The Portrait of Antoinette (standard:horror, 5619 words)
Author: Tom Soukup	Added: Jan 06 2002	Views/Reads: 3379/2247	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
An international art thief pulls off the greatest art heist in history. Every villian reaps what he sows, however, and his world shatters around him in a most unusual way. (Please read my older stories. Comments are greatly appreciated.)

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

and he guessed that the games they played were much the same as well.  
The forest is peaceful here, and Parisians had come to visit the park 
in increasing numbers to escape the urban bustle that had grown in the 
ancient city. 

He rounded a bend where the path clung to the edge of a cluster of
cherry trees in fragrant bloom, and he saw the reflection of scenery in 
the pond before him. 

"Monsieur ... monsieur." 

He heard the voice call to him and saw a girl standing at the edge of
the pond, waving her hands first at him, then at the lace of the 
wide-brimmed hat floating steadily away from her feet toward the center 
of the water. 

Neil's French was barely passable but he managed to assemble what little
vocabulary he remembered into a sentence as he walked the bank toward 
the girl. 

"Can I help you, Mademoiselle?" he said, his American accent tearing the
beauty of the French language to ribbons. 

"Oui ... yes," she answered, switching to English in the realization
that the conversation would go much more smoothly that way.  "I have 
lost my hat.  The wind blew it into the water.  Can you help me to 
reach it?" 

Her eyes met his and for a long moment he became lost in them.  She was
beautiful ... more beautiful, he thought, than any woman he had ever 
seen.  Her eyes were the deepest shade of green, half hidden now by the 
length of her lashes.  The wind blew lightly from behind her, whistling 
through the trees and wrapping the flowing cloth of her dress against 
her body, highlighting the sensual curves, accenting it in a way that 
taunted him with the innocence that she was.  A few strands of her sun 
streaked hair caught on her lip and she tipped her head slightly, 
stroking the hair gently back into place, a quizzical look on her face. 


"Sorry," Neil said, embarrassed by her patient stare.  "What was it you
said?" 

"My hat."  She smiled subtly, seemingly unaware of the effect she had on
this stranger.  "It is in the pond.  Can you help me retrieve it?"  She 
pointed again in its direction. 

"Sure.  Yeah ... I mean oui.  No trouble at all."  He bent to remove his
shoes to wade to the water's edge but he couldn't take his eyes off 
her.  He danced comically on one foot, reaching for the other and 
trying to maintain his balance.  She laughed a little and turned away 
to lessen his obvious nervousness. 

Neil stepped into the chilly water, the ripples wetting the bottoms of
his rolled up trousers, and he stretched to collect the hat.  He handed 
it to the girl with a smile. 

"It's a bit wet but I think it's okay," he said as he stepped back on
the grassy bank. 

"Merci beaucoup, Monsieur," she said and the darkness of her eyes met
his again though only briefly.  "It is a new one and I did not want to 
lose it." 

"It's beautiful," he said but was really thinking You're beautiful.  "My
name is Neil, Neil Hamilton." 

"And I am Antoinette DuPlessis," she said freely though it was apparent
that she was not used to the forward ways of Americans. 

"I'm very pleased to meet you, Antoinette.  I hope that you don't think
I'm too forward, but may I ... may I call you Toni?  My tongue has a 
little trouble with French ... as you could probably tell."  That was 
partly the truth.  But he would have been tongue-tied no matter what 
the language. 

They spent the rest of the day together, walking the serene paths of the
Bois de Boulogne, learning about each other.  They were soon arm-in-arm 
and it was only the fading light of the day that caused them to part. 

"May I see you again, Toni?" he asked, his hands caressing the
smoothness of her face. 

She dropped her stare, the wisps of her hair playing at his chin.  He
smelled the freshness of it and at last she looked again to his eyes.  
"Oui.  Of course, Neil." 

And he saw her nearly every day for the next three weeks.  They fell
deeply in love though the exchange of the words developed slowly.  When 
the words at last did come, they were merely the final symbol, their 
expression of the final bond.  "I love you," they said to each other 
and it felt so natural that neither was surprised when it happened. 

It was only another week before Antoinette DuPlessis became Antoinette
Hamilton, Toni Hamilton. 

*       *       * 

Neil stumbled through the flat, feeling his way to the bedroom door. 

