by Tricia Goyer
The crowd noise intensified and bordered on chaos. De Gaulle, in that imperial manner of his, turned at the top of the steps and faced the throng.
“Mesdames et messieurs, la Mona Lisa est arrivée!” Ladies and gentlemen, the Mona Lisa has arrived!
Bernard’s head throbbed, and he felt a shortness of breath.
“What is the meaning of this?” Colonel Rol demanded.
“I have no idea, sir.” How could de Gaulle say he had the Mona Lisa when they had her? He looked back toward the parked Peugeot. The four men, with guns drawn, still surrounded the vehicle.
De Gaulle spread his arms to signal that he wished to continue. “She will now be hung in the Salle Carré and restored to her place of glory. I invite you to witness one of the first important steps that show France getting back up on her feet after the national humiliation of German occupation.”
The doors to the Louvre—which had been closed for better than ten days—suddenly swung open. The crowd pressed forward, and Bernard found himself following Rol and Bertille through the front entrance. The ticket booths were unmanned, and Louvre personnel were on hand to direct the sudden flood of visitors.
Bernard and his comrades fell in behind the army following de Gaulle and his former girlfriend. The throng marched along several long halles whose walls were lightly populated with works of art along with sawhorses and carpenter’s tools.
They entered the Salle Carré, where men in white lab coats and white gloves waited with their own set of work tools. Six Free French 2nd Armored Division soldiers flanked them with rifles resting across their chests.
And then everything came into view.
Sitting on a table against the far wall was a wooden transportation crate—but made of different wood than the one from the Chateau de Dampierre.
De Gaulle took his place in front of the table. “The Mona Lisa arrived from her summer home in southern France early last evening, and we only thought it was appropriate that she be immediately shared with the French people. Her presence today is a national reminder that art inspires the soul, uplifts the human spirit, and creates unity among its people.”
Reporters scribbled in their notebooks, and photographers’ flashes filled the grand hall. De Gaulle stepped aside as two men in white lab coats meticulously unscrewed several screws around the perimeter of the wooden crate.
Bernard moved closer, holding his breath the entire way. Underneath the lid was the same purple slipcover that covered his Mona Lisa . . .
The two men untied the drawstring and carefully worked the velvet pouch down the frame to reveal La Joconde.
How could this be? Impossible!
A gasp circulated through the crowd, and a flurry of flashes filled the room.
“Mesdames et messieurs, I present you . . . the Mona Lisa!” De Gaulle, a rarely seen smile creasing his taciturn face, pulled both arms behind him and then stepped back. He appeared to be content having the spotlight taken off him—which had to be a first.
Anger and confusion wrestled for control of Bernard’s mind.
He turned to say something to Colonel Rol and Marcel Bertille, but they were already beating a hasty retreat. Instead of chasing after them, though, Bernard chose to step closer as de Gaulle stood for a photograph with the Mona Lisa. If the general was trying to match her impish smile, he fought a losing battle. Then the French general waved Colette to stand next to him as more flashbulbs popped inside the grand hall.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, I present you with the heroine for the Mona Lisa’s return—Colette Perriard.”
De Gaulle’s introduction set off a torrent of questions from the reporters.
“Mademoiselle Perriard, is it true that the Germans tried to steal the Mona Lisa?”
“Can you give us more details about what happened yesterday?”
“What did the boches look like?”
General de Gaulle stepped in front of Colette and asked for politeness and decorum. “Mademoiselle Perriard is prepared to provide more details, although there are some facts that must be withheld because of the wartime situation. Mademoiselle Perriard?”
Colette cleared her throat. “Yes, the rumors are true. The Nazis tried to steal the Mona Lisa. She had been secured during the last six months of the Occupation at a chateau outside of Annecy, away from prying hands. But the attempt was foiled, and the decision was made to immediately bring the Mona Lisa back to the Louvre, where she will resume her reign as the world’s most famous painting under the watchful eye of the Louvre’s security detail.”
