34. Source

Bonnie's appetite was still far from hearty when Sébastien next appeared in the workroom. She had been obliged to spend the morning watching Bear and Isabelle put their heads together all too literally as they evaluated the painting's treatment to date and discussed its prosecution going forward. Encouraged by the results, Bear was in favor of keeping to Cummings' plan to remove the entire layer of disfiguring varnish, while Isabelle, clearly a proponent of the "less is more" school of conservation, argued for a minimalist, more selective approach, even to the point of leaving the bright pigments entirely untouched. "We know the colors do not dim equally over time. The dark shades grow more murky, while the light pigments retain much of their brilliance. If the surface is stripped uniformly, there is a risk of the relationship of values being thrown off." Always minded, herself, to err on the side of caution, Bonnie was completely on Isabelle's side of the matter, but, intent as they were on each other and relegated as she was to mixing up more solvent gel some little distance away, it occurred to neither Bear nor Isabelle to ask her opinion.

By the time Sébastien made his entrance, Isabelle had more or less talked Bear round to her way of thinking, and harmony reigned again in the workroom. Sébastien saluted the company at large, and making his way over to Baer and Isabelle, held a cordial hand out to each of them in turn. "Bonjour, bonjour!" he said, in evident high spirits. "Making good progress? Yes? Excellent!" He looked about him expectantly, and, catching sight of Bonnie recapping and returning the jars of chemicals she'd been using to their cabinet, called out, "Ah! There you are! No, no, take your time, my dear! Don't rush on my account. I'm running early in any case."

Isabelle, a slim hip propped against a table, crossed her legs at the ankle and her arms across her chest. "You are taking Bonnie out to lunch?"

"There is simply no deceiving you, Isabelle! Yes, as you have so cleverly deduced, Bonnie has kindly agreed to dine with me. I have booked a cozy table for two at Le Bistro Max. They make a fish stew there even a French grandmother would love. I am very much looking forward to it."

Isabelle raised a hand to her face, and tapped her cheek thoughtfully. "Do you know, I don't believe I saw bouillabaisse on the menu when we were there yesterday. Do you, Rudolph?" At Baer's apologetic shrug, she continued off-handedly, "I may well be mistaken. I am not so fond of stew, moi. However that may be, I can assure you the meal was very enjoyable, although, upon reflection…" She slanted an arch look in Baer's direction, "that may have been more a function of the company than the food."

Bonnie, having folded her lab coat over her chair back and come up to join Sébastien, saw his jaw set hard, the muscle flexed. "I'm delighted to know you found all to your liking."

"I could not have asked for better! And you mustn't despair if they no longer serve your very favorite dish, Sébastien. I noticed they do offer steak tartare, and I know how greatly you relish a well-seasoned mound of raw beef."

"In fact," Sébastien said, something like a growl in his voice, "I cannot abide it."

"Is that so? How very strange! I could have sworn…" She shrugged carelessly. "I must have had someone else in mind."

"You generally do."

Isabelle lifted her chin, and met his glare unwaveringly. Bonnie, uncomfortably reminded of her parents' fierce staring matches, moved to intervene. "I'm ready to go, Sébastien."

He shot her a started glance, as if he had quite forgotten his reason for being there. "Ah, so you are! How wonderfully prompt! We'll be off, then," he announced by way of a general good-bye. "But one thing, if I may, before we go, Baer. I've a mind to look in at Doyle's after lunch. They have a number of interesting lots going under the hammer on Saturday, and, as promising as the paintings look in the auction catalog, there's no substitute for inspecting the actual, physical objects. The showroom's in Georgetown, just a short walk from the restaurant, so it would be convenient to stop in on the way back, but if you cannot do without Bonnie for so long, I can postpone my visit until later in the day."

"That's not necessary, Sébastien," Bonnie was quick to point out. "I can catch a cab back."

"But you must go!" Isabelle said with great decision. "You have been working so very hard, so diligently! You deserve a break, if only to clear your head of the noxious fumes you have breathed in all morning." She turned to appeal directly to Baer. "You can spare her for a few hours, can you not, Rudolph? The work need not suffer, after all. I am willing to undertake any of the chores you had scheduled for Bonnie this afternoon. Indeed, I would consider it a treat to be allowed a turn at cleaning. Please say you agree!"

