The Splendour Falls

Martine smiled. ‘But she is half her mother’s child, remember. She likes the vine but also likes the art. Perhaps one day she will begin the home for artists that Brigitte so often talked about.’

‘God help us.’ Armand shuddered. ‘The artist by himself, he can be interesting. A few of them at dinner, when they are not fighting, that also can be interesting. But a house of artists,’ his eyes rolled heavenward at the thought. ‘They would drive me mad.’

‘You will forgive my brother-in-law,’ Martine said, her dark eyes teasing. ‘He likes only the art on his wine labels.’

Armand looked offended. ‘That is not true. I like this painting very much.’ He nodded at a watercolour hung behind the cash register, a sweeping vista of a vineyard with a mellow-walled château nestled in the distance. ‘This shows great talent.’

‘This shows grapes.’ Martine’s voice was dry. ‘But no matter. I’m sorry, Armand, was there something that you needed?’

‘No, not really.’

‘Oh.’ Surprise flashed momentarily across her lovely fragile face, from which I gathered that Armand Valcourt didn’t often visit the gallery without a reason.

‘No, I was just passing, and I thought I would come and see what you have done. Lucie says there are sculptures, somewhere, that are new.’

Martine considered; shook her head. ‘Not new ones, no. I do not think …’

‘Ah, well. You know Lucie, she sometimes gets her story wrong.’ He didn’t seem concerned. Hands in his pockets, he leaned closer to me, his breath feathering my neck as he studied a smaller pen-and-ink drawing on the counter. ‘And this is also nice, Martine. It is by Christian, yes?’

She looked, and nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘It looks like Victor’s place.’ He reached to pick the drawing up, his arm brushing casually against my shoulder. ‘Yes, so it is. I wonder sometimes what Victor does with himself, these days. Do you ever hear from him?’

Martine shook her head. ‘Christian sees him, now and then. They have a drink and talk.’ She smiled at me, in vague apology. ‘This is a friend of ours we speak of, an old friend.’

Victor Belliveau, I nearly said. Of course, they all would know each other from the days when Brigitte Valcourt had held her magnificent parties up at the Clos des Cloches. A poet would have been included on the guest list, I decided, alongside musical Neil and clever Christian. I longed to ask Martine about those parties, just as I longed to ask her if her former husband ever talked of history, or of Englishmen named Harry. But even as I tried to summon up the nerve, a telephone rang shrilly in the gallery’s back room, and Martine excused herself to answer it, her heels clicking on the hard tile floor as she walked away.

Armand shifted at my shoulder, looking down at me. After a moment’s silence, he cleared his throat and spoke. ‘I have a confession.’

‘Oh, yes?’ I glanced up.

‘I have not much interest in art. And sculpture bores me.’ He moved around to lean against the counter, facing me, and raised one hand in an automatic gesture before remembering he shouldn’t smoke here. The hand went back inside his pocket. ‘When I said that I was passing, that was true. But I only stopped because I saw you here.’ He grinned. ‘It is no easy matter, in a town this size, to find someone.’

Harry always said I had a talent for deducing the obvious, and I displayed it now. ‘You were looking for me?’

He shrugged. ‘I thought, if you had not made plans already, you might let me buy you lunch.’

‘Lunch.’ I repeated the word rather stupidly, and he brought his smiling eyes back to mine.

‘Yes. Most days my lunch hours are reserved for Lucie. My work, it keeps me very busy, so I try to keep this hour for her, our private time. You understand?’ Convinced I did, he carried on. ‘But on Wednesdays, François takes Lucie for half the day, and they eat lunch together, so I am left with no one.’

No one? On the contrary, I thought, the women must be queuing up.

‘You don’t believe me?’ His eyes were warm behind the coal-black lashes. ‘It is true. I am a rich man, Mademoiselle, but the price one pays for influence is isolation.’

It was a blatant attempt to play upon my sympathies, and while it didn’t work, I must confess I couldn’t see the harm in having lunch. Besides, I thought, Armand Valcourt had also known Didier Muret. Perhaps I could ask him the questions I had meant to ask Martine.

‘All right, then,’ I said, on impulse, ‘I’d be happy to have lunch with you.’

‘Good.’ He flashed a smile briefly, raised his eyes, then dropped them to his watch. ‘Good, then I shall pick you up at your hotel at noon, if you like?’

My own watch read nine forty-five. ‘All right.’

‘Good,’ he said again, pushing away from the counter. ‘In that case I will leave you for the moment, to enjoy the paintings. I have business still to do before we eat. You will excuse me?’ His smile was very charming, but it wasn’t serious. It didn’t mean anything.

He showed the same smile to the rumpled young man who bumped shoulders with him in the doorway. ‘Morning,’ Simon said cheerfully, as Armand slipped past him into the shaded street. Whistling an aimless happy tune, Simon stepped into the gallery and stopped short at the sight of me. ‘There you are!’ From his tone, one would have thought I was some errant schoolgirl, late for lessons. ‘Paul’s been looking everywhere for you, you know. You missed breakfast.’