The Last Judgement

He had an impressive voice, mellow and well modulated with an underlying vitality of considerable power. Of course, he had been a lawyer, so it was probably part of the job; but from the voice alone, Argyll could see why a run at politics had been tempting. It was the sort of voice that people trust — as well as being the sort of well-honed instrument that could change in a flash to threat, anger and outrage. Not a de Gaulle voice; not the rolling oratorical style which gains your wholehearted support even if, like Argyll when he first heard one of the General’s speeches, you don’t have a clue what he’s talking about because it’s all in French. But certainly a match for all modern French politicians Argyll had ever heard.

So while they both looked carefully for any more weeds, Argyll apologized once more and explained that he’d wanted to return the picture as soon as possible so he could get back to Rome. As he’d hoped, Rouxel was delighted, considerably surprised, and, as any well-brought-up gentleman should, responded by insisting, absolutely insisting, that dear Mr Argyll should come in and take a cup of coffee and tell him the whole story.

Mission accomplished, Argyll thought as he settled himself down in an extremely comfortable stuffed armchair. Another point in the man’s favour. Of all the houses Argyll had ever been in in France, this was the first one to have even remotely comfortable furniture. Elegance, yes. Style aplenty. Expensive, in many cases. But comfortable? It always seemed designed to do to the human body what French gardeners liked to do to privet hedges, that is, bend and distort them out of all recognition. They just have a different idea of what relaxation is.

And on top of that, Argyll even approved of his pictures. He was in the man’s study, and it was lined with a comfortable jumble of paintings and photographs and bronzes and books. By the large glass doors leading on to the garden was further evidence of Rouxel’s enthusiasm for gardening: an impressive array of healthy, and no doubt well-sprayed, house plants. Faded Persian rugs on the floor, evidence of a large dog from the excessive amounts of moulted hair scattered around. One wall was covered in mementoes of a career in and out of public service. Rouxel and the General. Rouxel and Giscard. Rouxel and Johnson. Rouxel and Churchill even. Pictures of awards, records of honorary degrees, this and that. Argyll found it charming. No false modesty, but no boasting either. Just a quiet pride, hitting exactly the right tone.

The pictures were an electric jumble, from Renaissance to modern; no masterpieces but nicely done. Apparently hung at random but, in fact, with a distinct pattern to them. A tiny little Madonna, Florentine school probably, matched by what looked suspiciously like a Picasso drawing of a woman in pretty much the same posture. A seventeenth-century Dutch interior paralleled by an impressionist interior. An eighteenth-century version of Christ enthroned in Glory with Apostles, which Argyll studied carefully for a moment, and alongside it — a bit blasphemously, really — a socialist-realist painting of a meeting of the Third International. Evidently the owner had a slightly impish sense of humour as well.

As Argyll was looking around, Rouxel rang a small bell by the side of the marble fireplace. In due course it produced Jeanne Armand.

‘Yes, Grandfather?’ she asked, then saw Argyll. ‘Oh, hello,’ she said, a bit flatly. Argyll was surprised by this; considering the way they’d hit it off the previous evening, he expected her to be as pleased to see him as he was to see her. Evidently not. Maybe she hadn’t slept well, either.

‘Coffee, please, Jeanne,’ Rouxel said. ‘Two cups.’

Then he turned his attention back to Argyll, and his granddaughter left without saying another word. Again, Argyll found this a little perplexing. There was a brusqueness, almost an impoliteness, which contrasted strangely with the way the charm suddenly returned as the old man indicated a chair for his visitor on one side of the fireplace and settled himself into another one nearby.

‘Now, dear sir, do tell me. I’m dying to hear how this painting has come back to me in such an unexpected fashion. Has it, by the way, been damaged at all?’

Argyll shook his head. ‘No. Considering that in the past few days it’s been hurled around train stations and hidden under beds, it’s in perfect condition. Please examine it, if you want.’

So Rouxel did, and expressed satisfaction once again. Then he gently probed the entire story out of Argyll.

‘Besson,’ Rouxel said half-way through the rendition. ‘Yes. I remember him. He came to the château to measure up and take it away for the exhibition. I must say, I didn’t take to him at all. Although I never would have suspected—’

‘It is only a suspicion, you understand. I wouldn’t want the police—’