“Vaprio continues to escape...I hope nothing changes that!”
“You asked me about the pigments I bought in Paris. We have a good assortment. I’ve been grinding them. We’ll have a beautiful green, that laurel green you’re fond of.”
“I’m still partial to green. I suppose you bought the Dutch pigments...”
Our horses, side by side, kept an even pace: both from the same stable, they liked walking together: the road was familiar to them: the afternoon was sunny; shafts of light rebounded from the Loire; a pair of squirrels chittered at us; hunters and their dogs passed—someone saluted us with a playful toot of his horn.
“Mama insists that we stay away from Milan...she warns us...she said that I’m to tell you.”
“I understand. We’re lucky to be here; Cloux is like Vaprio; beautiful countryside; a sketch here, a sketch there.”
“We should ride to Chambord.”
“I prefer the river trip...”
“Shall we go on the river?”
“All right, Cecchino. You arrange the trip. Certainly, there’s no finer château than Chambord. Let’s spend a few days there. We can find new paintings, new marbles and bronzes...from Milan...Athens...Rome...the greatness of stolen art...”