30. Results

Sampling and testing the paint layers that comprised La Coupe d'amour had proven a time-consuming and laborious process, but, in the end, the results had more than repaid Baer and Bonnie's painstaking efforts: Dr. Cummings' continued caution notwithstanding, it seemed increasingly certain the Jeffersonian had, in its possession, a previously-unknown, original Lebrun.

Chemical analysis showed, beyond doubt, that all the pigments, resins and oils used in producing the painting were appropriate to the late eighteenth century, and, while this was encouraging in itself, Dr. Cummings would have been justified in categorizing the findings as merely supportive of a Lebrun authentication, had there not been more.

"When the Louvre version was taken down for inspection and cleaning twenty years ago, the conservation team followed recommended protocol, and documented every step of the treatment. We found a full report in the literature, and were able to compare the results of their materials tests to our own."

Dr. Cummings, elbows resting on the expanse of his desk top, looked over his steepled fingers at Baer. "And…?"

Baer turned to Bonnie and nodded. She took a deep breath, and tried to contain her excitement. "The correlation was almost perfect! The palettes for both paintings are quite limited, and the pigments employed are demonstrably the same. Also, when not used pure, the colors are mixed in the exact same proportions."

Dr. Cummings remained wary. "But there are differences?"

"Very minor ones. The ground of the Louvre copy was commercially prepared, whereas the ground of the Jeff's was applied in studio, and the upper ground colors are not a match, either. In the Jeff's version, which we think predates the Louvre's, the artist was apparently aiming for a luminous effect and went with an off-white undercoat, while later he preferred a rosier skin tone, and used a deep pink instead. In all other respects, though, the paintings are, in their chemical make-up, virtually identical."

At long last, Dr. Cummings allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. "As evidence goes, I call that very compelling. When you factor in the major pentimento, too, I'd say our position is extremely strong. That being said, I think it's best, before we go public, to have some expert opinion ranged on our side. Added credibility is always welcome."

Baer nodded his accord. "Do you have anyone particular in mind for the job?"

Dr. Cummings pursed his lips thoughtfully, and shook his head. "Obviously, some relatively local scholar of the French Rococo period would be ideal for our purposes, and there're bound to be a few well-respected authorities in the field at one or another of the area universities, but I've been giving this some thought, and it occurs to me that, as a matter of professional courtesy, we should probably contact Henri Perrin, and give his staff first crack at evaluating the painting."

"Perrin," Baer repeated. "The Chief Curator of Paintings at the Louvre?"

"It's hardly convenient for us, I know," Dr. Cummings said, mistaking Baer's clarification for mild objection. "But I can't help but feel they have a stake in this, after all. At the moment, they think they have the only Coupe d'amour in existence. It seems ungentlemanly, somehow, to announce our discovery without giving them fair warning." He looked from Baer to Bonnie and back again. "Unless you think I'm being overscrupulous?"

"No," Baer said quickly, speaking for both of them. "You're right. It's bound to slow us up, but if, at the end of the day, the Jeff and the Louvre can present a unified front, it'll be well worth any delay."

"We're agreed, then: I'll get in touch with Henri, and bring him up to speed. Chances are good he'll laugh me off at first — and who can blame him? — but once I convince him we're on the level, I'm confident he'll ship his people out expeditiously. Who knows? Maybe he'll even make the trip himself. It'd be good to see the old boy again."

While they waited for Dr. Cummings' deputation to the French to bear fruit, Bonnie, under Dr. Baer's watchful eye, began the exacting task of removing the fine particles of soot that overlay much of the painting's surface. As it was work that required intense focus, but did nothing, otherwise, to occupy the mind, Bonnie's thoughts turned with depressing regularity to her private inquiry into the mystery that was Lebrun. It was not, to put it mildly, going well. She had followed her grandfather's suggestion, and had made a close study of the Lebrun catalogue raisonnée, paying special attention to the paintings completed in the years leading up to La Coupe d'amour, but, though there was no dearth of female figures to examine, Bonnie found only one whose features could possibly be said to resemble those of the lovely, drapery-clad runner.

She was not, however, a women, but a girl, and figured as the young daughter of a respectable bourgeois household in La famille tranquille. In Lebrun's prize-winning painting, the family patriarch, the focal point of the piece, sat before the evening fire reading aloud to his loved ones from what was, presumably, the Holy Bible, while they, for their part, might or might not have been attending: his wife, head bowed over her needlework, was intent on her mending, his young son, sprawled on the hearth rug, put a wooden horse through its paces and his daughter, demurely seated on his left in a high-backed chair, dandled a King Charles spaniel over her lap. As she was also pictured in profile, Bonnie could easily compare the curve of the forehead, the roundness of the cheek, and the strength of the chin. To her eye, they were substantially the same in both figures.

When she put the question to her grandfather, however, he expressed reservations. "They have something of the same look," he allowed, studying the two greatly-magnified images that had been set side by side on Bonnie's tablet screen. "This one, though, is hardly more than a child. She's, what, all of twelve years old? When was the earlier painting finished?"

