Storm Winds Read Free Page B

was both haven and treasure house for his father. A fine Savonnerie carpet in delicate shades of rose, ivory, and beige stretched across the highly polished parquet floor, and a Gobelin tapestry depicting the four seasons covered one wall. Splendid furniture crafted by Jacobs and Boulard was placed for beauty—and comfort—in the room. A fragile crystal swan rested on a cupboard of rosewood and Chinese lacquer marquetry. The desk, wrought in mahogany, ebony, and gilded bronze with mother-of-pearl inserts, might have been the focal point of the room if it had not been for the portrait of Charlotte Andreas. It was dramatically framed and placed over a fireplace whose mantel of Pyrenees marble drew the eye.
    Denis Andreas always complained of the cold these days and, although it was the end of June, a fire burned in the hearth. He sat in a huge crimson brocade-cushioned armchair, reading before the fire, his slippered feet resting on a matching footstool.
    Jean Marc braced himself, then stepped into the room and closed the door. “I’ve brought you a gift.”
    His father looked up with a smile that froze on his lips as he looked at the statue in Jean Marc’s arms. “I see you have.”
    Jean Marc strode over to the table beside his father’s chair and set the statue carefully on the malachite surface. He could feel tension coiling painfully in his every muscle as his father gazed at the Pegasus. He forced a smile. “Well, do say something, sir. Aren’t you pleased with me? It was far from easy to persuade King Louis to part with the statue. Bardot has virtually lived at court this past year waiting for the opportunity to pounce.”
    “You must have paid a good deal for it.” Denis Andreas reached out and touched a filigree wing with a gentle finger.
    His father’s hands had always been delicate-looking, the hands of an artist, Jean Marc thought. But now they were nearly transparent, the protruding veins poignantly emphasizing their frailty. He quickly looked from those scrawny hands to his father’s face. His face was also thin, the cheeks hollowed, but his eyes still held the gentleness and wonder they always had.
    “I paid no more than we could afford.” Jean Marc sat down on the chair across from his father. “And Louis needed the livres to pay the American war debt.” At least, that was true enough. Louis’s aid to the American revolutionaries along with his other extravagant expenditures had set France tottering on the edge of bankruptcy. “Where should we put it? I thought a white Carrara marble pedestal by the window. The sunlight shining on the gold and emeralds would make it come alive.”
    “The Wind Dancer
is
alive,” his father said gently. “All beauty lives, Jean Marc.”
    “By the window then?”
    “No.”
    “Where?”
    His father’s gaze shifted to Jean Marc’s face. “You didn’t have to do this.” He smiled. “But it fills me with joy that you did.”
    “What’s a few million livres?” Jean Marc asked lightly. “You wanted it.”
    “No, I have it.” Denis Andreas tapped the center of his forehead with his index finger. “Here. I didn’t need this splendid imitation, my son.”
    Jean Marc went still. “Imitation?”
    His father looked again at the statue. “A glorious imitation. Who did it? Balzar?”
    Jean Marc was silent a moment before he said hoarsely, “Desedero.”
    “Ah, a magnificent sculptor when working in gold. I’m surprised he accepted the commission.”
    Frustration and despair rose in Jean Marc until he could scarcely bear it. “He was afraid you would recognize the difference but I felt I had no choice. I offered the king enough to buy a thousand statues, but Bardot reported that Louis wouldn’t consider selling the Wind Dancer at any price. According to His Majesty, the queen has a particular fondness for it.” His hands closed tightly on the arms of the chair. “But, dammit, it’s the
same.”
    Denis Andreas shook his head. “It’s a very good