“How did the Nazis try to steal the Mona Lisa?” shouted a reporter from Le Petit Parisien newspaper. “How many were involved?”
Colette looked to General de Gaulle, who bestowed a faint shake of the head.
“I’m sorry, but we are not prepared to discuss those details at this time.”
For the next few minutes, Colette doled out bits of information—and devoted most of her answers to explaining why she couldn’t answer further, which raised the frustration level with the press.
“Thank you for your attention, but that is all we are prepared to discuss today.” With that statement, Colette stepped back as her eyes scanned the room.
Bernard thought about departing, but like a moth drawn to a flame, he could not look away.
“I can’t believe what happened. I really can’t.”
For the fifth time in the last half hour, Bernard bitterly railed against the events that had transpired at the Louvre. If he expressed enough vehemence, he thought, maybe Colonel Rol and Marcel Bertille would forget that it was him who was at the epicenter of l’affaire Mona Lisa.
Bernard looked at those gathered inside the crowded living room of Bertille’s third-floor apartment tucked away in the Marais neighborhood. Filling couches and sitting on chairs were more than a dozen men—the senior leadership of their organization. A heavy pall hung over the room, reminding Bernard of a reception hall at a morgue.
Bertille took the floor, building a case that the French Communist Party had been pushed to the fringes of political discussion and would likely remain that way in postwar France. As Bernard listened glumly, he wondered how such a hoped-for prize had slipped out of their hands.
At every juncture, de Gaulle had been a step ahead. And if what he had witnessed with his own eyes was true, then Colette had the real Mona Lisa.
Or did she?
He stood up from the settee and walked into Bertille’s formal dining room where three armed men, unshaven and sweating in the unyielding heat of August, sat around a mahogany table. The Mona Lisa—at least the painting that he thought was La Joconde—was still lying inside the uncovered wooden transportation crate. She was exposed to the world; her protective purple slipcover had been taken off and placed underneath the painting.
He sidled up next to the crate and regarded the monotone palette of yellows and browns that defined da Vinci’s genius. Time had aged and darkened her complexion, and upon closer examination, he could easily view cracks caused by differential shrinkage of traditional oil paints.
Then a staggering thought hit him like a thunderbolt: They still had the real Mona Lisa!
“Marcel, come here!” Bernard called to the other room.
Upon his colleague’s arrival, Bernard rapidly explained his theory. Colette and de Gaulle had pulled off an elaborate ruse with a reproduction—and they would take back the Mona Lisa from them!
Bertille buried his chin in the palm of his right hand. “Sounds entirely plausible to me. I wouldn’t put it past the old goat. Let’s get more men stationed inside and outside. We have to be prepared for—”
“Sir, a man is approaching the building.” The report came from one of the Resistance members on lookout.
“Is he armed?”
“I don’t think so. Doesn’t look the type, either.”
Bernard followed the partisan to a bay window overlooking the street. To his surprise, he identified the lone figure right away—Hen
ri Rambouillet, the senior curator and Colette’s boss. After a knock on the door, Bernard warily welcomed him inside Bertille’s apartment.
“I didn’t expect to see you,” Bernard said. “So why are you here?”
Rambouillet took off his hat. “To talk about the Mona Lisa.”
“What’s there to discuss? I have the original Mona Lisa, and you fooled everyone today by hanging a copy in the Louvre.”
“Please, Bernard. I come here as a friend. I could have sent the police to recover the property you’ve stolen from the Louvre, but I wanted to save you a shred of respect by not exposing you to further humiliation.”
“Don’t try to deceive me, as you did the press and General de Gaulle today. It is you, Colette, and that pompous general that need saving from humiliation!”
Rambouillet offered a sad smile. “Please, don’t mistrust me. I’m grateful for all you have done to free France, and because of my gratitude for what you have done as a member of the Resistance, I’m asking you to do the right thing now.”
