The Viscount – Chapter Thirteen

THE VISCOUNT OF MAISONS LAFFITTE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN 

“Well Gaston, it’s been nice to be here,” Paltier said with a contented sigh as he lifted his feet and placed them on the stool, set comfortably in front of the fire. He sipped his port and rested the glass in the palm of his other hand. “We’re getting older, but I guess God will grant us a few more years of this.

His brother leaned back in his worn armchair and lifted his own glass in reply. “To our health!” which was met with an answering salute before they both sipped and relapsed into silence.

After a comfortable pause, “What time does your train leave in the morning?”

Paltier answered promptly. “Seven o’clock. I wanted to get an early start as I’ll be going straight to work from there.”

“I’ve no doubt,” his sibling answered in a rallying tone. “ Gus, the day you don’t consider your duty to the family of the first importance is the day I can no longer recognise my own brother. Heaven forbid you should sleep in.”

“I’ve had two weeks to sleep in, thank you very much. Work is good. A man never feels alive when his hands are idle.” His brother, a diligent vintner with a solid label, simply nodded his head in sympathy. The fire snapped loudly, and Gaston stood up and reached for the iron tongs to turn the burning log.

The two brothers were unlike in appearance. Gustave was tall and slim with a stately bearing that suited him perfectly to his life’s work. Gaston was ruddier and shorter with a stocky build that kept him closer to the grapes, as he liked to chuckle. But there was an easy understanding between them, and they both looked forward to their two weeks of company out of a generally quiet bachelor’s existence. Gus had never been interested in marriage; Gaston had married, fathered two children who had no interest in inheriting the vineyard (although they did not despise the money), and had lost his wife younger than he would have liked. But he bore these setbacks with fortitude.

Maybe it was the mellowing effects of the port and the fire, or the knowledge that the next day would take him back to Ile de France where he wouldn’t see his brother for another year, but Paltier opened up more than was usual for him. “The young Viscount will be holding a spring ball at the château this year.”

Gaston raised his eyebrows at that. “When was the last time? It was when the late Viscount was still alive, wasn’t it?

Paltier stared off in the distance. “It was the year before he died. We shall have to go through the storage and pull out all the glasses, cutlery, dishes – have everything washed. None of it has been used in twenty years.”

“Will it be a sit-down affair?”

“Yes, and the Viscount mentioned he’ll take some of your red. I’ll fill out an order form and send it to you as soon as I have a better idea as to the quantities. We won’t invite the entire town to the dinner, of course, but the idea is to open the gates to anyone with a purchased ticket for the dancing.

Gaston pursed his lips. “There was something funny about that last ball, wasn’t there? Some scandal? I seem to remember the late Viscount’s death was in some way related to it, and honestly I didn’t pay much attention. Penelope died that same year, you know.”

Paltier cast him a sympathetic glance and lifted his glass again imperceptibly. “You are correct. There was a burglary. Stolen art.” He shuddered a bit at the memory.

“Ah. I seem to remember something about that. What was it?”

“It was a Manet. The self-portrait.”

Gaston whistled through his teeth. “I don’t know that one. I am not at all surprised at his having such a painting, but how somebody managed to steal it with all those people around, I can’t imagine.”

“It was a strange affair.” Paltier sighed heavily. “You know, the family is used to money and they don’t take care in the usual way.” And if it explained things, “They don’t count their silver.” He then turned to his brother and, with uncharacteristic energy, pointed at him. “But you can bet that I do.”

His brother murmured what was appropriate before Paltier continued. “Anyway, they have a few paintings. They have a couple of Cézanne, a Van Gogh, a Monet, and then they had this one Manet. The Viscount’s father was quite the collector, you know. The family never thought that this private collection could be at risk.” He broke off vehemently. “I should have thought of it.”

His brother shook his head with a quiet tsp tsp and then asked, “So how did they pull it off?”

“I’m sure they took advantage of when there was a performance in the Italian Apartment because the room went dark. This light show was part of the show, and that must have blinded everyone to any activity that looked suspicious. I imagine the person slipped into the King’s Chamber and took it from there down a side staircase, which no one would have been using just then. It leads straight to the basement where they must have escaped into the garden.”

“But that’s too easy,” his brother protested. “Why, aren’t there alarms in the château? Weren’t there guards?”

“Normally yes,” Paltier answered. “But it was a during a strange period when they were doing some work down in the basement to repair some of the stone walls, and the alarm must have been cut. Or … the gardener, Pierre Maçon and his under-gardener were supposed to be watching it or some such thing. And, now, that is what is strange. Pierre disappeared that night.”

