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Authors: Barbara Taylor Bradford
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by art.”
“Absolutely!” Hercule exclaimed. “I agree with you, Jacqueline. Now, I would like to take Laura to the diningroom, 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.”
Jacqueline said, “Let us go back to the
salon vert,
where we can sit and discuss everything in comfort.”
L ater that afternoon, when Hercule dropped Laura off at the hotel, she thanked him profusely, then said, “I will phone my client in Toronto, and hopefully I will be able to give the countess an answer by Monday, perhaps even sooner.”
Hercule nodded. “That will be perfectly all right, Laura.” After helping her out of the Mercedes and walking her to the door of the hotel, he said, “I shall come in with you for a moment, if I may. I want to talk to you about two things. About paintings. And about Claire.”
Taken aback, Laura stared at him. “What about Claire? Is there something wrong? You sound odd.”
“I think perhaps I sound worried, Laura, but let us not stand here. Please, let us go into the hotel and have a cup of tea, or something else if you wish.”
“Yes,” she said swiftly, “yes, of course, Hercule.” She was unable to keep the sudden concern out of her voice as she spoke.
They went into the lobby together, and Laura said, “I don’t think I want tea. I’d prefer a drink. Can we go to the bar, please, Hercule?”
“Mais oui,
let us do that.” They walked on quietly without saying another word, and went
“Absolutely!” Hercule exclaimed. “I agree with you, Jacqueline. Now, I would like to take Laura to the diningroom, 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.”
Jacqueline said, “Let us go back to the
salon vert,
where we can sit and discuss everything in comfort.”
L ater that afternoon, when Hercule dropped Laura off at the hotel, she thanked him profusely, then said, “I will phone my client in Toronto, and hopefully I will be able to give the countess an answer by Monday, perhaps even sooner.”
Hercule nodded. “That will be perfectly all right, Laura.” After helping her out of the Mercedes and walking her to the door of the hotel, he said, “I shall come in with you for a moment, if I may. I want to talk to you about two things. About paintings. And about Claire.”
Taken aback, Laura stared at him. “What about Claire? Is there something wrong? You sound odd.”
“I think perhaps I sound worried, Laura, but let us not stand here. Please, let us go into the hotel and have a cup of tea, or something else if you wish.”
“Yes,” she said swiftly, “yes, of course, Hercule.” She was unable to keep the sudden concern out of her voice as she spoke.
They went into the lobby together, and Laura said, “I don’t think I want tea. I’d prefer a drink. Can we go to the bar, please, Hercule?”
“Mais oui,
let us do that.” They walked on quietly without saying another word, and went
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