whole is tentative and unemphatic. It is experimental. Surely, you can see that for yourself. I should say it was done shortly after the war, when Leger was, shall we way, feeling his way toward the more explicitly figurative tradition of his later years. I'd
