“And if he were to appear in his time from the well, like a spirit emerging from the center of God’s creation, then his coming would be miracle enough. He could command all the people who would wonder at his birth. . . . Isn’t it so, Emma?”
“Yes!” She reached out for his hands. “That would be a miracle!”
“Yes.” He did not realize how icy his hands were until he felt her warmth. “Destroy yourself, for your presence will make only confusion.” He drew her nearer to the well rim, nearer to himself. “Otherwise the people’s minds will be divided, for you are mortal. . . . Is it not a fitting thing the child should come forth of his own?”
There was a sharp crack from the road, as of a tree breaking.
He recoiled to the other side of the well. “What was that?” he whispered.
Emma had not taken her eyes from him. She leaned toward him, held to the well stones, and took a step toward him.
“Emma, don’t look at me! What was that on the road?”
She turned her head in the direction he pointed, but she was not seeing, not listening for anything but the magic words.
The gate swung in the soil. Steps came slowly, grinding on the ground.
Arthur could hardly breathe. The miracle, the scales, the fantastic theater he had played in, were dispelled. He could not find himself. He was in limbo, and in his mind now was the paralyzing quiet. His brain was seized in the prison of his own evilness. . . . Polluter! destroyer! And no goodness ever! He drew his fingertips along the stones till he felt them bleed. The steps came closer—cautious, flaring eyes somewhere in the darkness.
Emma heard the crack of his head in the column of the well, the impact of his body meeting the water. The air in the well shimmered like the water and settled into silence.
Dumbly Emma stood without stirring, dumb to the Negro’s voice which said something to her as from an enormous distance. The thread that had guided her through the labyrinth of her world had been severed. She relaxed suddenly, broke into a wild scream that died like the wail of an animal lost in the woods.
She stumbled toward the house. “Oh, God!” she cried. “Look down on us! Oh, God, save us!”
THE GREAT CARDHOUSE
Lucien Montlehuc started a little when he saw the notice. He read it twice, slowly, and then, as if he finally believed it, put down his newspaper and removed his monocle. A habitual expression of amusement returned to his face, and his lids fluttered over his bright blue eyes. “Imagine Gaston Potin taken in by it!” he said to himself. “Of all people to be fooled!”
This thought made him even more gleeful. It would not be the first time that he had proven Gaston Potin wrong. This particular Giotto was a forgery, and Gaston was putting it up for sale as a genuine. Lucien meant to have it, and the sale was that very afternoon. How fortunate he had been to see the notice in time! The magnificent counterfeit might have slipped through his fingers again.
Lucien put his monocle back in the grip of his slightly protruding brow, summoned François and ordered him to pack their bags for an overnight stay in Aix-en-Provence. While he waited, he turned to The Revelation to the Shepherds in his book of Giotto reproductions and studied it. Again he thought how odd it was that poor Gaston Potin would not have suspected it to be a forgery. Perhaps it was the too-rigid faces of the kneeling shepherds that told him the painting was not from Giotto’s hand. There was no real religious feeling there. The annunciatory angel’s robe was a too-brilliant pink. The composition itself was not right, not Giotto—but it was magnificent, as a forgery. Lucien did not need a magnifying glass to detect a forgery. Something within him, some inner sensory apparatus, betrayed the spurious instantly and always. It never failed.
Besides, hadn’t an Englishman, Sir Ronald Dunsenny, questioned the authenticity of this Revelation around the time of the Fruehlingen purchase? Indeed, Sir Ronald had ventured that the original had been destroyed in a fire in the middle of the eighteenth century! Evidently Gaston Potin didn’t know that.
It was Lucien’s passion to collect the most perfect imitations, and only the imitations, of the great artists. He did not want genuine paintings. And he prided himself that his sham masterpieces were such fine shams that any could, if presented as the original, fool the eyes of the most astute dealers and critics in the world.