"It was shown in 1770, so maybe that year or the year before. We know Lebrun spent the next three years in Rome, and since he submitted La Coupe d'amour to the Salon of 1775, we can assume he was back in Paris no later than 1774."

"Which would've made her sixteen or seventeen when he returned." Booth's gaze lingered over the enchanting profile of the later painting. "I grant you there's a youthfulness to this one's face, a kind of blurriness around the edges as if she hasn't yet grown completely into her adult features, but, to my way of thinking, that's not the body of an adolescent. I'm not saying it's impossible," he was quick to assure her. "Only that what you have here is not enough to build a case on."

Sadly, Bonnie could not disagree; she'd been wondering, indeed, if she'd been grasping at straws. She clicked off the double image and put the tablet aside. "It's back to square one," she sighed.

"Buck up, Bonbon. When one angle doesn't work out, there's bound to be another you can try."

"Such as?"

"I don't know. Tell you what, let's have Lebrun's bio again, and we'll see what shakes loose."

Rather than rely on memory, Bonnie brought Michel Doucette's chapter up on her tablet, and read aloud very nearly half of it before her grandfather interrupted. "There, that last part. Lebrun had a falling out with his friend and traveling companion, Eugene something or other."

"Eugène Blanchard." Bonnie looked back over the pertinent sentences. "And Doucette makes it sound like Lebrun was the one to instigate the break."

"Could be we've been barking up the wrong tree all this time, Sweet Tart. Maybe we should have been thinking 'Cherchez…' What's French for 'man'?"

"Gramps!" Bonnie objected. "You're forgetting Lebrun was notorious for servicing the wives of his noble patrons. He fathered any number of children."

He shrugged, unimpressed. "So, he was bi-sexual. His true love Blanchard breaks his heart, and he swears off men completely as a result. Hey!" He raised his hands defensively at her stony glare. "I get you don't like it, but it's a working hypothesis, and a place to start. Who was this Blanchard fellow, and what's his part in the story?"

If there had been little information on-line about Antoine Lebrun's personal life, about Eugène Blanchard there was next to nothing. He was, as his given name suggested, well-born, scion of a noble family that proudly traced their lineage back, unbroken, to one Alain Blanchard, a fifteenth-century warrior who had been raised to the title of baron on the strength of his heroic service to the crown during the Hundred Years War. In the centuries that succeeded, the family had grown in influence and wealth, and could afford to support the artistic ambitions of such younger sons as Eugène without hardship. Perhaps because he had not been obliged to live off the proceeds of his art, the number of paintings known to have been produced by Eugène was small, and these, while beautiful in their way and executed with skill if not brilliance, were not of a quality deemed worthy to hang in major art institutions. General consensus held that Blanchard, a competent practitioner, had been, at best, a minor talent.

About his connection to Lebrun, no mention was made, and Bonnie had no great hopes of finding references to such an obscure friendship in the sources readily available to her. She would have liked her chances had she been able to access the full archives of la Bibliothèque Nationale but a jaunt across the pond was, for the foreseeable future, entirely out of the question. She was not without some recourse, however; Michel Doucette was in Paris, and might, conceivably, be imposed upon to look into Eugène Blanchard for her. Given his extensive research, she did not think it impossible he already had some worthwhile intelligence to share. As she was not in possession of his contact information, she asked his thesis advisor, Professor Martineau, to pass on her request for a consultation, and waited with what patience she could muster for Doucette to reply.

When, only hours later, her vid-screen alerted her to an in-coming call from France, she could hardly believe her luck. She thumbed the call through, already rehearsing in her mind the words she would use to couch her request for help, but it was not, after all, an unfamiliar man's image that appeared on her screen. "Marquise!" she exclaimed, in her surprise.

Madame Vincent's eyes sparkled, and a smile danced on her lips. "It is very bad of me, Bonnie, I know, particularly as it is supposed to be such a secret, but I simply had to call and congratulate you. An original Lebrun, parbleu! And to recollect, ma petite, how I scoffed! You have had the last laugh, après tout!"

"But…" Bonnie stammered. "I don't understand… How do you know?"

"Oh, as to that, I was with Henri, going over revisions to the Louvre fellowship application forms, when your delectable Dr. Cummings phoned. Henri thought it a great joke at first, but now he is absolutely chomping at the bit to see this wonder, as am I. Please assure me I may come and have a sneak peek at it when I return to DC at the end of the month!"

"I'm afraid that's not up to me, Madame. Perhaps as M. Perrin's guest… He is coming, then?"

"Just try to keep him away! He will bring along one or two others, I cannot say for certain who. And this works out marvelously well for me, as my dear Henri will be able to attend the private view of my art show at the Tremont. You may remember I mentioned it when we saw one another in April."

"Of course," Bonnie said, not quite truthfully. "Do you have a date?"

"Thursday, May 28. No need to jot it down. You'll receive your invitation soon. One for you, and one for your handsome Dr. Baer. You will coax him into coming, won't you, my dear? I am quite counting on you."

"I'll do my best, Madame." It was the second time she had lied in less than sixty seconds.