"I missed you, darling.  I wish you didn't have to work so late," Toni
said as he entered the room. 

He had told her everything about himself except that.  I'm a thief, he
said to himself and he thought it better not to tell her that part, not 
to worry her by the danger of his profession. 

"I missed you too, Toni," he said and, having undressed, he climbed into
the warm bed beside her.  "And I love you so much." 

She kissed his lips and the feeling filled him.  He kissed her and fell
they fell asleep more than an hour later, his arm across her bare 
shoulders, the passion of their lovemaking lingering with them. 

*       *       * 

"Monsieur Rostand, I am Neil Hamilton.  You come very highly
recommended." 

Neil stood in the dirty shop on the edge of Paris.  Antiques surrounded
him, period pieces that may have been authentic but probably were not. 

"Ah, Monsieur 'amilton.  I 'ave heard much of you.  It is a great
pleasure to at last meet you."  The old man stood leaning against a 
crooked cane, its purpose seemingly in part for support and at least as 
much for gesturing.  Thin gray hair curled in a narrow strip above his 
ears, a few strands crossing the space between.  His body was twisted 
and his small eyes looked through heavy wire-rimmed spectacles.  But 
his fingers were straight, long and graceful ... the hands of an 
artist. 

"Can you do a painting for me?" Neil asked without hesitation.  The
place made him feel uncomfortable. 

"But of course, Monsieur.  And I assume that you will be providing the
canvas?" Stolen art can be very difficult to smuggle through customs 
and Neil's new prize had very little value for him in this country.  He 
had to bring it to America where the ultra-rich collectors, whose 
morals ran even shallower than their other attributes, would pay 
handsomely for such a treasure as the Mona Lisa.  And it was common 
practice to use the stolen piece as a fresh canvas, to be painted over 
with a picture that would arouse less suspicion.  Once inside the 
borders, the new paint would then be carefully removed, restoring the 
original painting to its magnificence and to the price it would 
certainly bring.  Jacques Rostand had done this countless times before 
and the reputation of his mastery was well known in the hidden society 
of the underworld. 

"May I see the canvas?" the old man asked. 

Neil removed the end of the cardboard tube.  He slid the aging artwork
from its hiding place and unrolled it slowly on the table. 

The old man mumbled something under his breath.  He leaned across the
table, his cane falling from his hand to strike the floor with a sharp 
sound. 

"The Mona Lisa," he said to himself and his eyes never left the subtle
smile of the lady.  "You 'ave stolen the Mona Lisa," he said 
matter-of-factly.  Rostand looked up at Neil as if to ask how, but he 
knew better of it.  He cast his eyes again at Da Vinci's greatest work, 
a tenderness filling him with tears to be so close to the work of the 
Master. 

"Can you cover it?"  Neil was beginning to lose his patience with the
old man.  "I will pay you what you require but I must be assured that I 
can take it to America without discovery." 

"Yes, of course I can."  Rostand hobbled across the room and stood
staring out the window, his back to Neil.  "It will cost you fifty 
thousand dollars American." 

Neil knew that this was two, maybe three times the normal price for such
a job.  He felt some anger flare up the back of his neck but he calmed 
it, telling himself that it was most likely not greed that drove the 
number so high but rather Rostand's awe at the task and a knowledge of 
the severe consequences of failure. 

"Agreed," Neil said calmly. 

Rostand turned back to face Neil and seal the deal with only his eyes. 

"And I will need a subject for the new painting," the old man said. 

Neil thought for a short time.  Toni, he said to himself.  The Portrait
of Antoinette.  It was fitting, he thought, to cover one ageless 
beauty, the haunting smile of the Mona Lisa, with another. 

"I have a subject.  I want you to paint my wife's portrait over the Da
Vinci," he said and quickly added "but she must not know.  Can you do 
that?"  Neil was insistent in his demand for veiling Toni from the 
crime. 

"Sans peine, Monsieur.  I think you Americans say, no problem." 

"Then we will begin tomorrow." 

Neil returned the painting to the tube, bid farewell to the old Rostand
and walked out into the street. 

*       *       * 

"You must remain very still, Madam 'amilton." 

