Hugger-Mugger in the Louvre Read Free Page A

increasingly complicated world, to dilute the red wine or vermouth; and that the prices marked on the saucers were modest indeed.
    The large newsstand in front of the terrasse Homer Evans had chosen was surrounded by eager customers, shoving good-naturedly to get to the front, holding sous in their hands, commenting brightly to one another on the news of the evening, the disappearance of the priceless Watteau. And here, as in the quarter where culture was as thick as gasolene fumes in the air, men and women, even boys and girls, seemed rather pleased than otherwise with the developments. The clever thief, or thieves, had done each citizen a personal favor, one would have said.
    â€œHe’s got his nerve, that guy,” a pert-faced shopgirl said, admiringly.
    The chestnut-vendor, who sold peanuts in the offseason, wiped his hands on his apron and grinned. “Took the frame and all,” he said, with a true French love of thoroughness.
    Notwithstanding the banter, there was a note also of reverence when the sum of three million francs was glimpsed in the headlines. On a midinette or a plumber’s apprentice, who by hard toil and unremitting attention was able to earn about a dollar a day, the printed figures representing three million francs had an impact which, though different in nature from that of Nebuchadnezzar’s animated wall decorations, was not less awe-inspiring. Had The Pansy been painted life size, with, let us say, a couple of grayhounds and an acre of park land behind him, the price of the Watteau gem would not have proved as shocking to the populace. But for a painting only thirty centimeters by twenty, the estimated value seemed fabulous indeed. As Miriam and Homer sat silently waiting for their drinks, they both observed a number of clients asking waiters for the loan of a pencil, so that the price per square centimeter might be computed.
    A few of the more sensitive drinkers, however, were not thinking in terms of francs and centimes but were staring at the two-column cuts in search of the beauty they felt sure was therein contained. This latter group was the more bewildered. Homer smiled. Safe from intrusion and with Miriam by his side he felt decidedly better. Directly in front of them three tables had been placed together for a group of young friends who met there daily at the aperitif hour. And in the face of each one of the workers, Miriam thought she detected disappointment. En-Tout-Cas was spread before them and they all were staring at the reproductions.
    Suddenly Miriam was seized with an unprecedented impulse.
    â€œHomer,” she said, grasping his sleeve and looking at him appealingly. It was not necessary for her to continue. Evans smiled indulgently, rose from his place and in a moment was leaning over the spread newspaper and explaining to the group the significance of The Pansy and the fate of Watteau. To say that his hearers listened eagerly would be a misdemeanor of understatement. Their faces lighted with comprehension, were eloquent with dismay. One of the girls from La Samaritaine, in fact, was so moved that she burst into tears and rushed for a telephone booth.
    â€œSo you see, my friends,” Homer Evans was concluding, “the first painter who might be called truly French, who didn’t copy the Italians, had to die in his thirties when, with luck, he might have lived to a ripe old age and painted so many pictures that the prices of Watteaus today would be only half what they are.”
    A few minutes after Homer had returned to his place, the group of young people dispersed, mostly two and two, and the huge square grew slowly tranquil. Behind, and to the right, stood Notre Dame. Across the bridge and slightly downstream was the Conciergerie. The fountain on the starboard side introduced a playful note. But it was not the historical monuments on which Evans had his eye. The clock said half past seven, the hour for dinner, so his gaze was resting on the