boyutpedia Chapter 169 Old Dreams of Saint Louis
Chapter 169 Old Dreams of Saint Louis
June 24, 1989, 10:00 AM.
The Parisian sky was a clear, washed-out blue. The Seine breeze, carrying the scent of chestnut trees, caressed the newly awakened city.
There was a sense of unease in the air beneath the Ritz Hotel's entrance.
Ayako Yoshino was adjusting her gloves, her movements somewhat hurried. She glanced at her Cartier diamond watch on her wrist, then turned to look at Reiko Aesokawa beside her.
"Reiko, why hasn't the car arrived yet? The preview at Hôtel Drouot is about to start."
Although Ayako tried her best to remain reserved, her tone betrayed her undisguised excitement.
"I heard there's a Renoir painting, 'The Bather,' going up for auction today. It's not very big, but it's to fill a gap in the insurance company owner's collection. If you get there late, there won't even be room to stand."
"Don't worry, it's already on its way."
Reiko Isokawa adjusted the straps of her wide-brimmed hat, her eyes also sparkling with anticipation.
"This auction was practically a 'Japan-only' event. The first fifty lots in the catalog were almost all reserved by those major domestic trading companies. My father said that buying Impressionist art now is like buying government bonds—they only go up, never down."
She looked at Satsuki, who was standing to the side and didn't seem to intend to get on the bus.
"Satsuki, are you really not going? That's Drouot, the liveliest place in all of Paris."
"I won't go."
Satsuki smiled and shook her head. Today she was wearing a dark gray cashmere coat over a minimalist black dress, and no jewelry around her neck, looking as simple and plain as a nun going to church to pray.
"I'm not comfortable in crowded places. And..."
She glanced at the bustling street in the distance.
"The colors of Impressionism are too loud. I want to go somewhere quieter today."
"A quiet place?" Ayako asked, puzzled. "Are there any more interesting places in Paris than auction houses?"
"Everyone has a different definition of what is interesting."
Satsuki didn't offer much explanation.
The black Mercedes slowly pulled up at the bottom of the steps. Ayako and Reiko asked no more questions and got into the car with the help of a waiter.
The taillights disappeared around the street corner.
Satsuki withdrew her gaze.
"Fujita."
"Yes, young lady."
"Let's go too. To Île Saint-Louis."
……
As the car crossed the Pont Marie, the noise seemed to be left behind on the other side of the river.
Saint Louis Island.
This long, narrow island floating in the middle of the Seine is the heart of Paris, and also the city's last and most stubborn "old world".
The grandeur of the Champs-Élysées and the bohemian charm of Montmartre disappear here.
Instead, there is a tranquility and aloofness that has settled in since the 17th century. Grayish-white limestone mansions stand on both sides of the narrow and secluded street, and heavy wooden doors painted dark green are tightly closed, silently rejecting all prying eyes.
The people who live here don't bother talking about fashion or money. They talk about lineage, history, and the fiefdoms of a particular family during the reign of Louis XIV.
The car stopped in front of a gray-white limestone mansion.
Ivy climbed the walls, and the brass door knockers were polished to a shine by time. A line of faded French was engraved on the doorplate: Hôtel de Lauzun (Hôtel de Lauzun, used here to refer to a private residence).
Satsuki got off the train.
She stood at the door, adjusted her gloves, and rang the doorbell.
"Ding-dong!"
The ringtone was muffled, as if it were an echo from centuries ago.
After a long while, the heavy wooden door was pulled open a crack.
An elderly butler, dressed in an old-fashioned tailcoat and with graying hair, peeked out. His eyes warily scanned the Eastern face before him.
"Mademoiselle?" (Miss?)
"Japon, the Saionji Maison. I have an appointment." (Japan, Saionji family.)
Satsuki handed over a thick cotton paper letter with the family crest of the Left Three-Sided Bronze, and said in fluent and classical French:
"La fille du Comte Saionji, Satsuki. Je suis venue rendre visite à Monsieur le Comte de Rochefort." (Satsuki, daughter of Count Saionji, has come to visit Lord Count Rochefort.)
The old butler took the letter, glanced at the three lines on the left side of the letter, and then at Satsuki's proper and understated attire.
The wariness in his eyes lessened slightly.
"Please come in. The master is waiting for you in the study."