Jacques Rostand positioned Toni in the natural light of the studio. 
Though he was a criminal by occupation, he remained an artist by 
avocation.  He had covered the Mona Lisa with a thin film of an opaque 
liquid, which would allow the release of the over-painted colors when 
desired.  It left the canvas as if new and Rostand traced the 
beginnings of Toni's beauty across the surface, faint markings of 
curved lines in charcoal. 

"How long will it take, Monsieur?" she asked, already uncomfortable with
the confinement of the pose. 

"A week.  Maybe two," Jacques answered and Toni looked pleadingly to
Neil.  He shrugged his shoulders and she knew she must do this.  Toni 
sighed deeply but the smile on Neil's face eventually brought one back 
to hers.  Rostand fussed about all the noise and movement but he 
continued the skillful strokes and the white emptiness of the canvas 
began to fill once more. 

The first week had passed and yet the portrait was not finished. 
Rostand found the unique qualities of Toni's eyes difficult, impossible 
to duplicate in the painting.  He started over several times, each 
fresh start a new technique, different strokes, subtle changes in hues, 
and each time he came a little closer.  At this rate, the painting 
might never be finished. 

"But Monsieur 'amilton," he pleaded.  "I am working as fast as I can. 
The painting is very difficult.  Your wife, she is so beautiful and the 
painting must show that." 

Neil's face reddened. 

"Listen carefully to me, Rostand."  He stepped close to the old man. 
"Your painting is nothing more than a cover.  Plain and simple.  Just a 
way for me to get the Mona Lisa past the noses of those customs agents 
in New York.  I have no interest in it other than that.  I want it 
finished in two days ... maximum."  Neil was emphatic about it.  The 
heat over the missing painting was growing and he wanted to disappear 
as soon as possible. 

Rostand was troubled by the harsh words.  He was, after all, an artist
first and it was rare that he had the opportunity to paint such an 
exquisite subject as the beautiful Antoinette. 

"Then I need more money, Monsieur," Rostand said, taking a stand in
sharp words and steely eyes. 

"How much?"  Neil felt a sting coming. 

"Twenty thousand American dollars more."  Jacques fixed his gaze
directly in Neil's eyes. 

"You're a bandit ... but if you can guarantee completion in two days,
it's a deal."  Neil knew that the seventy thousand total was still a 
small price to pay.  His client in the states was prepared to pay far 
more for the Da Vinci work and this sum paled in comparison. 

"The let me work again, Monsieur 'amilton."  Anger filled Rostand but he
hid it.  He needed the money and the strength of Neil's determination 
was not to be swayed. 

Jacques finished the painting in the time agreed upon and Toni fidgeted
increasingly.  Neil was there for the final unveiling, Toni at his side 
gently stroking the back of his neck. 

"It's magnificent," she said, caught in the breathtaking reality of the
brush strokes.  It was lifelike beyond all imagination and appeared as 
if it might start talking at any moment. 

Neil could not find the words he needed.  Rostand had caught the image
of Toni perfectly, but more than that.  It was as if he had captured 
some of her soul within the pastels and gentle flesh tones of the work. 
 Neil was overcome by the same feeling he had months before in the Bois 
de Boulogne.  He was within the painting and it was within him. 

Neil stood close to the old man while Toni continued to study the
painting as if looking into a mirror. 

"Monsieur Rostand, you are a true artist and I apologize for pushing you
as I did.  I assure you that it will be with great sadness that I strip 
this beautiful piece of art from the Mona Lisa." 

Neil counted the crisp thousand dollar bills into the tired hands of
Rostand.  Toni had not heard these last statements.  Neil's whispers 
sheltered her from it. 

"But that is 'ow it must be, eh, Monsieur 'amilton?  We both knew that
from the very start, did we not?"  Jacques had come to hate this man 
but the business part of him kept that hidden well. 

As they parted, Neil Hamilton with the painting-over-painting and
Jacques Rostand with seventy thousand dollars, Toni bid farewell to the 
artist and her native French soil as well. 

"I only hope that you get what you deserve," the old man called. 

*       *       * 

The wheels of the Air France Boeing 747 touched the runway in black
puffs of smoke, and taxied patiently to the waiting gate at Kennedy 
International Airport.  Toni's nose had been pressed hard against the 
window since landfall was first made, the impressions of this city of 
New York having been no more than photographs in a travel book until 
now. 

