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I couldn't do it.

There were many opportunities that morning. We sat at the wooden table in the house talking for more than an hour, Yvette holding my hand the entire time, staring into my face as if I were a miracle. They knew Grandpa had died. His will had left them a series of payments to be made until their deaths, and even some money for their family afterward. They asked many questions about him: how he had been over the last few years, what his wife had been like, his children, his grandchildren. They said how thankful they were for all he had given them and remarked on how he had been suddenly taken from them; how they hadn't seen him since the moment the Resistance spirited him away in the hay wagon that summer day in 1944. They wanted to know why I had come alone. That took a great deal of explaining. I said that I had been a sort of favorite of my grandfather and that he was an eccentric sort (they laughed when that was translated) and that he had, for some reason, asked in his will that I come alone and that I do exactly as I was told (they laughed at that too). I said that my parents were in Marseilles and I had to keep in touch with them and get back there soon.

And of course, they too asked why he had never come back to see them. I could see tears well up in their eyes. But they insisted they understood. David McLean was an important man, a busy man, a family man.

“Not that busy,” I said quietly. When that was translated, Yvette took my face in her hands and kissed me.

But that was the closest I came to an apology, at least at the house. They invited me to their home near Bellegarde for a meal and wouldn't take no for an answer. So I was bundled back into Monsieur Leblanc's little Citroën and brought to their apartment halfway between their old farm and the village center. Paul was still with us, more than happy to tag along for a meal. I was pleased to see that their place, on the bottom floor of a new complex in one of the new subdivisions, was modern and well furnished, and that their granddaughter, also named Yvette, was looking after them.

“
Votre grand-père payait pour tout cela!
” cried Jean as he proudly showed me around.

“That means, your grandfather paid for all of this, including young Yvette's wage,” said Monsieur Leblanc.

While that was nice to hear, it didn't make up for his staying silent. He had given them thousands when they should have had millions. All throughout dinner—chicken pie and fresh salad followed by sweet pastry from a local bakery—served on their best china, I had a hard time concentrating on the conversation, and not just because it was being translated.

I had to do it. I had to apologize.

I thought of what it might do, of the silence that would ensue, the nearly lifelong bubble it would burst. My grandfather's reputation would be shattered. But this was what he wanted. He wanted it all made right. I also thought of his words in his letter. He had warned me that it would be difficult. But in all my excitement about coming here, of accomplishing his tasks and finally proving myself to him, even from beyond the grave, I hadn't thought enough about just
how
difficult it would be. It was, as he had said, almost impossible.

But I really wanted to achieve it. And I really wanted to move on to the next task. Did I have the courage to do as he asked? I thought about Vanessa and what she would think of me if I accomplished nothing on my mission.

I looked at the two old smiling faces glowing at me.

Three hours later I left their home, after kissing them both on the cheeks (which was definitely the first time I'd ever done anything like that!) and receiving their hugs and taking in Yvette's heartfelt tears. All without revealing my grandfather's secret.

I felt like a failure.

But as Monsieur Leblanc drove me back to Arles that night I wondered if I had really failed. Would I have felt even remotely like I'd been successful if I had told those two wonderful old people the truth? That, at least, was what I told myself.

When I reached the hotel I sat on the bed for a long time, just looking out my little window over Arles, home of Vincent Van Gogh. I kept rationalizing what I had done (or not done, really), and after an hour or so, with the sun beginning to set, I started to convince myself that I had completed the first task.

“There is no way,” I said out loud, “had he been there with me in their home today, that he would have wanted me to tell them.” I told myself that several times. Then I pulled the big manila envelopes and the little white one out of my suitcase and set them on the bed beside me.

I really,
really
wanted to open the next one.

I had gone there. I had spoken to the Noels. I had actually been in the little house and the barn. I had even seen the painting. I had done all that I could. He would have wanted me to go on to the next task.

Then I started thinking about the painting.
It was
still there.
The building was about to be demolished.

In another hour I had made a decision. I got into bed and lay there, wide awake, throughout the night.

In the morning, I asked the concierge to hail me another cab and told the driver to take me to Bellegarde. But when I was halfway there, far out into the countryside, and could see the slight elevation in the distance where the little farmhouse was, I asked to be let out. The driver gave me a strange look. We were still on a busy highway. But he pulled over and out I got.

It was a hot day in southern France, and I must have walked several miles along the side of that highway. I had chosen to wear my jacket, despite the heat—it was part of my plan. When I came to the little side road that led to the farmhouse, I paused. But then I kept moving, right up to the overgrown yard and into the barn.

Though it was silent inside, I could hear the sounds of the long-dead animals that had lived there, of the Nazi planes buzzing overheard, of the Milice racing their vehicle to this house, trying to find my grandfather. And when I listened very carefully, I could hear him breathing through his straw, terrified.

