continues, “Perhaps my great-grandfather would’ve invited you up to see his estampes japonaises. But I assure you my intentions are far more honorable.”
Now I’m the one who’s confused. What would Dumas owning Japanese prints have to do with any—“Wait, wait, is that like the ancient French version of ‘Netflix and chill’?” I place my hand on my chest in mock surprise.
“Like I said, Alexandre Dumas, père, never lacked for, um, company,” Alexandre says as his open smile shifts to something more serious. “But I’m not him.” I only nod in response because I’m not sure why the sudden turn. “Anyway, let me fetch those papers I wanted to show you. Make yourself at home,” he says, waving me toward the living room before disappearing down a long hall.
Make myself at home? If only that were ever easy for me.
I step toward the main room. It’s light and airy; gauzy white curtains frame the windows and billow with the warm breeze. The wide gray couch is strewn with embroidered and mirrored pillows. The shabby chic sofa—emphasis on the shabby—is inviting, but I’m too nervous and fidgety to sit.
I turn back toward the foyer and start to take off my shoes. We are a strictly shoeless household, in Chicago and in Paris, but there is no pile of discarded shoes in the entryway, and Alexandre had sneakers on. As I’m having my ridiculous internal debate about wearing shoes (I mean, I stepped in dog crap with these shoes!), my eye is drawn to a small sketch. I move closer. It’s a woman, the inky folds of her dress falling off her shoulders to reveal her breasts. She’s holding a flag in one hand, a bayonet in the other. She’s looking over her right shoulder at the flag she’s holding aloft as it flutters behind her. The woman is alone, but she’s clearly waiting for the scene to be filled in around her. It suddenly strikes me that I know exactly who she is.
It’s a Delacroix. They have a Delacroix sketch in their damn entryway.
“It’s a study for Liberty Leading the People,” Alexandre’s honeyed voice whispers by my ear. “I’m guessing you know that?” I was lost in the drawing and didn’t notice he had come up behind me until his breath tickled my skin.
I nod. “See? You did want to show me one of your etchings, and it just happens to be a sketch of the most famous Delacroix ever? Well played.” I elbow Alexandre, and he clutches his stomach with one hand, pretending to be wounded. He’s holding a large manila folder in the other.
He laughs and steps past me. “Remember when I said you were right about Delacroix giving art to Dumas? This is the one gift we are certain he gave him. It’s been in the family since the 1830s or 1840s—we’re not sure if it was given before or after he finished the actual painting.”
That actual painting is displayed against a dark red wall along a huge hall in the Louvre. Alexandre has a Delacroix character study of a painting that’s in the Louvre. No big French deal, right?
I restrain myself from an in your face, Celenia fist pump, because it would be weird, even if the pettiness would make me feel good for a second. But this proves that my thesis for the Art Institute essay was plausible, if not quite probable yet. I was only wrong about which Delacroix Dumas owned. Okay, understatement. I was spectacularly wrong, and since my supernova-sized crash and burn, I pretty much doubt myself all the time. But my art historian Spidey sense is tingling—and not only because I can feel Alexandre’s arm brushing against mine.
“My father almost sold it, but I begged him not to.” Alexandre’s shoulders slump as he tells me this.
“What! Why would he even consider it?” It’s impossible for me to imagine owning a Delacroix drawing, so it’s unthinkable anyone would consider selling one gifted to their family by the artist himself.
“I . . . oh . . . well . . . my father . . . We don’t always see eye-to-eye on our heritage. He’s much more practical, and I’m—”
“Sentimental?”
Alexandre’s eyes twinkle at me. “Yes, that’s