“Colette should be the one asking. Or should I say begging that I give back the original Mona Lisa.”
“You disappoint me, Bernard. She risked everything to save you—her professional career and her life. She came to me after Heller threatened her and then promised to have you tortured if we didn’t comply. Together, we devised a plan to foil any Nazi attempt to steal the Mona Lisa. We never expected da Vinci’s masterpiece to be stolen by a fellow countryman, especially someone in the Resistance. You have hurt Colette deeply. How could you expect her to come back here and beg you to save yourself? Do you not have any self-respect?”
Bernard was convinced he was right. His only confidence was in the Communist party, and Rambouillet represented the part of society he wanted to grind out of France with the heel of his boot. He was destined to be defiant to the end and would have nothing left to lose if Rambouillet was telling the truth.
Colonel Rol, Bertille, and many of his fellow comrades watched Bernard in silence.
“If you’ve come to claim the real Mona Lisa, then we have a problem,” Bernard replied in a condescending tone.
“There won’t be a problem.”
Gaining confidence, Bernard let his arms fall to his side. “And why do you say that?”
“Because you have the copy.”
Bernard remained resolute, jutting out his chin and looking down on Rambouillet. Bertille and several witnesses whispered among themselves.
“Prove it.” Bernard crossed his arms across his chest, the picture of arrogance.
“Shall we have a look at your ‘Mona Lisa’?” the senior curator asked.
“Be my guest.”
Rambouillet tilted up the Mona Lisa and inspected the backing of the painting. “Do you see the Louvre seal, right here in the center, as it should be?”
“The official wax seal. I see it.”
“Did you notice the inscription on the bottom?” He pointed toward the lowest point of the picture frame.
Bernard regarded the scribbling, in golden paint, at the bottom of the right-hand corner. “It’s some sort of writing, but it looks indecipherable. Are those numbers?”
The Louvre director reached inside his coat pocket and took out a small hand mirror. “It’s written backwards, a trick da Vinci liked to use. Place this mirror against the back of the painting. Read for everyone the writing you see in the mirror.”
Bernard held up the mirror to the back of the painting.
“So what does it say?”
Bernard’s heart sank.
“Copie par Gilles Simon, 1932.”
29
“You look absolutely beautiful tonight, Gabi.”
Eric took Gabi’s gloved hand in his as they followed the maitre d’ to their white-linen table in the sky. A single-stemmed pink rose in a glass bud vase had been placed in the center of the table.
They had taken the private elevator inside the Eiffel Tower’s south pillar to the landmark’s second level, where Le Jules Verne restaurant reigned over the alluring city. The sleek contemporary décor, with striking views of the cityscape and impressions of the tower’s intricate metal latticework, was several levels up on the refinery scale. An aide on General de Gaulle’s staff had secured a reservation for Eric—a difficult endeavor since tonight was the grand reopening following the departure of the German occupation force.
The tuxedoed maître d’ deftly pulled out Gabi’s chair and reached for her cloth napkin as she settled in. In one seamless motion, he unfolded and set the napkin across her lap.
“Welcome to the Jules Verne. A waiter will be with you shortly,” the maître d’ said in a clipped manner before departing.
Eric blew out a breath. The relief of the moment hit him, releasing tension that had been building ever since they had set out for Paris before Libération. Now finally relaxed, he wasn’t looking over his shoulder for the first time in nearly a week.
This promised to be quite a night—dining high above Paris’s darkened skyline just days after the city renewed its love affair with freedom. Gabi looked elegant, chic, and smart on this perfect summer evening. She had brought up her shoulder-length tresses to create a more formal chignon hairstyle by coiling her blonde hair into a classic bun and inserting hair sticks in a crossed design. Hair strands curling next to her ears softened her look. She was the most beautiful woman in Paris and he was the luckiest man alive.
Gabi had borrowed the long black evening dress from Colette’s closet. The V neckline and draping, along with glittering sequins, gave the black satin gown a sophisticated feel. Eric almost felt underdressed in a black suit, white shirt, and pencil-thin black tie.
