35. Blanchards

According to Sébastien, one of the more unfortunate aspects of his celebrity was the constant influx of invitations from individuals who sought to increase their social cachet by producing him as a guest at some gathering or event in their homes. He did not, of course, encourage such people, but it was not always possible, in advance, to distinguish parasites from congenial company, and he was sometimes fooled into mistaking one for the other. It had been one of these errors, some years before, that had condemned him to a hellish weekend house party at the chateau of Étienne Blanchard, direct and insufferably proud descendent of Eugène.

Not only had he suffered the indignity of being paraded before Blanchard's friends and neighbors like some prize bull, he had been obliged as well to endure the man's interminable extolling of his family's contributions down the centuries to the political, military and artistic glory of France. Blanchard had insisted on "treating" Sébastien to a private tour of his extensive art holdings which proved, in the occurrence, to include numerous sketches, water colors, oil paintings and sculptures, all signed in a variety of hands but invariably inscribed with the same last name.

"You are likely aware," Étienne said, with intolerable condescension, "that, in noble families, the first-born son inherits the lands and title, leaving his younger brothers to make their own way in the world. Traditionally, the second-born son pursued a career in the military while the third was consecrated to the church. We Blanchards, however, have never been hide-bound by convention. Our youngest sons, and their sisters as well, have always been encouraged to devote themselves to the arts, with the results that you see all around you. In some generations, it is painting and sculpture, in others, poetry, philosophy, and fiction. I, myself, when my duties allow, dabble in historical research, with a particular focus on the immediate vicinity and my family's doings here. Indeed, while not as skilled a writer as some of my ancestors, I have begun to set the information down for my children and grandchildren's edification."

Of all his forbears, Blanchard waxed particularly eloquent on the subject of his many-times great-grandfather Eugène. One long room of the chateau had been converted into a gallery of sorts entirely dedicated to his favorite's output, and it was there Blanchard had held Sébastien prisoner for what seemed an eternity, expiating on Eugène's many fine qualities as a man and artist. "Being a connoisseur yourself, you will have discerned, I am sure, that Eugène is by far the most gifted painter the family has yet produced. With his talent, he would, inevitably, have accomplished great things, had he not been forced by his brothers' untimely demise to renounce his art and take up the burdens of his father's rights and responsibilities. I feel strongly that, given more time for his skills and aesthetic sensibility to mature, he would have rivaled the acknowledged masters of the day, not excepting his erstwhile friend Lebrun. Would you not agree?"

The genius which might, but for the vagaries of fate, have been expressed through Eugène's artwork was channeled instead into ably stewarding the family fortunes through the unsettled years leading up to and through the French Revolution. He married suitably, sired three lusty sons to secure the succession, and left the estate at his death more prosperous than he'd found it upon assuming the title. A conscientious man, he had fulfilled his manifold duties admirably, and had ever comported himself as a true gentleman, which, in that era, had not precluded setting up a mistress purely for pleasure. Having wed for position, Eugène kept the purported wife of one of his tenant farmers for love, and had fathered another son and a daughter with her. This being the one detail about Eugène that struck Sébastien as mildly interesting, he had asked Étienne how he could be sure of this.

"It's a story that's been passed down through the generations, and, as supporting evidence, there's his last will and testament. In that document, he bequeaths a princely sum to a certain Madeleine Lavallière, the long-time widow of an estate tenant who was already elderly when she married him shortly upon arriving in the county. What is more, the farmhouse and the land pertaining to it were left, free and clear, to her son, and provision in the form of a dowry made for her daughter. The reasons for such generosity must be obvious."

Sébastien had occasion to remember the name Lavallière when, not long before, it had been mentioned by his second-in-command in conjunction with an inquiry that had come in to the gallery. A woman by that name had called in to report that during the extensive renovation currently under way at her family's eighteenth-century farmhouse, a cache of oil paintings had been discovered in a locked closet tucked into one end of the attic. The room's existence had not been a secret, but as the key had been missing forever and the space behind the door was deemed too small to hold much of value, no one had ever gone to the effort of ascertaining its contents. It was only by virtue of the door's being breached as part of the on-going demolition that the room's unsuspected treasure had once again seen the light of day.