"It's our new home, Toni.  The greatest city on earth," Neil told her
with the pride that is a prerequisite to living here. 

"Anywhere I'm with you, darling, will be home to me."  Her eyes looked
sleepy now.  The long flight had taken its toll.  She wrapped herself 
around his arm and sunk her cheek into his shoulder. 

Customs proved to be no problem.  The plane had been full and the weary
agents were anxious to push the crowds through.  They asked few 
questions and in the end, checked none of the Hamilton's bags. 

The airport limousine moved slowly at first through the congestion of
New York traffic.  A myriad of sights unfolded before Toni's eyes and 
the variety dazzled her in its newness.  Long Island was more tranquil 
and the small rural towns brought her some comfort; the peace of the 
shore pleased her.  At last, the car entered a narrow, winding 
driveway, large gates there to stop intruders. 

"This is your house?" Toni asked as they stopped before a large brick
Tudor. 

"No," he said and a puzzled look came over her face.  "This is our
house."  He held her tightly before the driver opened the car door, 
their bond forever sealed by the embrace. 

They walked together to the front door.  The massive oak panels
separated to the entry.  They paused at the threshold and Neil took 
Toni in his arms, swept her from her feet and spun her through the 
double doorway.  She laughed gaily as he did it, her head laying back, 
light brown hair flowing behind her and she kicked off her shoes, each 
flying in crazy directions.  It was her way of saying "I'm here to 
stay."  She clung to his neck, arms wrapped tightly around him and her 
lips met his in passion as her feet slid to the floor.  They stood 
there for a long time, within each other, as the driver placed their 
baggage in a neat row just inside the marble foyer. 

"I love it here, Mister Neil Hamilton," she said at last. 

"I hoped you would, Mrs. Neil Hamilton." 

*       *       * 

"What do you mean, you don't want it anymore?" Neil shouted into the
telephone. 

"It's too hot.  It's just not worth the chance."  The voice at the other
end stood firm. 

"How do you expect me to get rid of the thing?  I risked my neck for
that painting and now you tell me that you don't want it?"  Neil was 
getting increasingly angry.  Jewels and other precious articles that he 
had stolen in the past were simple by comparison.  But this was the 
Mona Lisa, for God's sake, and you didn't just take out an ad in the 
Sunday Times classifieds for something like it. 

"Maybe when things cool down, Hamilton.  But I'm a respected businessman
and people know I'm a collector.  Christ, man, the whole world is 
talking about the theft.  You know they won't rest until the painting 
is found.  And I don't want them to find it in my hands." 

"I'll expose you," Neil shouted sharply.  "I'll ruin you, you
son-of-a-bitch!" 

"You'll expose me?  Just who do you think you are, Hamilton?  Involve me
and I'll crush you like a cockroach.  You're nothing but a two-bit 
crook.  Expose me, you say?  You'll spend a lifetime behind bars if you 
even try it.  Now, good day, Mr. Hamilton, and don't call me ... I'll 
call you."  And the phone went dead. 

"Bastard," Neil hissed as he replaced the receiver. 

"Is something wrong?" Toni asked as she entered the room with an arm
full of knickknacks that needed the perfect place. 

"No, sweetheart," he answered and forced a smile to change his
distraught face.  "Just a little business trouble.  Nothing to worry 
about."  She came to his side and he held her tightly around the waist, 
his head against her and his mind trying to work out his next move. 

But nothing seemed to work out.  Neil's underground connections told him
the same thing he heard that day on the telephone.  The Mona Lisa was 
just too hot.  The risks for moving the artwork were too great.  
Worldwide news grew daily as the investigation expanded, with police in 
nearly every developed country scouring every corner of the globe for 
the prized Da Vinci. 

"I'll let it go for practically nothing," Neil pleaded.  "You must be
able to find a buyer, Carlos." 

"And you must think I'm some kind of miracle worker, Neil.  Nobody's
going to touch it.  I'm afraid you're stuck with it for now.  Maybe in 
a few months or so.  Good luck."  And another fruitless call ended. 

It had been more than a month now since Neil had been inside the Louvre.
 He was uncomfortable keeping any stolen treasure this long but the 
Mona Lisa troubled him deeply. 

