Chaudron was anxious to get his hands on the painting but I made him wait. We both waited. For Valfiero. Who was late.

Soon the art forger grew impatient. He said he could wait no longer. He was bursting to see the painting.

And I gave in.

He swept papers off a table. Propped the painting up. Stood gazing at it for a long time. Said it would be his greatest challenge and greatest achievement. Then he scooped the painting up and led the way into his studio.

On the walls were several paintings in progress. A small Corot landscape of a country scene with blue sky and gray clouds. I asked Chaudron how he had done it. He explained that like any good student he had simply set up his easel in the museum and made a copy!

There were two more paintings side by side. One was finished. The other in a half state of completion. I recognized the artist was Jean-Dominique Ingres. I looked from the original to the half-finished copy. It was remarkable. Chaudron said the collector intended to donate the original to a museum and wanted a copy for himself. Then he laughed. Said perhaps it was the other way around. But he did not care.

He boasted of his talent. I could feel his pride slip over me like unctuous slime. Knew he was waiting for a compliment. But I said nothing.

I listened to him talk of his artistic training and how he had dropped out of the art academy because his instructors could teach him nothing.

He said he had always been told he had a great hand. The greatest of any artist. And yet I detected some disappointment when he said it. Perhaps he felt that was all he possessed. He said he had once dreamed of becoming the greatest artist in Europe and I almost felt sorry for him. But then he claimed he was indeed the greatest artist in Europe!

I might have challenged him. But it was then that Valfiero arrived. Breathless from climbing the stairs and leaning on his cane. He stopped and stared at the Mona Lisa for a great while. His eyes hungry with greed. He rubbed his spidery fingers together and talked of his plan. Chaudron would makes copies. He would sell them. It was that simple. The paintings would fetch a fortune. And each one would be sold as the original! He said we would all become rich.

But all I wanted was enough money to get my son back.

I observed the greedy faces of these two men and knew I could not trust them. But I had done their bidding and was now part of their scheme. I had no choice but to go along. I had made a pact with the devil. And for that I would pay the devil’s price.

39

New York City

The room felt warmer than usual, and for a moment, the collector worried. Changes in temperature could be dangerous to canvas and wood, which expanded and contracted, causing paint to crack. He checked the thermostat: sixty-eight degrees, as it should be. Maybe it was him; his body temperature seemed to be running high these days.