Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

Eve

Paris, May 1946

After visiting Serge and seeing the new self-portrait by Kristina Belova and the extraordinary painting she had made of my mother, I returned to the apartment. I let myself in and heard the voices of women and at least one man moving between the rooms. Lucile’s squeaky soprano tone was immediately recognisable. But a chill rippled up my spine when I realised the très chic inflections of the other woman sounded distinctly like Marthe de Villiers. What was she doing here?

The man’s voice was unfamiliar. ‘Ah, this one is very pretty indeed, Madame Damour, but unfortunately of little value on the market.’

The tone was elegant and even, like a pristine river flowing over rocks and gently smoothing their edges. The kind of voice a skilled seducer uses when he wants a woman to do his bidding.

‘Nineteenth-century prints have a warmth about them. I suggest you keep it,’ he continued.

The trio came out of the library and into the foyer. Marthe’s eyes narrowed at once when she saw me, but the man only turned to me with curiosity. He had the face and proportions of a blond Greek god, slightly aged with a touch of grey around his temples and a fan of wrinkles around his topaz green eyes. His almost supernatural masculine beauty was marred only by his nose being bent slightly sideways. Had the damage been caused by some sporting activity – polo perhaps? Or had he got into a fight? The cultured confidence the stranger exuded didn’t give me the impression of a man who was a brawler.

‘Eve!’ Lucile said, her voice bright with excitement. ‘I’m so glad you are here. This is Monsieur La Farge. Marthe brought him today to assess my art.’

Assess the art? A ripple of panic ran through me. No such plan had been discussed with me. Lucile’s art was awful. She had dozens of paintings in the academic style, either by minor artists or distant ancestors. Not only were they mediocre, they were so haphazardly assembled that they could not be described as a collection. When I’d completed the redecoration of the apartment, she had wanted me to have them rehung. After much discussion, and my threatening to leave, we had finally compromised on rehanging them in the bedrooms and library. But I thought Lucile and I had settled the matter that Serge Lavertu would be advising her on acquiring new paintings in the future. Now I saw that Marthe’s underhanded tactics would require constant vigilance. The hold she had over Lucile had not been broken as I’d hoped after the birthday party.

‘ Enchantée , Mademoiselle Archer,’ said Martin, taking my hand and chivalrously kissing it.

I had to struggle to maintain my composure. So, this was Martin La Farge? The man who was causing Serge so much heartache. He was not what I expected. I thought a man who might cheat another man out of his business would have the decency to look like a criminal and not like some sort of Prussian prince.

Marthe cleared her throat. ‘When I rang you, Lucile, you told me that Eve was out for the day?’

‘Well, I’m here now,’ I said.

‘I must compliment you on the splendid décor, Mademoiselle Archer,’ said Martin. ‘The pictures in Elle didn’t nearly do it justice.’

Marthe snorted. ‘It’s a little sparse, don’t you think?’

Martin diplomatically didn’t answer. The décor might be utterly beautiful, but it was Marthe who buttered his bread.

‘Monsieur La Farge has invited us to his gallery for a special viewing of some paintings he would like to offer us,’ said Lucile. Then looking at me uncertainly, she added, ‘They seem frightfully expensive.’

Lucile calling Martin’s gallery ‘his’ sent a shot of anger through me. I pursed my lips and Martin gave me a puzzled look. After all, in his mind, we’d only just met.

‘When you pay a high price for the priceless you are getting it cheap,’ he said. ‘It is the best of the best that will always rise quickly in value.’

‘What is the best of the best in your opinion?’ I asked him.

He paused for a moment before answering. ‘Titian, Velázquez and Rembrandt, of course.’

‘The Nazis took those, didn’t they?’

‘Yes indeed, Mademoiselle Archer. France lost a great deal of its heritage during the occupation. But much of the art is being recovered now and is coming back to us.’

‘To its rightful owners, I hope?’

‘Yes, wherever possible to its rightful owners,’ he said. ‘But that’s not always possible.’

‘Because they’re dead?’

Martin considered me for a moment as if I were an intricate bomb he had to defuse. ‘Yes unfortunately, because many of them are dead,’ he said in a tone of infinite regret.

‘Not only “dead”,’ I said, ‘ murdered. Entire generations deliberately and methodically destroyed – all so others could get their hands on their fortunes.’

‘Well, thank you for drawing our attention to an unpleasant subject, Eve,’ Marthe interrupted tersely. ‘Do you have a point?’

