“How many carousels are there in Paris?”
Madame Martin raised her eyebrows. “There is no one who knows this. Not all are permanent; sometimes they are brought in for festivals or holidays. The famous ones are well known: the Trocadéro, the Eiffel Tower, the Hôtel de Ville...”
“Yes, I’ve photographed those,” said Cady. “They’re beautiful. I’m especially interested in the carousel carver named Gustave Bayol. Are you familiar with his work?”
“But of course! Gustave Bayol is the most famous carousel carver of France. There are at least two of his carousels in Paris; I believe one is in Jardin du Ranelagh, and another in Bois de Vincennes.”
“I haven’t visited them yet, but they’re on my list.” In fact, Cady had been avoiding them. The sense of betrayal she felt from her carved rabbit was still fresh. It was ridiculous, she knew. And yet... “I have an animal figure that I always thought was a Bayol.”
“Is that so?” Madame Martin said, sounding curious.
Cady took out her portfolio, set it on the desk in front of the other woman, and splayed it open.
The photos of Gus-the-rabbit were eight-by-ten glossies. Some were in color, others black-and-white; a few were close-ups, and some had been taken from afar to give a sense of perspective. Gus had been one of Cady’s first, and favorite, models. She had experimented, using different cameras to yield different effects: in some photos Gus was mildly distorted, while others contained streaks of light or orbs that seemed to dance along the edges of the figure.
“I am no expert,” murmured Madame Martin as she examined one photograph after another, “but it looks to me like this is from the same era, as though someone were carving in the style of Bayol.”
Cady nodded. “I’ve been told that. I was hoping he was wrong.”
“The delicate lilies of the valley there, you see?” Madame Martin said, pointing to the photos and warming to the subject. “Those are not what we expect to see in the work of Bayol. He was not a fancy man. Of course, Bayol had many apprentices. Léon Morice was the most famous—he went on to become an important sculptor.”
“Is it possible this rabbit could have been carved by Morice?”
She shook her head. “Like most masters, Bayol may have had his apprentices work on the structure of the animals, or sculpt the rough form, perhaps complete some of the painting and gilding. But he would have finished the raised details himself. They were his signature.”
“Maybe one of his apprentices went on to sculpt elsewhere?”
“After Bayol semiretired and went on to carve wooden toys for children, Morice and two others, the head joiner and the factory foreman, took over his factory in Angers. They continued to create carousels, but theirs were much fancier. More in the style of the Baroque carousels, like the double-decker at the Hôtel de Ville. For them, your rabbit would not have been fancy enough.”
“Oh.”
“Besides, I don’t see a plaque or a crest anywhere. Everything fromthe Bayol factory carries an identifying plaque, whether it was made under Bayol or by those who later bought his factory.”
Cady nodded. “I have another question. My rabbit... fell and split open, and I found this inside.”
Cady handed her the antique photograph, which she had placed in a protective plastic sleeve. Madame Martin arched one eyebrow.
“This wasinsidethe rabbit?”
“Yes. There was a box, like a... ‘time capsule.’” Cady couldn’t think of the term in French, so she said it in English.
Madame Martin nodded. “A secret from a different age. How exciting.”
Cady watched as the woman studied the photograph. “It appears to have been taken around the turn of the twentieth century, right?”
“It does,” said Madame Martin. “And this was the only photo in the box?”
Cady nodded. “Along with a note that said:‘Je t’aime toujours, et encore. Souviens-toi de moi.’”
“How sweet. Perhaps an amateur carver fell in love with the servant in the photograph and made the creature for her.”
“Maybe,” Cady said. “But see? She’s standing in front of a carousel.”
Madame Martin brought out a magnifying glass and studied the photo, including the stamp. “Château Clement...? That’s odd.”
“You know it?”
“I do,” she said with a nod. “My husband’s family is from that area. It is in Provence, not far from Avignon.”
