Leaning back in his chair, St. Briac smiled. “Do not apologize. I am grateful for your company.”
“But let us speak of M’sieur Denon. As you know, he is the Director of Museums, and has his office in the Louvre.” She became more animated as she spoke. “Do you imagine that Vivant has masterminded the theft of your masterpiece? Could he possibly know of our Izzie’s abduction?”
“Oh, I don’t imagine he even knows about Isabella, but I am convinced he and Wicar masterminded Caverleigh’s theft of the King. As I told you, the three of them were seen together in Roscoff. And does it not make perfect sense?”
“Mais oui, for I have seen the trove of priceless art, looted from every city conquered by Napoleon, that Vivant has now assembled in the Louvre. Our mad emperor seems to believe that he has the right to take anything he chooses, even from the pyramids of Egypt!”
“Indeed, they are all mad,” St. Briac nodded, waiting and hoping that Madame would read his mind.
“It has always been my feeling that Jean-Baptiste Wicar is worse than Vivant. Although my old friend’s methods are unscrupulous, I know that he truly loves art, and he wants to make the Musée Napoleon great.” She paused. “M’sieur Wicar, on the other hand, loves himself better than art. For all the spoils of war he took for Napoleon, he is rumored to have kept an equal number of art treasures for himself.”
“We agree, then, that Denon and Wicar are capable of directing Caverleigh to steal my painting.” When she nodded, he continued, “The question now is, what does Caverleigh want with Isabella? Where is she?”
“And where is your magnificent portrait of King François?”
St. Briac shook his head. “That is meaningless compared to my anxiety for the well being of Isabella.” He rubbed his burning eyes and confessed, “I have never felt this way in my life. I will do anything to find her.”
“In that case, I must help you. I will pay M’sieur Denon a visit,” Madame pronounced in a conspiratorial whisper. “I will go to him tomorrow and beg that he intervene with the emperor on my behalf, asking that he choose me to paint another of his terrible Bonaparte relatives. I know Vivant well enough to ask for gossip, and I shall not rest until I have the information we seek.”
“I can never thank you properly, Madame!” He laughed, elated and hopeful, and the Frenchwoman’s eyes twinkled in reply. “I could kiss you.”
“Mon cher, you are not the first man to express that sentiment.” Playfully, she raised her tiny glass of Sauterne to him.
“It is exactly the plan I had hoped for.” St. Briac paused, before musing, “The only thing that would please me more would be to accompany you, even if only to loiter about the gallery while you meet with Denon.”
“But, that is a perfect idea! We shall put you into a disguise. I think there is a chest of my husband’s clothing and wigs, from the days of the ancien régime, in the attic.” Picking up a little silver bell, Madame Le Brun added, “I shall summon Adelaide to go in search of it now! Perhaps, by tomorrow evening, we shall have our Izzie here with us.”
Chapter 29
Izzie’s stomach rumbled. Quickly, she ate a few bites of stale baguette before returning to her work. Her back ached after so many sleepless hours bent over her canvas, often laboring by the flickering light of a candle stub, to render a convincing copy of Leonardo da Vinci’s portrait of King François.
She tried not to panic as she looked down at her canvas. The sun was rising higher above the mansard rooftops and still she had so much to do. How could she possibly finish, even if she could convince George to allow her to keep the painting for another day?
If only there weren’t so many layers of glazing to add. Each one had to dry, but if she skimped on the painstaking steps Leonardo was known for, Denon and Wicar would see instantly that it was a fraud. And of course, painting the King himself required that Izzie bring to bear every nuance of technique she had learned from Madame Le Brun.
Of course, even more than technique, this undertaking required Izzie to overcome her aversion to painting people. Was it possible because this portrait was not of someone sitting across from her, demanding that she open herself to another person’s deepest, unspoken emotions? Or perhaps she’d found the courage because her future with Gabriel depended on it.