……
The room was dark.
The heavy velvet curtains blocked out most of the sunlight, and the air was filled with the smell of old books and a musty odor from damp wood.
This house is like a huge tomb, burying the glory of the past.
The corridor was lined with portraits of Chopin and blackened tapestries. The parquet floorboards creaked underfoot, each step feeling like crushing a piece of history.
The study is on the second floor.
Count Nicolas de Rochefort sits in an armchair from the time of Louis XIII.
He was probably in his seventies, thin, with sunken eyes. Although he wore a well-tailored three-piece suit, the cuffs were frayed. He held a pipe in his hand, but it was not lit.
He was a descendant of a Russian nobleman in exile and a French nobleman in decline. The blood of two empires flowed in his veins, but he couldn't produce francs to repair his roof.
"Miss Saionji".
The old count did not rise, but merely bowed slightly as a gesture of respect. His gaze fell upon Satsuki, carrying a scrutinizing quality mixed with a helpless weariness.
"I've heard. You Japanese recently bought half of Paris."
The old count's voice was hoarse, with a hint of sarcasm in his tone.
"Those nouveau riche were shouting and yelling in the Drouot auction house, driving up prices to astronomical levels for some mediocre Impressionist paintings. Are you here looking for those gaudy decorations too?"
"If that's the case, I think you've come to the wrong place. I only have moldy old antiques here."
Satsuki was not angry at this almost rude opening.
She walked to the chair in front of the desk, but instead of sitting down immediately, she first gave the old count a standard courtly bow.
"Your Excellency, nouveau riche love noise because they are empty inside."
Satsuki's voice was calm and her tone was elegant.
"They need those brightly colored paintings to decorate their pale walls. But I'm different."
She sat down in the chair, her back straight.
"The Saionji family has a history of a thousand years in Kyoto. For us, the dust that time has settled is more precious than gold dust."
"I'm not here today to buy any 'decorations'."
Satsuki's gaze swept over the paintings hanging in the shadows on the study walls.
"I've come to find my 'soul'."
The old count was taken aback.
He looked at the girl before him again. There was no nauseating greed in her eyes, only a deep tranquility that seemed to see through the years.
"soul……"
The old count muttered to himself, tapping his pipe lightly on the table.
"Young people these days rarely use this word anymore."
He stood up, walked to the bookshelf, and pressed a hidden switch.
"Click".
The bookshelves slid open to the sides, revealing a small vault behind them.
The old count took out several dusty rolls and a black velvet box.
He placed these things on the desk, his movements somewhat slow, as if he was hesitating.
"These items are not valued by the appraisers at auction houses."
The old count opened a scroll and unfolded a yellowed parchment.
It was a sketch.
The lines are simple, yet incredibly powerful. It depicts a hand, a praying hand.
"This is a draft by Albrecht Dürer. An original."
He opened the velvet box again.
Inside was a ruby necklace. The gemstone was cut in an old-fashioned style, not sparkling, but rather possessing a deep, blood-red hue.
"This is a keepsake that Marie Antoinette (Queen of Louis XVI) gave to her maid before her execution. It is also engraved with the fleur-de-lis emblem of the Bourbon dynasty."
The old count stroked the necklace, a hint of sadness in his eyes.
"The Japanese only recognize Van Gogh and Monet. They feel that these dark sketches and old-fashioned jewelry are not 'bright' enough or 'famous' enough."
"They don't understand."
Satsuki reached out and gently touched the edge of the parchment with her fingertips.
"These are the lines of the Northern Renaissance. In my view, they all contain the brilliance of reason."
She looked up at the old count.
"Your Excellency, those people at the auction house don't understand because they only look at the price tags. But I know the significance of these items."
"The Saionji family is building a private museum. These things should be placed in a place that respects them, not hung in some nouveau riche's cigar-scented living room to show off."
This statement struck at the old count's weak spot.
He was short of money. But he was even more afraid that his ancestors' legacy would be squandered.
"You... really understand?" The old count's voice trembled slightly.
"I am the Duke's daughter."
Satsuki slightly raised her chin, revealing a hint of arrogance befitting an old aristocrat.
"In this world, there are some things that only those of the same bloodline can understand."
The old count looked at her.
That kind of reservedness that comes from the bone, that kind of reverence for history, cannot be faked.
