Hugger-Mugger in the Louvre (2 page)

“Well, I'll be damned,” said Rosa Stier, who had grabbed a paper, too. Hjalmar gave his knee such a thump with his heavy hand that the drinks on the table shimmered.

“That's rich! By Yee! Can you beat it?” he shouted. The headlines and double-column cuts had struck his eye.

All over the
terrasse,
across the boulevard at the Rotonde, a block farther east at the Coupole and the Select, men and women were leaving their tables and crowding around Achilles, who soon had to go back to his stand for another sheaf of papers. Reluctantly, Evans diverted his mind from the seventeenth-century music and spread
En-Tout-Cas
before him.

“
THE PANSY,” COMPANION-PIECE OF “THE FLIRT,” SPIRITED FROM MUSEUM JUST BEFORE CLOSING HOUR: ATTENDANTS' ATTENTION DISTRACTED
––––
SMARTLY DRESSED ACCOMPLICES

With a sigh of relief, Evans laid down the paper again and looked up the boulevard. He was rewarded by the sight of a familiar figure. Miriam was on her way, at last.

“You're late,” he said, almost peevishly as she took her place beside him.

She flushed with pleasure. Then, seeing the newspaper, she looked up at him gravely. “Why, Homer,” she asked, “what's wrong?” All around them and up and down the street, a sea of spread papers was swelling: waiters had ceased serving drinks and were reading over customers' shoulders. “What's happened?” Miriam asked again.

“From the headlines, it appears that someone has stolen a precious Watteau. You remember. The supercilious young man with a ribbon on his crook.
The Pansy.”

“Is that all?” Miriam asked. “I'm so glad it's nothing personal, you know. I've been uneasy all afternoon. Forgot once or twice that it was not a piano I was banging and nearly broke a string of my lovely harpsichord. Oh, Homer! It's so beautiful. I can't tell you how those strange sounds make me feel.”

Hjalmar Jansen began to roar and slap his knee again.

“I hope they get away with it,” he said. “If the Louvre loses enough paintings, maybe some arrangements will be made to let some light into the damned place. Why can't they fill it up with furniture and beads and all that junk and put the paintings in a modern building where somebody can see them?”

“More than half of them are better in the dark,” Harold Simon said. “But, gee! Three million francs. And the blasted thing wasn't a foot square.”

“I haven't been to the Louvre since the day before I kicked my husband out of bed,” said Rosa Stier. “Come on, Homer. You know everything. Tell us about this masterpiece. And why did they call it
The Pansy?
Was Watteau queer, or what?”

With an effort observed only by Miriam, Evans aroused himself and good-naturedly began to talk. The others composed themselves to listen, for Homer had been unusually silent of late. Hjalmar sat with his hands firmly placed on both knees, as if he were a second in a heavyweight bout. Tom Jackson looked pained and thought of his paper.

“For God's sake, tell me all I ought to know. Since the Hugo Weiss affair all stories about art are wished on me. God, how I hate oil painting! I hope he's thrown the canvas into the Seine, whoever was ass enough to steal it,” the reporter said.

The waiter, who had come closer to hear what Homer had to say, responded to an appealing look and brought quickly a vermouth-cassis and it was not until he returned that Evans began speaking.

“The source of any work of art may be found in the life of the artist,” he began, thoughtfully. “Now Watteau was by no means effeminate by nature . . .”

“God be praised,” said Rosa Stier.

“He spent most of his life,” Homer continued, “in pursuit of a frivolous and calculating woman.”

“Hell of a combination,” said Hjalmar with feeling, and Jackson groaned again.

“As you know,” said Evans, with just the slightest change in his tone which restrained them from interrupting again, “Watteau's enamorata was a ballet dancer at the Opera.” (More groans from Hjalmar.) “You all understand that the Opera and the Luxembourg Gardens form the background for all Watteau's work. One, to him, represented indoors, the other was his ideal out-of-doors. In every canvas you will find traces of one or both of those places, and a good choice, too. Watteau was not in good health, weak lungs and all that, so he simplified his world and fashioned his poetry of the brush accordingly.