"The find consists of a dozen moderately-sized canvases, unframed and unsigned, but dated on the back with years ranging from 1778 to 1790. Given the time frame and the Lavallières' alleged blood-connection to the Blanchards, husband and wife leapt to the conclusion that they'd stumbled upon unknown works by illustrious forefather Eugène, and they were keen to have me, or a representative of the gallery, make the trip into Picardie to certify their claim."

Bonnie, who'd had neither the inclination nor much opportunity to interrupt before, felt the need to specify, "Was it the same farmhouse Blanchard had deeded to his supposedly illegitimate son?"

"The very one. Now, the weekend at the Baron's had left such a bad taste in my mouth that even years later I wanted nothing to do with any Blanchards, living or dead. I was firmly opposed to accepting the commission, but Armand, my trusted assistant, was seduced by the romance of the story, and kept at me to give the paintings at least a cursory look. As a compromise measure, I authorized Armand to inform the Lavallières that we could not commit ourselves to a visit without something more to go on, and instructed them to forward us digital photos of, if not all the paintings, no fewer than six, which they promptly did."

"And…?" Bonnie prompted in her impatience. "Could you tell anything from them? Did they look like his work?"

Sébastien nodded. "The style, technique, level of mastery were all consistent with those I had been compelled to study chez le Baron. As regards quality, they were not dissimilar to the landscape we saw just now in the auction room: decorative, workmanlike, pleasing to the eye, but in no way exceptional. Still, our curiosity had been piqued, so we drove out to the farmhouse to examine the whole lot, and saw enough characteristic elements to be able to give as our considered opinion that the paintings could, indeed, be attributed with fair certainty to Eugène Blanchard.

"You ought to have seen that couple dance for joy, Bonnie! Anyone would have thought they had just won the national lottery! They had been imagining a gargantuan windfall, you see, some figure in the millions or tens of millions, for all I know! As if paintings by their ancestor would realize at auction as much as a new-to-the-market Van Gogh, or Picasso! When they heard our more rational estimate of the paintings' value, they accused us of trying to swindle them out of a fortune, and escorted us unceremoniously off the premises." He shrugged, unperturbed. "I wish them luck finding a buyer to pay their prices."

Bonnie, as captivated by the story as Armand, had been anticipating a grand finish, and was left feeling a trifle flat by this unsatisfying denouement. "How rotten for you, after all your time and trouble!"

"They did me a service, rather. What with having the paintings cleaned, framed, and advertised for sale, taking them on would hardly have been worth my while, commercially-speaking."

This eminently practical view did not reconcile Bonnie to what seemed to her a lost opportunity. "Well, for my part, I'm sorry you weren't able to buy them. If you had them in your gallery, I'd have the chance to see them. Were they mostly landscapes, do you remember?"

"I don't know what you expect to learn from them," Sébastien said, ignoring her question, "But if you want a look, you have only to say so! At least, I cannot show you all twelve paintings, but Armand will not have trashed the six digital photos we received from the Lavallières. If you like, I can instruct him to send the file to my tablet, and you can pour over the images to your heart's content."

Bonnie spun toward him, and lay a grateful hand on his forearm. "That would be wonderful, Sébastien. Thank you!"

He patted her hand gently, like some kindly favorite uncle. "Consider it done. And now, I had better escort you to the workroom and interpose my gallant self between you and Baer's almost certain wrath."

Bonnie was suddenly chagrined to realize she had, in her absorption, never once thought to check the time. "Are we very late?"

"Oh, yes. Undoubtedly."

When, a short while later, they found Bear behind his office desk, he was every bit as dark-visaged as Sébastien had foreseen. "I've had to put PR off until tomorrow," he growled by way of greeting.

Faithful to his promise, Sébastien stepped up, shielding Bonnie both with his body and his words. "I take full responsibility for our tardiness," he said, in manly fashion. "Bonnie is in no way to blame. The fact is, when inspecting a painting, l tend to lose all track of time. Sincere apologies, mon vieux."

Bear regarded him with undiminished disfavor. "There's not much time left in the day, but it might be just enough to get something accomplished, if you wouldn't mind…?"

