Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (52)

“I’m going to wait for one of them to get that dog under control.”

“And then?”

“I thought I’d start with bonjour and hope for the best.”

“Brilliant,” said Christopher.



By the time Gabriel opened his door and extended his hand, he was once again, in aspect and accent, Ludwig Ziegler of Berlin. But this version of Herr Ziegler was not an art adviser with a single famous client. He was a runner—a dealer without a gallery or inventory—who specialized in finding works by undervalued contemporary painters and bringing them to market. He claimed to have heard about Lucien Marchand through a contact and was intrigued by the terrible story of his disappearance and death. He introduced Christopher as Benjamin Reckless, his London representative.

“Reckless?” asked Fran?oise Vionnet skeptically.

“It’s an old English name,” explained Christopher.

“You speak French like a native.”

“My mother was French.”

In the villa’s rustic kitchen, they all four gathered around a pot of tar-black coffee and a pitcher of steamed milk. Fran?oise Vionnet and the barefoot girl each lit a cigarette from the same packet of Gitanes. They had the same drowsy, heavy-lidded eyes. Beneath the girl’s were puffy half-moons of unlined flesh.

“Her name is Chloé,” said Fran?oise Vionnet, as though the girl were incapable of speech. “Her father was a struggling sculptor from Lacoste who walked out on us not long after she was born. Fortunately, Lucien agreed to take us in. We were hardly a traditional family, but we were happy. Chloé was seventeen when Lucien was murdered. His death was very hard on her. He was the only father she ever knew.”

The girl yawned and stretched elaborately and then withdrew. A moment later came the sound of a slender female body entering the water of a swimming pool. Frowning, Fran?oise Vionnet crushed out her cigarette.

“You must excuse my daughter’s behavior. I wanted to move to Paris after Lucien’s death, but Chloé refused to leave the Lubéron. It was a terrible mistake to raise her here.”

“It’s very beautiful,” said Gabriel in Herr Ziegler’s German-accented French.

“Oui,” said Fran?oise Vionnet. “The tourists and rich foreigners adore Provence. Especially the English,” she added, glancing at Christopher. “But for girls like Chloé who lack a university education or ambition, the Lubéron can be a trap with no escape. She spends her summers waiting tables at a restaurant in the centre ville and her winters working at a hotel in Chamonix.”

“And you?” asked Gabriel.

She shrugged. “I make do with the modest estate that Lucien was able to leave me.”

“You were married?”

“A civil solidarity pact. The French equivalent of a common-law marriage. Chloé and I inherited the villa after Lucien was murdered. And his paintings, of course.” She rose suddenly. “Would you like to see some of them?”

“I’d love nothing more.”

They filed into the sitting room. Several unframed paintings—Surrealist, Cubist, Abstract Expressionist—hung on the walls. They lacked originality but were competently executed.

“Where was he trained?” asked Gabriel.

“Beaux-Arts de Paris.”

“It shows.”

“Lucien was an excellent draftsman,” said Fran?oise Vionnet. “But unfortunately he was never terribly successful. He made ends meet painting copies.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Lucien painted copies of Impressionist paintings and sold them in the gift shops of the Lubéron. He also worked for a company that sold hand-painted copies online. He was paid more for those, but not much. Maybe twenty-five euros. He produced them very quickly. He could paint a Monet in fifteen or twenty minutes.”

“Do you happen to have one?”

“Non. Lucien found the work very embarrassing. Once the paintings were dry, he delivered them to his clients.”

Outside, the girl extracted herself from the pool and stretched her body on a chaise longue. Whether she was clothed or not Gabriel could not say, for he was contemplating what was clearly the finest painting in the room. It bore a distinct resemblance to a work called Les Amoureux aux Coquelicots, by the French-Russian artist who had lived for a time on the rue de la Fontaine Basse in Gordes. Not an exact copy, more a pastiche. The original was signed in the bottom-right corner. Lucien Marchand’s version had no signature at all.

“He was a great admirer of Chagall,” said Fran?oise Vionnet.

“As am I. And if I didn’t know better, I would have thought that Chagall painted it himself.” Gabriel paused. “Or perhaps that was the point.”

“Lucien painted his Chagalls purely for pleasure. That’s why there’s no signature.”

“I’m prepared to make you a generous offer for it.”

“I’m afraid it’s not for sale, Monsieur Ziegler.”

“May I ask why not?”

“Sentimental reasons. It was the last painting Lucien completed.”

“Forgive me, Madame Vionnet. But I can’t recall the date of his death.”

“It was the seventeenth of September.”

“Five years ago?”