This Sly Old Fox

The curator was poring over the plans for the exhibition when he was informed of the woman-shaped problem in the hall.

It was just piece of sand in the gears, he told himself as he bullied the errand boy out of the office and pointedly locked the door behind him. Nothing to get excited over. He’d have the interloper out on the street in no time, and then he could get back to his real job.

And with that thought he emerged from the creaking, shadowy corridors of the back offices into the glory of the showroom.

It was breathtaking no matter how many times he’d seen it. Cathedral ceilings arched upwards like a dragon’s wings encircling its horde, crystal display cases shining almost as much as the hundreds of priceless artifacts they housed. Treasures from the four corners of the globe bedecked every corner, impeccably arranged to be as impressive as possible. The spaces between displays simply begged to be filled by the creme de la creme of high society, remarking over each piece's beauty in hushed, gentile tones…

Soon. But first he had to solve the issue at hand.

He descended the last few steps in time to hear a female voice chastise, “-you see the ink smudges? Gold edging cannot save you when the paper’s quality is so low. No collector in their right mind would pay for such a blurry autograph.”

“We are not in the habit of selling our guest’s signatures, Madame,” the curator responded pompously as he rounded the final corner. “And may I just say-“

But as she turned to survey him the words flew from his throat.

She couldn’t have been any younger than sixty, her snow white hair almost disappearing into the arctic fox-fur shawl draped around her shoulders. Her scarlet evening gown only highlighted her ballerina’s posture, and the only hint of jewelry was a subtle sparkle about her earlobes. It was a minimalism only the truly wealthy could afford.

He’d been worried about a momentary inconvenience, but what stood before him was an assassination.

“Monsieur Curator!” She exclaimed with a smile that could slice through steel. “Are you not to play host to Monsieur Beauregard, the foremost philographist of our era, in just two day’s time? Do you wish for his first impression of this esteemed collection to be a shoddy guestbook?”

“Madame,” he replied, his offense at her tone enough to override his mounting dread, “I am confident our writing tools won’t overshadow the quality of our displays-“

“Ah,” she scoffed, cutting him off with a wave of her hand. “Displays under Art Deco chandeliers, in showrooms rendered in the Georgian style? You are a bold man indeed, to present such an incongruity to a company of elites.”

The indignity of the remark straightened his spine. “I’m afraid only electric lights can sufficiently illuminate our exhibits. Or would you rather we gut priceless antiques so our guests don’t stumble around in the dark?”

Her expression flickered, and he pounced on her hesitation. “My dear woman, this collection is the private property of Marquis Delfond, and is closed to the public. I must insist you either prove your credentials or vacate the premises!”

He waited eagerly for her to bow her head, mumbling excuses as she made her way to the door…

Instead, she broke into a smile that, on a less elegant person, would be called a smirk.

“The Marchioness was right to send me,” she remarked airily. With a flick of her wrist she produced a pearl-white card, which she handed to the curator with exaggerated care. “Do take note of the stock; I’m sure it will be helpful when you replace the guestbook.”

He blanched. “You are a friend of the Marquis’ wife?”

“An acquaintance,” she admitted, as if the distance between them was a source of personal regret. “But we harbor the same doubts about your exhibition. As for my credentials, I am in possession of a sharp mind and keen artistic sensibilities, which should be more than enough to grant me access. And the Lady Delfond has charged me with reviewing your displays,” she added, as if sensing his indignation at this invasion of his lord’s sanctuary.

Before he could even think to reply she had already swept past and up the steps, pausing to look down at at him with a grin that was all teeth.

“It always helps to get an outsider’s perspective, no?” she said, and vanished into the exhibits.

The curator was momentarily stunned, thinking only to look down at the card still clutched in his hand. It simply read:

Mme. Renard

Art Enthusiast At Large

Then he realized a strange woman was loose amongst the displays and bolted after her.

He caught up as she was gliding through the portrait gallery, the train of her gown taking on an umber sheen under the light of the chandeliers. At the sound of his oncoming footsteps she gestured violently at one of the paintings.

“You see here,” she scoffed, “a somber war hero, placed in a frame decorated with daisies! And here,” another gesture, this time at a dagger inset with rubies. “This scabbard’s ornamentation completely clashes with the craftsmanship of the pommel.”

“Those are both original to the works,” he protested, but she wasn’t having any of it.

“So you let other’s mistakes become yours?” she asked. “We are in service of beauty, my friend, not the legacies of long-dead aristocrats! You will replace them.

“But this is not the main event.” Her gait quickened, leaving the curator struggling not to break into a jog behind her. “The Marchioness specifically inquired about the state of the jewels.”

At last they reached the end, the final exhibit greeting them with a ring of glass cases, each shining with a king’s ransom in precious stones. She came to a halt in front of the first display, peering inside with an expression of intense concentration.