"Say no more," Sébastien entreated, throwing his hands palms up in surrender. "I have been a sore inconvenience to you and will take myself off straightaway." He turned to go, but paused on his past to smile down at Bonnie. "Thank you for a truly enchanting afternoon, my dear. As soon as I hear back about that mattered we discussed, I will tell you."

He held out a hand in farewell, and Bonnie put her own into it. "Thank you, Sébastien," she said warmly. "For that, and, well… for everything."

"If you could speed up the fond good-byes, Miss Booth-Hodgins!"

With a last commiserating look, Sébastien raised her hand to his lips, saluted her fingers, and was gone. Bonnie, left alone, turned to face the brunt of Bear's displeasure. "I'm sorry…" she began, with real contrition.

"Save it," Bear said brusquely. An instant later, he puffed out a breath and eyed her ruefully. "Sorry. It wasn't your fault, I know. Let's start again." He motioned her to a chair. When she had lowered herself onto the edge of her seat, he resumed more evenly, "I wanted to talk to you about the videos PR is producing to air on the Institute web channel following Friday's presser. Naturally, they anticipate the announcement will generate a lot of buzz, and they want to capitalize on that to promote what we do here at the Jeff, with the end game being, of course, to entice more people into the museums and encourage sizable donations."

Bonnie could appreciate the shrewdness of such a campaign. "So we'll be sitting for interviews about La Coupe d'amour?"

"That's about the size of it. Get ready for hard-hitting questions like 'Just how exciting is it for a conservator as young as yourself to work on such an important painting?' or 'Take us through discovering the pentimento. How did that feel?' "

Bonnie had to smile at Bear's parody of a gushing interviewer. "I think I can handle that."

"There's more. They're going to ask you about what's next in the treatment plan, so let me lay that out for you. You're familiar with the Institute's Conservation Station?"

She nodded. "The current exhibit is about repairing and restoring antique violins."

"Right. It's scheduled to run through the end of the month, but they're going to be packing up a day or two early, so we can move La Coupe d'amour down to the public studio and get our supplies and equipment installed."

This development came as something of a shock to Bonnie. She had not heard so much as the whisper of a rumor regarding such a change. "We'll be treating the painting outside the workroom? With visitors watching?"

"Watching, and interacting with us, too, during certain hours of the day. It's all about striking while the iron is hot. The painting's going to be big news, and, the hope is, a big draw as well. If people are made to wait to see it until treatment's been completed, they may lose interest, and a golden opportunity to bump up attendance will be wasted. At least, that's how Cummings and the Institute Board see it."

As a promotional ploy, it was, Bonnie had to admit, a clever scheme, and very likely to succeed in its object. "I understand the advantages of opening our process up to the public, but what I don't see is why I should be the one to make the announcement. Wouldn't it be better coming from you? You know so much more about it."

Bear fixed her with a long, steady look, half disbelief and half wonder. "Don't you ever look in the mirror?"

"Of course, but…"

"What's more likely to bring in the crowds, a beautiful painting and its equally stunning conservator, or the same painting and a guy with a mug like mine?"

Bonnie could take little away from that question beyond the intimation that Bear thought her beautiful. Surprised, flustered and painfully self-conscious, she could only stammer, "You have a… a perfectly nice face."

He barked out a laugh, and shook his head at her. "Suffice it to say, PR doesn't share your opinion. Anyway, all you have to do is talk up the Conservation Station in a general way, and mention that for more details people can visit the Institute web site. Any questions?"

None came immediately to mind, or none that concerned the upcoming interview at least. "No, I think I'm all set for now. I would like to know, though…" She hesitated, not wanting to appear ungracious, but anxiety impelled her. "Did Isabelle make much progress on the cleaning?"

"Isabelle?" Bear seemed momentarily thrown by the sudden shift in topic, but recovered quickly. "She made a little headway on the cloud bank in the upper left corner. Maybe a square inch, inch and a half? She might have managed more, but PR pulled her away." He smiled knowingly. "Feeling jealous?"

She nodded, shamefaced. "I know it's not actually our painting, but that's how it feels, and I don't want share it, even with someone as skilled and accomplished as Isabelle." She regarded him with a penitence that was only partly playful. "Does that make me a bad person?"

He shook his head indulgently. "It makes you human, Bonnie. Welcome to the club."