LITMIR.BIZ

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missed the frog? In the lower right corner there is a little frog.”

      I went up and peered at the hanging. “So there is! See, you do know how to play.”

      “And you are out of practice.” She stood and took my hand. “Enough unicorns for one day. Come, let me show you my work. It is one floor below.”

      We walked through another room with more tapestries. She led the way down a set of stairs and through rooms of tomb effigies and medieval artifacts, stopping in front of two heavy glass doors. Through them I saw a dimly-lit space.

      “The highlight of the tour!” she said excitedly. “What I will show you was produced in France, a century before the Unicorn. Par ici.”

      We entered a low, dark room. Glass vitrines mounted on opposite walls, under carved wood panels portraying Christ’s life and Passion. She stopped in front of a case containing several tiny books with pages open to colorful paintings. A heavy cloth the width of the case had been folded back to expose the glass top. Illuminated manuscripts... I knew that much. Like Kells but the real thing. “‘Books of Hours,’ these are called.”

      “Basically they’re prayer books, right?”

      “Yes, but much more, even without considering the quality of their art which is spectacular. Psalms, Litanies, Church Calendar, Office of the Virgin, Office of the Dead. They take their name from the Canonical Hours. Prime, Matins, Lauds...”

      “... Terce... Sext... None...”

      “Ah! You’ve spent time in a monastery.”

      I laughed. “Four years.”

      “With the Jesuits. Pat has mentioned them.”

      “He was not a willing participant.”

      “He mentioned that also.”

      Lucie turned to the display. “The example here is Les Heures de Jeanne d’Évreux.”

      “Almost your namesake.” I bent down and examined the book. “It’s so small!”

      “Nine centimeters by six centimeters, environs. Most are not quite this small.”

      “Amazing.”

      “It was illuminated about 1330 by Jean Pucell, a Parisian. This art shows clear Italian influence though it is unknown whether he ever visited Italy. Jeanne was the granddaughter of Saint Louis, Louis IX, and at the time herself Queen of France. So this was a fabulous commission for Monsieur Pucell. Now over here,” she moved a few steps, “this is Les Belles Heures de Jean de France, Duc du Berry. Completed in the early years of the fifteenth century by three brothers, les frères Limbourg, all under the age of fifteen when they began the work. Pol, Jean and Herman.” Lucie tapped on the glass and looked up, beaming. “This is what my exhibit is all about. And to think I’m bringing it to the Louvre!”

      “Sounds like a major accomplishment.”

      “It is, and I haven’t told you the best part. France has a similar work, Les Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry, owned by L’Institut de France and held at the Musée Condé in Chantilly. Les Riches Heures was begun by the Limbourgs shortly after completing les Belles Heures, but malheureusement, the brothers died soon thereafter, presumably from the plague. Over the next hundred years it was worked on and completed by other artists.”

      “That is quite a story.”

      “Yes. If you haven’t already guessed, de Berry was more aesthete than warrior. He commissioned at least twenty Books of Hours, in fact after Jeanne bequeathed her Heures to the French crown, it not surprisingly found its way into the sticky hands of monsieur le duc. After many years of trying we have persuaded l’Institut to make an unprecedented exception and loan the Très Riches Heures for this exhibition. We will set these two masterpieces side-by-side with learned commentary by him and, of course,” she smiled, “myself. As incentive the Louvre is offering its considerable resources to assist in conservation of this treasure, as well as a share of exhibition income, of course.”

      I picked up a magnifying glass lying nearby and examined the book. Considerably larger than the first one, but still. “Unbelievable! What workmanship, and such a scale.”

      “Illustrators did everything the great painters did, but in miniature.”

      “You must know a lot about the techniques.”

      Lucie nodded. “The processes, they are part of my expertise. The parchment paper, the pens and inks, the brushes and paints, the bindings, our exhibit will cover all of it. In fact,” she said, her face animated, “I am proposing to create a workshop replica for the visitor to walk through, examine the tools, watch work in progress.”

      “When will all this happen?”

      “In about two years. It takes time to put something like this together, especially with three museums involved.” We strolled the other rooms of what, for good reason, is called the Treasury, until a guard told us the museum was about to close.

      “Many thanks,” I said as we made our way toward the exit. “You’ve packed a lot of learning into a short time.”

      “Mon plaisir,” she replied. “I do wish Diane were here to join us for dinner.”

      No you don’t, I thought, nodding solemnly... and neither do I. “Let’s do something local. Do you like Caribbean food?”

      “The little I’ve had, certainment. I’m not afraid of hot food, if that’s what you are asking. In my quartier there is a Thai place whose sauces remove paint from furniture.”

      I looked at my watch. “A bit early by New York standards,” I said, “or Paris.”

      “Pas de problème. Allons-y!”

      Thus it was we ended up at one of my favorite spots, La Cocina in Washington Heights, about a mile from the Cloisters. The owner greeted me warmly and showed us to a corner table overlooking the room. At this early hour we were almost alone, a family occupying the big table in the middle of the room, a couple of old guys hunched over the bar.

      “I’ve been meaning to ask,” I said as the waiter delivered two bottles of Dos Equis, “you know so much about Catholic practices, are you a religious person?”

      She shook her head. “I was brought up Catholic but I don’t attend Mass. Some of my friends wear that as a badge of honor, but I feel sad I am not motivated to do more. Spiritual laziness – that must be one of the cardinal sins, I don’t remember which. And you?”

      “I try. I’m bringing my children up Catholic.”

      “You say ‘I.’ What about Diane?”

      “She doesn’t interfere but it’s hard not being able to share something that important.”

      “Is your time in that college connected with your fidelity?”

      “I’m sure, but it started much earlier. I grew up in a semi-observant family,” I smiled.

      “But the college solidified your positions. What was it called? Pat has told me...”

      “Holy Cross.”

      “Ah, yes. Les croisades. Not one of the Church’s finest moments,” she said, then caught herself. “Moments? They lasted what, three centuries?”

      “Something to be said for perseverance.”

      “Not that kind, I fear. You know, Paul, I must tell you something about my little books. For me they have been a marvelous window on the medieval world, not just the doctrinal aspects, but the cultural as well.”

      “How is that?”

      “If you examine the pages under a glass, in the margins are all manner of goings-on that don’t belong in a devotional book. Fantastic creatures, dragons, fighting

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