myselfâhave a favor to ask. It has something to do with a case heâs working onââ
âMurder? Need a docâs opinion?â
âIâll fill you in later,â Marine said. âBut I can tell you it has something to do with Cézanne. Thatâs why Antoine needs you to come to the Palais de Justice.â
âIâm intrigued.â
âI thought you would be. Can you meet us there in an hour? At three p.m.?â
âDoes Antoine need a theologian, too?â her father asked.
âNo, but thank you,â Marine answered. Florence Bonnet and Antoine Verlaque werenât the best of friends, but Marine found it touching that her father would want her mother to come along. The Bonnets were inseparable.
Marine said good-bye and hung up the phone, thinking of her quick conversation a half hour earlier with Verlaque. He had immediately said that he was with Bruno Paulik, a hint that he couldnât speak intimately to Marine, but he did say, âIâve been wanting to talk to you,â before telling her about a supposed Cézanne portrait that he and Bruno were taking back to Verlaqueâs office. He had also suggested that she come for dinner that evening, promising to light a fire in his fireplace and cook his winter specialty,
choucroute
, which he picked up from an Alsatian deli around the corner from his apartment. She had agreed, intrigued by the Cézanne story and caught off guard by the call; but she was looking forward to the meal. Sauerkraut, sausage, and boiled red potatoesâaccompanied by one of the stellar Rieslings that Antoine had in his cellarâwere one of her big loves. She had become, despite her upbringing,
une gourmande
. âIâm also a pushover,â Marine mumbled to herself as she made herself a coffee. She realized that she had overreacted on Friday evening, but she still had things she wanted to discuss with Antoine. It was time.
 â¢Â â¢Â â¢Â
âWell, one thing Iâm sure about,â Anatole Bonnet said, looking down at the portrait and rubbing his chin, âitâs not Hortense, Mme Cézanne.â
âIs it even a Cézanne?â Verlaque asked, pacing back and forth in his office.
âIâd need to look at it longer, and have my books next to me,â Dr. Bonnet said. âBut I think so, yes.â
âI have chicken skin,â Paulik said, rubbing his muscular forearms. He adjusted the wool scarf that was twisted around his neck.
âItâs not that cold in here,â Verlaque said.
âSpeak for yourself,â Paulik replied. âThe heat works every other day in this building.â
âIâm freezing,â Marine agreed. âMme Cézanne always frowned, didnât she, Papa?â
âAlmost without exception,â Dr. Bonnet replied. âAnd this doesnât look like her. Mme Cézanne had straight brown hairâalways tied backâa long, fine nose; a small mouth; and almond-shaped eyes. Hands clasped, like this.â Dr. Bonnet nervously folded his hands together and Marine smiled, charmed by her father. His hands had more age spots than she remembered.
âThereâs a portrait of Mme Cézanne at the dâOrsay where she looks like sheâs ready to kill her husband,â Dr. Bonnet said. âAnd it was painted the year of their marriageâ1886. That always struck me as odd.â
Marine felt Verlaque staring at her. She looked down at the portrait and said, âThis woman, whoever she is, is radiant.â
âYes, sheâs having a good time,â Verlaque said. âWhich means that the painter was having a good time, too,
non
?â
âOne would think that the two are related, yes,â Dr. Bonnet answered.
âWhat makes you think that itâs a real Cézanne?â Paulik asked.
âThe colors, for one,â Dr. Bonnet said. âItâs full of color, even her
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