After the plan had come to her, Izzie had realized that first she had to make sure her brother was occupied. Hidden in a secret drawer in the back of her art box was a miniature painted of Izzie as a baby, by their artist mother. It was something that she had treasured, but it was also an object of value that George could sell to finance a day or two of gambling. As she presented it to him, with the suggestion that he buy food, Izzie prayed that he would disappear into a Parisian gaming hell for at least two days.
He had been decent enough to return with bread, cheese, wine, a bucket of water, and a handful of candle stubs. Then, George had mumbled an excuse about visiting a friend and she hadn’t seen him since.
As she worked, Izzie was grateful that it was her habit to always keep a prepared canvas in her art box, though she had never imagined using one for a purpose such as this. And she also mentally blessed Justin St. Briac for supplying her with fresh pigments and linseed oil to use in mixing them. Since Leonardo da Vinci had used a small range of muted tones in his portrait of King François, Izzie was able to match every color.
What she could not match, however, was the actual medium of Leonardo’s painting. Izzie knew that late in his life he had preferred tempura made from egg whites. She would have to make do with her oil paints, but felt confident that she could create virtually the same effect.
So, Izzie had made an under-painting in pale shades of brown and gray, before applying layers of glazes in the same muted tones she saw in Leonardo’s portrait of the King. Only because she had copied many of the master’s works during her later studies in London, was it possible for her to recreate the King so convincingly now. Izzie knew and had practiced the fine points of his technique, especially the application of very thin layers of glazes, each one a slightly different color from the one beneath, creating both luminescence and a sense of perspective.
Looking at the King’s face in the original painting, Izzie again was nearly overcome by the feeling that he was a real man, watching her progress, a faint pulse beating at his throat. How truly gifted da Vinci had been! The portrait seemed to be lit from within, and although she could recreate that effect in part, there was a magical, even secretive quality about this original painting that no other human could capture.
Just then, Izzie heard the rasp of boots on the floorboards outside her room. Madly, she slid her own half-finished canvas under the bed and brought the original onto the table, where she propped it against the wall. There was the sound of a key jangling in the lock, and then the door flew open.
“You are finished?”
Holding her paintbrush, Izzie glanced up as if distracted. There stood her brother George, looking more dissolute and anxious than ever.
“Finished? Hardly.” She returned her attention to corner he had damaged on Gabriel’s painting. Although Izzie had been forced to add a bit of paint that would match the deep blue Leonardo had used, she was loathe to attempt a real effort at restoration. Pretending to apply her brush to the portrait, she added, “It’s much more complicated than you could possibly understand, George.”
“What do you mean?” He came rushing up behind her.
Assailed by his unwashed smell, Izzie wrinkled her nose. “Where have you been? What of your promise to change your ways?”
“I have a plan to recover all my losses!” he exclaimed. His eyes were red-rimmed and deep lines bracketed his mouth.
“Indeed? And are you enjoying great success?” She felt a wave of resentment, even though she had expected him to do that very thing when she gave him the miniature.
“Izzie!” George was nearly shrieking in desperation. “Just give me the damned thing and let me be on my way!”
Fur
y burned in her heart. Once again, she berated herself for entertaining even a moment’s hope that her brother might change. In that instant, all the times she had longed for their father to behave lovingly toward her came flooding back, along with the crushing pain of repeated disappointments. Deep inside, Izzie had always feared that her father treated her so badly because she was unworthy of more. It had never occurred to her that her father and George were the ones who were flawed and weak, not her.
Yet, if she had let them convince her of her own weakness once, she knew better now. Izzie found it deeply galling that she had stepped into the same trap from her girlhood, trusting and hoping for a better outcome…and now she found herself in this horrible predicament.
I will not lie down and accept defeat, she thought fiercely. I will fight for myself—and for Gabriel! And even if the terrible secret she had kept caused Gabriel to turn his back on her, she would see to it that this precious painting was restored to him.
