Hugger-Mugger in the Louvre Read Free

would take the form shown so plainly in this pair of paintings? She would never understand. Neither would many of his contemporaries. But every brushstroke in these little masterpieces gave him relief and satisfaction. It was his revenge on the sex. That, I’m sorry to say, is about the only relief or satisfaction he got.”
    Evans ceased speaking, and turned to his glass, until Miriam said gently: “Tell us what happened, Homer. We all are not encyclopedias.”
    â€œOh,” Homer said, absently. “Watteau became famous, the ballet girl got older and was ditched by her rich protector. She had to go home to Valenciennes where the country life bored her. It was then she thought of Watteau and sent for him. He was delirious with joy, forgot everything and hurried to her side. Since he was very ill, and she was abnormally rapacious after her forced sojourn in the country, the result was quickly tragic for Watteau and for French art as a whole. He stood the strain for a few blissful weeks, then died.”
    â€œAnother double whiskey,” Hjalmar Jansen said.
    Drinks were served all around, and the company of friends began to discuss Watteau and the sensational theft with increasing animation, always hoping that the thief would make a clean getaway. The fewer Old Masters there are, the better most hard-working modern artists are pleased. And the antics of French officialdom when on the spot are sure to furnish tiptop entertainment. Miriam, sitting by Homer’s side, took little part in the conversation. At first she thought she felt a bit chilly, but the absurdity of that, on a warm summer evening, caused her to look at Evans carefully. He was entering one of his phases of concentration, against his will, it seemed to her. Not a word that was being uttered around the table reached his ears. She sat motionless, trying not to disturb his thoughts and was astonished to see him rise, almost as if he were in a dream, touch her arm to guide her and, without saying good-bye to their friends, lead her toward a waiting taxi.
    â€œSorry,” he said at last. “I had to get away.”
    She smiled. “Don’t think about me. I’m very happy,” she said. “Continue with your thoughts.”
    â€œThat’s exactly what I don’t propose to do. There are no more newspapers. No man exists or existed who was called Watteau. Montparnasse, for the time being, is out of bounds.”
    â€œI don’t understand, but that doesn’t matter,” she said. The taxi was passing the place St. Michel. Evans tapped quickly on the window.
    â€œLet’s get out here,” he said, and led the way across the broad sidewalk to the Cafe du Depart, where once before, on that memorable night when Hugo Weiss had disappeared, they had taken refuge from their many friends in Montparnasse and, step by step, had been involved in the most strenuous adventure to which Evans, man of contemplation and ease, had ever lent his talents and his latent capacities. The same corner table was vacant, although the terrasse and the large square were swarming with busy people who, even more keenly than the idlers of Montparnasse, looked forward to an evening of relaxation and simple pleasures. Already the motley members of that crowd, individually obscure, collectively the soul of France, were feeling the twilight mood. Nervous movements slowed down to a calmer tempo. Tired faces lost the look of daily wear and tear. Somewhere, in cheap restaurants or dim rooms, there would be dinner for all—or nearly all. Seated on cane-woven chairs the Parisians rested a few minutes behind small tables, sometimes rickety, and drank aperitifs from bottles similar to those served at the Café du Dôme, with the difference that the glasses were smaller and thicker and made to look ample with false bottoms; that occasionally a struggling bistrot keeper felt obliged, in order to defend himself and his family against an