“L'Indifferent
or
The Pansy
is only half a work, you might say. It is incomplete without
La Coquette (The Flirt)
that always hangs on its right. Should be in a double frame but frames cost money and the Louvre is always broke, so no one has taken the trouble to hang the paintings properly.”

Evans paused to spread
En-Tout-Cas
across the table and Jackson, grinding his teeth, reached for pencil and copy paper.

“You will observe,” Evans went on, indicating a blurred reproduction of
La Coquette
with his finger, “that the little lady is smiling at her companion across the frame in a most inviting manner. Thoroughly charming and womanlike she is. Dainty, although buxom. Willing, but not too forward.”

“Oh, for Jesus' sake. . . .” said Rosa Stier.

“Patience, Rosa,” said Evans, amused. Then he pointed to the other reproduction, that of the painting which had been stolen. “The gentleman in the other picture will have none of her, as one can readily see. He is not trying to inflame her jealousy by suggesting he is on his way to another wench, he simply is trying to show the lady, in every way—by his pose, his facial expression, his supercilious gesture—that she does not interest him. Furthermore, he is implying subtly that none of her sex means a thing in his gay young career.”

At that Jackson took off his glasses, wiped them, and stared at the two-column cut.

“On the level,” he asked, “do you see all that there? I thought the guy was calling in the sheep or the cows or something. Well, I'm all wet, as usual. Christ! Why must guys paint?”

“The reason Watteau painted these two intriguing little canvases is not difficult to surmise,” Evans said. “In his early twenties, and before his gifts were recognized, he fell desperately in love with the young dancer I have mentioned. She was empty-headed in some ways. She knew young Watteau was poor, a bit awkward, not at all sure of himself. Besides, she was being kept by a wealthy roué whose protection she did not care to lose. There is something about genius, however, that makes itself felt through the shyest personality and the least promising exterior. Watteau had no money, no fame, not even robust health to match the vigor of a dancer in the prime of her athletic youth. Still, the girl sensed a part, at least, of his value and was reluctant to turn him down. She strung him along, to the detriment of his art and his health. She deceived him, kept his mind in turmoil, teased him, ridiculed him, but she contrived to keep a hold on him, giving nothing whatever.

“Is it not clear that Watteau's disappointment and resentment would take the form shown so plainly in this pair of paintings? She would never understand. Neither would many of his contemporaries. But every brushstroke in these little masterpieces gave him relief and satisfaction. It was his revenge on the sex. That, I'm sorry to say, is about the only relief or satisfaction he got.”

Evans ceased speaking, and turned to his glass, until Miriam said gently: “Tell us what happened, Homer. We all are not encyclopedias.”

“Oh,” Homer said, absently. “Watteau became famous, the ballet girl got older and was ditched by her rich protector. She had to go home to Valenciennes where the country life bored her. It was then she thought of Watteau and sent for him. He was delirious with joy, forgot everything and hurried to her side. Since he was very ill, and she was abnormally rapacious after her forced sojourn in the country, the result was quickly tragic for Watteau and for French art as a whole. He stood the strain for a few blissful weeks, then died.”

“Another double whiskey,” Hjalmar Jansen said.

Drinks were served all around, and the company of friends began to discuss Watteau and the sensational theft with increasing animation, always hoping that the thief would make a clean getaway. The fewer Old Masters there are, the better most hard-working modern artists are pleased. And the antics of French officialdom when on the spot are sure to furnish tiptop entertainment. Miriam, sitting by Homer's side, took little part in the conversation. At first she thought she felt a bit chilly, but the absurdity of that, on a warm summer evening, caused her to look at Evans carefully. He was entering one of his phases of concentration, against his will, it seemed to her. Not a word that was being uttered around the table reached his ears. She sat motionless, trying not to disturb his thoughts and was astonished to see him rise, almost as if he were in a dream, touch her arm to guide her and, without saying good-bye to their friends, lead her toward a waiting taxi.

“Sorry,” he said at last. “I had to get away.”

She smiled. “Don't think about me. I'm very happy,” she said. “Continue with your thoughts.”

“That's exactly what I don't propose to do. There are no more newspapers. No man exists or existed who was called Watteau. Montparnasse, for the time being, is out of bounds.”