He let out a long sigh, as if his whole body had relaxed.
"All right."
The old count pushed something on the table.
"Since they belong to the Saionji family... I believe you will treat them well."
Name your price.
Negotiations have begun.
Unlike those business owners, Satsuki didn't keep pressing the calculator buttons.
She gave a number.
"Ten million US dollars."
"all."
This includes the sketches by Dürer and Rembrandt, the set of royal jewels, and several other equally valuable antiques in the study that were not on display.
This price, if placed at the Drouot auction house, might not even cover the starting bid for that necklace.
But in today's market, apart from the Japanese who are frantically chasing Impressionism, no one would spend ten million dollars to buy these "outdated" classical artworks.
The old count tapped his fingers on the table.
Ten million US dollars.
It would be enough for him to fix the leaky roof of the mansion, pay off his bank debts, and even allow him to live the rest of his life with dignity.
Moreover, this was a one-time package acquisition, avoiding the auction house's high 20% commission and the scandal of family assets flowing out of the country.
"Cash?" the old count asked.
"Swiss bank draft. Instantly payable."
Satsuki gestured to Fujita.
Fujita stepped forward, took out a pre-written check from his briefcase, and presented it with both hands.
"Moreover, this deal will be completed in Zurich. I imagine you wouldn't want those bloodsuckers at the French tax authorities to know about this."
This statement was the last straw that broke the camel's back.
A glint of light flashed in the old count's eyes.
Tax avoidance.
This is the common language of all the old money class.
"make a deal."
The old count stretched out his withered hand and picked up the check.
He moved quickly, as if afraid he would regret it.
"Miss Saionji, you are a true lady. And also a... astute collector."
"Thank you for the compliment."
Satsuki stood up, and Fujita quickly stepped forward, carefully putting the priceless works of art into a specially made shockproof box.
The transaction is complete.
There was only a check and a promise.
This is a trading method from the old world.
……
Step out of the dark mansion.
The midday sun shone unbearably on the ancient cobblestone streets of Saint Louis, making one squint slightly. Behind me, the heavy wooden door, painted a deep green, clicked shut again, sealing the musty smell and three centuries of dust back into darkness.
The wind on the Seine was rather strong, carrying the whispers of the sycamore trees on both banks and causing the hem of Satsuki's trench coat to flutter.
At that moment, a commotion arose from the direction of the City Hall Square on the opposite bank of the river, carried by the wind.
That was the stirring melody of "La Marseillaise" played on brass instruments, accompanied by the synchronized thud of military boots and the thunderous cheers of the crowd. The rehearsal for the National Day military parade on July 14th was in full swing, a celebration of modern France—lively, grand, and brimming with vibrant energy.
Satsuki stood under the shade of a tree on the riverbank, without glancing in the direction of the commotion.
She slowly raised her left hand, facing the blinding sunlight.
On her finger, the ruby ring that had just changed hands did not reflect the dazzling brilliance of a diamond under the midday sun.
It simply absorbs the light quietly, and in the deepest part of the gemstone, a rich, viscous, and profound scarlet hue emerges.
A color similar to dried blood.
This stone once graced the hand of Marie Antoinette, witnessed the most extravagant balls at Versailles, and saw the cold blade that severed its owner's head on Place de la Concorde. And now, the stirring military music that once led its master to the guillotine echoes freely before it across the Seine.
History here forms an absurd and closed circle.
The clamor is but a fleeting bubble; only this cold stone, with its heavy weight, lives on in silence.
Satsuki's fingers tightened slightly.
She slipped her hands into the deep pockets of her trench coat, her fingertips tracing the cool ring setting, feeling the chill that seemed to come from hundreds of years ago.
Fujita Tsuyoshi opened the back door of the black Mercedes.
Satsuki lowered her head and crawled into the carriage.
"Bang."
The car doors slammed shut.
The thickened soundproof glass instantly cut off the rousing military music and boisterous cheers from the other side of the river. A deathly silence fell over the carriage.
The tires of the black sedan rolled over the dappled shadows of the trees, gliding into the narrow, secluded alleyways of Île Saint-Louis, heading towards the shadowy depths far from the hustle and bustle.
Only the Seine River continues to flow quietly under the sun, its surface shimmering, swallowing up all the glory and clamor on its banks.