“Oh, I do remember that,” his brother intercepted. “A friend of yours, wasn’t he?

“He was. I’ll never believe it was him,” Paltier said firmly. “I don’t care that he wasn’t around to explain his disappearance. Something must have happened to him.”

Gaston sucked his teeth thoughtfully. “Doesn’t look good though.”

“No,” his brother answered simply.

“What about the under-gardener? What was the fellow’s name? What did he have to say?”

Paltier replied, “I don’t remember his name. And he was there that night. Said he hadn’t seen anything. He was standing in front of the door when a few guards came rushing down. Said he was told to keep an eye out and prevent anyone from accessing on the lower levels.”

Gaston snorted. “What a waste of manpower. As if any of the guests would try to come that way. Unless … they thought that maybe there would be a potential robbery?” He thought for a minute. “But, so then, the thief could not have left that way.”

“No. Except that the under-gardener had not been in service more than a couple of months, and even he disappeared after a day. No one has seen him since.”

“Hmph.”

“But the evil in it,” Paltier continued, “is that the late Viscount was blamed for insurance fraud, and I know that the shock of it caused his death.”

“How could they blame him when the signs pointed to the missing gardeners?”

“Because he had the misfortune to inquire about the value on the Manet a week before the theft.”

Gaston turned in surprise. “But if it were really him, he would have to be an idiot to do something so stupid. Anyone can see that.”

“That’s why the charges were cleared – that and the missing gardeners. There was no proof. But I have a feeling the late Viscount made a few enemies when he bought the château and the racetrack, and they were the ones who encouraged the investigation. He was cleared, but the damage was done, and his fatal heart attack occurred less than a year later.”

“The painting never was found, hm?”

“No, and I have to say I’m surprised the young Viscount agreed to hold another ball after the pain the family went through. I’m sure he felt my disapproval, much though I tried to conceal whatever I’m feeling on the issue.”

Gaston chuckled in reply. He knew that his brother was able to cast very speaking looks. “Ah well,” he said. “It’s just as well that he’s bringing some life back to that castle again. Mind that there are guards in every part of the château this time!”

“Never you fear,” Paltier replied with determination.

Chastity and Thomas picked their way through the clumps of melting snow on the sidewalk. It rarely snowed in the Paris area, so it was always enchanting when it did. The snow that had started during the Marché de Noel continued intermittently throughout Christmas, and then remained frozen and cold past the New Year. Now the winter sun caused the edges of the snowbanks to soften, then liquefy. Soon there would be sparse traces on muddy grass bordering the sidewalk, and then none at all for the rest of the season.

“Can I have a croissant?” Thomas asked, jumping over clumps of brown snow when a simple step would have sufficed.

“No honey. We’re just going to get some baguettes. I’ll give you a small piece, but I don’t want you to ruin your appetite since we’re going to be eating lunch soon.”

Thomas absorbed the news diplomatically. He continued hopping even when there was no more snow, his boots making tiny splashes in the mud on the sidewalk. “Mom, do you love my father?”

Chastity looked up startled because he asked her the very question she was wrestling with at that exact moment. “Ah,” she said simply before chuckling; but then her smile vanished quickly. “I don’t know sweetie. I like him. I love you.” She emphasized the word. “Would that make you glad, or … feel bad if I loved him?”

“Glad, I guess.” Hop. Hop.

“Well, we have all the time in the world to see about that, my baby,” she said smiling. They were approaching the corner where they would turn right and walk along the busy street towards the boulangerie.

“Here, kitty, kitty.” Thomas coaxed a starved-looking cat that was sitting at the crosswalk. When he saw the cat just turned its proud head, he gave up and changed the subject. “Mom, if I thought a kid was in trouble …”

“Hold on sweetie,” Chastity said, as she dug in her bag for the phone that had started to ring. She pulled it out and looked up as she went to press the talk button.

“Tommy, NO!” escaped her lips. But she couldn’t stop him. She was just in time to see the stray cat dart into traffic and her son leap after him. The next was all a blur. She saw his small body tossed to the side of the road as a car screeched to a halt.

“Madame! Madame, je ne l’ai pas vu!” A woman stumbled out of her car, crying. I didn’t see him!

But Chastity was already kneeling on the pavement, next to the parked cars, traffic piling up beside her. Her voice was caught in her throat as she looked at her pale, prostrate son. She was trembling violently.

“No,” she whispered.

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