Boubers sur Midsummer is one of the places that everyone has heard of but no one visits. Situated somewhere in France it is famous for having a renowned University that attracts lecturers from all over the world. They normally go there to work on a contract for two years, after which time they returned to their mother university fully appreciative of all the creature comforts that they missed for two years. An exception to this was Professor George Sirrah who had achieved his lifetime ambition, to teach English Literature at a French University. He had moved, with his wife Ginevra and their two children Gideon and Florence, to Boubers sur Midsummer. The house they now lived in was neighboured by the church yard on one side, a ch?teau on another side, and open land and a road. On the other side of the church a lane led to the small river that ran through the town. The local cafe, owned by Aubrey Lechef was in the lane. Ginevra Sirrah was a woman who was happiest at keeping her home comfortable and clean, and her family extraordinarily well fed. George and Ginevra were the proud parents of two gifted and talented children. Florence Sirrah had one aim in life and that was to study to become a restorer of Old Masters. Her twin, Gideon Sirrah, was determined to become a chef. Aubrey Lechef had told them about the local Flea Market, where there many bargains were to be had. The whole family were looking forward to it.
George prepared the family by setting a sum of money that they could afford and dividing it equally in four. They shared their lists of desired objects. George wanted old books. Ginevra wanted a good preserving pan. Florence hoped to find an old painting that she could practice cleaning. Gideon wanted classic French recipe books. Each had a large shopping bag and they set out early in the morning. There was a slight mist which made start of the day cool, but which promised heat later on. They walked the short distance from their front gate and as they turned into the main road they saw the first of the Flea Market.
?Don?t forget we are meeting at eleven, Aubrey has a table for us. Good luck and successful hunting!? said George. They separated and went off in different directions.
Ginevra was lucky. She saw a preserving pan at the second place she looked and immediately entered into discussing jam making with the vendor. She asked pertinent questions and the man selling the pan let her have it at a reasonable price. It was heavy so she walked slowly to the cafe. George found two books and also headed back to the cafe. Gideon realized after buying his twelfth book that he could not carry any more and also went to the cafe. Florence was not so lucky. She felt she had walked for miles looking at all sorts of things except the one thing she wanted. She turned at the end of a road and started to head back to the cafe. She felt dispirited and was looking forward to a cup of coffee. On the way she happened to glance down a lane. Outside the first house was a row of trestle tables and she saw a lot of boxes set out on them. They were shabby, as was the house they were in front of. Wondering what was in the boxes she sauntered over. She smiled at herself. She saw boxes of vinyl, lots and lots of long playing records. Her father had a collection of them and she suddenly thought it was his birthday soon. She started to look through the boxes and saw what looked like a boxed set. She moved the LPs in front of it forward so she could see the cover and to her great surprise and delight is was not a boxed set but a filthy dirty painting. She carefully took it out of the box and looked at the front and then the back. It was a block of wood and it was grimy. She glanced up and jumped with shock. Standing on the other side of the trestle table was a very old lady. Florence had not heard her approach and was taken aback both by her sudden appearance and by her dress. The woman seemed to be very old, thought Florence, which probably accounted for her very old fashioned clothes. Florence smiled at her and the woman smiled back and nodded at her. She had bright blue eyes that twinkled at Florence.
?Combien, s?il vous plait?? asked Florence in her best school girl French.
?Un Franc.? Said the woman. Florence thought it a bargain and gave the woman an Euro. The woman took the painting from Florence and wrapped it in a length of black fabric. Florence did not want it wrapped, but did not know how to tell her. She took the painting and realized that it was wrapped in a cloth of some kind.
As she walked away Florence sighed contentedly. She made her way to the cafe with a light heart.
Cafe Aubrey is a popular place for the village people to meet. It had a steady flow of customers, but on Flea Market days it was crowded from the moment the doors opened. Aubrey always had tables at the rear of the cafe that he reserved for regulars. The Sirrah family had a table near a window that overlooked the small river than meandered its? way through the village. When Florence arrived she saw that her family were all seated at a table. She smiled at them and felt warm and fuzzy because they had not ordered any thing, or shown each other their purchases until she arrived. She sat down feeling excited. Aubrey came over and took their order and very soon fresh croissants, coffee, a hot chocolate and two mochas arrived. They ate and drank and talked about what they had seen. When the food and drink was finished Aubrey cleared the table. The family sat and looked at each other. George announced that he would share first. As he took his two books out of his bag Aubrey showed two people to a table near to them. He paused as he walked away and then turned back to speak to George.