The curator came up next to her, tripping over his words in his rush to slip back into his role: “All-of-the-jewelry-you-see-before-you-once-belonged-to-members-of-noble-families-which-have-since-fallen,” he surfaced for air, “It-is-the-largest-such-collection-in-the-world-and-we-feel-it-is-our-duty-to-preserve-their-lost-legacies,” another gasp, “for-the-benefit-of-all-mankind.”

He stopped, already nearly blue in the face. It was clear that she wasn’t paying him any attention, and in fact was already examining a tourmaline tiara four displays away.

But when she moved on to the next item he detected the slightest hint of hesitation in her gait, and launched himself into the gap.

“Those-are-the-Moonlit-Tears-crafted-out-of-“ she shot him a withering look, and he quickly switched course. “That is to say, these are the Moonlit Tears, crafted out of moonstone so pure and fine that they rival even diamonds. Note how the simplicity of the design allows the briolette cut of the gems to truly shine.”

“They are lovely,” she admitted. Her eyes seemed to soften as she gazed at them. “I imagine they are also quite valuable.”

“Very!” he exclaimed, emboldened by this hint of pathos. If she could be moved by a pair of earrings, then he had a chance of making it out of their confrontation alive. “They were crafted for the princess of an ancient dynasty, but were stolen by the invading horde when the king was deposed. Now they can be appreciated once again!”

For a moment there was only silence, and then her crafty smile returned.

“Then you must take care to be worthy of them,” she replied. “This red cushion completely detracts from the beauty of the stones.”

The barb found home, and as he was recovering she swiftly turned and strode up to the center display. Inside its glass casing was over fifty pounds of jewels; diamonds, emeralds and sapphires sparkled from every available surface, threatening to crush the plinth under their weight. An incredible amount of technique had been employed in creating the jewelry itself, but it was being grossly overshadowed by the sheer number of gems.

“The crown jewels, the pride of our collection,” he said in awe. The sight still brought a tear to his eye, so overwhelmed was he by their brilliance.

“They are magnificent,” she agreed, taking a long look. “’Tis a pity they’re paste.”

She might as well have stabbed him.

“I beg your pardon?” he gasped.

“Paste,” she repeated, rapping on the glass as if to try to frighten a confession out of the offending items. “You are presenting fabricated jewels.”

Then, just as suddenly as she had announced that his world was a lie, she took a step forward and yanked the case of its pedestal.

Immediately the shrill of the alarm bell tore through the hall, a cacophonous siren that shut down all intelligent thought. On instinct the curator sprinted to the kill switch, almost tearing the hidden wall panel off of its hinges in his haste to slam the lever down.

In the ringing silence he turned back to see her still standing by the plinth, the glass set down neatly at her side.

“A truly horrible noise,” she complained, “that totally ruined the dignified atmosphere of this house.”

“It’s the burglary alarm,” he panted. The banshee shriek of the bell was still echoing in his mind, and it promised doom. “It’s supposed to stop people like you from messing with the displays!

“And what do you mean by paste!” he nearly wailed. “They’re the pride of the collection! I have the authentication certificates to prove it!”

She clicked her tongue. “Falsification. Or incompetence. Or-" there was a pregnant pause. “There has been a rash of thefts recently.”

“Thefts? I haven’t heard of any-“ he stopped. If something had been stolen from under his care, would his pride allow him to report it? Would the Marquis’? Or would it be better for everyone to sweep it under the rug, for fear of the damage that news could do?

“You don’t think-” he whispered. She merely shrugged, a languid motion that made her fox fur shawl seem to come alive.

He processed this information. Then he looked at her, so confident and collected, surveying priceless gems like they were nothing.

“I have to go,” he said, and made his third mad dash of the night.

The force with which he kicked in the conservator’s door sent it crashing into the wall, triggering an avalanche of documents onto his second-in-command’s slumbering head.

“Mmwhat’is,” the conservator mumbled as he stirred under the fallout, still fuzzy from sleep.

“It’s an emergency,” the curator hissed. “There’s a, a woman here insisting the crown jewels are fakes!”

“Ridiculous,” the conservator responded.

“She’s a friend of the Marchioness! Just… humor her so she goes away.” The curator could feel himself unraveling, the stresses of the evening beginning to take a hefty toll.

“Fine,” the conservator said, trying and failing to tame his wild desk-head. “I’ll go see her.”

The woman in question was looking intently at her pocket-watch when they arrived, apparently not having shifted from her position by the plinth. When she noticed the conservator shuffling in she disappeared the watch with a flick of her wrist, smiled widely and extended her hand.

“Charmed, Monsieur…”

He looked at her hand, shook it once, and then turned to the jewels. “I’ll take a personal interest in this matter, Madame, don’t you worry.”