Lucien had played many such tricks during the fifteen years he had been collecting forgeries. He might submit one of his forgeries as a loan from an individual who owned the original, for instance, then attend the exhibition and remark his suspicions publicly, to be proven right in the end, of course. Twice he had subjected Gaston Potin—with his great reputation as an art dealer—to such embarrassment. And once, Lucien had made Gaston uneasy about an original by presenting one of his forgeries that was so good it had taken six experts three days to decide which picture was the original. All in all, it had caused Gaston Potin to refer scathingly to Lucien’s well-known collection and to his lamentable taste for the bogus. Lamentable to whom? Lucien wondered. And why? His pranks had cost him a few friendships, perhaps, but then he cared as little for friendship as he cared for the true Leonardos, the true Renis, the true anything: friendship and bona fide masterpieces were too natural, too easy, too boring. Not that he actually disliked people, and people liked Lucien well enough, but if friendship threatened, Lucien withdrew.
His six-million-franc Delahaye sped along the Route Napoleon from Paris toward Aix at a hundred kilometers an hour. Plane trees in full leaf, their smooth bark peeling in purplish, pink, and beige patches, flickered by at the edges of the road like picket fences. A landscape of dusky orange and green and tan, the occasional blue of a farmer’s cart—a landscape as beautifully composed as a Gobelin tapestry—unfolded continuously on right and left, but Lucien had no eye for it. Nature’s creations did not interest him compared to man’s, and his stocky body sat deep in the seat of the car. Today there was the Fruehlingen Giotto to think about, and he looked forward to the auction with the keen, single-minded anticipation of a hunter or a lover. Merely for Lucien Montlehuc to bid for a painting meant that the painting was, or most likely was, a counterfeit, and would in this case immediately throw suspicion upon Gaston, who was sponsoring the auction. Some of the audience at Aix might think he was trying to play another trick on Gaston, of course, by bidding. So much the better when the experts confirmed the falsity after the picture was his.
“Excellent snails,” Lucien remarked with satisfaction, his pink cheeks glowing after his luncheon. He and François walked quickly to the car.
“Excellent, monsieur,” François replied agreeably. His good humor reflected that of his master. François was tall and lean and congenitally lazy, though he never failed to carry out an order from Lucien. He had not forgotten that he had once been earmarked for execution by the Spanish government for being in possession of a false passport. Because François had been amused and cool about the whole thing, he had won Lucien’s admiration, and Lucien had managed to buy his freedom. Since then François, actually a Russian who had escaped to Czechoslovakia with a price on his head, had lived in France, safe and content to be alive and in Lucien’s employ.
Lucien himself had once lived in Czechoslovakia. In 1926, most European papers had carried an account of a very young Captain Lucas Minchovik, a soldier of fortune who had been severely wounded in a skirmish on the Yugoslav border. Years ago, in Czechoslovakia, people had sometimes asked him about the 1926 report, the young captain’s heroism having made the story memorable, but Lucien had always disclaimed any knowledge of it. It had been another soldier of the same name, he said. Finally, he had changed his name and come to France.
In Aix, Lucien and François stopped first at the Hôtel des Étrangers to reserve a three-room suite, then drove on to the Musée de Tapisserie beside the Cathedral Saint-Sauveur. The auction was to be held in the open court of the musée, and was scheduled to begin in
half an hour, but things in Aix were always late. Cars of all sizes and manufacture cluttered the narrow streets around the cathedral, and the courtyard was a bedlam of hurrying workmen and chattering agents and dealers and private buyers who had not yet begun to seat themselves.
“Do you see M. Potin?” Lucien asked François, who was a good deal taller than Lucien.
“No, monsieur.”
An acquaintance of Lucien’s, a dealer from Strasbourg, told him that M. Potin was giving a luncheon at his villa just outside the town, and that he had not yet arrived.
