“When I was twenty, I went to the Continent with a friend on our grand tour. We were to buy art for our respective houses.”
“Did you?”
“I saw a portrait of the old Duc d’Orleans and bought it. Spent more than I should on it.”
“And who painted the portrait?”
His face spread in dimpled delight. “Jacques Louis David.”
“The portraitist whom Bonaparte loves? The one who paints his court?”
“One and the same.”
She grinned. “Marvelous! How did you find such a rare gem?”
“A traiteur shopkeeper near the Hôtel de Ville told me about it, and he produced it from his back storeroom.”
“How much did you pay for it?”
“Bear in mind, this is 1792. The mob has just guillotined Louis. And I am eager. The shopkeeper told me the painting was worth thousands. But I could buy it for one thousand Louis.”
“Did you?”
“I got his price down to three-hundred and forty-five.”
She narrowed her eyes and cocked her head.
“But I did not buy it.”
“No? Why not?”
“I made plans to steal it.”
“Steal? No. I do not believe it.”
“You are right, I didn’t. But I planned it. Disguised myself as a peasant. Spread grime on my face and into my nails. Bought old shoes. I was quite ready to do the deed.”
“And?”
“I couldn’t do it. I got to the shop after midnight. My friend went with me. I broke the glass in the window and crept inside. I took it.”
Her mouth was open. “But that is not the ending of your story, is it?”
“No. I hurried back to my hotel with it, kept it under sheets for a few days, then invited a local art agent to attend me. He was a friend of a friend, so I felt quite safe asking him, thinking he would not turn me in to the local commune if he knew of the theft.”
“He was discreet?”
“He was. He did not appear to know about any recent theft of such a painting. I asked him for an assessment of its value. He took his time. Questioning me about its provenance, I said it was a purchase from a friend who lived in Chantilly.”
“In the Duc d’Orléans’ chateau to the north of Paris?”
“Exactly. But then he removed his monocle and told me he did not think this piece was worth the money I had paid for it. He apologized for hurting my feelings. Of course, I said I was sad to hear his decision. But I asked him why he thought it not worth the money I had supposedly paid for it.” He paused, feeling the shame once more of his actions.
“And?”
“He said there was no indication at all that the portrait was by David. I was shocked and asked why that was. He said David was a fast friend of Robespierre, an ardent revolutionarytoo, and would never have painted the royal cousin of the king. Nor would the Duc d’Orleans have sat for any such portrait.”
She shook her head. “That is a sad story.”
