musicians of old

Chapter 799 Nikolayevich

On the occasion of separation.

Nancy soon understood what "that feeling" Fanning was talking about.

Surrounded by the pleading and expectant eyes of many children, I had to let go and leave.

"Boris, let them go, otherwise they will be scolded." Only the little girl Lianka, whom Nancy had just hugged, spoke crisply.

She walked over and reached out, trying to pull the two-year-old boy who was holding on to Fanning's legs and refused to let go.

He behaved like a little adult, but his eyes were red.

"Oh, do you know him?" Fanning asked the little girl with a forced smile.

"He's my brother, his name is Boles," said Lianka.

"Lianne Capoules," Fanning muttered.

"Director Lerici just glanced at me, and probably at you too." Nancy looked around far behind her, let out a depressed sigh, hugged the siblings tightly again, then lifted her skirt and walked away quickly.

"Big brother, will you and big sister come to play with us again?" Fanning left the court a little late and was asked to stop by Lianka.

"Yes, come over when you have time."

"What if there's no time?"

"."

Fanning didn't know what to say.

"Big brother, I have something to give you." Finally, Lianka raised a little hand and looked at him eagerly.

"What is this?" Fanning looked at the silver "mini flute" in front of him that was smaller than the little girl's palm.

"This is the treasure my mom picked up when we were playing by the river. I'm giving it to you. Come play with us next time." Lianka said with a serious look.

"Okay, thank you." Fan Ning finally couldn't help laughing and put it away carefully in front of her.

The carriage convoy had already gathered in front of the workhouse gate. While counting the number of people before leaving, Nan looked at the gate and said softly, "The last time I came here two years ago, I seemed to have seen their mother."

"Huh?" Fan Ning turned around.

"Their mother used to work in a watch factory. She lost her job two years ago. When she brought Lianka to the workhouse, her health was already very poor and she was pregnant. She probably died after giving birth to Boles." Nancy suddenly didn't know why her memory was so clear. "I hope I can have a chance to visit these two siblings again. Do you?"

"Of course." Fan Ning was stunned, then nodded.

"I haven't asked you your name yet." The brown-haired girl in charge of the auction asked again.

"Just call me Fanning," Fanning said.

Nancy nodded and got into another carriage.

In the evening, a rainstorm swept through the sweltering Vienna.

The dusk spread across the sky like ink, the heavy rain lashed the spire of St. Stephen's Cathedral, and the turbid waves of the Danube surged in the distance.

The hot and humid air, carrying the scent of withered tulips and aged parchment, seeped into the crowded crowd under the arch of the VanderSchaaf Collection. The crystal light balls on both sides reflected the warm light, stretching the shadows of the guests' gorgeous clothes on the dripping marble floor.

"Please show your invitation. The main door will be locked at 7pm sharp. Cleaning staff will be on both sides of the door."

The attendants in scarlet uniforms with gold trims were like puppets wound up with a string, mechanically repeating those three or five short sentences.

"Thank you."

The Russian duke's dark windbreaker brushed against the Persian carpet, splashing mud and condensing into dark dewdrops on the gold-threaded edges. After a polite thank you, he grumbled about the weather.

"Damn, the rain is so heavy."

Behind them, the ladies lifted up their rain-soaked taffeta skirts, revealing the tips of their shoes adorned with pearls under their lace petticoats. They stepped carefully several times, but in the end they still stepped into the puddle that reflected the broken light.

"Mr. Vincent."

"Good evening, Mr. Painter."

"I wish your 'Swing' series of works will set a new market high tonight." Vincent, who had appeared in the poorhouse in the afternoon, came again as promised. His works have a relatively heavy weight in tonight's auction and exhibition schedule.

"Please show your invitation. The door will be locked at 7:30 p.m." The waiter's greeting was still polite and mechanical.

When stepping onto the welcome carpet, Vincent suddenly stopped.

"Boom card——"

Lightning cut through the night sky and rain curtain, illuminating the entire city as bright as day.

Vincent felt as if there were some eyes cast down in the shadow of the box on the third floor, but when he looked up, he only saw the reflection of the swaying candlelight on the gilded railing.

"It will be too late if you don't enter the venue now, my friend."

Behind me, I heard the sound of Austrian speaking clearly.

Vincent looked back.

Two people pushed a wheelchair closer, and sitting in the wheelchair was a young man wearing a high-necked white shirt and a pure black suit. He was wearing a plaid tie, no glasses, had short black hair combed into a cloud, and had a wide, upturned mustache on both sides of his lips.

Nikolayevich Squiyaben, the chief appraiser employed by the VanderSchaaf Collection at a high salary, is well versed in cultural relics and art history.

It will be too late if you don’t enter the market now?
Vincent's eyes met his.

“Gah!——”

A loud shout broke the silence in the air.

There was a colorful macaw standing on the wooden pole of the high-ceilinged lobby, its huge beak shining, and its two eyes staring at the people below.

"I'm Vincent, nice to meet you." The painter finally spoke.

"Just call me Nikolayevich." The chief appraiser made a "please" gesture to let him go first.

Two minutes will pass when these last two guests enter.

The iron-clad oak door closed quietly before anyone noticed, isolating the heavy rain into a vague background sound.

It was not until ten minutes later, when six guards worked together to pull down the iron bars of the seldom-used gate outside, that the teeth-grinding noise finally drowned out the noisy laughter of the guests.

what the hell?.
Isn’t this “no admission at 7:” too “formal”?
The gentlemen and ladies looked at each other.

An Italian collector took out a match and tried to push open the small door leading to the smoking room, but the sword-wielding guard smiled and bowed to lead the way inside.

In the generally confused air, a subtle atmosphere began to ferment. The ladies fanned their folding fans a little faster, and many people began to ask questions and discuss privately.

"Please forgive me, distinguished guests."

At this time, the captain of the guard bowed and spoke in the Mirrored Corridor, and everyone looked in the direction of his voice. His voice was polite and elegant, like silver wrapped in velvet.

“We need to better protect the Prudence Heritage treasures from outsiders, and with the royal envoys present, no one is allowed to enter during the event - this is the purest opportunity to appreciate art.”

This explanation put everyone at ease, and the sounds of conversation and laughter gradually resumed in the corridors.

The lights in the auction hall gradually dimmed, and spotlights illuminated two positions on the central podium. After Director Lerici gave his opening speech, he gave the venue to the hammer bearer and the appraiser.

Nancy, in a white dress, stood in the middle.

Nikolayevich was sitting in a wheelchair on the side, his knees covered with a silver fox fur blanket, and tools such as ivory calipers and gold-plated magnifying glasses were shining coldly.

"Lot 19, Rembrandt's sketch of The Anatomy Lesson, consignor, an anonymous aristocratic friend," said Nikolayevich.

Nancy pulled back the curtain, revealing gloomy charcoal lines on yellowed paper, and the crowd gasped in admiration.

"It is undoubtedly an authentic work, but please look at the slightly damaged palm print here. Master Rembrandt was good at using light and shadow, and the dark parts often retained the texture of the fabric, but this draft was painted dead black. I'm afraid that some posterity tried to repair the damaged picture but ended up doing something bad with good intentions."

In the silence of the audience, Nikolayevich sighed like the low sound of a church organ: "The original painting of The Martyrdom of Saint Bartholomew that failed to be sold at the Amsterdam auction last year was also caused by a similar defect."

The attendant showed the unsold records at the right time, and potential buyers exchanged glances.

The original value of this authentic painting was between 2000 and 3000 florins, but the guests' enthusiasm for bidding and increasing the price was greatly reduced.

In the end, it was kindly "covered" by the collection itself at the price of 600 florins.