?You have not yet met your neighbours at the Ch?teau? Would you permit me to introduce you?? An enthusiastic ?yes? erupted from all four Sirrahs and Aubrey then introduced them to the Comte and Comtesse Nouvion.
The tables were soon put next to each other, as the Nouvions also had purchases and said they would also like to share. Gineveras? preserving pan was introduced to the family and guests, quickly followed by Gideons? and Georges? books. The Comtesse, whose name they discovered was Clarice, had a paper weight and her husband, Louis, a very old fountain pen with a glass nib. Then they all looked at Florence. She very carefully put her bag on the table and pulled out the bundle of black fabric. She placed that on the now empty bag and carefully unwrapped the painting. She felt that the Nouvions would fall about laughing at her purchase. The Comtesse gasped when she saw it.
?You permit that I pick it up??
?Yes, of course.?
The Comtesse held it up to the light from the window and looked at it carefully. She turned it over and looked carefully at the back. She then placed it gently back on the table. She looked at Florence.
?May I ask why you purchased this??
?I wanted something to practice on. I want to restore old masters.?
For the first time the Comtesse smiled. ?I see. Well, Florence you have made a very good purchase. I know because I am a picture restorer ? the head of restoration at the Louvre in Paris. This could be a significant find. The wood is poplar. May I clear some of the dirt from a corner please??
Florence nodded. Aubrey was requested to bring a clean cloth . The Comtesse very carefully wiped the lower left hand corner. There was a gasp and some ?O?s!? from the family and the Comte.
?Why don?t you use a drop of water?? asked George.
?At this stage it is hard to see the condition of the painting ? water could seep through any cracks in the varnish and cause a lot of damage.?
George thanked her and watched as she carefully removed a bit more of the dirt.
With the top layer of dirt removed the corner showed a patch of red fabric overlaying a white fabric with a black pattern. The Comtesse asked Florence what she could see.
?Part of a garment? ? maybe a sleeve. A red sleeve, it could be velvet or silk,still too dirty to make a decision. The white with the black ? it looks like black work to me. Expensive clothes.?
?Good! Very good.? She gave Florence an appraising look, ?you have background knowledge which is excellent. I am impressed.? Florence went pink with pleasure. Clarice then turned her attention to the black fabric. She shook it out and spread it over the table.
?It?s a cloak!? said Ginevra. ?With bits of fur.?
?It is indeed.? Clarice looked at her husband. ?How old do you think it is??
He stood up and looked at the fabric, at the fur, and then he flipped it over. It was lined with a black fabric that in places had faded. A puzzled frown appeared between his eyebrows. He produced a magnifying glass and looked closely at the fabric. He vocalised his thoughts.
?Finely woven, possibly a long staple wool. Probably English wool. Hand sewing of the finest. The fur, hmm, not rabbit. I do not know. It was a very fine cloak, expensive. The lining is silk, so for an important, or well respected, person. A black cloak trimmed with white fur . . .?
He sat down and looked at his wife.
?Non! Not possible!?
?What isn?t possible?? asked Florence.
?The house you all live in is called, or used to be, Maison Belette. There were so many stories told about it. It was built about fifteen twenty. The records are scanty, many were destroyed during the French Revolution. The Ch?teau was spared because my ancestor was a good landlord and respected all his people. The Priest took many things to the Ch?teau for safety. They are still there. But, it does not solve the question of the cloak and the painting. Mam?zell Florence, may I suggest to you that you bring the painting up to the Ch?teau and start work on cleaning it? I have a feeling . . .?
Florence looked puzzled, but was not going to turn down the opportunity of working with a world renowned restorer.
?I would love that! You are very generous to make such an offer. Thank you!?
Clarice smiled at Florence?s evident delight.
