“In any case,” continued Jean-Paul, dropping the photograph onto the table as though he had lost interest in it, “I assume this photo was one of his series of carousel construction photos.”
Cady slipped the picture back into its protective plastic sleeve, beside the love note. She pondered sharing the note with Jean-Paul but decided against it; it was her obsession, not his.
“So what can you tell me about the Château Clement carousel?” Cady asked.
“Yves and Josephine Clement commissioned the machine around the turn of the century. They had hopes for many children, but had only a single son, Marc-Antoine.”
“Who made the carousel, do you know?”
“Gustave Bayol. He had a factory in Angers.”
Cady sat back and blew out a frustrated breath. “I know who Bayol is. In fact, my whole life, I was told my rabbit had been carved by Bayol. That was what fostered my interest in French carousels in the first place. But Madame Martin, and another carving expert, assure me that he isn’t a true Bayol.”
“I would take their word for it.”
“Yes, but then why would this photo by Yves Clement end up inside a carousel figure that wasnotcarved by Bayol when there was a Bayol carousel on the property? Just how many carousel carvers were at the château?”
He shrugged and glanced around the room.
Cady persisted, asking,“Could I see the photos you have from Yves Clement?”
“I donated them to the Archives Nationales.” He scribbled something on a piece of paper and passed it across the table to her. “This was the department I dealt with. You would have to apply to see them, and I should warn you: We French invented bureaucracy. They’re not online yet. My mother has copies, but she’s in Provence.”
“I just wish I could find out where my rabbit came from. One of my goals for this trip was to reunite him with his carousel.” Cady took a thick folder out of her bag and held it up. “This is Gus, my rabbit.”
Jean-Paul looked amused. “Not a fan of digital photos? Aren’t all you Californians high-tech?”
“I told you, I’m old-school.”
“So I see.” Once again, his eyes lingered on her just a beat too long. It made her uncomfortable, and yet... connected to him, in some strange way. Whatever it was, she did not look away.
“I mean” —Cady felt compelled to clarify—“I take plenty of snapshots on my phone, but those are mostly for reference. True photographic beauty, to me, is captured by a genuine camera lens.”
Jean-Paul held up his hand in a subtle wave, motioning to the waiter to clear the café table and bring a fresh tablecloth.
“May I see the photographs, please?”
Cady handed him the folder.
He studied the prints—one after the other—for so long that Cady started to get nervous. She reminded herself to relish this moment: sitting in a Parisian café, sipping an aperitif just like she belonged. With a handsome Frenchman sitting across the table, no less.
But when he looked back up at her, something seemed to have shifted. It was subtle, but his formerly open—and occasionally bored—expression now seemed guarded.
“Anyway,” Cady said, “I’m searching for the provenance of myrabbit. If it’s not a Bayol, perhaps it was carved by one of his apprentices. If I could find a paper trail of some kind...”
“Then what? How would it change the figure to know who carved it?”
Cady wondered how to respond. She wanted to know Gus’s background, where he came from, whose hands had carved the figure she had cherished for so long. But would she sound ridiculous if she uttered those feelings aloud? Finally she simply said, “There’s always been something so... sweet about Gus. It’s hard to describe—I have tried, and failed, for years to capture that quality in photographs. I would like to know more about him.”
“I will buy it from you, as is.”
“Why would you do that? You can see he’s in bad shape.” Cady had wondered why Madame Martin, and now Jean-Paul Mirassou, would go out of their way for a total stranger. Did they suspect something about Gus that she wasn’t aware of?
Jean-Paul stuck out his chin and shrugged again, in what Cady was coming to learn was a classic French gesture. She was fairly sure it was meant as a non-response response.
“Madame Martin mentioned that Château Clement is run-down,” Cady continued. “I was thinking maybe I could get in touch with the owner, see if there are other figures, or more information—”
Jean-Paul interrupted her. “The owner will not speak with you. He is a recluse. He doesn’t like interlopers—or Americans, for that matter.”
