Monsieur Goerg was beckoning to Tony from across the room.
“I don’t think I want to meet any of these people,” Tony whispered to Dominique. “They’re here to rip me apart.”
“Nonsense. They came here to meet you. Now be charming, Tony.”
And so, he was charming. He met everybody, smiled a lot and uttered all the appropriate phrases in response to the compliments that were paid him. But were they really compliments? Tony wondered. Over the years a vocabulary had developed in art circles to cover exhibitions of unknown painters. Phrases that said everything and nothing.
“You really feel you’re there…”
“I’ve never seen a style quite like yours…”
“Now, that’s a painting!…”
“It speaks to me…”
“You couldn’t have done it any better…”
People kept arriving, and Tony wondered whether the attraction was curiosity about his paintings or the free wine and cheese. So far, not one of his paintings had sold, but the wine and cheese were being consumed rapaciously.
“Be patient,” Monsieur Goerg whispered to Tony. “They are interested. First they must get a smell of the paintings. They see one they like, they keep wandering back to it. Pretty soon they ask the price, and when they nibble, voilà! The hook is set!”
“Jesus! I feel like I’m on a fishing cruise,” Tony told Dominique.
Monsieur Goerg bustled up to Tony. “We’ve sold one!” he exclaimed. “The Normandy landscape. Five hundred francs.”
It was a moment that Tony would remember as long as he lived. Someone had bought a painting of his! Someone had thought enough of his work to pay money for it, to hang it in his home or office, to look at it, live with it, show it to friends. It was a small piece of immortality. It was a way of living more than one life, of being in more than one place at the same time. A successful artist was in hundreds of homes and offices and museums all over the world, bringing pleasure to thousands—sometimes millions of people. Tony felt as though he had stepped into the pantheon of Da Vinci and Michelangelo and Rembrandt. He was no longer an amateur painter, he was a professional. Someone had paid money for his work.
Dominique hurried up to him, her eyes bright with excitement. “You’ve just sold another one, Tony.”
“Which one?” he asked eagerly.
“The floral.”
The small gallery was filled now with people and loud chatter and the clink of glasses; and suddenly a stillness came over the room. There was an undercurrent of whispers and all eyes turned to the door.
Andre d’Usseau was entering the gallery. He was in his middle fifties, taller than the average Frenchman, with a strong, leonine face and a mane of white hair. He wore a flowing inverness cape and Borsalino hat, and behind him came an entourage of hangers-on. Automatically, everyone in the room began to make way for d’Usseau. There was not one person present who did not know who he was.
Dominique squeezed Tony’s hand. “He’s come!” she said. “He’s here!”
Such an honor had never befallen Monsieur Goerg before, and he was beside himself, bowing and scraping before the great man, doing everything but tugging at his forelock.
“Monsieur d’Usseau,” he babbled. “What a great pleasure this is! What an honor! May I offer you some wine, some cheese?” He cursed himself for not having bought a decent wine.
“Thank you,” the great man replied. “I have come to feast only my eyes. I would like to meet the artist.”
Tony was too stunned to move. Dominique pushed him forward.
“Here he is,” Monsieur Goerg said. “Mr. Andre d’Usseau, this is Tony Blackwell.”
Tony found his voice. “How do you do, sir? I—thank you for coming.”
Andre d’Usseau bowed slightly and moved toward the paintings on the walls. Everyone pushed back to give him room. He made his way slowly, looking at each painting long and carefully, then moving on to the next one. Tony tried to read his face, but he could tell nothing. D’Usseau neither frowned nor smiled. He stopped for a long time at one particular painting, a nude of Dominique, then moved on. He made a complete circle of the room, missing nothing. Tony was perspiring profusely.