The Flanders Panel by Arturo Pérez-Reverte Read Free Book Online Page B

of the Isabelline bureau - which he sold to the Museo Romantico - and the story he invented about the portrait of the lady in the lace dress, attributed to Ingres, whose lover, an officer in the hussars, died at Waterloo, calling out her name as the cavalry charged. With Cesar holding her hand, Julia had lived through a hundred such adventures in a hundred different lives, and, invariably, in each of them what she’d learned from him was to value beauty, self-denial and tenderness, as well as the delicate and intense pleasure to be gained from the contemplation of a work of art, from the translucent surface of a piece of porcelain to the humble reflection of a ray of sunlight on a wall broken up by a pure crystal into its whole exquisite spectrum of colours.
    “The first thing I need to do,” Cesar was saying, “is to have a good look at the painting. I can be at your apartment tomorrow evening, at about half past seven.”
    “Fine,” she said, eyeing him cautiously. “It’s just possible that Alvaro will be there too.”
    If Cesar was surprised, he didn’t say so. He merely made a cruel face with pursed lips.
    “How delightful. I haven’t seen the swine for ages, so I’d be thrilled to have an opportunity to send a few poisoned darts his way, wrapped up, of course, in delicate periphrases.”
    “Please, Cesar.”
    “Don’t worry, my dear, I’ll be kind… given the circumstances. My hand may wound, but no blood will be spilled on your Persian carpet… which, incidentally, could do with a good cleaning.”
    She looked at him tenderly, and put her hands over his.
    “I love you, Cesar.”
    “I know. It’s only natural. Almost everyone does.”
    “Why do you hate Alvaro so much?”
    It was a stupid question, and he gave her a look of mild censure.
    “Because he made you suffer,” he replied gravely. “I would, with your permission, pluck out his eyes and feed diem to the dogs along the dusty roads of Thebes. All very classical. You could be the chorus. I can see you now, looking divine, raising your bare arms up to Olympus, where the gods would be snoring, drunk as lords.”
    “Marry me, Cesar. Right now.”
    Cesar took one of her hands and kissed it, brushed it with his lips.
    “When you grow up, Princess.”
    “But I have.”
    “No, you haven’t. Not yet. But when you have, Your Highness, I will dare to tell you that I loved you. And that the gods, when they woke, did not take everything from me. Only my kingdom.” He seemed to ponder that before adding, “Which, after all, is a mere bagatelle.”
    It was a very private dialogue, full of memories, of shared references, as old as their friendship. They sat in silence, accompanied by the ticking of the ancient clocks that continued to measure out the passage of time while they awaited a buyer.
    “To sum up,” said Cesar, “if I’ve understood you correctly, it’s a question of solving a murder.”
    Julia looked at him, surprised.
    “It’s odd you should say that.”
    “Why? That’s more or less what it is. The fact that it happened in the fifteenth century doesn’t change anything.”
    “Right. But that word ‘murder’ throws a much more sinister light on it all.” She smiled anxiously at Cesar. “Maybe I was too tired last night to see it that way, but up till now I’ve treated it all as a game, like deciphering a hieroglyph… a personal matter, in a way. A matter of personal pride.”
    “And now?”
    “Well, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, you talk about solving a
real
murder, and I suddenly understand…” She stopped, her mouth open, feeling as if she were leaning over the edge of an abyss. “Do you see? On the sixth of January 1469, someone murdered Roger de Arras, or had him murdered, and the identity of the murderer lies in the painting.” She sat up straight, carried along by excitement. “We could solve a five-hundred-year-old enigma. Perhaps find the reason why one small event in European history