Lucien decided to pay Gaston Potin a visit. He was eager to let Gaston know of his interest in the Giotto. As they drew up to Gaston’s Villa Madeleine, Lucien heard the treble notes of a piano from within. Faint but bell-like, it was a Scarlatti sonata. He was shown into the hall by a servant. Through the open door of the salon, Lucien saw a slender woman seated at the piano, and a score of men and a few women standing or sitting motionless, listening to her. Lucien paused at the threshold, adjusted his monocle, and espied Gaston just behind the piano, concentrating on the music with an expression of rapt and sentimental enjoyment. Lucien’s eyes swept the rest of the company. They were all here—Font-Martigue of the Dauberville Gallery in Paris, Fritz Heber of Vienna, Martin Palmer of London. Certainly the cream.
And they were all listening to the sonata—with the same absorption as Gaston. Lucien’s appearance in the doorway had not even been noticed. The fast movement the woman was playing was splendid indeed. The notes sparkled from her fingers like drops of pure springwater. But to Lucien’s ear, which was as infallible as his eye, an ingredient was missing—a pleasure in the performance. It was audible to Lucien that she detested Scarlatti, if not music itself. Lucien smiled. Could she really be holding the company as spellbound as it looked? But of course she was. How obtuse people were, even those who professed a knowledge of the arts! There was a perfect crash of applause from the little audience when she finished.
Lucien saw Gaston coming toward him with the pianist on his arm. Gaston smiled at Lucien as if the music had made him forget that there had ever been unpleasantnesses between them.
“Very happy and surprised to see you, Lucien!” Gaston said. “May I present the music teacher of my childhood—Mlle. Claire Duhamel of Aix.”
“Enchanté, mademoiselle,” said Lucien. He observed with satisfaction the stir of interest his entry into the salon had caused.
“She plays superbly, doesn’t she?” Gaston went on. “She has just been asked to give a series of concerts in Paris, but she has refused, n’est-ce pas, Mlle. Claire? Aix should not be deprived of your music for so long!”
Lucien smiled politely, then said, “I learned of your sale only this morning, Gaston. Why didn’t you send me an announcement?”
“Because I was sure there is nothing here that would interest you. These are all authentic pictures of my own choosing.”
“But The Revelation to the Shepherds interests me enormously!” Lucien told him with a smile. “I don’t suppose if it’s here you might let me see it now.”
Behind Gaston’s frank surprise, there was just the least alarm. “But with the greatest pleasure, Lucien. Follow me.”
Mlle. Duhamel, who had been gazing at Lucien all the while, checked him with the question, “Are you an admirer of Giotto, too, M. Montlehuc?”
Lucien looked at her. She was a typical vieille femme—an old maid—of a Provençal town, drab and shy, yet with an air of tenacious purpose in her own narrow, cramped way of life, a look of wiry vigor that suggested a plant growing at the edge of a wind-whipped cliff. Gentle, sad gray eyes looked out of her small face with such depression of spirit that one wanted to turn away immediately, because of an inability to help her. A less attractive person Lucien could not have imagined. “Yes, mademoiselle,” he said, and hurried after Gaston.
Lucien’s first sight of the picture brought that leap of excitement and recognition that only the finest forgeries gave him. From the patina, he judged the picture to be more than two hundred years old. And today it would be his.
“You see?” Gaston smiled confidently.
Lucien sighed, in mock defeat. “I see. A beautiful piece indeed. My congratulations, Gaston.”
Lucien attended the auction in the subdued manner of one who watches from the outside, a bystander. He waited with impatience while an indifferent Messina and a miserable “Ignoto Veneziano” from the Fruehlingen collection were put up and sold. Apart from the false Giotto, Lucien thought mischievously, the Barons von Fruehlingen did have execrable taste!
Mlle. Duhamel, on a bench against the side wall, was again staring at him, he noticed, with what thoughts behind her quiet gray eyes, he could not guess. Lucien found something disturbing, something arrogantly omniscient in her scrutiny. For an instant, he resented her fiercely and unreasonably. Lucien removed his monocle and passed his fingertips lightly across his lids. When he looked up again, the Revelation was on the dais.
A man whom Lucien could not see bid a million new francs.
“A million and a half,” said Lucien calmly. He was in the last row.
Heads turned to look at him. There was a murmur as the crowd recognized Lucien Montlehuc.