“I must have more time,” she told George in a tone that brooked no argument. “You have entrusted me with this delicate task and I am telling you that it is a process that requires time.”
For a moment, it seemed his eyes might burst. “Time? How bloody much time? They are expecting me to bring them the painting within the hour!”
“And how much do you suppose they will pay for it if it is damaged?” Calmly, Izzie picked up her paintbrush again. “I need two days.”
“Two days?” he screamed. “God’s blood, I shall go mad!” And with that, George Trevarre, Marquess of Caverleigh, stormed from the room.
She held her breath, hoping he might forget to lock the door in his haste, but then she heard the agitated rattle of the key.
He might lock her in, but her soul would never be imprisoned again.
* * *
“How fortunate that my husband kept not only his own old clothing, but those of his uncle, who was in holy orders,” Madame Le Brun declared, her playful gaze sweeping over Gabriel as they walked under Napoleon’s new Arc de Triomphe de Carrousel on their way to the Louvre. “I cannot recognize you!”
“Mon Dieu, I hope not,” he said with amused irony. He was wearing the ankle-length cassock of a priest, a cape of similar length, and a large cross on a chain around his neck. Madame Le Brun had taken great delight in powdering his hair and using her charcoal pencil to make wrinkles on his face. They had finished the costume with gold spectacles and a square, three-cornered cap, called a biretta.
“No one will suspect that you are not a priest at all, but in truth a dashing corsair, who hides a rapier under his vestments.”
“I should probably walk more slowly, as if I were truly an old man,” St. Briac decided, practicing a feebler gait. “When you go inside, I will linger behind, studying the paintings. Denon shouldn’t know we are together.”
“I only hope he will divulge something of importance.”
“I have no doubt that you will find a way to draw him out,” he remarked. “Have I told you that you look especially lovely today?”
Madame arranged the edges of her high, lace-edged collar to better conceal the softening of her neck. “I cannot turn back the hands of time, mon cher, but I flatter myself that I can still charm the likes of Vivant Denon.”
As they entered the sprawling palace that was now the Musée Napoleon, Gabriel fell silent, his thoughts returning, as always, to Isabella. Although he continued to do his best to be an amusing companion for his hostess, under his smile there was an unrelenting throb of worry. Where was she at that moment? Was she safe? At night, when he couldn’t sleep, he told himself that her own brother couldn’t possibly harm her, no matter what his motive was for abducting her.
If it was really true that Caverleigh was behind the theft of the King and he might be holding Isabella as a hostage, St. Briac wished he could tell him that he’d gladly give up the bloody painting and everything he owned to have Isabella back safely in his arms.
“Have you nothing to say about the museum, m’sieur?” asked Madame Le Brun.
He looked around to see that they were passing through a great hall lined with paintings displayed close together on the walls, sometimes four or five high, all the way to the towering arched ceiling. The effect was nearly overwhelming.
“I was thinking of Isabella,” he confessed.
“This is new territory for you, mon ami…”
“The Louvre? On the contrary, I have been here many times.”
“No, that’s not what I mean.” She gave him a knowing smile. “I am speaking of the territory of love. As long as I’ve known you and your brother, I have watched you trifle with women but never relinquish your hearts. How does this feel?”
“Terrifying,” he confessed. “Daunting. Even painful.”
As they walked, Madame Le Brun reached over and patted his strong hand. “I commiserate with you.” She inclined her head toward an old man standing in the far corner of the gallery. “Tsk, tsk! Look at that.”
St. Briac blinked as he realized that the fellow was relieving himself inside the palace. “Are there no facilities?”
“No, I am afraid not. That fellow is one of the gardiens, paid a pittance by Vivant Denon to watch over Napoleon’s artistic conquests. They used to have smoking stoves inside the galleries during winter, until the emperor returned from Jena and put a stop to it. Clearly, there are still problems to be addressed!” Madame Le Brun wrinkled her nose disapprovingly.
