A Beautiful Secret, page 27
Taylor looked at Tegan. “I’m not going under there without coveralls, gloves, a particle mask, and goggles. What if there are rats or rat turds? Or spiders?”
Tegan stuck her head in first and declared nothing alive was moving under the house. “Someone sealed the crawl space years ago. Nothing could live here.”
Tegan turned on all their flashlights and tossed them under the house before helping Taylor through the vent headfirst. Flooding in the past had smoothed the dirt, and the floor joists of the house were just above her head. Taylor crawled on all fours. Perhaps that was why the vent was covered—to prevent the water from getting under the house. Taylor shined her light around the space.
“I need more light,” called Taylor from down below. Tegan retrieved a lamp and extension cord from the house and fed it through the access. Towards the front of the house, there was a wall closing off the front portion of the crawlspace. There must be another half to explore there. Taylor crawled to the left under the kitchen. The water and drain pipes were suspended from the joists overhead and Tegan lost sight of Taylor as continued forward under the pipes.
“Tegan, can you fit in here? I need you to see something.”
Tegan barely squeezed through the access port. Once inside, she had to be careful not to scrape her back on the wooden joists. When she got to Taylor, she could see over a stem wall and between the floor joists into the area under the kitchen.
On the wall across from them, bricks filled in another crawlspace access on the side of the house, just like the one in the back. The crawlspace that they busted open hid in the back yard, but the one on the side was in view of the neighbors and would attract attention if they tried to sledgehammer their way in.
In the far corner she could see something in between the joists in the space between a section of sub-floor, but they couldn’t get to it. Tegan reached outside for her phone to access the security cameras to make sure that they were alone. It was a typical warm Parisian summer, but the coolness under the house was refreshing. Tegan sat with her back against the perimeter wall while Taylor lay down on her back with her head on Tegan’s lap. Tegan took off her gloves so that she could push Taylor’s stray hair back from her forehead, roll it up, and contain it with a scrunchy.
“I’m going to knock down enough of the foundation to allow you to climb through to the area under the kitchen. Do you think you could do it?”
“I think so. I’m not claustrophobic. Weakening the foundation is going to affect the floor over it. We need to have a plan to replace the supports.”
Pushing and jiggling the bricks, Tegan soon had a space large enough for Taylor to squeeze through.
“Wait,” Tegan said. “Can you get my camera? It has the short lens on it already, but I also need my small flash unit.”
Taylor returned with the camera and two bottles of much needed water. Tegan helped her over the brick wall and into the secondary crawl space. “There is something here wrapped in canvas.”
Tegan could not get there without removing enough bricks to compromise the floor, so she passed the camera to Taylor, who took a dozen pictures of the object and the surrounding area. Over a meter long, and perhaps a meter in diameter, the bundle was shoved into a space between the joists and rested on what looked to be a drain pipe. Taylor handed back the camera and Tegan took pictures as Taylor tugged on the object to dislodge it. When it slid free, she placed it on the dirt floor. The oilcloth bundle was stiff and dry. Wraps and wraps of hemp twine once held it together, but fell apart as Taylor handed the bundle to Tegan. She scooted back through and knelt beside Tegan as they studied the bundle.
“This is it,” said Tegan. “It all comes down to this. If it is what we hope for, years of work will have come true. If not, the dream is over, and we are bankrupt.”
The odds of success are practically zero. If this is just junk, I will owe Egan a million dollars with nothing to show for my years of effort. I’m in a foreign country under a house in the dirt. ‘Take me Home, Country Roads’ sounds so good right about now. But I don’t even have that anymore. It’s take me home, US1.
Unwrapping the first layer and folding back the under layer exposed a sheet of canvas. Lifting the canvas, they came face-to-face with Camille Doncieux. They looked at each other in shock. Years of research and investigation had yielded the impossible. Under the house covered in dirt and cobwebs, they were seeing something no one else had seen in over one hundred and fifty years. The search had been a game of hide and seek, conceivably real, but probably unattainable fantasy. Tegan did not know what to do next other than take a multitude of photographs.
Taylor crawled out first and Tegan passed the camera and the paintings through and followed her into the house. They locked every door and window and closed the curtains. In the upstairs bedroom, they placed the bundle and spread the paintings on the floor. The creasing around the perimeter and the regularly spaced tack holes indicated previous mounting on wooden frames.All the paintings featured Camille in different poses and settings. They were lovely and vibrant, a brilliant example of the Impressionistic technique taken to another level. They were like nothing Tegan had ever seen.
Chapter 32
Thinking will not overcome fear but action will.
W. Clement Stone
Taylor spoke first. “Turn off your cellphone and remove the battery. Do not answer the door. I wish we had a gun. People will kill for these. Even though they remained hidden for over a hundred and fifty years, we are now vulnerable. Is there any chance anyone else knows where the house is?”
“Egan knows, but no one else knows the importance,” said Tegan. “But he also knows we can’t cheat him. He’s a French billionaire and we are a couple of foreigners who can’t dare reveal this without him getting us thrown in the gaol. He’s probably had private investigators watching our every move.”
