CHAPTER TEN
The Play of Mice
"But you are the only one here, I fear, who truly cares for beauty and the beautiful. You are the only one that has a soul that is willing to embrace beauty and happiness without pretence. That is why, I am certain, you are such a beautiful young woman. You allow splendour to live within you and it blossoms within your bosom."
Ghislaine flushed pale alizarin.
From her patio perch that morning, Madame Ferland watched her daughter walk alongside the boyish painter in the distance. The mother's arms, uncommitted, were crossed about her torso. She did not sigh, as she imagined what conversations the young people might be undertaking, but nor did she smile. She watched in sceptical silence. They would not be aware of her, she knew, because young people never were. They only thought of themselves and what they wanted for themselves. This Boniface Roy was worse than most though. He made every point of being the center of every moment with his flamboyant costumes and flattering swagger. Madame Ferland possessed little faith that her daughter would be resistant to the charms of that seducer. Still though, she could not utterly disavow the notion that he might be the right man for her daughter. It was, she felt, too early to be certain. Could she deny her child a suitor on the grounds that he was a painter? Jacqueline knew the hypocrisy of that would break her. She did not regret her marriage with Ambrose. It was a good union and they loved one another as was appropriate. The family was not wealthy nor were they starving. The value of Monsieur Roy would need to be assessed in the merits of his talents and, perhaps most importantly, the likelihood of his applying them. There seemed every chance that this young indolent would never settle down to a life of industry, but Jacqueline was not letting this summer pass without using it to fully assess the prospects of Boniface.
In her small notebook, careful records were kept of Boniface's hours. The woman watched, quietly and without comment, and kept records. She knew when Boniface wasted a day at play and she knew when he worked the night through. When she could not register the boy's movements, she would mark down the progress of his paintings. If work was done then she was satisfied and it went into the book with positive praise. Over the three days since M. de Grenville had left for Paris, Madame Ferland's notes showed M. Roy painting less and spending more time with Ghislaine, Madame de Grenville, and even the maid.
Montaigne was not watched. He, Madame Ferland had determined, was entirely out of the question. Her daughter would not marry any such pig regardless of what his potential income and prospects might have been. Further to that, nothing of merit was being produced in the conservatory. It was nearly primitive what that man painted. Monsieur Montaigne was childish in art, temperament, and habits.
The couple, noted Madame Ferland, was paused now at the end of the garden and with a sweeping arm, the young man was describing some aspect of nature to the daughter. No doubt he was projecting much enthusiasm for the growing world in his praise but, wondered the woman, was there a more certain spirituality in his soul? Was he simply a worshipper after the fashions of romanticism and humanism or was there, in his soul, a love of the Lord?
While Boniface was declaring some appropriately spectacular philosophy to his student, Ambrose shuffled out onto the patio to take his place at his wife's side.
"Do you see them there?" she asked of him.
"I do. Are we content with their movements?" asked the old man.
She was content and she told him so. Nothing witnessed had been untoward or hastened. The young gentleman had been on his best behaviour, at least while in full sight of the mother's platform. There had been a moment when the hedges concealed the couple but Jacqueline knew her daughter. If anything untoward had occurred, she'd have emerged from hiding all blushed and fawning. She was incapable of deception. Jacqueline asked her husband's opinion of the lad.
"I cannot call him 'decent' or 'good'. I would affix on him the labels 'talented' and 'confident'."
"Will he one day own a fortune?"
Ambrose knew the weight of that question and answered with some spirit, saying, "At least so much as ours."
"We ought to wish better."
"We do."
"So we do."
For a time they remained, the two together, keeping an eye on that other pair. In one moment Ghislaine waved up the hill to her parents with all appearance of good cheer and then, taking his friend by the hand, Boniface led her around the corner and beyond the line of sight of the adults. Now the mother sighed.
Ambrose asked, "How go your machinations, my dear? Will you propel these forces at one another with enough inertia to cause a union or will they shatter upon one another, being resistant?"
Jacqueline never understood the levels of her husbands wandering metaphors but she had long since learned to cut through them to the heart of the issue. It was, after all, his nature to ever overcomplicate. If something were simple, he would say, it had not been studied enough.
"I am without schemes. I will let the boy make up his own mind. He is not any prize that we cannot find better elsewhere." Ambrose nodded and allowed his wife to continue. "There is no need to hurry. She is young yet and, if everything works well for him this summer, my dear, then it will also work well for you. Either way, you will benefit by his improvement. Were I then to scheme, it would only be to watch him."
"You watch everyone."
"Someone must. Should we go for a walk around the house?"
"Perhaps, but we should proceed clockwise so that we will intersect their path rather than pursue them."
"As you say."
The husband and his wife did intercept Boniface and Ghislaine during their leisurely circuit and, perhaps to everyone's surprise, they found them to be entirely innocent in activity and bearing. More surprising still was Boniface's begging off at that time, passing Ghislaine to her parents with all the grace of a gentleman yet with the semblance of some boy discarding a toy that he had grown weary of.