“Such a relief to hear,” she said, an edge of mockery only just apparent in her tone. “But I’m afraid I won’t be attending the examination, as I have another engagement this evening. It has been a pleasure,” and now she turned to the curator, her false grin almost reaching her ears. “Do implement the changes I suggested, if your pride allows it.”

He kissed the hand she offered, almost drunk with relief, and as he straightened up he once again caught the shine of her earrings in the light.

“It has been a illuminating experience,” he replied, successfully removing any trace of irony from the statement. “And may I just say, Madame, your earrings are truly exquisite.”

To his surprise she rewarded him with her first genuine smile of the evening. “Monsieur, that is the first intelligent thing you have said all night.”

He was bound by chivalry to see her to the door, but as soon as she had slipped back into the streets he made a beeline towards the conservator.

“What do you think?” he demanded.

The conservator considered the emerald earring in his hand. “I think that if this turns out to be paste, then you can burn my degree.”

It was like angels had descended from on high.

“I knew it,” the curator whispered, and then shouted, “I knew it!” He pumped his fist in the air; he had never thought to do that before, but now he understood why people did. “That puffed up old, old fox! How dare she?!”

“Our Lady didn’t warn you she was coming?” The conservator asked, placing the case back over the re-authenticated gems. “That’s unlike her.”

“Well,” the curator reasoned, “the exhibition is close at hand, and time is of the essence…”

“Of course,” the conservator replied, but the curator saw his eyes narrow at one of the other displays.

“What’s wrong?” the curator asked, hysteria seeping back into his voice. It should all be over, it should be done. “What else could possibly be wrong?!”

“Can you turn the alarm off?” the conservator asked, walking over to the offending items.

“It’s already off. She set it off when she tore the case off of the display!”

The conservator considered the gems within, then pushed open the glass and fished out the contents with a practiced hand.

Newly exposed, the Moonlit Tears sparkled in the light.

There was a terrible, stuttering silence.

The conservator smashed the jewels against the ground, shattering them into a million pieces.

“For the love of God, man!” the curator cried out, leaping back in shock. “Those were priceless artifacts!”

The conservator shot him a look bordering on professional disdain. “A moonstone wouldn’t break so easily, sir. Those were glass.”

“That can’t be. That can’t be!” The curator fell to his knees, willing the scattered dust on the carpet to somehow be whole again. He had fought so hard against her at every turn, and now all of his work, all of his ambition, was crushed as finely and as surely as the forged Moonlit Tears.

“It’s almost poetic,” he said out loud.

“Maybe that’s what the paper’s for,” the conservator observed. “Your tragic poem.”

The comment was so absurd it snapped the curator out of his wallowing. “The what?”

“That paper,” the conservator repeated, gesturing towards the debris. Sure enough, among the glittering shards was a single pearl-white scroll, so minuscule that it was a miracle the conservator had even spotted it.

“Conservator,” the curator said, as if in a trance. “Give me your magnifying glass.”

The conservator pressed it into his hand. The curator didn’t even bother to get up before unfurling the scroll with the tips of his fingernails. It read:

My dearest M. Curator,

It was my sincerest pleasure to share in your company tonight. Men of your heightened self-worth and keen sense of hierarchy are so hard to come by these days, as the blue blood begins its inevitable return into the red veins of the peasantry. Fret not about this invasion of your castle- it is the nature of foxes to steal into even the securest of fortresses, and I am no exception.

I’ve returned the Tears to their rightful owners (the descendants of that “invading horde,” as you so charmingly put it). The same people that felled a dynasty, only to discover that the new world order was much the same as the old. But that is my own affair; all I ask from you is that you consider your place in that order, now that such a priceless heirloom has been snatched out from under your nose.

I do hope your employer appreciates your blind loyalty enough to overlook this lapse of judgment; after all, he liked you enough to ignore your complete lack of artistic sense. Therefore I commend you to the care of the Marquis and his wife, who are not fit to lick my boots but are surely capable of tossing you out into the street, my dear, poor M. Curator. It is my dearest wish that you find happiness amongst another’s stolen treasures, until I see fit to relieve you of them.

Unless, of course, you’ve reconsidered where your loyalties truly lie.

All of my love to you and M. Conservator,

Mme. Renard

P.S. Do take note of the quality of this paper, as it is far superior to that mille-feuille of wood pulp you call a guestbook.

The paper rolled itself back up as soon as the curator lifted his fingers.

He could see his career path laid out before him, twisting itself into a crossroads. He should call the Marquis, admit to his hubris, exit from this glittering collection and all of his hard work with the dignity befitting his station. Or…

Where do your loyalties lie?

“My friend,” he said, his voice sounding like it was coming from very far away, “how good are you at creating forgeries?”