“That’s nonsense and you know it. You’re cheating them! These people are poor and unsophisticated, and you are taking advantage of their ignorance. They haven’t the least idea of the value of what they’re trading!” She’d seen how poor the local people were, having to work so hard—even the children—just to make ends meet. And yet they’d been so generous to her and Reynard, sharing food with them. And he was depriving them of money she was sure they needed. How could he?
He straightened and said in a harsh voice, “Use your brain, Vita! Where do you think these poor ignorant country folk got paintings like this in the first place?”
She stared at him dumbly. How would she know?
He picked up the next framed painting waiting to be swapped over and began to remove the backing. “This one came from your beloved widow, Madame LeBlanc. Do you know what she said the other day when we made our deal? She told me in no uncertain terms that she wanted it out of the house. It was a wedding gift from her husband’s father, she said, and it had hung in her house until her husband died—apparently he was very proud of it. But she couldn’t bear to look at it, and after the funeral she took it down and put it in the back of a dark cupboard. Do you know why?”
Zoë shook her head, puzzled.
“Because it made her feel guilty, that’s why! Think about it, Vita. It was a gift from her father-in-law. Where would a man like that—a simple ignorant countryman—get a painting of such quality?” He made a wide furious gesture. “Think! What was happening here thirty-odd years ago?”
“Oh my God,” she whispered, realizing. “The Revolution.” Of course. She should have realized it earlier, especially having seen what had happened to her mother’s château. But somehow she hadn’t connected the living people she’d met with “the mob” who’d attacked the château.
“Yes, the Revolution. These poor ignorant country folk you’re so worried aboutlootedthese paintings from the homes of aristocrats. Oh, maybe not all of them, but they would all know from whence these paintings came. That’s why Madame LeBlanc wanted to be rid of it. She felt guilty just looking at it.
“She would have been a child at the time, but she knows what happened, and she has a conscience. So she traded a painting, a looted family portrait that she couldn’t wait to get rid of, in exchange for the one you did of her and her children.” He removed the old painting from its frame and brandished it. “This is the one she traded! A family portrait: mother, father and two children. She’s a good woman,and she didn’t want it in her house, not with those two little children looking out at her from the frame. Can you blame her?”
Zoë glanced at the painting and felt the blood drain from her face. She staggered, suddenly dizzy. Oh God. She knew those faces.
There was her mother as a child, sweet-faced, wide-eyed and a little bored from having to sit still for so long. Clutched in her arms was the doll, Marianne, in blue silk and lace, with her head still intact. And there was Maman’s brother, Philippe, and her parents, Zoë’s own grandparents, who had been guillotined during the revolution.
This, the painting he was brandishing so angrily, was of her family. She had no doubt of it. Maman had painted a similar painting from memory. It was back in London, in her room at Lady Scattergood’s. Maman had talked about watching the painter working. It had inspired her, she’d said.
Feeling sick to her stomach, Zoë gazed at the painting. How stupid was she not to have realized? She’d seen for herself how Maman’s home had been attacked and looted. And this painting was from there. And nice Madame LeBlanc’s father-in-law had been one of the looters. And probably farmer Gaudet. And who knew who else she’d met—and liked!—in this area had paintings stolen from Maman’s home?
Old paintings for new.It had seemed so simple, she hadn’t even questioned it.
Acid roiled in her throat. She stood, frozen, unable to think or speak. The dog must have sensed her distress, for she felt a cold nose nudging her hand and a warm body leaning against her. She fondled his ears, her mind miles away.
There was a long silence. Then Reynard said in a gentler voice, “I’ve shocked you, I see. It didn’t occur to you that these paintings were looted?”
Unable to speak or drag her eyes off the painting, she just shook her head.
He turned the painting around and busied himself removing it from the frame.
“What will you do with them?” she asked when she was able to speak.
“Take them to Paris.” He removed her mother and grandparents from the frame and draped it carefully with the other one he’d removed, a large square of protective fabric between them.
Yes, she saw now how it was that he could make a living. He would sell these in Paris for a great sum.
What he was doing was still wrong, she felt sure, but now that she knew the whole story, the issue was not so clear-cut. He was swindling these people, cheating them out of the money they could get for these valuable paintings.
And yet…they’d stolen—looted!—the paintings in the first place. Part of the mob that had caused a little girl to flee for her life. Committing arson and who knew what other crimes as well.
But that was in the past, more than thirty years ago. It was a war, a revolution; were people still to be held accountable for the horrors of that time? And yet, should they still profit from those horrors today? Should he, who had fought in the army against the forces of Napoleon? Did not these paintings belong to France? If not to the descendants of those who had owned them? Assuming they still lived.
Contradictory thoughts tumbled madly around in her head. She didn’t know what to think, couldn’t think at all. She felt sick to her stomach.
“I’m going to bed,” she said weakly.
He nodded, his expression compassionate. “I’m sorry to have distressed you.”
She waved his apology aside and opened the wagon door. He looked at her, a question in his eyes. She shook her head. No, she would not have him in her bed tonight. Henodded understandingly, his eyes sympathetic. “Life is not so simple, is it, Vita?”
He had no idea how shattered she felt.
“Put these inside, will you?” He handed her the rolled-up paintings and the canvas bag containing more paintings. “I’ll lock them away tomorrow. I don’t want them out in the night air.”