Lucile looked bamboozled by the conversation, and I reminded myself that it was more important to get her back on side with me than it was for me to argue with Martin La Farge. I took a more measured approach. ‘Madame Damour isn’t looking at acquiring art for investment. She’s becoming a connoisseur and a collector. A tastemaker. I don’t think she wants works that prompt her to wonder how the original owners died. That wouldn’t exactly be pleasant , would it?’

Marthe gave me one of her withering stares, but Lucile’s docile demeanour changed with my fiery words. ‘Yes, that’s right,’ she said. ‘I am a shepherdess and not a sheep.’

Coming out of Lucile’s mouth, the declaration seemed absurd. Martin’s eyebrows twitched but he remained tactful. ‘And what is Madame Damour looking to collect?’

Lucile glanced uncertainly at me.

‘Modern art,’ I said. ‘And, from now on, only living artists.’

I hoped that by suggesting an area of art-collecting that involved speculation and no guarantee of profits, he might be put off.

‘Ah, I see,’ he said, keeping his eyes on my face. ‘While it’s admirable to want to support new artists, not all of them will be successful. There was a time when Louis Demy, Fabrice Belmondo and even Kristina Belova were considered to be the shining new stars. But who has heard of them now? An experienced dealer must separate the wheat from the chaff, and that’s where I can help. It takes a Vollard to discover a Renoir, a Kahnweiler to recognise a Picasso.’

His description of Kristina Belova as a forgotten artist rattled me. I had to admit I had never heard of her before I met Serge, and he spoke about her as if she was the most talented artist of the twentieth century.

Lucile, with a sudden eagerness to be helpful, spoke up. ‘Eve acquired a Degas from the art dealer, Serge Lavertu. It’s hanging in the drawing room.’

At the mention of Serge’s name, everything seemed to fall into place for Martin. He looked me over anew, reassessing just how much sway I held in the household.

‘Yes, Serge Lavertu,’ he said, with an air of dismissal. ‘I should very much like to see the Degas he sold you, Madame Damour .’

Like a child leading the way to the tree on Christmas Eve, Lucile eagerly guided Martin to the drawing room. At the same time, someone knocked on the apartment door. For an awful moment I thought it might be Cyrille and rushed to open it before Odette could. To my relief it was Georges.

‘Come quickly,’ I whispered, bustling him towards the drawing room. ‘Martin La Farge is here. Marthe brought him.’

We stepped into the drawing room to see Martin squinting at the Degas from every angle through the lens of a monocle.

‘A later work, I see,’ he said, rubbing his chin, ‘when the artist was losing his eyesight. Not a bad execution by any means, but a touch rough. It’s not one of his better paintings.’

He glanced at Lucile. ‘If you wanted to start your modern collection with a Degas, Madame Damour, I would have recommended one of his early works, back when he was a master in depicting movement.’

Marthe smiled with the satisfaction of an executioner who has just released the guillotine blade, while Lucile looked grim, like the person who had just lost their head.

I wanted to defend the choice but knew I was no match for Martin’s expertise. Then Georges, who seemed to have assessed what game was being played, spoke up.

‘How fascinating,’ he said, ‘to watch a dealer at work. I have always thought it was something akin to Saint Peter standing at the pearly gates of heaven to keep the great unwashed out of the lofty world of art. But now I see it is much like watching a plumber criticising the work of another.’

Martin spun around at the sound of Georges’s voice.

‘Ah, Monsieur Camadeau,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘We have only met once before, so you may not remember me. I am Martin La Farge.’

‘I assure you that no reminder is necessary, Monsieur La Farge,’ Georges replied. ‘I remember the occasion of the inquiry very well.’

‘Inquiry?’ repeated Lucile.

I had a satisfied feeling that the tables might be turning on Martin and his aunt. Anything that had even the slightest whiff of illegality or scandal about it was extremely off-putting for Lucile.

Martin coolly answered, ‘Yes, that ridiculous inquiry. It was long ago now.’

Georges circled the room slowly, the way I imagined he did the courtroom floor before firing a question. ‘Dear Aunt Lucile, don’t you know Monsieur La Farge was accused of having the heads of one of Degas’s dancing girls repainted before he sold it. The buyer wanted “a pretty painting” for his wife who loved the ballet. He insisted on a Degas, but he knew his wife would not appreciate the monkey-like face that the artist had given his dancer. So, Monsieur La Farge had her “improved”.’

Martin waved his hand as if the accusation was of no consequence. ‘The adjustment was no more than one or two brushstrokes. The practice is not unheard of.’

‘And nobody would have been any the wiser if the couple in question hadn’t divorced and she’d tried to sell the painting to a collector who called in Serge Lavertu to authenticate it.’