Lunch on that day was a light affair, enjoyed on the patio. Everyone but Jacqueline was in high spirits. Madame Ferland, indeed, had been growing more quiet and less responsive to merriment these past few days. Ambrose was cheerful enough despite the moods of his wife, for he was working well and that always brightened him. He was, over the meals, quite animated and expansive upon his painterly pursuits. He could, by enthusiasm if not insight, lure both Montaigne and Boniface into wide ranging conversations on all manner of topics from aesthetic philosophy to natural biology. Today, Madeleine was joining into these topics with unrestrained eagerness. The departure of her husband had unchained her. She was now allowed, even though her husband never would have forbidden her, to let fly her light intellect and passion for discussion. Ghislaine followed Madeleine's lead and though she was ill-equipped, endeavoured to drop questions if not insights into the dialogues. This seemed to sour her mother's mood all the more but pretty Ghislaine did not care.
Charles was eating and drinking with less restraint than was normal. He was laughing (laughing!) at the table and seeming to get along now with everyone. It did not seem to matter that all of the painters were imbued with energy to create, on this day they kept themselves at the table well into the afternoon. It was Madame Ferland's rising that finally broke the spell and, as ashamed as errant schoolboys, the men ran back to their workrooms. Even Adele was caught in the enchantment. As she cleared away the dishes she shared a few jests with Madame de Grenville who remained alone after.
When she did rise, Madeleine spun and twirled an elegant circle, dancing away from the table. Her heart swelled as though she had scored some kind of triumph. She knew too that it was going to remain this way for several days. Spinning another arc across the patio, somewhat smoothly through the patio doors and into the dining room, she stopped before a mirror there and arranged herself as best she could. Her face had to look as bright as her spirit felt and it did.
Madeleine's visage was aglow as she slipped through the door to the sitting room. Boniface was not yet returned so with fair flighty, soundless steps she floated to the painting that he had left there. She had to lift a coverlet to see that he was indeed painting her, proudly naked upon the grass. The flesh was wonderfully done. It was so richly hued and it was imbued with a marvellous luminescence. He made her body appear more than merely beautiful but naturally sensual. It made her yearn to caress her own rendered flesh, but she daren't, knowing that it would smear the perfect painted strokes. He had started in on the woman's face and, contrary to her wishes, she knew in a heartbeat that it was her face that was going to be looking out from the canvas. It was going to have a challenging stare, daring the world to look away from her nudity. The face would be brazen and bold, proud of its sex, for a great artist had declared it to be wonderful. There would be an intellect in those eyes too, she knew. That would be the real, final power of the painting when it showed this sensual beauty fully aware of its power. This was no nude lounging on the lawn. This was a Goddess ready to strike men blind with her arrogant divinity.
She was enraptured by the image that might be there when this man was finished. Boniface was seducing her with her own potential and she was happily being pulled in. This was going to be a masterpiece and she was going to be a part of that. It could never have happened without her. Boniface's glory would be her doing. They would share in it.
"Do you like it?" asked the artist behind her. He had entered quietly but made no pretence toward stealth. She had simply not been able to take her senses from her celebration. Madeleine did not need to turn away from the painting to know that it was Boniface behind her. She knew also, from his quiet, less than boisterous tone, that he was alone. It was his intimate voice, his voice reserved for a woman alone. She did not turn to answer him.
"It is wonderful. You are a master." Madeleine spun then and threw herself against the breast of Boniface to embrace him. "Oh God, I am so happy for you. It really is wonderful."
At first, Boniface was stunned by this advance and embarrassed. It was too much. He was no fool though when it came to women and he did not rebel against her overtures nor even seek to temper them. His arms slipped around her waist and held her. With his cheek pressed against hers, he murmured quietly, "You honour me. I thank you, Madeleine."
She heard her name from his lips, and felt the breath of that word brush past the hair on her neck. She took in the perfumed aroma of the man, mixed with the high scent of turpentine and oil paint. His young hands were around her waist but they did not close. He had his tools in one hand and he could not set them aside for her and knowing this, she held him tighter still. Her neck, in its white collar, rolled happily. Madeleine at this moment was without guilt and without shame. Her feelings of happiness would entirely, ruthlessly quell any rebellion of respectability that rose out of her heart. Nothing might be allowed to drive away the happiness that she felt in the here and now.
And that is what Ghislaine saw from the window. It had been a simple walk that she had sought, without any thought to spying, but the movement of Madeleine's bright white dress within the sitting room had captured her attention. Now she could not look away. She had too seldom spied real lovers and the enthusiasm that she saw in this forbidden, shameful love was as exciting to her as ever she had been witness to.
Ghislaine lingered a minute longer to peer through the panes, but now her imagination half carried her into the arms of Boniface. It was envy that first blew its breath upon the back of Ghislaine's neck. It was loneliness that first stroked her cheek. If the entwined figures elicited a longing in the center of this maiden's soul, it was a desire to have someone take hold of her body in such a way. Oh, to be held! Oh, to be wanted.
