“I have. I like them, but I’m not sure how I would have felt had someone not told me they were genius.”
“Exactly,” said Marois, suddenly sitting forward, more animated than Beauvoir had seen him. Excited even. “That’s what makes my job like Christmas every day. While every artist wakes up believing this is the day his genius will be discovered, every dealer wakes up believing this is the day he’ll discover genius.”
“But who’s to say?”
“That’s what makes this all so thrilling.”
Beauvoir could see the man wasn’t putting on an act. His eyes were gleaming, his hands were gesturing, not wildly, but with excitement.
“The portfolio I believe is brilliant someone else can look at and think is dull, derivative. Witness our reactions to Clara Morrow’s paintings.”
“I still say they’re just not interesting,” said Castonguay.
“And I say they are, and who’s to say who’s right? That’s what drives artists and dealers crazy. It’s so subjective.”
“I think they’re born crazy,” mumbled Castonguay, and Beauvoir had to agree.
“So that explains you being at the vernissage,” said Gamache. “Why come to Three Pines?”
Marois hesitated. Trying to decide how much to say, and not even trying to hide his indecision.
Gamache waited. Beauvoir, notebook and pen out, started to doodle. A stick figure and a horse. Or perhaps it was a moose. From the easy chair came the heavy sound of Castonguay breathing.
“I had a client once. Dead now, years ago. Lovely man. A commercial artist, but also a very fine creative artist. His home was full of these marvelous paintings. I discovered him when he was already quite old, though now that I think of it, he was younger than I am now.”
Marois smiled, as did Gamache. He knew that feeling.
“He was one of my first clients and he did quite well. He was thrilled, as was his wife. One day he asked a favor. Could his wife put in a few of her works into his next show. I was polite, but declined. But he was quite uncharacteristically insistent. I didn’t know her well, and didn’t know her art at all. I suspected she was putting pressure on the old man. But I could see how important it was to him, so I relented. Gave her a corner, and a hammer.”
He paused and his eyes flickered.
“I’m not very proud of it now. I should have either treated her with respect, or declined the show totally. But I was young, and had a lot to learn.”
He sighed. “The evening of the vernissage was the first time I saw her works. I walked into the room and everyone was crowded into that corner. You can guess what happened.”
“All her paintings sold,” said Gamache.
Marois nodded. “Every one, with people buying others she’d left in her home, sight unseen. There was even a bidding war for several of them. My client was a gifted artist. But she was better. Far better. A stunning find. A genuine Van Gogh’s ear.”
“Pardon?” asked Gamache. “A what?”
“What did the old man do?” Castonguay interrupted, now paying attention. “He must’ve been furious.”
“No. He was a lovely man. Taught me how to be gracious. And he was. But it was her reaction I’ll never forget.” He was quiet for a moment, clearly seeing the two elderly artists. “She gave up painting. Not only never showed again, she never painted again. She saw the pain it had caused him, though he’d hidden it well. His happiness was more important to her than her own. Than her art.”
Chief Inspector Gamache knew this should have sounded like a love story. Of sacrifice, of selfless choices. But it only sounded like a tragedy to him.
“Is that why you’re here?” Gamache asked the art dealer.
Marois nodded. “I’m afraid.”
“Of what?” Castonguay demanded, losing the thread yet again.
“Did you not see how Clara Morrow looked at her husband yesterday?” asked Marois.
“And how he looked at her,” said Gamache.
The two men locked eyes.
“But Clara isn’t that woman you’re remembering,” said the Chief Inspector.
“True,” admitted François Marois. “But Peter Morrow isn’t my elderly client either.”
“Do you really think Clara might give up painting?” asked Gamache.
“To save her marriage? To save her husband?” asked Marois. “Most wouldn’t, but the woman who created those paintings just might.”
Armand Gamache had never thought that was a possibility, but now he considered it and realized François Marois might be right.