"Day thirty-seven," the evening news broadcaster droned, "and the
mystery of the missing Mona Lisa remains unsolved."  The media played 
this event to the fullest.  Unfortunately for Neil, there was little 
else in the way of news to dim this story.  "Interpol has taken 
jurisdiction over the theft yesterday and a concerted effort is 
underway to reclaim this prized piece of art and place the thief behind 
bars forever.  Scant leads exist but the international law enforcement 
agency has shifted its concentration to the United States.  Their files 
are full of similar crimes and the vast majority point to America.  
They claim that the money available here makes the U.S. a prime ..." 

Neil worried endlessly that he would be discovered.  He had locked the
famous painting in an unused upstairs room, hidden now not only by the 
beauty of Toni's portrait covering Da Vinci's strokes but by the 
security of the room. 

"Neil, why don't we hang my painting above the fireplace?  I think it
would look good in that room."  Toni was anxious for the art to be 
displayed. 

"Let's just wait until we've done the other decorating we talked about,"
he lied.  "Then we can have an unveiling befitting the subject." 

Toni accepted this, the sincerity and love deeply impressed in Neil's
face. 

And so the painting remained locked away in that room while Toni went
about adding touches to the house and Neil searched frantically for a 
buyer to take the cursed painting away. 

*       *       * 

"Toni," Neil said one morning over breakfast.  "Are you feeling okay? 
You look a little tired."  Actually it was more than that.  The skin on 
her face had grown red and puffy.  Small lines, almost wrinkles, had 
appeared at the corners of her eyes and mouth. 

"I'm all right, Neil.  I think the change in the weather is drying my
skin out."  She had seen the lines developing too, but thought that the 
coming of winter was responsible. 

But it seemed to get progressively worse over the next days, and the
lines went deeper.  At times they would crack, crimson traces of blood 
in the crevasses.  Skin was peeling from these places and her face was 
speckled with tiny sores that oozed almost continuously. 

"I can't find anything seriously wrong, Mrs. Hamilton."  Dr. Blanton, a
noted dermatologist, had examined Toni's deteriorating condition.  "I'm 
going to prescribe a salve to help the healing.  I'm sure you have 
nothing to worry about.  You're a beautiful young lady and this sort of 
thing will pass before you know it." 

Toni appeared satisfied by that and she thanked the doctor for his time.
She bought the recommended salve and vowed to use it religiously. 

*       *       * 

Neil pushed the key into the locked door.  Toni was away at the doctor
and this left him alone to check on the painting.  He hadn't seen it 
since he first bolted the lock to this room nearly two months ago.  It 
troubled him to have such a dangerous article under his roof.  He swung 
the door into the dim light. 

The painting stood against the far wall and the sight of it filled Neil
with his love of Toni.  Old Rostand had certainly captured the essence 
of the girl; the likeness was almost alive in the shadows of the room.  
Neil moved closer, studying the smooth beauty of the face, the deep 
green of the eyes following his steps. 

But something was wrong.  Something was terribly wrong.  The paint was
beginning to peel, exposing the dark colors of the Mona Lisa beneath 
it.  It should have lasted longer than this, he thought, but he had 
forgotten that more time had passed than he should have allowed before 
selling the stolen piece.  Neil worried outwardly now, the cover that 
turned this priceless work of art into a beautiful but harmless 
portrait of his wife was falling away.  Panic gripped him. 

"Darling, I'm home."  Toni's voice could be faintly heard up here. 

"I'll be right there."  Neil quickly closed the door, locking it and
checking its security.  He hurried down the stairs. 

"How did it go at the Doc's?" he said cheerfully, the deception making
him worry. 

"He said that it's nothing serious," she said as she hung her coat in
the closet near the front door.  "He prescribed this salve."  And she 
turned to show him the tiny tube of medicine. 

Neil could feel his breath drawn in, feel his face pinch at the sight of
his wife.  Her skin had grown noticeably worse, her cheeks mottled with 
deep red patches, festering sores centered on each one.  Puss oozed 
from those that had broken open from the pressure and the skin near her 
eyes was peeling, pieces of it barely hanging by thin red threads.  He 
tried to hide his shock but he doubted that he could. 

"Does he know what's causing it?" Neil asked, finding it difficult to
look at her swollen face. 

