The other answered: “The fighting men don't hate one another — not very often. What we hate is the damnable Kultur which has produced all these atrocities; also the rulers who impose it upon a credulous people.”
Lanny could accept that; but would Kurt accept it? That was going to be a problem!
IV
Robbie was in the midst of conferences with the representatives of a half a dozen armaments concerns; but he found an hour to go with the pair to the exposition at the Petit Palais. It was a matter of amour propre with the French that not even a world war should stop the development of genius in their country; art lovers would come to see what was new in taste and culture even though bombs might be raining upon them from the sky. The younger painters of France were most of them putting camouflage on guns and ships; but they had found time for sketches of war scenes. The older ones had gone on with their work, like Archimedes making scientific discoveries during the siege of Syracuse.
Battle pictures, of course, had always been found in every salon. Painters loved to portray thrilling conflicts: horses trampling men, sabers flashing, carbines spitting flame. Now there was a new kind of war, hard to know how to deal with. So much of it was fought at long distances, and with great machines — and how were you to make them dramatic? How were you to keep a picture of an airplane or a machine gun from looking like a photograph in L'Illustration? A general on horseback was an established figure of la gloire; but what could you do with a man in a tank or a submarine?
The answer of Marcel Detaze had been to go off in solitude and paint the figure of a woman in sorrow. Whether men were mutilated by sabers or by shrapnel made little difference to the wives and sweethearts of France; so said this young painter, and apparently the art lovers agreed with him. “Sister of Mercy” had been hung in an excellent position, and there were always people standing in front of it, and their faces showed that Marcel had conveyed something to their souls. Lanny listened to their comments, and little thrills crept up and down his spine. Even Robbie was moved; yes, the fellow had talent, you didn't have to be a “highbrow” to be sure of it.
Too bad that Beauty couldn't be on hand to share the sensation. She would have taken her friends, and stood and listened to what the crowds were saying; presently somebody would have glanced at her, and then at the picture, and then back at her again, in excitement and a little awe, and the blood would have started climbing to Beauty's cheeks, and even to her forehead; it would have been one of life's great moments. Call it vanity, but she was like that; “professional beauties” were amateur actresses, performing upon a larger stage with the help of newspapers and illustrated magazines. “I'll send her a ticket and tell her to come,” said Robbie, who found her foibles diverting.
A further idea occurred to him, and he said to his son: “Do you remember what Beauty once told you about a painting that made my father angry?” Yes, that was one of the things Lanny wasn't going to forget — not in this incarnation! He said so, and Robbie inquired: “Would you be interested to see it?”
The youth was staggered. Somehow the idea seemed rather horrible. And with Rick along too! But he told himself that this was an old-fashioned attitude, unworthy of a connoisseur of art. Surely Rick would feel that way about it. So Lanny replied: “I would, of course.”
“I've been told where it was. If it's been sold, maybe you can find out where it's gone.” Robbie gave the name of one of the fashionable dealers on the Rue de la Paix, and told him to ask for the “Lady with a Blue Veil,” by Oscar Deroulé. “You don't have to say that you know anything about it,” added the father.