“I don't understand, but that doesn't matter,” she said. The taxi was passing the
place
St. Michel. Evans tapped quickly on the window.

“Let's get out here,” he said, and led the way across the broad sidewalk to the Cafe du Depart, where once before, on that memorable night when Hugo Weiss had disappeared, they had taken refuge from their many friends in Montparnasse and, step by step, had been involved in the most strenuous adventure to which Evans, man of contemplation and ease, had ever lent his talents and his latent capacities. The same corner table was vacant, although the
terrasse
and the large square were swarming with busy people who, even more keenly than the idlers of Montparnasse, looked forward to an evening of relaxation and simple pleasures. Already the motley members of that crowd, individually obscure, collectively the soul of France, were feeling the twilight mood. Nervous movements slowed down to a calmer tempo. Tired faces lost the look of daily wear and tear. Somewhere, in cheap restaurants or dim rooms, there would be dinner for all—or nearly all. Seated on cane-woven chairs the Parisians rested a few minutes behind small tables, sometimes rickety, and drank
aperitifs
from bottles similar to those served at the Café du Dôme, with the difference that the glasses were smaller and thicker and made to look ample with false bottoms; that occasionally a struggling
bistrot
keeper felt obliged, in order to defend himself and his family against an increasingly complicated world, to dilute the red wine or vermouth; and that the prices marked on the saucers were modest indeed.

The large newsstand in front of the
terrasse
Homer Evans had chosen was surrounded by eager customers, shoving good-naturedly to get to the front, holding sous in their hands, commenting brightly to one another on the news of the evening, the disappearance of the priceless Watteau. And here, as in the quarter where culture was as thick as gasolene fumes in the air, men and women, even boys and girls, seemed rather pleased than otherwise with the developments. The clever thief, or thieves, had done each citizen a personal favor, one would have said.

“He's got his nerve, that guy,” a pert-faced shopgirl said, admiringly.

The chestnut-vendor, who sold peanuts in the offseason, wiped his hands on his apron and grinned. “Took the frame and all,” he said, with a true French love of thoroughness.

Notwithstanding the banter, there was a note also of reverence when the sum of three million francs was glimpsed in the headlines. On a midinette or a plumber's apprentice, who by hard toil and unremitting attention was able to earn about a dollar a day, the printed figures representing three million francs had an impact which, though different in nature from that of Nebuchadnezzar's animated wall decorations, was not less awe-inspiring. Had
The Pansy
been painted life size, with, let us say, a couple of grayhounds and an acre of park land behind him, the price of the Watteau gem would not have proved as shocking to the populace. But for a painting only thirty centimeters by twenty, the estimated value seemed fabulous indeed. As Miriam and Homer sat silently waiting for their drinks, they both observed a number of clients asking waiters for the loan of a pencil, so that the price per square centimeter might be computed.

A few of the more sensitive drinkers, however, were not thinking in terms of francs and centimes but were staring at the two-column cuts in search of the beauty they felt sure was therein contained. This latter group was the more bewildered. Homer smiled. Safe from intrusion and with Miriam by his side he felt decidedly better. Directly in front of them three tables had been placed together for a group of young friends who met there daily at the
aperitif
hour. And in the face of each one of the workers, Miriam thought she detected disappointment.
En-Tout-Cas
was spread before them and they all were staring at the reproductions.

Suddenly Miriam was seized with an unprecedented impulse.

“Homer,” she said, grasping his sleeve and looking at him appealingly. It was not necessary for her to continue. Evans smiled indulgently, rose from his place and in a moment was leaning over the spread newspaper and explaining to the group the significance of
The Pansy
and the fate of Watteau. To say that his hearers listened eagerly would be a misdemeanor of understatement. Their faces lighted with comprehension, were eloquent with dismay. One of the girls from La Samaritaine, in fact, was so moved that she burst into tears and rushed for a telephone booth.

“So you see, my friends,” Homer Evans was concluding, “the first painter who might be called truly French, who didn't copy the Italians, had to die in his thirties when, with luck, he might have lived to a ripe old age and painted so many pictures that the prices of Watteaus today would be only half what they are.”