The Mystery of the Lost Cezanne by M. L. Longworth Page B

“But there’s another mystery here, which is now giving me doubts as to the painting’s authenticity.”
    This time Verlaque, Paulik, and Marine all blurted out, “What?”
    â€œIt’s just that Cézanne rarely painted women,” Anatole Bonnet said. “Especially young, pretty women. I can think of a portrait of a very old woman—she was probably a maid at the rue Boulegon—and the Mme Cézanne portraits, of course. And then maybe one or two others. But that’s it. It would have been very out of character for Cézanne to do a painting such as this one. He’s smitten.”

Chapter Nine

I Should Like to
    Astonish Paris with an Apple
    B runo Paulik tore his brioche in two and took a bite. “You know what I don’t understand?” he asked, still chewing. “Why are art experts always so intent on attaching dates and styles to a painting? ‘This is his late style,’ or, ‘This is the blue period’—that kind of thing. How do they know? What if Cézanne just felt like slathering on the paint that day in 1885? It was a Tuesday, a sunny April day, and he
felt like
trying something new? What if, for once, he was in a jolly mood and just
felt like
having the sitter smile and laugh?”
    â€œOr the sitter was so comfortable with him that she laughed naturally?” Verlaque said, looking over at the red-haired woman.
    Paulik dipped a corner of his brioche into his coffee and Verlaque tried not to wince. Verlaque said, “But I think—although I get what you’re saying—that an artist as serious as Cézanne didn’t change his style on an April morning justfor the fun of it. It was too risky; it took him so long to get there. Remember all those salon refusals, the bad reviews, the mocking—even in Aix?”
    â€œEspecially here in Aix.”
    â€œRight,” Verlaque said, sipping his coffee.
    Paulik chewed. “Yeah, I get it. I guess he wouldn’t have had the interest, or the time, to start fooling around with another technique.”
    â€œBy 1885 he had finally found his gift. He wouldn’t take that lightly. But—”
    â€œWho knows?”
    â€œRight—”
    â€œHe was human,” Paulik said, holding his arms out. “We change from day to day. We get giddy, or we’re in a bad mood.”
    â€œYes.” Verlaque put his cup down and stared over at the painting.
    Their musings were interrupted by a knock on the door. “Come in,” Verlaque said.
    Jules Schoelcher, a young policeman originally from Alsace, walked in and greeted his superiors with a stiff but sincere “Good afternoon.” Seeing Paulik’s half-eaten brioche, he added, “Bon appétit, sir.”
    â€œ
C’est mon goûter
,” Paulik replied. “It’s five p.m., afternoon snack time all over the world.”
    â€œAny news on the Boulegon case?” Verlaque asked.
    â€œThe fingerprints we’ve found in the apartment are René Rouquet’s, and a few of Dr. Schultz’s. No others,” Jules said.
    â€œSo the man she saw was wearing gloves,” Verlaque said.
    â€œOr she was lying,” Paulik suggested.
    â€œAnd I got ahold of Edmund Lydgate,” Schoelcher said.
    â€œThe retired auctioneer?” Verlaque asked.
    â€œYes,” Schoelcher replied. “René Rouquet did call him, but Lydgate claims he could hardly make sense of what Rouquet was saying. They hung up not having managed to make a rendezvous. Officer Flamant checked Lydgate’s alibi; an old farmer named Elzéard Bois lives on the main road says he spoke with Lydgate Friday night. Besides, Lydgate told me he can’t drive; he had his license suspended for impaired driving.”
    â€œSomeone else could have driven him,” Verlaque suggested. “But it seems unlikely that a retired auctioneer from a prestigious auction house would get caught up in this.