19. Marquise

Rosalie Vincent, Marquise de Sancerre rose to her feet at Bonnie's approach and offered her cheek for the first of the four air kisses which, at the moment, constituted the standard form of greeting among friends in Paris. Her lightly-powdered skin was redolent of the delightful scent of wild roses, her signature fragrance. "Ma petite Bonnie," she said, with a gracious smile when, at last, they drew apart, "how happy I am that you were free to join me on such short notice. I would have been downcast in the extreme if I had had to leave D. C. without spending at least a few minutes in your charming company. And what your dear grandmother would have had to say on the matter, I shudder to think."

Bonnie smiled at this florid and utterly Gallic welcome. "Madame, I assure you I would have cancelled any but the most obligatory of engagements for the pleasure of seeing you. May I say you look your usual stunning self." A woman on the shady side of fifty ought to have appeared somewhat peculiar in a shocking pink and black houndstooth suit, tightly belted and worn over a filmy black lace blouse, but Madame Vincent carried the bold ensemble off with her typical éclat. In defiance of the current trend toward understated, modest accessories, she flashed a short string of giant pearls at her throat as well as round earrings, a chunky bracelet, and an oversized ring, all equally fashioned of pearl. The opalescent jewelry nicely echoed the single wide band of white in an otherwise silky black pageboy that framed her striking, gamine face.

"Bah!" Madame Vincent waved the compliment away with a well-manicured hand. "One does the little one can, and hopes for the best. Sit, sit, my dear! I have, as you see, taken the liberty of ordering mimosas. We must certainly drink to your great success."

Bonnie slid into her seat at the beautifully-set table, taking in, as she did so, the quiet elegance of the dining room. Even for brunch, the restaurant attached to Madame's five-star hotel had not stinted to put out starched white tablecloths, embossed napkins, bone china and heavy flatware. When she looked back at her companion, it was to find Madame with her flute already raised in one hand. "To you, ma chère, and your triumphal evening."

"And to you, madame, for your part in making it so." They each took a sip, eyes smiling one into the other's over the glass rims. Bonnie set her drink down, and, taking up her napkin, laid it across her lap. "I am sorry I didn't have the chance to see you last night. It was something of a madhouse in the gallery."

"Yes, indeed. You were surrounded on all sides whenever I circled back to you." A knowing smile curled Madame's lips, and her eyes shone with a saucy gleam. "I must congratulate you, ma petite, on your admirers. Two of them, if I do not mistake. I met the tall blond once, did I not, when you were staying the year with Angela?"

"You have excellent recall, madame. His name is Trevor Wyndham-Pryce."

"Ah! Just so. A most amiable boy, as I remember, and not at all hard on the eye. And the other gentleman? Dark-haired, wide across the shoulder, carrying the most adorable small child?"

Bonnie thought she caught just a hint of more-than-casual interest in the question. "That would be my supervisor at the Jeffersonian, Dr. Rudolph Baer and his son, Danny."

"I see. A colleague of yours, then." Once again, Madame's delivery was a shade too nonchalant. "Married, is he?"

Her suspicions all but confirmed, Bonnie shook her head in mixed wonder and amusement. "Madame! For shame! I hardly think Monsieur le Marquis would approve my indulging your curiosity on the subject."

Madame sighed to hear expressed so naive a sentiment. "My beloved Albert is a Frenchman, ma petite, and therefore the best of spouses. Unlike the unenlightened American male, he is not so unreasonable as to expect perfect fidelity in his wife." She favored Bonnie with an impish grin, and took another sip of her mimosa. "But seriously, my dear Bonnie, if you can manage it at all, I would very much appreciate an introduction to this handsome Dr. Baer of yours. You might, perhaps, bring him along to my show when it opens at the Tremont in two months' time. I shall send you an invitation."