St. Briac saw that they were approaching a grand, circular room. The walls were hung with powder-blue draperies, while marble statues mounted on stone pedestals crowded the floor. Lowering his voice, he asked. “Have we reached our destination?”
“Indeed. That is the Rotunde d’Apollon, where Denon organizes his treasures.” In the softest of whispers, Madame added, “Do you see the works of art looted from Egypt, Italy, and more lately from Prussia? Hundreds of paintings and dozens of statues! Bonaparte and his henchmen are shameless, I fear. Each victory on the battlefield yields more plunder for the Musée Napoleon.”
“It is difficult to comprehend.” He saw the magnificent paintings by Raphael, Correggio, Titian, and Michelangelo, ranged along the walls, waiting to be catalogued and placed. It was an art lovers’ fantasy. Then, fearing they might be overheard, St. Briac turned away. “I shall stay here, regarding this massive painting of the Madonna.”
Madame Le Brun continued on through the wide entrance to the rotunda while St. Briac lingered nearby, pretending to examine the details of another of Leonardo da Vinci’s paintings, Virgin of the Rocks. If he angled himself properly, he had a clear view of the statue-filled rotunda, where he saw an older man, sitting hunched over a table and holding a quill. After dipping it in an ink well, he wrote in a large book open on the table before him.
“Bonjour, Vivant,” Madame greeted the man. “How fortunate I am to find you here.”
“Ah, chère Louise, what an unexpected pleasure it is to see you.” Denon rose and St. Briac saw his thinning, gray hair was still wavy. Due to his heavy features, his face was imposing rather than handsome.
“I can see how busy you are,” Madame said. “May I interrupt you for a few moments?”
“You may do so at any time,” came Denon’s courtly reply. He even bowed, and dimples accentuated his broad smile. “Have you seen my Venus de’ Medici? She is one of our most magnificent prizes.” He led her over to the breathtakingly realistic marble statue and swept one hand upward in a gesture of pride. “Each time I behold her, dressed in her modesty alone, I cannot help but return her smile.”
“Indeed, she is impressive. Is it true that it took months to bring her to Paris, that the pieces of sculpture were transported in special carriages drawn by a dozen pair of oxen?”
“Quite true! I considered it a small price to pay to ensure that our treasures reached France unscathed,” came his smug reply.
St. Briac arched a brow as he watched, remembering how the Italians had moved the Venus de’ Medic
i to Palermo in a desperate effort to conceal it from the French conquerors, but to no avail. What right had Denon to call the ‘glory of Florence’ his prize?
Madame was saying, “One is almost overwhelmed by the sheer number of masterpieces you have amassed here, Vivant.”
“Can there be any greater happiness than dreaming before historical objects?” He grew flushed as he spoke. “France is master of all civilization. Why not house all the world’s great artworks here, in one place, to be enjoyed by young artists as well as all enlightened souls? I envision the Musée Napoleon as a grand history course in the art of painting.”
“I am speechless,” she said, smiling. For an instant, St. Briac thought he saw her wink in his direction.
“Of course, I face many challenges in transforming the Louvre into a great museum. All the windows merely take up space better used to display art, so I dream of eliminating them and replacing the roof with glass supported by ironwork.” Denon consulted his pocket watch. “May I ask what has brought you here to see me, my dear Louise?”
“Naturally, I have been longing to see your latest treasures…” She paused, and the Frenchman took the bait.
“I know I can rely on your discretion if I confide that we do have an exceptional piece arriving soon. A painting perhaps not as large and grand as those preferred by our emperor, but it gives me great pleasure.” Then, Denon seemed to remember himself and suddenly closed his mouth. “I can say no more at this time. So, if there is nothing else—”
“There is one more matter I wanted to converse with you about. Might His Majesty possibly be disposed to grant me another commission? It was a great honor to paint his sister last year.”
The Secret of Love (Rakes & Rebels: The Raveneau Family Book 3) Page 25
