Vachey then asked the Minister of Culture, a smiling but manifestly wary woman named Irene Lebreton, to stand up. With her at his side he publicly pledged to the Louvre, effective on his seventy-fifth birthday, all of the paintings that were on view that evening, "with the exception, of course, of the Rembrandt and the Leger." While flash-cameras clicked and whirred-the photographers and TV people had set up shop in a cleared area in front of the table-Madame Lebreton shook hands with him and accepted politely but guardedly on behalf of the nation. With gifts from Vachey, people knew they had to stay on their toes.
There was further applause, a little more enthusiastic than before, as the minister returned to her chair, stopping first to lean over, shake hands, and say a few words to a smirky, overweight young man who sat on Vachey's other side.
This, Lorenzo told me, was Vachey's son, Christian, who was not currently the apple of his father's eye. He had recently squandered almost all that was left of the fortune he'd inherited from his mother, Vachey's dead wife, in a seamy venture into bauxite mining in Venezuela. Before that it had been a Tanzanian cement factory, and before that a seaweed processing plant in New Caledonia. There was a conviction for tax evasion in his past, and well-founded rumors of associations with the Mob in both France and the United States. For the last decade he'd spent half of each year in Miami, but six months ago he'd given up his house there-two steps ahead of the law, according to Lorenzo- and returned with his tail between his legs to Dijon, where he'd been living on his father's sufferance ever since.
Lorenzo's expression as he explained all this told me that Christian wasn't one of his favorite people. I can't say that he looked especially likable to me either, but I drew no conclusions. Who knows, maybe I wouldn't have looked so likable myself if I'd just had to sit and watch my father give away a few hundred million dollars' worth of what might otherwise have been my own inheritance. I supposed he had a right to look a little sour.
Vachey lifted his hand to quiet the applause. "As to the paintings by Leger and Rembrandt-"
"If they are by Leger and Rembrandt," Froger said, ostensibly to those of us at his table, but his robust bass carried around the room. "For myself-permit me to doubt."
Vachey laughed, seemingly genuinely amused. "That is one point of view, Edmond. I suspect others share it, but I hope you will change your mind after you've examined them."
Froger watched him sullenly, hands clasped on his substantial belly, thick fingers splayed out. "We'll see."
Vachey bowed in his direction. "However, you are certainly right in reminding us that, other than by myself, they have yet to be authenticated. That will soon change, I am sure. As many of you know, Dr. Christopher Norgren of the Seattle Art Museum-"
I stiffened. I'd made it clear to him that I wasn't going to commit myself, and I meant to stick to it. I wasn't going to let him put any words in my mouth.
"-one of the world's foremost Rembrandt authorities-" Lorenzo shot me a wry glance. "Congratulations, Christopher."
I shrugged and kept my peace. I couldn't very well be expected to quibble with every word Vachey said.
"-has come to Dijon in connection with my offer of the Rembrandt to that fine museum. Like you, he will see it tonight for the first time. He will examine it at length tomorrow, at which time I look forward keenly to his evaluation of-"
"Monsieur Vachey," I said, "by the end of tomorrow, it is my expectation that, as an emissary of the Seattle Art Museum, I will be able to provide you with our response to the generous proposal which you have made, but I can say with assurance that I will be unable to come to a conclusion regarding the authenticity of the painting; that is to say, whether or not it can be attributed without qualification to Rembrandt van Rijn. That, as you know, cannot be accomplished without the aid of analytical techniques that are prohibited under the conditions of your bequest."
Sorry about that. I was speaking French, remember. And I was nervous.
My remarks caused a buzz, which I don't think was due solely to amazement at my command of their language. But Vachey himself accepted them affably. "Of course, forgive me. Now then. As to the Leger-"
"The so-called Leger," Froger said with a sneer, pretending to address Charpentier, but his booming voice sounded as if it were coming from the bottom of a well. If he wasn't enjoying himself, he was doing a good imitation of someone who was.
With no sign of rancor, Vachey joined in the mild laughter that followed this. He wasn't having a bad time either. His mood was buoyant and playful; he was practically purring.
"Monsieur Froger, will you do me the honor of coming up here with me?"
Here comes the "frisson," I thought.
"What?" Froger had been caught off guard. He eyed Vachey suspiciously and cleared his throat. "I'll remain here, thank you."
In his place, I'd have been worried too. Whatever Vachey was up to, and I thought I knew, it didn't seem probable that Froger was going to like it.
"As you wish. It is a source of regret, ladies and gentlemen, that relations between Monsieur Froger and myself have not always been cordial. For this I take responsibility. A certain act of mine some years ago"-his voice was grave, but he couldn't keep that sparkle out of his eyes-"was an inadvertent cause of distress to our fine Musee Barillot and its excellent director, Monsieur Edmond Froger. Now I wish to make amends. I do so in the spirit of atonement and the hope of future friendship."
Froger looked as if he doubted it. I doubted it too.
"It is my pleasure to announce," Vachey said, "that the great painting you will see tonight, Violon et Cruche, by Fernand Leger, is hereby offered to the Musee Barillot of Dijon as an unrestricted gift. I hope they will honor me by accepting it."
He beamed tranquilly at Froger.
Talk about horns and dilemmas. It hadn't been five minutes since Froger had made it amply and publicly clear that as far as he was concerned the painting was a fake and Vachey was a charlatan, so what could he do now but turn it down? But what if Vachey had sandbagged him, as had suddenly begun to look highly possible? What if it turned out to be genuine? Refusing it would lose Froger the Leger and make him look like a chowderhead besides. Accepting it would get him the painting, but he'd still look like a chowderhead, and a toad-eating one at that. Assuming Vachey's aim had been to put his old adversary in an impossible situation, which I didn't doubt for a minute, it was a masterful stroke.
Froger started stammering. "It's not-I can't-that is to say, it's not my decision to make. My board of directors, which is to say-"
He sputtered to a stop and just sat there, getting redder and angrier, puffing up before our eyes. His features, dainty for his size in any case, seemed lost in the ample flesh of his head, like a too-small face painted on a balloon.
"As for your commendable concern for its authenticity, Edmond," Vachey continued smoothly, "we are fortunate in having with us one of France's preeminent experts in the oeuvre of this towering twentieth-century French master. Monsieur Charpentier, I'm sure we all look forward to your opinion of the Leger- pardon, the alleged Leger-with breathless anticipation."
Charpentier, loading a second small cup of coffee with sugar, looked up puckishly. "Oho. I see. Is this why I was invited? I must perform for my dinner?"
"You were invited because I couldn't imagine unveiling a major Leger without your presence, Jean-Luc, that's all. But it goes without saying that your opinion would be welcome."
"That's most gratifying," Charpentier said, "but my opinions are my livelihood, such as it is; unfortunately, I can't afford to give them away." After a second he added: "Have I ever asked you for a free painting?"