Bear cast a troubled look from Isabelle's hopeful face to Sébastien's, and finally settled a searching gaze on Bonnie. She pleaded as best she could with her eyes, mentally willing him to insist, as regretfully as he liked, on her returning to work with the greatest despatch possible, but in the end, though she'd been momentarily reassured by the understanding in his eyes, he proved unable to resist Isabelle's moue of entreaty. "Fine," he said, his tone belying the spoken word. "Just remember, Miss Booth-Hodgins, PR wants to see you before the end of the day, and I have to speak with you before you meet with them."

As they exited the room with Sébastien's hand lightly pressed to the small of her back, Bonnie anticipated with dread having to listen to a lengthy explanation of the scene he and Isabelle had enacted, but to her relief, he made no reference to it whatsoever. Instead, he bent his considerable energies to proving himself the most attentive, most generous, most agreeable of lunch dates. Bonnie might have enjoyed his conversation more if it had been less larded with the names of his famous contacts and clients, accounts of his professional coups, and passing mentions of his real estate holdings, which included, in addition to his apartment in Paris, a villa in St. Tropez and a manor house on the outskirts of Tours. If he tended irresistibly toward self-absorption and boasting, he was nonetheless very entertaining when recounting his adventures sleuthing in the art world, and his skill as a raconteur largely reconciled Bonnie to his conversational shortcomings.

"You have more than enough material for a book," she enthused, as their waiter collected the deep, round bowls empty now but for the merest traces of a truly memorable bouillabaisse. "You'd have a best-seller on your hands for sure. You could call it 'Forgers and other Flim Flam Artists I Have Known.' "

Sébastien laughed. "A very fitting title! I might have to write the book if only to use it! But, do you really think there's a market for such stories?"

"I do! Everyone likes a good mystery, and yours have added interest because you actually lived them. I know I'd buy a copy."

Sebastien smiled with genuine pleasure, and at the emergence of his dimples, Bonnie caught a fleeting glimpse of the breathtaking young man he must once have been. He took his wine glass in hand, and raising it, saluted her. "Bonnie Booth-Hodgins, you are a very good sort of girl." He downed a healthy swig, and then, replacing the glass on the table, added somewhat ruefully, "It's a pity you're not French."

Bonnie was too amused to be offended. "I have often wished I were," she said, diplomatically. "I have the greatest respect and admiration for the French, and all the many contributions your country has made to the world."

She might have saved her breath as it was obvious from the frown creasing his brow that he was following some train of thought all his own. She happily left him to it, and devoted herself to sipping what remained of her delicious Chablis. At long last, the knit brows parted, and he beamed at her as if a light bulb had switched on behind his eyes. "I have it!" he announced triumphantly. "The very thing! You must apply for the Louvre Fellowship! Not only will it be the making of your career, but it will afford you the opportunity to live many months in France! It is a heavily contested opportunity, yes," he rolled on, anticipating her objection, "but that need not concern you. I am personally acquainted with several members of the selection committee, Henri Perrin among them, and a certain Marquise de Sancerre as well who owes me a very large favor, it being I who introduced her to her noble husband. Yes, you may leave it all to me! A word in this one's ear, a small hint to another, et voilà!" He brushed his palms together in brisk satisfaction. "The thing is done! No, no, do not thank me! I am only too happy to smooth your way."

Having fixed it in his mind over Bonnie's protestations that she would, before long, be taking up residence in Paris, Sébastien filled the quarter hour required to walk from the bistro to the auction house enumerating the many pleasures the future held in store for her, as she must assuredly allow him to show her over his country estate, or take her sailing on his private yacht, or fly her down to Monte Carlo for a weekend's gambling. He invited her to treat his gallery as if it were her own, and pledged to make her known to all the most influential persons in the local fine arts community. Bonnie's head might easily have been turned by such glittering prospects, but as she credited them with no more substance than any other fantastic castle in Spain, she listened politely and believed not a word.

