Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [74]
“Never!” Kelly said, scowling, helping Sophia set up the next trayful of cups.
The King burst out laughing and said, “Isn’t it true that whoever wrote this is a conceited puppy?”
—TO POMPONNE, DECEMBER 1664
THE ANNOUNCEMENTS CAME nearly simultaneously. Charles Legendre had been appointed curator of the Salle des Quatre Saisons, and a party celebrating its opening would be held two weeks hence. With Charles as curator, all foot-dragging ceased. He proved to be meticulously aware of schedules, of deadlines. Where Michael had once hounded Charles for help in getting things done, Charles now hounded Michael.
“An opening in two weeks?” Michael asked. “That’s too soon. I still haven’t gotten the paintings I wanted …”
Charles leaned against his Marie Antoinette writing desk, managing to express immeasurable self-assurance in his slouch. He cocked one eyebrow. “You know the press has already criticized us for lateness in this matter. The Salle should be open to the public by now. Everyone wonders what has gone wrong, whether there has been a design fiasco. Don’t you want to kill those rumors?” His eyes seemed focused on a point just above Michael’s head; Michael figured he was envisioning an imaginary plaque listing his curatorships. With a few more, maybe he would be Minister of Culture one day.
“First I want to get The Sacrament of Extreme Unction,” Michael said.
“That is out of the question,” Charles said, his lips narrowing, reminding Michael of their original positions, with Michael asking and Charles saying no. “You may hang Apollo and Daphne in the Salle. It is an equally wonderful example of Poussin’s work.”
“Shit,” Michael said. Through Anne he had come to learn that in the chess game he and Charles played, Sacrament was king and Apollo was a rook. He knew that for the Salle des Quatre Saisons to attract serious attention, it needed first-tier paintings by Poussin, who had had Louis XIV’s support, and by la Tour, who had had Louis XV’s. Apollo and Daphne, lovely and moving as it was, was not strictly representative of Poussin’s style. For one thing, it was set outdoors. For another, with its flocks and herds and nymphs, it had a more amiable feel than most Poussins.
“I do understand your displeasure,” Charles said. “But it is out of my control.”
“You have a lot riding on this,” Michael said. “What are the critics going to say if we don’t have that painting—or one like it?”
Charles nodded solemnly. But then a little blush crept up his neck, and a smile touched his lips. “It’s Pierre, you see. He is so furious. You know, he really expected to be named curator of the Salle des Quatre Saisons. I said to him, ‘Pierre, if the tables were turned, I would give you the painting.’ He is holding on to it—just for spite! Can you imagine, he told some people that his appointment was a foregone conclusion?”
So, Didier had done more harm than good, Michael thought. It was never wise to flatter the ego of a pompous man. Neil Fallon had taught him that. Michael remembered a story Neil told about a funeral director with a fleet of limousines and hearses.
The man smoked Havanas and drove a silver Cadillac and bored everyone with tales of his sons in medical school and his daughter the nun. He was taking bids from repair garages for the chance to service his vehicles. Neil, then a young man, hoped to befriend him and win his favor. He and Julia took the mortician and his wife to Patricia Murphy’s for dinner several Friday nights. He sent ebony rosary beads to the man’s daughter. He and Julia sat though each dinner listening to the mortician brag about his children and his business. Neil had subjected Julia to dinner conversation about coffins, embalming, hairdos for the dead, bereaved family members unwilling to part with a buck. He had felt confident he was winning the man’s trust; years later he told Michael, laughing, that he had believed the mortician was beginning to consider him a son—one who had gone into business