Martin’s arrogant smile remained firmly on his face. ‘The court didn’t find me in the wrong, Monsieur Camadeau. You seem to be leaving out that part. You lost the case for the collector. I hope you didn’t charge him a fee.’

‘What is the point of all this?’ asked Marthe, waving her hand impatiently. ‘We are talking about this Degas in front of us right now, which is clearly second-rate and the reason why Martin should take over buying art for Lucile. Eve doesn’t have the competence required and is easily deceived. We’re not talking about serviettes and stationery here, we’re talking about extremely complex and expensive items.’

‘Eve is the sharpest woman in Paris,’ said Georges. ‘She wouldn’t have bought Titian’s Madonna of the Rabbit without the rabbit.’

‘Whatever do you mean, Georges?’ Marthe asked.

‘Why don’t you ask your nephew?’

‘Georges,’ said Marthe, exasperated, ‘you might find your obtrusiveness amusing, but I find it very ill-bred. You haven’t even told us why you are here.’

‘Do I need a reason to visit my favourite aunt and her lovely charge?’ he replied.

Martin took his monocle out, wiped it clean with a monogrammed handkerchief and replaced it in his breast pocket. He then took out a silver case from the inner pocket of his jacket and snapped it open to take out a card.

‘It seems I have come at an inopportune time and am interrupting a family gathering,’ he said, handing the card to Lucile. ‘Perhaps, Madame Damour, you could call my secretary and come and see me at my gallery. I have a selection of very good paintings that I believe would be perfect for a connoisseur’s collection.’

His actions were measured and calm, but the colour of his face screamed out his indignation. I was on the verge of adding fuel to the fire by correcting him that it was Serge’s gallery, but I kept my silence, glad enough that he was leaving.

‘I’ll come with you,’ Marthe said to Martin, frowning first at Georges and then at me.

She was not yet ready to concede defeat. When she passed by, she purposely bumped into me. I understood that everything had shifted now. It was no longer drawing-room parrying between Marthe and me, but open warfare.

With my nemesis and her accomplice gone, I turned to Georges. ‘What was that about rabbits?’ I asked him.

Georges took a cigarette case from his pocket and proceeded to light one. Then through a screen of smoke, he said, ‘Martin La Farge is the sufferer of a rare condition known as leporiphobia.’

‘Lepor— what?’ asked Lucile, looking disturbed as if whatever Martin suffered from might be contagious.

‘Leporiphobia,’ repeated Georges. ‘He has a fear of rabbits. He’s been known to have them painted out of pictures he dreads them so much.’

‘But surely not a Titian. Surely not a master?’ I exclaimed.

‘Perhaps not. Perhaps a fine forgery though.’ He turned to Lucile. ‘I suggest you avoid dealing with the man, Aunt Lucile. He is most unsavoury.’

I was glad Georges had arrived when he had. If Lucile wouldn’t listen to me, perhaps she would listen to him.

Leporiphobia , I thought, mulling it over. It was as if I’d discovered Martin’s Achilles heel, although I had no idea how I could use the information. But it did amuse me. One of the richest art dealers in Paris – and the man who was harming Serge – was scared of bunnies.

*

The following morning, feeling that I needed to shore up Lucile’s confidence in Serge after Marthe’s underhanded tactics, I went to Serge’s gallery to discuss with him the next acquisition in Lucile’s modern art collection. She was already being talked about because of her discovery of Fanny Toussaint and the article in Elle . Unfortunately, she was also being talked about because of the truckload of roses she’d been sent by a secret admirer.

I could have taken the Métro to Saint-Germain-des-Prés, but the weather was so pleasant I decided to walk. The trees were now in full leaf, and in a florist’s window were vases of lily-of-the-valley, lush with green foliage and pretty bell-like flowers. It was as if Paris was recovering some of her legendary charm and sending out a message of her return to happiness. Yet not far from Serge’s gallery I was overcome by a sense of foreboding. I looked over my shoulder with the distinct feeling that I was being followed. Then, low and behold, an unwelcome voice sounded beside me.

‘Mademoiselle Archer.’

I turned to see Cyrille de Villiers by my side. I groaned and continued walking, only at a far less leisurely pace. But he stuck to my side like a determined fly on a humid summer’s day.

‘You have probably been wondering why you haven’t heard from me,’ he said.

‘I was hoping you had come to your senses and were going to leave me alone,’ I replied.

‘I have acquired an apartment in Auteuil, not far from the Bois de Boulogne,’ he continued with a suggestive smile. ‘The architecture is exceptional, and the concierge is discreet .’