They had no sooner crossed the threshold into Doyle's showroom than Bonnie felt she had stepped into a treasure vault of beautiful objects. Tall glass cases glinting with vintage silver, antique jewelry and porcelain bibelots marched the length of one wall while on the other, hundreds of framed oil paintings of various sizes hung cheek by jowl from floorboard to ceiling. The center of the long room was crowded with finely-wrought cabinets, chairs and tables, many of them topped with luminous Tiffany-style lamps and elegant bronze sculptures. Wherever she looked, her eye lit on a masterful piece of art or craftsmanship, and she might have blessed Isabelle for insisting she be allowed this short side trip if not for the galling suspicion that the Frenchwoman was even now taking full advantage of her absence.

The visit having, apparently, been expected, a Doyle representative immediately materialized before them, and if the neat and proper gentleman did not precisely fawn over Sébastien, he nevertheless greeted him with the respect and cordiality due a highly-valued client. Bonnie's presence appeared to discomfit him, however, and he turned to Sébastien apologetically. "We've transferred the paintings you wanted to examine to the viewing room, but it's too small a space, I'm afraid, to accommodate three people."

Sébastien did not hesitate. "In that case, I will simply escort my young friend back…"

"No, Sébastien, honestly," Bonnie protested, "there's not the slightest need. I can easily amuse myself out here for a while." She gestured to the embarrassment of riches arrayed all around her. "There's such a lot to see."

"You really don't mind?" he pressed.

Reassured on that point, he promised not to keep her waiting any longer than absolutely necessary and allowed himself to be led away. Bonnie, more glad than not to be relieved of Sébastien's somewhat trying company, wandered the premises idly at first, stopping frequently for a closer look at some object d'art that jumped out at her, but finally, she was drawn by professional curiosity to the miscellany of landscapes, still lifes and portraits that covered nearly every inch of one olive-drab wall. She walked its length at her gallery pace, trying to give each picture its fair share of attention, stepping back to take in the larger pieces, leaning in to view the small. They varied enormously in quality, from the merely competent to the magisterial, and included, much to Bonnie's surprise, a number of paintings by recognized masters, with auction estimates that made her eyes go wide.

Eventually, she came to a section with two rectangles of blank wall mixed in among the canvases, and realized she had reached the spot where the lots Sébastien was inspecting would normally hang. He had confided they were French Rococo paintings, both rather risqué scenes which the catalogue identified as "after François Boucher," but which Sébastien suspected might be by the hand of the master himself. Most of the paintings surrounding the empty spaces were, similarly, richly-colored scenes peopled by couples in various stages of undress disporting themselves against a luxuriant natural backdrop or wildly disordered bedchamber, with a few less provocative portraits thrown in. Bonnie gave each one of these in turn her full consideration, pausing, in an effort to educate herself and continue to train her eye, to consult the description accompanying each lot. She had looked over and was about to pass on from an unremarkable, if picturesque, landscape of classical ruins by moonlight when she was brought up short by the signature that could just barely be made out against the shadowed foreground: Blanchard. Turning quickly to the description, she read: Eugène Blanchard, Rome au clair de lune, 1773.

So enthralled was she by her discovery, she did not notice Sébastien's approach until he had come up beside her. "Find a hidden treasure?"

"Oh, Sébastien!" she said, turning to him eagerly and going so far in her excitement as to grip his forearm. "Look! Right there! A painting by Eugène Blanchard!"

"Yes…" he said, in the careful tone generally used to conciliate possible lunatics. "So I see." He gently disengaged his sleeve from her clutching fingers, and smoothed the wrinkles from the fabric. "You really do have the oddest enthusiasms, my dear. Blanchard is very well in his way — I don't say otherwise — but, as a painter, he is at best a middling talent. Certainly not, in my view, an artist to inspire such ecstasy."

"Oh, on that score, I completely agree! It's not the painting itself that's blown me away, but the coincidence of finding it here. Blanchard was Lebrun's close friend, you see, and may have played a crucial role in the creation of La Coupe d'amour. I've been trying to find out more about the man, but so far, I haven't had much luck."

Sébastien lips curved up in a slow, superior smile. "Well, look no further. I can tell you quite a bit about old Eugène." He crooked out his arm, and when she had threaded hers about his, directed their steps toward the door. "Where would you like me to start?"