Read Online A Sudden Change of Heart by Barbara Taylor Bradford - Free Book Online

it comes to Napoleon. He is either loved or loathed. Now, to move on, Laura, I must tell you about my friend, whomyou 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