"No, but he said this should help.  He thinks it will go away by itself.
 Some kind of allergy or something, he said."  She could see Neil's 
revulsion and feel his distance. 

"Well then, we'll just wait for that.  I love you anyway," he forced
himself to say and he took her in his arms, his face next to hers, the 
beauty of it hidden beneath the grotesque mask. 

But it didn't get better.  It only continued to fester further, each day
bringing new sores to the surface. 

*       *       * 

The TV was on as Toni sat engrossed in some Cosmopolitan article and
Neil sipped his evening scotch. 

"Day fifty-seven in the mystery of the missing Mona Lisa.  Interpol has
released recent findings on the case at a press conference this morning 
in Paris.  It seems a small rental car had been seen leaving the Louvre 
at about midnight of the night before the painting was found missing.  
The car was traced to a local agency that produced a pair of sunglasses 
found on the floor of the vehicle.  They are a very expensive brand 
made especially for a small Manhattan boutique. The shop owner 
fortunately had a list of buyers and the investigation is continuing in 
that direction.  A spokesman for Interpol estimated that the crime 
would be solved within the week.  More news at eleven." 

Neil dropped the glass from his hand, the scotch soaking into the carpet
below. 

"Sorry," he said nervously.  "Clumsy me, right?  I'll clean it up." 

"Let me get it, darling."  Toni looked up from the open magazine.  Her
face reminded him of the complexity of his problems. 

*       *       * 

She went to bed early that night.  Her day of decorating the large house
drained her strength and the dull ache in her face was always there, 
persistent and increasing.  Neil waited until the even rhythm of her 
breathing told him she was asleep.  He quietly opened the door to the 
locked room and the light from the hallway struck the painting. 

"No," he whispered.  The paint was peeling from the canvas in more
places now, curling away, flaking off to leave the entrancing stare 
ever more visible.  The slight curl of the Mona Lisa's lip mocked him.  
He closed the door hurriedly, his heart pounding thunder in his chest. 

The painting will soon be back to original, he thought, and now they
have my sunglasses.  He knew it would only be a matter of time until he 
was discovered.  He had been so successful in the past, having executed 
so many crimes so very perfectly, increasing his own riches at such a 
fantastic rate, and never so much as coming under suspicion.  Until 
this cursed painting, he thought. 

Neil quietly entered the bedroom.  Toni's breathing was deeper now.  She
was lost in her dreams, sunk in that far away place of the deepest 
sleep.  He disrobed and lay in the bed beside her.  He wanted so much 
to make love to her but the tension within him kept him from it.  And 
as she turned toward him in the depths of sleep, he found himself 
turning away, all else of the day fading in the agonizing loss of her 
beauty. 

The heavy knock at the door startled Neil awake.  At once he sensed the
emptiness of the bed.  He checked the clock and saw in the dim glow 
that it was 4:30.  The bathroom light was on, the door partly closed. 

"What is it, darling?"  The muffled voice came from the bathroom.  It
was Toni, it had to be Toni, but she sounded different somehow, deeper 
tones and hoarse tinges of a sharper accent than her French. 

"I don't know, Toni," he answered and he rubbed the disturbed sleep from
his eyes. 

And then he saw it.  Red lights streaked across the ceiling of their
bedroom, the pulsing glow of the police cars in the driveway below.  
The knock came again and Neil knew they had come for him. 

"What's happening, Neil?" the strange voice said again. 

"Open up, Mr. Hamilton.  It's the police."  The knock once more,
stronger this time. 

"What's wrong?" she asked as she swung the bathroom door open, the
bright light briefly blinding Neil's eyes.  "Darling ..." 

And at once he saw her.  But it wasn't Toni, couldn't have been her.  As
his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw a different face, thin and dark 
and almost expressionless save for a faint smile. 

"Is everything okay, my darling?" the voice said heavily and it was the
Mona Lisa who stood there illuminated by the lamps, speaking these 
words to the frightened Neil. 

"Open up, Mr. Hamilton.  We have a warrant." 

And in the room locked at the end of the hall, the painting stood alone
in the darkness.  Below it were the scraps of dried oils, curled in 
small pieces, pieces that had each held a part of the beauty of 
Antoinette's lovely face.  And the Mona Lisa stared into the darkness, 
waiting patiently as she had for centuries, smiling her eternal smile. 


Tweet