Marcia indeed recalled the villa; eleven years earlier she had spent a magical weekend there with Lady Agatha that had inspired the famous painting. “Poor Aggie,” she sighed. “If she’s that hard up, I’m surprised she hung on to the painting this long. I believe it meant a great deal to her.” Marcia could have added that it meant a great deal to her, too.
“I’m sure it does mean a lot to her, as it would anyone in the art market. Ruskin, Leighton, Sargent, and others have proclaimed it a modern masterpiece, a fact of which you should be justifiably proud. And it will certainly fetch a handsome price if I have anything to do with it. But I digress. When I met with Lady Agatha, I mentioned Sir Henry and his interest in Betsy. You should have seen the look on her face when I uttered his name; she winced as though she’d swallowed a glass of raw lemon juice. I won’t speculate as to the nature of their relationship, but I imagine it had its unpleasant aspect.”
Marcia laughed. “Knowing Aggie as I do, it must have involved some protracted examinations and treatments of a highly stimulating nature.”
Arthur frowned. “This is no joke, or rather, a diagnosis of hysteria is nothing to laugh at. In England, there’s a board in Chancery, made up of several gentleman holding the rather ludicrous title of Master in Lunacy. I’ve heard stories of independent, free-thinking women, no madder than you or I, who were diagnosed as hysterical, declared lunatics by the Masters, and then packed off to asylums for ‘treatment,’ leaving complete control of their persons and property to their husbands or guardians.
“Now, as American citizens, both you and Betsy would not normally come under the jurisdiction of English law. But that could change if Sir Henry and Betsy married and resided in England and you somehow came under his guardianship. I don’t want to alarm you, but I advise you to remain on your guard. I can hardly imagine how difficult this must be for you, but please don’t give in to narcotics, soothing words, and pampering. Assert yourself, but do it reasonably and with good humor. Tell Sir Henry and Betsy that you’re feeling much better, even if you aren’t. Then, if Sir Henry raises no professional objection, you’ll go out with me tomorrow. But if he does object, don’t argue too much, and for heaven’s sake, don’t become emotional. We’ll work something out, I’m sure.
“At any rate, I suggest you break with them as soon as possible and come to England with me. Besides, if you stay here much longer I suspect you’ll be questioned by the police concerning your relationship with Mademoiselle Ménard.”
“But Arthur, I do want to talk to the police. I must, if there’s anything I can do to assist in the investigation. Surely, you understand.”
He thought for a moment. If Marcia believed she was helping the police in their effort to locate the killer, it might put her mind at ease. Then he could negotiate the sale of the painting, settle up with Betsy and Lady Agatha, bid farewell to Sir Henry Collingwood, and get Marcia on the boat train to Dover. “You’re right, my dear. Let me handle this. I’ll find out who’s in charge of the investigation and set up a clandestine meeting. You surely don’t want any publicity. We can do it on the pretext of an outing to the Luxembourg Gardens, or some such thing. And I think it best to keep Betsy and Sir Henry out of it.”
She responded to his suggestion with a warm smile. “Thank you, dear. As one of your English chums might say, you’ve been a brick. Now, why don’t you ring for tea?”
Marcia contemplated Arthur wistfully as he walked to the service bell. She sometimes wondered if he had loved Mark, Marcia, or both? But she would not embarrass him to satisfy her curiosity; the question would remain unasked.
“Is it true this is the toniest restaurant in Paris?” Betsy put the question to Sir Henry as they dined on Tournedos Rossini accompanied by an excellent Château Haut-Brion at the Maison Dorée. Immense chandeliers blazed with light; gilt cornices sparkled; Aubusson carpets cushioned the steps of modishly shod feet; salon paintings of gods, goddesses, fauns, and nymphs decorated richly papered walls; tables covered in crisp, dazzlingly white linen, set with the finest silver service, china, and crystal, displayed haute cuisine, the creations of master chefs served with the choicest wines from one of the world’s premier cellars. The terrace dining room was a study in Gilded Age opulence; the perfect setting for showing off Betsy’s Parisian haute couture and diamonds from the Rue de la Paix.
“Yes, it’s rather smart, isn’t it?” Sir Henry replied as he savored his Haut-Brion. “And you haven’t seen the private dining rooms, reserved for royalty, nobility, and the immensely rich.” His monocle magnified the wicked gleam in his eye as he pursued the subject in an insinuatingly hushed voice: “They’re the perfect venue for a discreet tête-à-tête between an emperor, king, or magnate and his paramour.”
Betsy picked insouciantly at her foie gras. “I’ll admit it’s impressive, but I wouldn’t put it above Delmonico’s or Sherry’s.”
Sir Henry laughed. “Do I detect a hint of Yankee pride?”
Betsy’s face glowed through her powder and her inhibitions had been lowered by three glasses of Haut-Brion. “I guess you do. Frankly, there’s nothing you have over here that, given time, we can’t equal or excel. Take my father, for example. We come from an old New England family, Mayflower genealogy and all. But we don’t rest on the laurels of our ancestors. Each generation made their own distinct contribution to the family fortune. My father gambled on railroads; he had a good turn of luck on Wall Street, and he never stood pat. When the bubble burst in the ’70s he sold short and doubled his fortune. Now I collect art, and my purchases have all appreciated in value.
“Marcia comes from a similar background, but her father wasn’t as shrewd or lucky as mine. He went under in the crash and subsequent depression. Fortunately, she possesses a singular talent that’s enabled her to climb to the top rung of her profession. But that’s just the marketplace acting according to the scientific rules of evolution set down by Darwin and Spencer—survival of the fittest.”
Sir Henry was taken aback; he was not accustomed to women injecting market economics and Darwinism into a politely intimate conversation, at least not in such a bluntly provocative manner. “I see your point, but isn’t that an awfully harsh way of viewing the world?”
Betsy smiled tipsily in a way that was both enticing and subtly calculated to put him off guard. Her words were ironic and an intended challenge to Sir Henry’s complacency. She might have viewed him as one of Oscar Wilde’s Liberals who counted among the Tories because he dined with them. “Oh it’s harsh, all right, but realistic and in some circles considered progressive. That’s why we dine at the Maison Dorée while others root through dustbins for a crust of stale bread or a scrap of rotten cheese.”
He found this discussion distasteful and at the same time disturbingly stimulating. Sir Henry felt a sudden urge to carry her off to one of the private rooms. He wanted to change the subject to regain his equilibrium, but he couldn’t help making an observation. “I think we’d better make some provision for those scrounging unfortunates. As Dickens warned, we oughtn’t to behave like bad old Scrooge prior to his Christmas conversion. Otherwise, those who, according to Mr. Spencer and others, are less fit to survive might rise up and cart off their betters to the guillotine. Remember, the Universal Exposition celebrates the Revolution’s centennial; Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité, and all that.”
“Ah, I’d almost forgotten the Fair’s historical reference to a utopian ideal. I was much more impressed by the exhibits of progress, the Tour Eiffel, the focus on improvements in hygiene and public sanitation, and especially the new wonders of our industrial age. Take the Daimler, for example. The automobile’s in its infancy, like the locomotive sixty years ago. That little motor car is a seed that will sprout and grow until it spreads out and towers like one of our giant California Sequoias. By the way, Marcia told me she’d love to ride in an automobile before she dies. Poor dear, I doubt she’ll get her wish.”