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, US 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 centre 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 windows 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 centre a fountain that echoed the one in the front courtyard.
‘Madame la comtesse attends you in the salon vert, monsieur,’ the butler murmured.
Laura 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, blonde 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 colour, 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-nil 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 anxious 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 favoured 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 artists’ 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 which 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 which 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 favourite 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 colour, 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 which filled it 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 colourful vegetation and the unusual pinkish-coral colour 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