‘How lovely for you. But I have an important errand to run.’

‘I thought perhaps you would like to see it. I believe it will be to your taste. The fireplaces are marble and the views are spectacular. I haven’t furnished it – that I’ll leave to you with an account set up with Madame Allarie’s Antique Gallery.’

I stopped in my tracks. ‘This is an outrage, Monsieur de Villiers!’

‘You would prefer modern furniture, perhaps?’

‘No! Your proposal of a -’ I could barely bring myself to say the word without wanting to heave ‘- a... a love nest! Have you lost your mind? How dare you make such an improper suggestion to me!’

We had stopped in front of Les Deux Magots with its green canopy and bistro chairs. A few people sitting at the outdoor tables glanced in our direction, no doubt intrigued at the sight of a middle-aged man and a young woman arguing. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a well-dressed man put his newspaper down and half-rise from his chair.

‘But, darling...’ said Cyrille, taking a step towards me.

I recoiled, terrified he was about to kiss me. ‘Don’t you dare touch me! Go home to your wife!’

Cyrille’s doughy features sharpened at the mention of Marthe. ‘Never mention her,’ he said, baring his teeth. ‘Never mention my wife!’

It was like watching a man transform into a werewolf. Cyrille was even more unhinged than I thought. He reached out and grabbed my arm so tightly I thought he would break it.

‘Let go,’ I said. ‘Stop it!’

‘Take your hands off her, Uncle Cyrille,’ came a stern voice behind me. ‘Go home to Aunt Marthe.’

I turned, and with a strange dream-like shock, realised it was Martin La Farge standing next to us. I had not recognised him as the man rising from his table. The day before he had been wearing a three-piece suit, now he was more casually dressed in a tweed waistcoat and cap and looking even more handsome. His command was given so emphatically that Cyrille let go of me and stood on the spot as if he was a chastised boy who’d been caught pulling a girl’s plait. Then without any protest, he trudged off.

Martin turned to me and we were both silent for a moment, as if trying to decide who was in the more awkward position. Him, for having such a lecherous uncle, or me for having to be rescued by a man I had humiliated the day before.

It was Martin who spoke first. ‘I’m sorry, Mademoiselle Archer, my uncle is not a well man. He has a piece of shrapnel in his brain left over from the Battle of Verdun. It’s a tragedy. He was a brilliant man before the war. It’s very hard on Aunt Marthe.’

‘Ah,’ was all I managed to say. It was not an easy moment to feel empathy for your enemy’s suffering. It felt unwise to let down your guard and yet lacking in humanity if you didn’t.

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said as graciously as I could.

‘You look shaken,’ he said, indicating the table where he had been sitting. ‘Shall I order you something?’

Although it felt awkward to join him, it would have been worse to decline his offer. His manner was chivalrous, and if he harboured any ill feeling towards me after our encounter the previous day, he wasn’t showing it. I took the chair he offered and let him order a coffee and a tartine for me.

‘Have you been to Les Deux Magots before?’ he asked. ‘It’s something of an institution in Paris. Before the war it was a gathering place for artists, writers and intellectuals.’

I shook my head. My mother had only ever told me about Café de la Rotonde in Montparnasse and the artists who met there.

‘Where do you get your love of art, Mademoiselle Archer?’

Martin watched me carefully with those mesmerising eyes of his and I had to remind myself that this was a man who could not be trusted. I was not about to tell him that Serge Lavertu had taught me everything I knew.

‘I have studied art in galleries since I was a child,’ I lied. ‘I have faith in my own judgement.’

‘And you lean on Serge Lavertu as an expert?’

He said it casually without a tone of accusation, but I felt my skin prickle as if I was being goaded into making an unwise move in a chess game.

‘Yes, I do.’

The waiter brought our coffee and my tartine with blackberry jam and white cheese. My mind searched for something more I could say. But I was a novice up against a grandmaster.

‘I suppose that Monsieur Lavertu told you that we are in dispute with each other over his gallery?’

His tone was full of regret. But all my senses sharpened with the warning that I was about to be told a lie. It’s difficult to deceive a woman who was once a neglected child left to provide for herself, one who grew up knowing that nothing was ever given for free. It was better to speak plainly to let him see I knew the lie of the land.

‘Yes. He said it was taken by the Nazis and given to you during the war and that you won’t give it back,’ I told him.