I could also feel his excitement when he saw that painting, and feel the pain in his heart when he made his decision. I stepped toward it. I could, at least, take it into my hands, brush back the grime and look at it.

I wiped the cobwebs away, gently pulled the crude homemade frame off the barn boards and took it into my hands. As I brushed more grime away, the yellow, the reds, the blues, began to glow. It was absolutely stunning. How could anyone ever have thought that this masterpiece was junk? It was so beautiful.

It was also nearly invaluable. During the years since my grandfather had been here, Van Gogh's paintings had become almost priceless. His work was now among the world's most valuable—only Picasso's art rivaled it. I had done some investigating online after I read Grandpa's letter. I looked down at the word
VINCENT
now evident on the striking baby-blue vase in his picture.

How many
millions
of dollars was I holding in my hands?

I was completely alone. No one knew about this. No one knew I had it.
No one.

I unzipped my jacket, put the painting inside, zipped it back up and walked out the door.

The guilt overwhelmed me as I trudged down the road toward the highway, but it didn't stop me. I began making my argument, out loud.

“This is an impossible situation. I
cannot
tell them, but it is ridiculous to leave the painting there. It will be destroyed during the demolition. That wouldn't be right. Would it really make sense to break their hearts or do a great disservice to art, to history?”

No.

I sped up and was now sort of marching.

“I will keep it, somehow, and not tell anyone. Then ten years from now, I will make up a story about how I got it. Perhaps I purchased it in a flea market or found it…yes,
found
it in a Dumpster or something. Or I could make another trip to France and say I found it then. And when I sell it, I will give a great deal of what I make to the Noels' children, to their grandchildren, whose lives will be changed. And I could still keep millions. I could buy Vanessa anything.”

I reached the highway. Little French cars buzzed past me. It was a long walk back to Arles. I tucked the painting farther down into my jacket and began to move at a brisker pace, almost running.

“This is the only solution, the best solution. Everyone will benefit.”

A loud sound came toward me from behind and I nearly jumped out of my skin. I recognized it. I wasn't sure why. Probably because I had heard exactly that same thing in movies set in France. It was the sound of a French police car. They don't wail like our sirens, high-pitched and frightening. They are frightening in a different way, blaring one short note then one long, over and over again.

I turned around and saw the police car. My heart raced. Then I realized that it couldn't be coming after me. Then, I was sure that it was!

I started to run. Not a good move. The cruiser (though that's a generous word, since French police cars are about the size of American riding mowers) kept coming after me, pulling over to the narrow shoulder and zipping right up behind me. Finally I stopped, foolishly clutching at the painting inside my jacket. How did they know? Were they watching the farmhouse?

“
Bonjour
,” said the cop who got out of the car. “
Américain?
” I thought he looked angry.

“
Oui
,” I said, my voice cracking, as I pulled out my passport and handed it over. That's what Mom and Dad had said to do if I ever got into trouble.

“Why are you running?” he asked, examining it with a frown. I was glad that he at least spoke English.

“No—no reason.”

“No reason?” He looked me up and down. I was certain that he paused at my midsection, where I clutched the painting close to my chest. I wondered if the wise thing was to simply hand it over.

“Do you realize how serious your crime is?”

“I…I…” I had totally lost the ability to speak.

“Not,” he said with a smile, “all that serious.” He handed the passport back.

“Huh?”

“You must not walk along the side of a freeway in
la France
,
mon ami
. Get in. I shall take you to your residence.”

“You—”

“Tell me: are you a fan of Kobe Bryant?”

“Kobe?”

“Yes, a fine sportsman. I like. But, you know, I do not think he could ride a bicycle well, which is the most difficult of all the athletics. Lance Armstrong: now there is
un Américain sensationnel!
”

He clapped his hand on my shoulder and ushered me into the back of the cruiser, where I sat hunched over, the painting digging into my gut, listening to him and his partner as they went on about American sports heroes. My heart never stopped pounding. In less than ten minutes, they had dropped me at the hotel.

“Monsieur Américain, stay away from such bad crimes while you are here,” the cop said with a grin as they roared off. “Keep your nose washed!”

I slinked up the stairs to my room, sure that everyone in the hotel knew what I had under my jacket. Once inside my door, I hid the painting at the bottom of my suitcase, under all my clothes. Then I started to pace, back and forth, back and forth, the wooden floor creaking as I moved. I told myself that I had no choice now. I had the painting and I couldn't risk taking it back. Someone might catch me and then
all
—my whole life—would be lost. I would rot in a French jail, guilty of robbery. And I would deserve it. What I had just done was typical of me. My hands were shaking. I had done something incredibly stupid and wrong, and now I had to live with it. I imagined someone coming up here and finding the painting. What, in God's name, had I done?

But after a while, I started to calm down. I used all the arguments I'd employed while walking away from the farmhouse. I could make this into a positive thing for everyone. I had to believe that. The painting was small and it would sail through airport security in my suitcase. Or would it?