?Lunch! It is time to eat!? said Louis. Aubrey came over with menus and soon a meal was ordered. It was a substantial meal and eventually the party broke up.
It was agreed that Florence would return to the Ch?teau and start work.
Part two Two weeks later
Florence stepped back from the painting and looked at the work of two weeks. Cleaning took much longer than she thought. Once she had all the dirt removed the varnish had to be dealt with. It was yellow with age and it was hard to see what elements made up the painting. There was a figure but it was difficult to define and could be either male or female. What puzzled both Florence and Clarice most was what appeared to be a repeating pattern round the outer edge of the painting, it was so hard to interpret. Clarice knew of no other painting from the time she believed this one was painted in to have such a device. It looked, through the yellowing varnish, to be of three colours, orange, black and maybe white. Florence had moved the painting from the Ch?teau to her family home. It meant that she could work when she wanted to and was not reliant on Clarice, who had been a great help. On one of her visits to see how Florence was getting on Clarice seemed pre-occupied.
?It is a puzzle!? she was frowning as she looked at the painting.
?Yes,? agreed Florence. ?I?ve found something I want to show you.? Florence picked up her magnifying glass and handed it to Clarice. She turned on the over head light. Florence pointed to one part of the painting and Clarice examined it.
She gasped in surprise and looked at Florence, ?What do you think it is??
?It looks like a finger print.?
Clarice looked again. She nodded and turned to look at Florence.
?Do you know on whose work finger prints have been found??
?Yes ? but aren?t all his paintings documented??
?Ones that still exist ? but there could be some, mentioned or sketched in his note books that are lost from view.?
Florence digested the thought and her eyes grew rounded as the full implication of Clarices? words hit her.
?How do we find out??
?At the end of this week, as you know, Louis and I go to Paree. There I can check, print out what is necessary and we can make a comparison.? Clarice looked round the workshop. ?Do not leave the painting alone. Take it into the house with you. Your room is at the top ? keep it there. Keep it secret. Keep it safe.?
Florence giggled, ?this is like a spy story! If it is ? would it be very valuable??
?Sit down.? Florence sat. ?In 2017 a painting by Da Vinci sold for four hundred and fifty million dollars, give or take a few hundred. It was authenticated by using forensics to compare the finger print found on it with the ones on his St Jerome in the Vatican.?
Florence just stared. She was starting to realize the enormity of her find. She was between elation and fear. She looked at Clarice and cleared her throat.
?Should I tell my family??
?But of course! It is essential they know.? She smiled at Florence, ?come, it is not that bad! There is a long path to go before anything can be settled. I am a restorer, I am not interested in the value of a work of art. If we are right about this it would be of international interest. People from all over the world would want to see it. Experts would want to verify it, and more important its? provenance.?
?I had not thought ? realized. I know Louis looked for the old lady. No one else saw her.?
?Pft! You have the painting! It is yours because no one can disprove what you have said. She may have been an itinerant here for a while. Worry about the cleaning ? nothing can be done until that is done. You are photographing your work as you progress.?
Florence nodded. ?Are you and Louis coming tonight??
?Ah yes! We would not miss it.? She gave Florence a hug. ?Remember ? keep it secret. Keep it safe!?
The Sirrah family were hosting their first dinner party and had invited a diverse group of people. The Nouvions were going to be there. Aubrey and his wife had agreed to attend when they were told the party would be on the night that the cafe closed every week. The Mayor and Mayoress were delighted to be invited, as was Father Rene . Aubrey had suggested that he be invited as he spent so much time caring for others and all too frequently neglected himself. Not wanting to have an odd number of people they had also invited their next door neighbour, an elderly lady who had been a widow for many years but who maintained an exciting life style as she was a great traveller. The evening was a huge success. Ginevra had decided to cook traditional British food. The starter was a very good prawn cocktail, home made mayonnaise was used as the basis of the sauce. A mixture of roast meats and various vegetables followed. Gideon had produced a traditional English trifle and such was the quality of his sponge cake, home made custard and his mothers? strawberry jam that the diners demanded the recipe. Aubrey paid him a great complement when he said he would be proud to serve it in his cafe. Attention then turned to Florence who was asked how she was passing the time before going to college. She explained about the restoration that was underway. The Padre was immensely interested and asked for many details. Over coffee and liqueurs he became very quiet and thoughtful, listening intently to the conversation.