Tegan bent down to scrutinize the paintings which had been removed them from their stretchers to facilitate hiding them. By lying them one on top of the other, Camille had protected them. Each painting rested against the back of its neighbor with blank canvas pressed against the paint. Once stacked, Camille wrapped them in oilcloth. The cotton duck impregnated with boiled linseed oil was waterproof, repelled insects and the hydrocarbon rich environment inside the bundle kept the paints from drying and cracking. Touching the surface of the paint, Tegan realized that it had not been covered it in a varnish sealer. Normally, that would have left the paint vulnerable to oxidization and drying, but in this case it meant that no old varnish would have to be removed, greatly facilitating the cleaning and re-stretching process.
“Take the corners of the painting and help me turn over this one and set it down on the floor,” Tegan told Taylor. Once the painting was face down on the floor, Tegan showed Taylor. “This canvas has not been lined. The canvas is as original as the day Monet finished painting it.” Tegan’s shoulders shook and her lips quivered as she cried. Then deep sobs poured out of her and she had to sit back to avoid getting salty tears on the paintings.
Taylor grabbed her shoulders. “Tegan, what’s wrong, honey? Are you okay?”
She shook her head still unable to speak. Taylor scrambled up and retrieved a handkerchief, which Tegan used to dry her tears and blow her runny nose.
“Everything is fine,” Tegan said. “Everything is perfect. The condition of the paintings is a miracle. Paintings are not meant to live in the dark. There are parasitic microorganisms that will eat away at the surface of the paint. If the paintings had been sealed, the resin would have yellowed to opacity. If Camille had rolled these up, the paint would crack and peel when anyone tried to unroll them. By wrapping them in oilcloth and storing them in the cool space under the house, she kept them alive for over one hundred and fifty years.”
They turned it back over, face up. It was almost identical to “Women in the Garden” 1866, yet only featuring Camille. She was sitting on the grass beside the garden path in a beautiful white dress with a parasol. Each of the paintings was the same size. Tegan took a tape measure and checked. At seventy-five by a hundred centimeters, or thirty by forty inches, they were larger than usual but compared to the size used by Monet for the Sainte-Adresse series of maritime landscapes in 1867. The next painting was like the first, except that Camille was in a white, diaphanous gown on a picnic blanket with a basket holding wine, bread and cheese as if her lover had gotten up and painted her while she waited for him to return. She was looking to the side and her profile was visible and her pose suggested contentment. The next two landscapes did not feature Camille, although she was in the background, like “Woman in the Forest” in 1885.
Tegan felt herself holding her breath and had to remind herself to breathe. Camille in the forest gave the impression of actually being there. The mood, the silence, the gentle flowing of the river far in the background and the sprinkling of red poppies at her feet made her feel like she had traveled back in time and was watching Camille as she walked in the forest. Long shadows from her figure and the trees indicated it was early morning. The luminous nature of the light was richer and more vibrant than the afternoon light. Claude had captured the moment perfectly. Tegan had no doubt as to the authenticity of the paintings. Only Monet could have absorbed the scene and rendered it with this breathtaking beauty.
Taylor told her, “They are incredible, but we can’t stay here. It’s not secure. They will just fit into the biggest suitcase we have if we bend them a little. We can pad them with clean clothes to move them. Let’s check into a hotel with excellent security.”
Taylor backed the rented car up the driveway near the back door.
“Wear your best outfit,” Taylor told her. “We will check into the Hotel Louis XIV. It is ridiculously expensive, but notorious for protecting the privacy of their guests. Dignitaries often stay there.”
Tegan put on a tight navy dress and matching headband. Taylor donned a black skirt, sheer white blouse with a white camisole underneath, and black pumps. With the suitcases in the back of the car, they headed to Paris. The hotel had only one room type available, the Deluxe Room with a separate bedroom and one king bed. Taylor asked for a discount, and after a few keystrokes, the clerk offered them the room at the standard rate. “Fine,” said Taylor as she slapped her credit card on the granite counter. “Book me for two nights. I may stay the week. It depends on my schedule.”
The valet took the car while Taylor checked them in. Tegan would not allow the bellhops to carry their luggage out of her sight. Once in the room, they locked and bolted the door, put the suitcases in the closet, and planned their next move. Checking her watch, it was morning in the states, so Tegan called Preston. Marcus had an apartment in Athens, and Preston was staying with him for the summer.
“Preston, it’s Tegan. Would it be possible for you and Marcus to come to Paris ASAP? It’s very important. I can pay you back for the flight or I can call Helen and ask her to pay for it on a credit card. I can’t use my cards and leave a paper trail.”
He called back in twenty minutes to say that they would be in Paris the following night.
In the morning, Tegan took a taxi to an art shop and bought prints in cheap plastic frames. Tegan bought twice as many as she needed, just in case. The shop also sold art supplies, so Tegan bought large artist portfolios to keep out prying eyes. They sealed each painting in a frame behind the prints. Now there was no way to tell that they were anything but cheap prints, and the paintings were protected. The next half hour kept Tegan on the phone. She texted Pernod, telling him she would come to his hotel the following night with important news. Then she called the Royal Renaissance and reserved a two-bedroom suite for herself and Taylor and used the authorization code he gave her to charge it to the hotel. She called the Louis XIV desk and arranged for a limo to meet Preston and Marcus at the airport. Neither she nor Taylor planned on leaving the room and hung the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the knob in the hall and latched the door.
