Paris: The Novel

remarkable collection yourself by now. Wherever do you put them all?”
    “In my apartment,” said Aunt Éloïse, simply. “But they are scattered about in every room. Most people don’t even know what they are.” She paused. “This reminds me. I have a favor to ask of you.”
    “Ask it.”
    “Our friend Hadley here would like to visit Giverny, and I thought we might all go up there. I know that Monet is besieged by people wanting to take up his time, but I wondered if you might give us an introduction …”
    “With the greatest pleasure. I shall tell him that you were one of the first to acquire his work—he likes to sell, you know!—and that you have the work of all his friends. He will be delighted to receive you. If you care to look around the gallery, I’ll write the letter straightaway.” And he disappeared into his office.
    Marie was fascinated. She had always known that her aunt was cultivated and that she bought pictures, but she had never realized quite how far this went.
    “I must look at the pictures in your apartment more carefully,” she whispered to her.
    Meanwhile, Marc and Hadley were moving from picture to picture. After a few minutes, she noticed that Hadley had remained in front of one in particular for some time.
    “Let us see what Monsieur Hadley is looking at,” she said to her aunt.
    It was a painting of the Gare Saint-Lazare. Clouds of steam were rising from the railway tracks, as seen from behind a bridge above. The thing had an extraordinary life, and Hadley was gazing at it with rapt attention.
    They were standing beside him admiring the painting when Durand-Ruel came back.
    “This should do,” he said, as he handed Aunt Éloïse the letter. He looked at the painting. “You like it?” he asked Hadley.
    “I love it,” Hadley replied.
    “Many artists have painted the Gare Saint-Lazare, including Monet, but this is by a painter named Norbert Goeneutte. He painted at least three of Saint-Lazare in different lights.” He paused. “I’m sorry to say that he died, about four years ago. He was hardly forty years old. A considerable talent, lost.” He paused. “It’s for sale.”
    “I’d love to buy it,” Hadley said frankly. “But my father gives me an allowance to study, and I don’t want to ask him for more. Perhaps later—though I’m sure you’ll find a buyer for such a fine work long before I can buy it.”
    Durand-Ruel did not press the matter.
    And it was then that Marie had her wonderful idea. But she didn’t say a word.

    They set out early from the Gare Saint-Lazare. The train took them fifty miles down the broad valley of the Seine to the small town of Vernon. From there, it was only a four-mile ride in a cab, crossing the river by a long, low bridge and following the curve of the stream up to Giverny.
    As the train puffed through the delightful countryside, Marie felt a great sense of happiness. Her little plan had worked.
    Five days ago Aunt Éloïse had bought the Goeneutte painting for her. It was a private matter between themselves, and nobody else knew about it. Aunt Éloïse had the painting now, safely in her apartment, but it was agreed that when Marie could, she would buy the painting from her at the same price that Aunt Éloïse had paid the gallery. There was only one other aspect to the business, that even Aunt Éloïse did not know.
    One day—she did not know when, or under what circumstances—Marie was going to give the painting to Frank Hadley.

    The Seine was broad and very peaceful at Vernon that June morning as the fiacre clipped across the bridge. Here and there they passed small houses, or an old mill, with their charming, half-timbered Norman frames and tiled roofs. Everything seemed wonderfully green. It was late morning when they passed the church and came to the center of Giverny, leaving them time to have a pleasant walk about the village before having lunch at the inn. After that, they were to call upon the great painter.
    “There’s something strange about this place,” Marc suggested. “Does anyone notice what?”
    “No,” they said.
    “Then I’ll show you.”
    They had gone only fifty yards, and were walking by a small orchard, when they encountered a pleasant young fellow carrying a folder and wearing a wide-brimmed hat.
    “Excuse me,” Marc said in English, “but could you recommend where to get a drink?”
    “Why certainly,” the young man answered, in an accent that suggestedhe came from