Bonnie did not like to think of herself as either prudish or ageist, but the truth was she found Madame Vincent's blatant interest in Dr. Baer distinctly unpalatable. It was all very well for her grandmother's old friend to take much younger lovers while her elderly husband looked the other way, but Bonnie was not comfortable being made a party to it. "You give me entirely too much credit, Madame," she was not sorry to report. "I have no influence at all on Dr. Baer's comings and goings."

The older woman tilted her head to one side, and considered her thoughtfully. "Do you not, chérie?"

Happily for Bonnie, the waiter arrived at that moment to take their order, sparing her the necessity of a reply. On the pretext of not having consulted the menu, Bonnie deferred to her companion, only to discover she could not properly concentrate on the list of selections in her hand. When the waiter turned back for her order, she fell lamely back on, "I'll have the same, thank you."

Once their server had moved off, Bonnie did not take the chance that her hostess would resume their interrupted conversation. "So, Madame… my grandmother. Angela. How did you leave her? Is she well?"

"Ah, that one! Yes, yes, she is in splendid form, never better. To see her, one would never guess she is well into her eighties. Still straight, still spare. A marvel. I tell her, she will outlive us all! She might remarry, you know, any time she chooses. There is no lack of suitors. The Comte de Clermont is still paying her court, poor man. People think the worst because he is perennially low on funds and twenty years her junior, but he is genuinely devoted to her, all the same. Eh, bien." Madame shrugged philosophically. "She has made it plain she wants no second husband. He must have been an exceptional man, your grandfather Hodgins. I am sorry I never had the chance to know him."

Bonnie knew that regret only too well. "I have no memories of him, but everyone always speaks of him with great affection and respect. I believe they were very happy together."

The server brought them two covered porcelain carafes, one of strong black coffee, the other of scalded whole milk. When he would have poured, Madame waved him away, and prepared a cup of café au lait for Bonnie, and then, a second for herself. "I simply cannot abide American-style coffee," Madame said, helping herself to a lump of sugar. "The French have the perfect name for it: 'dirty water.' Half the attraction of this restaurant for me is its European coffee bar."

Madame Vincent had lived so long in France, and had so thoroughly assimilated the quirks of French culture and language that Bonnie often forgot she was American by birth. An ex-patriot like Angela, Rosalie had grown up somewhere along the eastern seaboard, but had from an early age felt stifled by the dullness of her bourgeois backwater and had dreamt of living a grander, more cosmopolitain existence out in the world. As soon as she'd saved up the price of a one-way ticket, she'd answered the siren call of Paris, and had thrown herself headlong into the bohemian demimonde of aspiring artists and their hangers-on. There was many a nude now hanging in premier art institutions that attested to her having started out as the model, if not also the mistress, of some of the century's most celebrated painters before taking up brushes herself and producing many seminal pieces of her own. If Madame could ever be persuaded to pen a tell-all memoir, Bonnie had no doubt it would make for a sensational and fascinating read.

"I am very much afraid," Madame said, setting her cup back carefully in its saucer, "that your dear grandmother will not be entirely pleased with my handling of her commission."

"Because you were only able to win one of my paintings at auction?" Bonnie guessed.

"Something along those lines, yes. On the one hand, I cannot be faulted for not following her instructions to the letter: I was to bid up to a certain amount for each painting, and no more, which is precisely what I did."

"Then, you faithfully carried out her wishes. She can't be dissatisfied with that."

"Ah, but you see, I may well have violated the spirit of her instructions. I confess to you, ma belle, I rather fell in love with your Virginia Cardinal on my own account, and, to be blunt, I… euh…outbid her."

Bonnie could only stare at this revelation. "Are you saying she would have won the auction but for your bid?"

Madame lifted her shoulders helplessly. "I cannot say for sure, but, based on the price I paid, it is not at all impossible."

"Oh, my! I see your point: that does put a different complexion on things." Bonnie tried to imagine herself in her grandmother's shoes, and decided, in the end, that her Grammy A was too generous a soul to begrudge Madame her acquisition. "My grandmother's a reasonable woman. I think she will be more happy for you than angry."

