Laura put the glass down with a clatter, and sat up a bit straighter, suddenly remembering her weird dream…She had dreamed about Rosa Lavillard. The dream had been frightening, oppressive. She had been with Rosa in a vast building in some unknown city, and they had been lost within its maze-like corridors which seemed to lead nowhere. The corridors were endless, and there were many, many doors. Every time they opened one a startled occupant would look up, stare at them, and tell them, in answer to their question, that the way out was at the far end of the corridor. But it never was. Another door led only to another corridor. Nervous and distraught, she had begun to panic, but Rosa Lavillard had not. The older woman had remained calm.
‘There is always a way out,’ Rosa kept repeating, and yet they could not find the door that would lead them to the outside…and freedom.
It had become hotter and hotter in the windowless corridors, and she had grown overheated, tired. But Rosa was stalwart, stoical, forever promising she would get them out of this maze, no matter what. The final door opened onto a slide; Rosa had pushed her onto it, and she had slid farther and farther down into terrifying blackness. And as she had slipped into this bottomless pit she could hear Rosa singing in French, but she couldn’t make out the words exactly…Suddenly Rosa herself was on the slide, hurtling down behind her, singing for all she was worth.
And then she had woken up. Bathed in sweat, and with good reason. She had been afraid in the dream.
Laura was baffled by the nightmare. What could it possibly mean? And why had she dreamed about Rosa Lavillard, a woman she hardly knew? The answer to the latter was relatively simple. She had run into the Lavillards earlier in the day, and obviously they had remained in the back of her mind.
When they were having coffee after dinner, Laura had been about to tell Claire she had bumped into them in the museum, and then the moment had been lost. Claire had started to talk about the Renoir, and Hercule, and the weekend plans. But I should have told her, Laura admonished herself, and she felt suddenly guilty that she had not done so. It’s lying by omission, she thought.
Her mind lingered on the Lavillards for a second or two, and then it leapt to her brother Dylan.
She knew she should call him in London, just to say hello, but she was afraid to do so and had kept putting it off for the last few days. And for a simple reason. Invariably, they always managed to quarrel. Her brother was contentious by nature, and she wasn’t a bit surprised when Claire had told her he had tried to pick a fight with the waiter the night they’d had dinner at Espadon. He loved picking fights with everyone. He was troubled, filled with demons. But weren’t they all? Their lovely Welsh grandparents had always claimed, no, boasted, that they were different because they were Celts, and Laura had believed this, at least part of her had.
But she was smart enough to know that she and her sibling were odd, troubled, dysfunctional to a certain extent, in part because of a fey, neglectful, if loving mother, who was bound up in her husband and her painting at the expense of her children, an overcompensating father who smothered them with love, and a famous actress for a grandmother who surrounded them with her own theatricality and extravagances and mythic tales of ancient Wales.
Laura smiled. Whatever it was they had made her, she was very sure of who she was. A Valiant. And proud of it.
‘I am happy you were available to meet with me, Laura,’ Hercule Junot said, bestowing his warm smile on her. ‘My friend is leaving tonight for her château in the Loire, and this afternoon at three was the only time she had free to receive us.’
‘No problem, Hercule, I’m looking forward to meeting her, and really excited about seeing the Renoir. I’m thrilled she still owns it.’
‘It was lucky for you, and for Claire. But come, let us not waste another moment.’ Taking hold of her elbow, he ushered her across the lobby of the Plaza Athénée, continuing, ‘My car is waiting outside. My friend lives on the Faubourg Saint-Germain in the Septième, not too far for us to go.’
‘It’s one of my favourite areas of Paris,’ Laura confided as they went out into the street and made for the car. Once they were comfortably settled on the back seat and driving off, Hercule remarked, ‘Yes, I know what you mean about the seventh. I myself have always found it very special, perhaps because of its diversity as well as its beauty…an enclave for aristocrats in their beautiful houses, and yet an area where students, artists and writers abound.’
‘I used to haunt the seventh when I was at the Sorbonne, Hercule,’ Laura told him. ‘When I wasn’t trotting around the Rodin Museum I was at the Café de Flore or the Deux Magots, or heading in the direction of the Hôtel des Invalides to visit Napoleon’s tomb.’
‘Ah yes, he is a favourite of yours,’ Hercule said. ‘Claire has told me how much you admire our famous Emperor.’
Laura smiled. ‘Napoleon and Winston Churchill are my two great heroes.’
‘Not Lincoln or George Washington?’
‘Well yes, but in a different way. Churchill comes first with me, then Napoleon. I was tremendously influenced by my Welsh grandfather, who believed that Churchill saved Western civilization from extinction, quite aside from pulling the whole of Europe through evil times in the Second World War. Until the day he died my grandfather Owen Valiant said that Churchill was the greatest man of the twentieth century. And I believe that, too.’
‘And Napoleon, the great dictator, how did you come to him?’
‘Is that how you think of him…as a dictator?’
‘Not I. Neither do most of the French, for that matter. The rest of Europe?’ Hercule gave a small shrug and lifted his hands. ‘They think of him as a monster, but I do not believe he was.’
‘I agree. And I came to him when I was living here as a student. I’m a Francophile, as you know, and I fell upon a wonderful biography of him, by Vincent Cronin, and I was just captivated. He was a genius, in my opinion.’
Hercule nodded. ‘There is no half measure when it comes to Napoleon. He is either loved or loathed. Now, to move on, Laura, I must tell you about my friend, who you will be meeting in a few moments. Her name is Jacqueline de Antoine-St Lucien. I have known her for many years. Her late husband Charles was a dear friend, and he indulged Jacqueline in her grand passion…collecting art. She has the great taste…’ He paused, kissed his fingertips. ‘Superb taste…formidable. Her collection is enthralling. You will be seeing some of the greatest paintings in the world in a few minutes.’
‘Why does she want to sell the Renoir?’ Laura asked, filled with curiosity.
‘She has not really confided the reason to me, but I do know the family château near Loches is expensive to run. Last year she sold a Van Gogh.’
‘I wish I’d known about that!’
‘And I, too, wish I had known, Laura. Certainly I would have informed you. Immediately. From what Jacqueline told me later, she did not even have it on the market. Someone saw the Van Gogh and made an offer, and so it was sold – just like that.’ He snapped his thumb and finger together. ‘From what I understand she had not thought of selling it, but the offer was so tremendous she found she could not refuse.’
‘My favourite of all the Van Gogh paintings is White Roses.’
‘Ah, mais oui, the most beautiful. And now it is hanging in France again, at least for the time being.’
‘In France, but in the American Embassy.’