Martin was unruffled by the sharpness of my tone. He took a sip of his coffee, then said, ‘There are two sides to every story, Mademoiselle Archer. I bought the gallery legally. I offered to sell it back to Monsieur Lavertu for half the price it is worth. Is that not a reasonable compromise? Should I be out of pocket for something neither of us could control?’

I needed to attack before I was checkmated. ‘I would say it depends how much you paid for the gallery when you bought it? Did you pay a reasonable price or was it sold to you at a bargain? And how can you claim to be “out-of-pocket” when you made millions of dollars selling artwork to the Nazis?’

Rather than looking surprised by my move, Martin offered a tempered smile. ‘Mademoiselle Archer, I don’t wish to belittle you, but you are not French and you were not here during the war. You have no idea what life in Paris was like during the occupation. Yes, I sold art to German customers, but that was perfectly legal. If I hadn’t traded old masters for modern paintings then thousands of works by Picasso, Chagall, Van Gogh and others would have been destroyed as “degenerate art”. Even your revered Degas would have gone up in flames. I went before the tribunal after the war and was proven innocent of any wrongdoing.’

He said he didn’t want to belittle me, but it felt like that what he was doing.

‘And the owners of the modern art you sold – were they saved too?’ I asked.

The waiter passed our table and Martin signalled to him to bring us two more coffees. I couldn’t help thinking he was giving himself a moment to consider his reply. Indeed, when he turned back to me he was smiling again, almost laughing.

‘It seems that you and I have got off on the wrong foot, Mademoiselle Archer. If you wish to deal with Serge Lavertu, that is entirely your business. But I would be more than happy for you to visit my gallery too. I assure you that my many years of experience in art dealing could prove valuable to you. I know a sophisticated woman when I meet one. You have excellent taste... but perhaps not the funds to acquire the quality of things that align with it. You see, if you were to encourage Madame Damour – who very clearly relies on your advice – to buy from me, there could be a healthy commission for you, a very healthy commission. Five per cent.’

Five per cent! A commission on a 300,000 franc painting would be ‘healthy’ indeed. But I couldn’t justify it. I would be using Lucile when she trusted me, and I would never betray Serge.

Then another, more sinister, idea occurred to me.

‘How do you know whether or not I was in France during the occupation?’ I asked. ‘Have you been investigating me?’

‘Investigating you?’ replied Martin with a derisive laugh. ‘Don’t overestimate your importance, Mademoiselle Archer. My aunt told me. It seems she is very interested in you and how you and Madame Damour met, and frankly I don’t blame her. She has known Madame Damour since they were children, and she is only doing what any caring friend would do.’

I had a sense of something being pressed on me – subtly, chivalrously, but as sharp as the tip of a knife.

‘I have nothing to be ashamed about,’ I said. ‘I have helped Lucile rise in society. I have been the perfect companion to her.’

‘Indeed, a drapery salesgirl is a perfectly honest position. But a salesgirl who poses as something else is quite another thing. Paris society will not accept that.’

Marthe’s research on me was quite extensive, it seemed. I knew that I mustn’t falter, that I must call the bluff that was being played.

‘I think Coco Chanel would disagree.’

Martin’s eyes narrowed. They had gone from haughty to having a distinctly predatory quality. ‘Madame Chanel had millions of dollars before anyone in society would let her into their drawing room. Imagine if the Fouquets were to find out that you are not a gentleman’s daughter after inviting you in good faith to their intimate pre-ball dinner. That would be a great offence to them. Paris society does not want penniless girls posing as rich ones and trying to lure their sons into marriage.’

The audacity of the man! I would return him the favour. ‘You and your aunt can say what you like. Perhaps you won’t mind me sharing that Cyrille de Villiers was pursuing me.’

‘There are two sides to every story,’ Martin replied. ‘Someone looking at that little exchange earlier with my uncle might see a young woman being harassed by an older man. But then again, they might have seen an ambitious young woman taking advantage of an unwell man for his money, just as she has with Lucile Damour.’

I could feel my colour rise. It was clear what objective Martin La Farge was pursuing. ‘There are not two sides to a story in this case,’ I said. ‘There is one person telling the truth and one person telling a lie.’

‘Perhaps then you should consider which one is more likely to be believed.’

He said it with such mildness, it was as if he were a kind uncle giving me advice. And yet, what was intended was not benign at all.

‘Are you threatening me, Monsieur La Farge?’

Martin shook his head. ‘Threatening you? No! In art dealing you must be precise in your terms. “Impasto” is not the same as “intaglio”.’ Then leaning across the table, he looked into my eyes and said, ‘I’m not threatening you, Mademoiselle Archer. I’m blackmailing you.’