When Preston and Marcus arrived, it thrilled Tegan to see them. She had been holding her breath in anticipation. They took turns hugging both girls off of the floor. Both of them, but especially Marcus, had gained significant amounts of muscle. Tegan opened a bottle of Champagne for the occasion.
Preston asked, “The suspense is killing me. Why have you dragged us across the Atlantic?”
Tegan passed out the crystal flutes before replying. “Well, we missed you and figured that we could spend some time together in Paris. I have a suite reserved for all of us. This room is temporary.”
Taylor interrupted. “Stop teasing him, Tegan.” She turned to the men and said, “You know Tegan has been writing a book about Claude Monet? Well, she suspected that some of his paintings may have disappeared and have been searching for them.” She paused, then asked, “What would you think if she were successful?”
“What do you mean?” asked Marcus.
Taylor and Tegan went into the bedroom, returned with four paintings, and leaned them against the dresser across from Preston and Marcus. The men got up and stood before the paintings.
Preston gasped, “Are they real?”
“Yup, a hundred percent genuine.”
“Where did you find them?”
Taylor explained the hiding spot under the house.
Tegan topped off their glasses. “Everyone, have some champagne. I want to read you a letter.”
Dearest Marceline,
Thank you for your previous letter. You are too kind to me. However, I must appeal to your good graces once again. Claude has left me to return to his aunt and father to convince them to give him money. All the money from the sale of the painting has gone, and we cannot pay the rent. We stored our possessions in the studio on Place Pigalle, and the only things I have left here are some clothes and personal items.
Yesterday, Claude went to the Café Guerbois for his weekly meeting where his creditors found him and demanded that he pay, which he cannot. He came home in a rage and started drinking. Then he threatened to burn the paintings that remained in the house and started a fire in the pit in the backyard. He finished the wine and started on brandy.
I begged him not to destroy the paintings, but he refused. I was desperate, so forgive me for what I tell you. I went inside, got a glass, and filled the bottom with a tincture of laudanum. I poured myself a brandy and switched my glass with Claude’s. Within fifteen minutes, he was asleep. I took the paintings from the stretchers and tossed the wood into the fire with other trash and discards and went to sleep.
This morning he was gone. I have no money. He left me none. I will soon have nowhere to go. Could I come and stay with you until Claude sends me money? Or, until I can figure something out?
If your husband disagrees or you cannot do it, I understand. I despise myself for having to ask, but you are the one person who I hope can help me.
With Love,
Camille
Preston and Marcus sat in stunned silence.
“Camille went and stayed with her friend for a month. Marceline gave her some money to rent a room in Normandy. The house in Sevres was now occupied, and the paintings were irretrievable. Monet spent most of the year with his aunt at Sainte-Adresse. The following summer Claude joined her in Paris, where she gave birth to Jean, which caused him to be cut off by his family again.”
Tegan composed herself, then continued.
“In December 1868, Monet joined Camille at Etretat and in June 1870 Claude and Camille married. Monet’s friends had given the newlyweds money for their honeymoon at the Hôtel Tivoli in Trouville, but Claude insisted they sneak out in the night without paying their bill. On July 19, 1870, the Franco-Prussian War began. Unable to pay his hotel bill and unwilling to join the military, Monet abandoned Camille and fled to London. Camille soon followed while the paintings remained under the house in Sevres. On September 5, 1879, Camille died at thirty-two.”
Preston thought for a moment. “The paintings belong to the owner of the house. Neither Claude nor Camille’s descendants could make a claim, unless Claude’s estate claims that we stole them from him. Since one hundred and fifty years have passed, that would be unlikely. Since you didn’t know for sure that they existed, only a suspicion, there was no attempt to deceive or defraud the previous owner of the house. Therefore, Tegan is the owner of the paintings.”
Tegan agreed. “That’s what I think from reading law on the internet. However, I have a partner who has financed the search, and he is entitled to half. I do have an obligation to notify the French authorities. They will decide whether the paintings are national treasures, which they will. Claude Monet was French. He created the paintings in France and are extremely valuable. The three criteria required for their determination.”
“Speaking of the value,” asked Marcus, “What do you think they are worth?”
“Water Lilies of this size go for forty to sixty million. The highest price paid was Haystacks at eighty million. Considering the size, content, condition and the novelty, I estimate their value at auction to be from fifty to seventy million each,” Tegan told them.
“My God!” Marcus said. “Two hundred million dollars?”
The importance of the discovery, as well as the security implications, set in. They sat on the couch and discussed what to do next. Tegan had to notify her partner. She called Pernod and got his voicemail, so she hung up and thought about what to do next when her phone rang. She put Pernod on speakerphone and put a finger over her lips for the others to remain silent.
“Sorry, Tegan, I was away from my desk. How are you?”