Madame inclined her head, grateful for the reassurance. "And if she is upset with me, I will loan her the painting for a time, that she may enjoy it to her heart's content."

The waiter returned, pushing an ornate tea trolley laden with dishes before him. He unloaded, two by two, glasses of freshly-squeezed orange juice, small bowls of jewel-toned fruit salad, and platter-sized plates of puffy Belgian waffles, with scoops of pale butter and a miniature pitcher of pure maple syrup on the side. Bonnie felt her mouth water at the sight and aromas. Assured he had fulfilled all their immediate desires, the waiter bowed himself away with a shrewd look in Madame's direction and a playful "Bon appétit."

"I think," Madame reflected aloud as she speared a piece of melon with her fork, "your grandmother would forgive any number of transgressions if I could entice you back to Paris for a while. Tell me, Bonnie, have you considered applying for the Louvre fellowship? The deadline is, as usual, September 1st."

The Louvre fellowship! Bonnie felt her stomach flip in nervous excitement. Such a prestigious appointment, a definite career-maker, but so heavily-contested… "I don't know, Madame. My qualifications…"

"Now, now! You must not sell yourself short, petite. I was exceedingly impressed by your brushwork and your artistic sensibility. You have talent, an excellent work ethic, and dedication to your craft. And you have a further advantage which you do not as yet suspect." Madame paused, the better to command Bonnie's complete attention, a secret smile playing over her lips. "I have been named, you see, to this year's selection committee."

Bonnie reaction to this happy announcement was all Madame could have wished: she gasped in genuine surprise and elation, thrilled, if truth be told, more for the honor done to her friend than for any improvement in her own prospects. Madame's backing would guarantee Bonnie's candidacy a consideration it might not otherwise have enjoyed, but, even so, Bonnie did not like her chances. "Congratulations, Madame," she said, warmly. "You deserve the recognition."

"Bah! Recognition is a paltry thing when compared to the pleasure of being in position to be useful to one's friends. Now, listen to me: you have already made a fine start at the Jeffersonian. You must continue to impress your superiors there; they are well-regarded in the conservation field, and their strong recommendations will carry much weight. Also, try to gain practical experience with a range of procedures and techniques; it is good to demonstrate a certain breadth of knowledge and expertise. Above all, do not be shy. If you are not being offered projects of suitable complexity, insist on greater challenges."

At Madame's words of advice and encouragement, Bonnie's mind flew to the intriguing canvas awaiting her study in the workroom and to the plethora of possibilities its treatment opened up for her. "As it happens," she said, with renewed enthusiasm, "I have just been assigned a complete conservation, from initial assessment through to final re-framing."

"That sound most promising. It is too much to hope, I suppose, that it is a painting of some importance?"

"Very likely none," Bonnie conceded, "although there is some small doubt on that score. My first order of business will be to determine whether the family's claim of an original Lebrun has any merit."

"Lebrun," Madame repeated, with a lift of her finely-shaped brows. "A French artist, then. There have been many renowned painters by that name. It would not, perhaps, be the work of Émile Lebrun? Not a top tier talent, perhaps, but respectable."

"No, a much less recent artist." Bonnie hesitated, feeling all the absurdity of the attribution she was about to propose. "Antoine Lebrun."

Madame burst out in a merry laugh. "Ah, ma chère, that is a fine joke! An unknown Lebrun, parbleu! Such a find would set the art world on its heels." She chuckled at so fantastical a notion.

"You are doubtless right to scoff, Madame, but I plan to err on the side of caution all the same, and proceed as if the work is truly Lebrun's, at least until it can be proven otherwise."

"Very wise, my dear. You must let me know how you go on, and if I can be of any service. I can, for example, give you the names of one or two Lebrun scholars of my acquaintance."

"I would appreciate that, Madame, very much. Given his fame, it's remarkable how little biographical information I've been able to locate about him."

"I am not an art historian, Bonnie, but I can tell you two things about Lebrun: he was a towering talent, and a most wicked libertine."