A Sudden Change of Heart (5 page)

L
aura awakened with a start.

She was bathed in a cold sweat, and her nightgown was clinging to her body. Struggling up into a sitting position, she threw back the bedclothes and swung her feet to the floor, turning on the bedside lamp as she did.

She could not help wondering, as she made her way to the bathroom, if she was coming down with something. To be perspiring like this was not normal; she hoped she was not in for a bout of the flu, or, at the least, a bad cold.
She couldn’t afford to get sick; she had far too much work to do, and Christmas was only a few weeks away.

After taking off her nightgown and drying herself, Laura put on a terry-cloth robe and padded back to the bedroom. Wide awake, she punched up the pillows and got onto the bed.

Zapping on the television, she found CNN and sat drinking the glass of carbonated water which she had put on the bedside table earlier but had not touched until then. Leaning back against the pillows, she stared at the set, grateful for the continuing stream of news out of Atlanta. At least it gave her something decent to watch in the early hours of the morning.

Laura put the glass down with a clatter and sat up a bit straighter, suddenly remembering her weird dream…. She had dreamed about Rosa Lavillard. The dream had been frightening, oppressive. She had been with Rosa in a vast building in some unknown city, and they had been lost within its mazelike corridors, which seemed to lead nowhere. The corridors were endless, and there were many, many doors. Every time they opened one, a startled occupant would look up, stare at them, and tell them, in answer to their question, that the way out was at the far end of the corridor. But it never was. Another door led only to another corridor. Nervous and distraught, she had begun to panic, but Rosa Lavillard had not. The older woman had remained calm.

“There is always a way out,” Rosa kept repeating, and yet they could not find the door that would lead them to the outside … and freedom.

It had become hotter and hotter in the windowless corridors, and she had grown overheated, tired. But Rosa was
stalwart, stoical, forever promising she would get them put of this maze no matter what. The final door opened onto a slide; Rosa had pushed her onto it, and she slid farther and farther down into terrifying blackness. And as she slipped into this bottomless pit, she could hear Rosa singing in French, but she couldn’t make out the words exactly…. Suddenly Rosa herself was on the slide, hurtling down behind her, singing for all she was worth.

And then she had woken up. Bathed in sweat, and with good reason. She had been afraid in the dream.

Laura was baffled by the nightmare. What could it possibly mean? And why had she dreamed about Rosa Lavillard, a woman she hardly knew? The answer to the latter was relatively simple. She had run into the Lavillards earlier in the day, and obviously they had remained in the back of her mind.

For one moment when they were having coffee after dinner, Laura had been about to tell Claire she had bumped into them in the museum, and then the moment had been lost. Claire had started to talk about the Renoir, and Hercule, and the weekend plans. But I should have told her, Laura admonished herself, and she felt suddenly guilty that she had not done so. It’s lying by omission, she thought.

Her mind lingered on the Lavillards for a second or two, and then it leapt to her brother, Dylan.

She knew she should call him in London just to say hello, but she was afraid to do so and had kept putting it off for the last few days. And for a simple reason. Invariably, they always managed to quarrel. Her brother was contentious by nature, and she wasn’t a bit surprised when Claire had told her he had tried to pick a fight with the
waiter the night they’d had dinner at the Ritz. He loved picking fights with everyone. He was troubled, filled with demons. But weren’t they all? Their lovely Welsh grandparents had always claimed—no, boasted—that they were
different
because they were Celts, and Laura had believed this, at least part of her had.

But she was smart enough to know that she and her sibling
were
odd, troubled, dysfunctional to a certain extent, in part because of a fey, neglectful, if loving mother who was bound up in her husband and her painting at the expense of her children, an overcompensating father who smothered them with love, and a famous actress for a grandmother who surrounded them with her own theatricality and extravagances and mythic tales of ancient Wales.

Laura smiled inwardly. Whatever it was they had made her, she was very sure of
who
she was. A Valiant. And proud of it.

4
     

“I
am happy you were available to meet with me, Laura,” Hercule Junot said, bestowing his warm smile on her. “My friend is leaving tonight for her château in the Loire, and this afternoon at three was the only time she had free to receive us.”