Suddenly he stood up, his rust black robe swirling about him and his almost bald head shining in the bright light from the chandelier.
?There is something I would like you all to see. Would you please, please come with me??
Without waiting for an answer he turned and led the way through the house to a small gate that was set in the wall that bordered church grounds and the Sirrahs? property. He walked quickly and they were soon standing in the north porch of the church. He unlocked the door, went in first and switched on the light. When everyone was inside he locked the door.
?I?ve been here since I was ordained. That was many years ago and since then I have kept a secret. I did not think it of any importance. Until I heard how you, Florence, came to own a very rare painting. Now, I am going to lead you into the crypt. There is a light, and the stairs are steep. Come.?
A couple of minutes later everyone was in the crypt. The light showed up just how dusty it was. There were four table tombs, and Louis remarked that they belonged to his family.
?Just so. What I want you all to see is over here.? said Father Rene. He led them away from the tombs and pointed to the ground. A ledger stone just caught the light, it was covered with dust apart from an oblong shape in the centre. It was not possible for them all to view the stone but they organised themselves with the shortest at the front. There was writing on the stone, but the dust made it illegible.
?When I came here, to this church, my predecessor brought me down here and showed this ledger stone to me. He had cleaned it, which I have not done. I saw a block of wood resting on it, in the place that is now free of dust. He told me the name of the woman who lies at rest. He told me, in a cryptic way, that she had once served an Italian artist. When he died she came back here, to live. She came back reasonably well off. I asked him about the wooden plaque on the ledger stone. He said it was not a plaque. He did not know what it was. I think we all know what it is now.?
George had been fidgety whilst the padre spoke and as soon as he paused for breath, George said.
?This is all to the good, but who was the woman who gave Florence the painting??
?Ah,? said the padre, ?that must wait until we are back upstairs, and not in the church. A few more things. Around the ledger stone there is a border of some kind, I do not remember of what. Also, I can tell you the woman?s name. It was Marie Belette. The dates on the stone are 1459-1529. That is all I know. Except a ledger stone of such an age must belong to someone of wealth and standing in the community. Now up stairs.?
Ten minutes later they were all back in the Sirrahs? sitting room. Ginevra and Gideon were in the kitchen brewing coffee and cutting cake. Soon everyone had a mug of coffee and some cake. It was welcomed as he crypt was chilly. When they were all refreshed the padre cleared his throat.
?You asked me who gave Florence the painting. I have only one answer, which I give you after due consideration of all the facts. It was Marie Belette.?
A hush greeted his announcement.
?But it cannot be! She is long dead. How can you even think that?? said Clarice.
?Who else could it be? The painting was on her ledger stone. It is no longer there. There were no footmarks in the dust when we entered the crypt.?
?I don?t like this? Said Ginevra, ?Supernatural stuff? No, not real!?
?If you wish to dispose of my theory please present your own. Sir Arthur Conan Doyles creation, Mr Sherlock Holmes said ?How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?? One other point. The black cloak. In the will of Leonardo da Vinci his serving woman received a black cloak “of good stuff” with a fur edge.?
There was a palpable silence as the company digested this.
?No, I do not accept this!? said Clarice, ?it goes against all rational thought. You are asking us to accept that a woman dead for nearly five hundred years pops back from where ever she is and gives a possibly priceless painting to Florence? Non!?
?Do you have an alternative explanation??
?No, but I think there must be one.?
The padre sighed. ?It is indeed against all rational thought. Yet, has it not been said that there are things that we do not know of, that to us. in a scientific age, make little sense? My religion tells me that the man whose teachings I follow died and yet he came back to life. Millions, perhaps billions of people, believe that. If once it happened, then why not many times? Medical science has indeed caused the dead to live again. Only not after a gap of five hundred years! There is, as far as I can see no other rational explanation.?
There was a silence as everyone thought over what the padre had said. More coffee and cake were drunk and eaten.
