Chasing Cezanne Read Online Free PDF

food with their work, accepting paintings from and by Chagall, Braque, Picasso, Léger, Bonnard, and many others. With his acquisitive instincts awakened, Roux then began to buy—at friend’s prices, one hopes—and after forty years, he had assembled one of the finest private collections of twentieth-century art in France. He died leaving a few hundred dollars in the bank and a fortune on the walls.
    Andre dropped his bag by the bed, and was pushing open the shutters when the phone rang. There was a fax for monsieur. He told the girl he’d pick it up on the way out. From previous trips, he knew exactly what it would be.
    Camilla was incapable of going anywhere simply and quietly. Her travels were always preceded by a fusillade of notes and reminders that supplemented her standing instructions (a litany commencing with “Never put me in a pink room” and going on to describe her every whim,from the size of the bubbles in the mineral water to the color of the fresh flowers). Additional bulletins, such as the one Andre was reading in the sunlit courtyard, covered Camilla’s imminent movements and appointments. Behind her back, these communications were known as Court Circulars, after the
London Times
column that lists the engagements of the Queen and the royal family.
    Wednesday. Concorde a.m. to Paris, connecting with Air France to Nice. LimoAzur to pick up at Nice airport, drive to Colombe d’Or, dinner with Andre
.
    Thursday. The day with Princess Ospaloff. Air Inter 5 p.m. to Paris. LimoEiffel to pick up at Orly, drive to Ritz. Dinner with Vicomtesse d’Andouillette
.
    Friday. The day chez Beaumont, Avenue Foch. Lunch with Gilles at L’Ambroisie. Drinks at the Crillon with …
    So it went on, a breathless catalogue of self-importance, each minute of Camilla’s trip accounted for, each drink and each meal itemized. As Noel had once said, merely reading the schedule was enough to exhaust any normal person. Glancing down the page, Andre could almost hear the thud of names being dropped. There were times when it was quite an effort to find Camilla amusing. He shook his head and stuffed the fax in his pocket.
    He spent an enjoyable day, dividing his time between pleasure and work: visits to the Fondation Maeght and the Matisse chapel, a late outdoor lunch in Vence, a return to the dowager’s house for more exteriors, this time with a western light. Back at the hotel, he showered and changed and sat in the bar with his old and often-read copy of M. F. K. Fisher’s
Two Towns in Provence
.
    Business that night was slow. A couple doing their best not to look guilty drank champagne in the corner, their hands and knees touching under the table. A man at the bar delivered a stern monologue to the bartender about the spreading influence in France of Jean-Marie Le Pen, the right-wing ideologue, and was rewarded by the intermittent, perfunctory nods of the bored professional listener. From the restaurant came the sound of a cork being drawn from its bottle. Outside, darkness fell swiftly and the courtyard lights came on.
    The throb of an idling engine made Andre look up from his book, and he saw that a Mercedes had eased across the courtyard entrance and stopped. The chauffeur opened the back door to reveal Camilla, in head-to-toe Chanel. She issued instructions to the night air as she clicked over the flagstones.
    â€œLuggage to my room, please, Jean-Louis, and be sure to
hang
the garment bag. I’ll see you here tomorrow afternoon at four on the dot.
Comprenez?
” She caught sight of Andre, who had come out of the bar. “Ah, there you are, sweetie. Be an angel and tip Jean-Louis, would you? I’m just going to check my messages.”
    The chauffeur dealt with the bags. Andre dealt withthe chauffeur. Camilla’s incredulous voice echoed down the hall. “But that’s impossible.
C’est impossible
. Are you sure there isn’t anything?” Other