“No problem, Hercule, I’m looking forward to meeting her, and really excited about seeing the Renoir. I’m thrilled she still owns it.”

“It was lucky for you, and for Claire. But come, let us not waste another moment.” Taking hold of her elbow, he ushered her across the lobby of the Plaza-Athénée, continuing. “My car is waiting outside. My friend lives on the Faubourg Saint-Germain in the
septième,
not too far for us to go.”

“It’s one of my favorite areas of Paris,” Laura confided as they went out into the street and made for the car. Once they were comfortably settled on the backseat and driving off, Hercule remarked, “Yes, I know what you mean about the seventh. I myself have always found it very special, perhaps because of its diversity as well as its beauty … an enclave for aristocrats in their beautiful houses, and yet an area where students, artists, and writers abound.”

“I used to haunt the seventh when I was at the Sorbonne,
Hercule,” Laura told him. “When I wasn’t trotting around The Rodin museum I was at the Café de Flore or the Deux-Magots, or heading in the direction of the Hôtel des Invalides to visit Napoleon’s tomb.”

“Ah, yes, he is a favorite of yours,” Hercule said. “Claire has told me how much you admire our famous emperor.”

Laura smiled. “Napoleon and Winston Churchill are my two great heroes.”

“Not Lincoln or George Washington?”

“Well, yes, but in a different way. Churchill comes first with me, then Napoleon. I was tremendously influenced by my Welsh grandfather, who believed that Churchill saved Western civilization from extinction, quite aside from pulling the whole of Europe through evil times in the Second World War. Until the day he died, my grandfather Owen Valiant said that Churchill was the greatest man of the twentieth century. And I believe that too.”

“And Napoleon, the great dictator, how did you come to him?”

“Is that how you think of him … as a dictator?”

“Not I. Neither do most of the French, for that matter. The rest of Europe?” Hercule gave a small shrug and lifted his hands.
“They
think of him as a monster, but I do not believe he was.”

“I agree. And I came to him when I was living here as a student. I’m a Francophile, as you know, and I fell upon a wonderful biography of him, by Vincent Cronin, and I was just captivated. He was a genius in my opinion.”

Hercule nodded. “There is no half measure when it comes to Napoleon. He is either loved or loathed. Now, to move on, Laura, I must tell you about my friend, whom
you will be meeting in a few moments. Her name is Jacqueline de Antoine-St. Lucien. I have known her for many years. Her late husband, Charles, was a dear friend, and he indulged Jacqueline in her grand passion … collecting art. She has the great taste—” He paused, kissed his fingertips. “Superb taste …
formidable.
Her collection is enthralling. You will be seeing some of the greatest paintings in the world in a few minutes.”

“Why does she want to sell the Renoir?” Laura asked, filled with curiosity.

“She has not really confided the reason to me, but I do know the family château near Loches is expensive to run. Last year she sold a van Gogh.”

“I wish I’d known about that!”

“And I, too, wish I had known, Laura. Certainly I would have informed you.
Immediately.
From what Jacqueline told me later, she did not even have it on the market. Someone saw the van Gogh and made an offer, and so it was sold—just like that.” He snapped his thumb and finger together. “From what I understand, she had not thought of selling it, but the offer was so tremendous, she found she could not refuse.”

“My favorite of all the van Gogh paintings is
White Roses.”

“Ah,
mais oui,
the most beautiful. And now it is hanging in France again, at least for the time being.”

“In France, but in the American Embassy.”

“And therefore on American soil, at least technically speaking,” he answered. “Actually, it is at the ambassador’s residence.”

“I’d give anything to see it.”

“Perhaps that can be arranged. I know the ambassador, Pamela Harriman.”

“That’d be wonderful, Hercule. By the way, how much does your friend want for the Renoir? Or don’t you know?”

“When I spoke with her last night, she mentioned that she was thinking of somewhere in the region of four million, or thereabouts.”

“Dollars?”

“Yes, U.S. dollars. Ah, here we are, Laura. This is the house where Jacqueline lives. It has been in the family for many, many years.”

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.

L
aura 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 are … 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.”