A waiter appeared with leather-bound menus. Eric looked across at Gabi and embraced her smile, lingering in the warmth he felt within. Never happier or more in love.
“Everything looks delicious. What about this one—Cervelles Au Beurre Noir?” Eric said enthusiastically.
Gabi had a wide grin. “Are you sure? Veal brains cooked in dark brown butter?”
“Ah . . . no thanks.” Eric returned to the menu.
“I think I’ll have the Supreme de Volaille—flambéed chicken breasts in a cream sauce. That’s an entrée that will hit the spot after a rather amazing day.”
“I’ll have the same.”
Eric closed the menu, happy to now focus completely on Gabi. He reached across the table and held her hand.
“It’s wonderful that we have this moment together. More than once, I was afraid that I might lose you. You are the brightest light in Paris.”
Gabi blushed but held Eric’s gaze.
Eric’s heart skipped. Everything felt like fireworks.
They smiled into each other’s eyes, then Eric squeezed her hand. “I’m so happy to be alive and here with you.”
Gabi returned the squeeze. Then she looked out past the panoramic view of the enchanting city. “I imagine that Kristina is home and snuggled up in bed with her mom about now. I’m so thankful she’s safe.”
“She was one brave girl,” Eric said.
“The last person I expected to save her was that Swiss banker.”
“He saved our lives too. But running off with the Mona Lisa wasn’t the best idea.”
“But Wessner thought he had the real Mona Lisa in his arms, just like we did,” Gabi said.
“That’s true. Did you feel duped after finding out we put our lives on the line for a reproduction?” Eric asked.
“I’ll admit it was a shock to find out about the copy, but as Colette explained this morning, to protect the real Mona Lisa she was forced to keep absolute secrecy and those who knew of the painting’s exact location to the barest minimum. Even Colette didn’t know about the reproduction until she confessed to Rambouillet that Heller had forced her to reveal the location of La Joconde in order to save Bernard’s life.”
“Yeah, that was interesting,” Eric said. “Rambouillet earned his keep, working with the Count to hide the real
Mona Lisa down in the wine cellar for safekeeping. Even Kristina never knew a reproduction was mounted above her bed.”
“Their plan worked,” Gabi said. “But what’s amazing to me was how the Countess handled this. The Countess knew the Germans would have taken the girl anyway to ensure a safe escape. So to answer your question—Did I feel duped? No, not really. I put my life on the line to save Kristina.”
With an almost imperceptible nod, Eric took a deep breath. “You’re right. It really didn’t matter, I suppose. We had to save Kristina. We can always console ourselves with the thought that if the Germans hadn’t kidnapped her, Colette would have stopped us from chasing the reproduction. Even the best plans are unpredictable, especially in times like these.”
Gabi switched from Swiss-German to French. “C’est la guerre.”
“Oui. C’est la guerre.” That’s war.
From their lofty perch, Eric looked toward the bejeweled city and thought about the irony of those who had died yesterday in a vain effort to steal a copy of the famous painting. He and Gabi had put their lives on the line as well.
Few, if any, would know of their shared sacrifice. Certainly, the French people would never be told how close they came to losing the Mona Lisa. Whatever the reason, the outcome was what he had hoped for, and he was thankful that he and Gabi had survived.
The dinner had been sumptuous, the view beyond description, but Eric’s genteel companionship helped Gabi glow with a luminescence of inner contentment.
When the waiter presented her with the dessert carte, Gabi initially demurred, but Eric playfully urged her to order her favorite dessert—mousse au chocolat.
“C’mon,” he prodded. “We’re in Paris, atop the Eiffel Tower, celebrating . . . everything.”
“Okay.” She raised her hands in mock surrender and ordered the chocolate mousse.
“And a dessert for the gentleman?”
“Nothing for me,” Eric protested. “Couldn’t eat another bite.”