“Two million!” cried the same unseen bidder.
“Two million ten thousand,” replied Lucien, intending to provoke laughter, as he did, by the insultingly small raise. He heard the sibilant whisper of “Lucien” among the crowd. Someone laughed, a sardonic laugh that made a corner of Lucien’s mouth go up in response. Lucien knew from the rising hum that people had begun to ask one another if the Giotto were indisputably genuine.
The unseen bidder stood up. It was Font-Martigue of Paris. His bald head turned its eagle profile for a moment to glance at Lucien coldly. “Three million.”
Lucien also stood up. “Three million five hundred.”
“Three million seven,” replied Font-Martigue, more to Lucien than to the auctioneer.
Lucien raised it to three million eight hundred and Font-Martigue to four million.
“And a hundred thousand,” added Lucien.
At this rate, the figure might be driven beyond the price of a genuine Giotto, but Lucien did not care. The joke on Gaston would be worth it. And the audience was wavering already. Only Font-Martigue was bidding. Everyone knew that Gaston Potin had been wrong a few times, but Lucien never.
“Four million two hundred thousand,” said Font-Martigue.
“Four million three,” said Lucien.
The audience tittered. Lucien wished he could see Gaston at this moment, but he couldn’t. Gaston was doubtless in the front row with his back to Lucien. A pity. It was no longer a contest of bidding. It had become a contest of faith versus nonfaith, of believer versus nonbeliever. Fifteen meters away on the dais the Revelation stood like a reliquary in its golden-leaf frame, a reliquary of the divine fire of art—as each of them saw it.
“Four million four,” said Font-Martigue in a tone of finality.
“Four million five,” Lucien promptly replied.
Font-Martigue folded his arms and sat down.
The auctioneer rapped. “Four million five hundred thousand new francs?”
Lucien smiled. Who could afford to outbid him when he wanted something?
“Four million six,” said a voice on Lucien’s left.
A man who looked like a young Charles de Gaulle leaned forward on his knees, focusing his attention on the auctioneer. Lucien knew the type, the de Gaulle type indeed, another believer, an idealist. He was in for five million francs at least.
Five minutes later, the auctioneer pronounced The Revelation to the Shepherds the property of Lucien Montlehuc for the sum of five million two hundred and fifty thousand new francs.
Lucien came forward immediately to write his check and to take possession
.
“My congratulations, Lucien,” Gaston Potin said. His forehead was damp with perspiration, but he managed a bewildered smile. “A genuine work of art at last. The only one in your collection, I’m sure.”
“What is genuine?” Lucien asked. “Is art genuine? What is more sincere than imitation, Gaston?”
“Do you mean to say you think this painting is a forgery?”
“If it is not, I shall give it back to you. What would I want with it if it were genuine? You know, though, you should not have represented it as a genuine painting. It ran my price up.”
Gaston’s face was growing pink. “There are a dozen men here who could prove you wrong, Lucien.”
“I invite them to prove me wrong,” Lucien said courteously. “Seriously, Gaston, ask them to come to my suite at the Hôtel des Étrangers for aperitifs this afternoon. Let them bring their magnifying glasses and their history books. At six o’clock: May I expect you?”
“You may,” said Gaston Potin.
Lucien walked out of the courtyard to his waiting car. François had already strapped the Revelation carefully between the seat back and the spare tire. Lucien happened to look behind him as he reached the car. He saw Mlle. Duhamel walking slowly from the doorway of the courtyard toward him, and he felt a throb in his chest, a strange premonition. Sunlight, broken into droplets by the trees, played like silent music over her moving figure, light and quick as her own fingers had played in Gaston’s salon. He remembered his feeling, as he listened to her Scarlatti sonata, that she loathed playing it. And yet to play so brilliantly! That took a kind of genius, Lucien thought. He was aware suddenly of a great respect for Mlle. Duhamel, and of something else, something he could not identify, perhaps compassion. It pained him that anyone with Mlle. Duhamel’s ability should take so little joy in it, that she should look so crushed, so agonizingly self-effacing.
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