The Restoration Artist by Lewis DeSoto Read Free Book Online Page B

clothes of an indeterminate period, moving across a landscape. A woman walked first, with a lyre in one hand, the other reaching back to the man behind, her fingers almost touching his outstretched hand. Behind him, an obscure dark patch could be a thicket of thorn bushes, or the entrance to a cave, or just a patch of the painting that had weathered badly.
    What caught my attention was a building in the background—this very chapel in which I now stood. I realized that the landscape in the picture was that of the island itself. The work was very accomplished; the style reminded me vaguely of Poussin, but mistier, more atmospheric.
    “It’s by Davide Asmodeus.” Père Caron was coming down the nave, dressed again as I had first seen him, in a navy blue jacket, white shirt and his floppy beret. He was holding his tobacco and rolling papers in his hand.
    “Asmodeus. Really?” I stepped closer still to study it.
    The priest pointed at a blurry signature on the bottom right. “You are familiar with his work?”
    “I’ve seen the famous one in the Louvre,
The Rites of Spring
. He died young, I understand. He didn’t leave many paintings behind.” I moved back to get a better view. “How did this one come to be here?”
    “Asmodeus was exiled from France by Louis Napoleon in1858 for so-called ‘seditious activities’ and was on his way to Spain by sea. A storm brought the ship here to La Mouche. He stayed for three months, painting. Some say he fell in love with the island landscape, others that it was a woman he loved here. Whatever the truth, the painting remains.”
    “It’s very compelling. Could it actually be an original Asmodeus?”
    “A scholar was here before the war to examine the painting and he made no conclusion, although he was inclined to doubt the authenticity of the signature. I like to think it is genuine.”
    “And the subject?”
    “The expert said it should be titled ‘Love and the Pilgrim.’ Something about the figures being similar to another painting on that subject.”
    “It’s a pity about the bloom,” I said, pointing to where the varnish had discoloured. “And that bit on the man’s face where the pigment has flaked off from the gesso. The sea air, I suppose. The church isn’t heated, is it? That would explain the damage. Humidity must have got in with the varnish. And maybe there wasn’t enough binder in that section around the face. The artist probably never imagined this painting hanging in an unheated building so close to the ocean.”
    “Of course, you know about these things, you’re a painter yourself.” He pointed to the paintbox under my arm.
    “Not really. Not any more.”
    “Oh. Aren’t you here to paint?”
    “I’m not … feeling inspired at the moment.”
    The priest was silent as he rolled himself a cigarette. “How are you today?” he asked when he’d flared a match to the tobacco and inhaled.
    “Much better, thank you. I’m afraid I haven’t been able to find my shoes.”
    “No problem. Keep those.” He studied me while he drew on his cigarette. “When we first met, you asked some questions about a boy.”
    “I was confused,” I answered quickly. “Forget about my questions.”
    He seemed to be about to ask more, then he gave a small shrug and said, “And the damage, is it irreversible?”
    I looked at him sharply.
    “To the painting.”
    “No, probably not. But the decay will continue. It really ought to be restored.”
    “Why don’t you do it?”
    “Me?”
    “You apparently know what the problem is, and the solution.”
    I smiled and shook my head. “You need a professional restorer.”
    “I don’t think the bishop will agree to that. This is a very poor parish.”
    I tilted my head and squinted at the painting.
    “You could try,” the priest said.
    Something in his tone brought back a memory.
    Brother Adams, at the Guild. I used to draw cartoons as a kid, usually obscene ones, which was a way to be popular with the other boys.