?Padre, why me? What could be her reason for selling the painting to me??
?To that I have no answer, except . . .? he looked at Florence in a thoughtful way, ?you have about you an aura of integrity, generosity of spirit. Maybe Madame Belette felt that. For the first time in centuries she felt a kindred spirit.?
?Padre, what could I have in common with a woman who lived five hundred years ago??
?Do not lose sight of who she served. One of the greatest minds, greatest artists and inventors that the world has ever known. It might be, even after centuries her spirit searched for one such as you.?
Florence shivered. She looked unhappy and felt the weight of the painting and all that it implied, and it almost daunted her spirit. Suddenly she smiled.
?Dammit! I won?t let her down! I?ll get the painting cleaned and restored ? then decide what to do with it.?
Florence worked diligently on the painting and recorded her work as the painting slowly revealed its? secrets. Clarice had shown her how to apply a new varnish. There was one area of the varnish that she did not remove. When the varnish was dry she stood and looked at the painting. After nearly five centuries it looked as it would have done when the Master had just stepped back from completing it. Florence felt a tremor as the realization came to her about the paintings future. She smiled to herself and covered the painting. She went to the kitchen and asked her mother for two things: a large mug of coffee and a hug. She was given both,though not in that order.
?Mum, could we invite the people that were here for our dinner party back this evening? I am going to see padre Rene.?
Her mother looked at her and smiled. ?Of course. I?ll phone round. You?ve decided what to do.? It was a statement.
?O yes! I know why it was given to me. You?ve known for a while, haven?t you??
?Yes.? She smiled and hugged her daughter again.
Florence’s visit to padre Rene was a joyful one. He smiled at her as she explained what she was going to do with the painting. He asked no questions but accepted her wish. When she left he went to the crypt and did as she had requested.
Everyone came to take coffee with the Sirrahs. It was one of those times that everyone would remember. A joyous time, one of laughter and good feelings. Eventually Florence nodded at the padre and he stood up.
?It seems we are to visit the crypt again.? He slowly led the way. Florence had gone to her studio and followed her family and friends. She was carrying the painting which was once again wrapped in the black cloak.
Once in the crypt Florence went and stood by the now clean ledger stone. The engraving was clear, as was the border pattern. The pattern was the cause of both amusement and puzzlement. Florence cleared her throat to attract attention.
?I?d like to thank you all for being here. I?ve decided the future of the painting. Tonight you will see it for the first, and the last, time. It is cleaned and hopefully looks as it would have when Leonardo da Vinci painted it. Clarice has confirmed that the finger print is his.? There were gasps of shock and wonder. ?Whilst cleaning the painting I was puzzled by the border, which is replicated on the ledger stone.? Florence lifted the cloak and placed the painting on an easel. Florence smiled her thanks at the padre. ?The sitter is Marie Belette, maid, or housekeeper to Leonardo. He played with her name when he painted her.? Florence paused and looked at the painting, as did everyone. They saw a woman holding a weasel. It was snuggled in her arms. She was looking out of the painting with blue eyes that seemed to look into eternity. Her face was the face of a woman of character. Not beautiful, but arresting. The face of someone people would want to know. Her black hair was pulled back, and her pose skilfully showed a black plait hanging down her back. She was not smiling, but looking serenely out, content with her life. She word a red gown over a white shift that was decorated with black work. Not expensive garments, but ones with quality and neatness.
?I am going to leave the painting here, with Marie. I think, no, I believe she gave it to me to clean. Never to own. Never to sell. Never to show to anyone but those gathered here. The border on her ledger stone and on the painting of running weasels is a message. That they are the guardians of the painting. They will pursue anyone who takes it.? Her voice at times broke with the emotion of her statement.
No one spoke. No one moved. A small gust of wind, like a sigh of relief wafted through the crypt. A rustle like a lot of little paws, maybe the sound of weasels running, echoed gently.
George suddenly clapped his hands together.
?Back to ours for coffee??
Padre Rene spoke, ?before we go, I would please ask you all to undertake not to talk of this.?
?Of course we won?t!? said Louis, ?I have no wish to be pursued by a running weasel!?