Noiselessly, the brushes and rags dropped from the hands of Boniface to fall forgotten at the skirts of Madeleine. He held her tenderly, caressing her waist and shoulders through the thin white fabric in slow, gliding, pleasing movements. Then one gentle hand slid slowly along the ribs of Madame de Grenville, brushed against her shrouded, unbound breast, and touched two fingertips to the hollow at the small of her throat. Ghislaine, with parted, rounded mouth, sensed that movement breathlessly. And when those fingers rose to trace a line the length of Madeleine's throat and with faint persuasion angled up her rounded chin - when Boniface pressed in to grant a kiss upon his lover's thirsty lips, Ghislaine's head and heart were overcome. She had seen too much. She spun. She fled. Did Boniface see her fleet movement in the corner of his eye?
The girl's first instinct was to run to the fields, to the riverbank, to the ford, but it was so far away. She made it some distance before she stopped herself and turned about again and again, flinging her arms up in alarm at her vast dissatisfaction. The world was abandoning her, leaving her unpicked when all the other ripe fruit was served up for the happiest of men. Still spinning in this open field, Ghislaine saw so many directions laid out before her. Over any distant horizon was an escape. Down any road, behind any forest grove was a new world where she could be free. But she stopped and saw the house upon the low hill, and knew that her future was there and only there. No other path was open to her. It had to be addressed.
“Why can’t he kiss me?” she cried out. Was she so ugly, so ill-mannered? Why could she not have Boniface – someone like Boniface touch her and kiss her as he had done Madeleine? Was she so unsophisticated? Oh, she was so stupid! Men of intellect want wit and beauty and fine clothes and culture. She had none of those things. She had nothing and so she had no one. She never would have anyone. She would end up like Montaigne, alone and unloved. But no, she did not have Charles’ genius. She did not have his passion. She would be … will be miserable until the end of her days.
She did not run. It was with forlorn and empty steps that she hiked that hillside toward home and family. Her father would have nothing to say to her. Mother would have nothing that Ghislaine had any wish to hear. The three of them just circled, always circled, and never could turn to face the other way. The sitting room would, for certain, need to be avoided. Ghislaine had no wish to spy. She had no wish to see happiness again.
And from whence came that happiness? Monsieur de Grenville had left his wife to her own devices. It had taken his leaving to set her free to find joy. That was what it took to find love. But still, Ghislaine sighed, it was to the house that she must go to abide. The girl recalled, as she so very often did now, that day at the ford, and remembered how it had taken her own mother's absence to make that happen. It is only, she mused, in freedom from those who seek to control us that happiness can be found. Escape is essential, by whatever means. But what had Madame de Grenville said to her: We must be kind to those who love us. See now her kindness to her husband. But no, this was kinder perhaps, to find her happiness in secret. That was what Madeleine had been trying to tell her: To be kind by lying. There is a kindness in lying. There is a love in deceit.
Regaining the patio, Ghislaine stopped once more to survey the world that represented her hope of escape. There was so much promise in those distant horizons, so much hope beyond those hills. She turned her back on it again though and plunged inside the dark interior of the estate. Into the shadows she submerged and down the hallway of doors, past everyone's rooms until she came to the conservatory. For a time she stood there, as tall as she could be, and did not breathe. A small fist was raised and knuckles pointed to the pine but then she let it pass and turned the handle instead.
"Ghislaine."
Her hand flew from the brass handle of the door as though it burned. Caught, Ghislaine spun to face her father there now in the doorway to his bedroom, wearing that ridiculous straw hat of his with the faded green ribbon. No aspect of his expression was accusatory. Instead, it was wrinkled further by deep lines of concern and softened by care.
"You've been crying," he softly said, and for the first time, Ghislaine was aware that it was true. Her eyes, she knew, were red and swollen and there were now on the back of her hand, spoiled drops of tears. The discovery wrenched at her, shamed her and broke her down. She wrapped herself around her father, too tight so that he faltered, and openly wept.
"Oh, Papa," she cried, "Why am I crying? What have I to cry about? Everything... the summer....”
"Come," was his answer, and he moved to draw her back into the bedroom, but nearly instantly he saw the flaw: the girl's mother might come across them there. "Come. We'll go to the library," he said, "You can tell me everything."
The old man and the young maiden supported one another through the narrow doorway and were able to close the library door behind them before any neighbour could respond to the scene in the hallway. Once within, Ambrose held his daughter and allowed her to weep awhile. Anything she said was incoherent and rambling to him. Her distress seemed to have something to do with love and men. Ambrose was possessed of sufficient patience and fortitude to bear out the initial cloudburst of unhappiness and allow the girl to exhaust herself. Only then did he ease her into a chair and release his hold. Soon, she was dabbing at her cheeks with a brilliantly coloured oily rag while he occupied a chair beside and held one flawless, pink hand in his blue and wrinkled palm.
She told him everything.
Boniface was startled by the unheralded intrusion of Charles Montaigne into the sitting room, but reined in his initial impulse to be outraged and defiant. Instead, he swiftly drew a coverlet across his painting and did his utmost to appear convivial.
"Enter, by all means. Do not stand on ceremony," said Boniface. He possessed neither the will nor ability to remove the sarcastic lilt from his tongue.
Charles expected nothing else. "Ambrose has summoned us. He is coming behind me." This caused Boniface's eyebrows to arch without artifice.
The mass of Montaigne plunged into Roland's desk chair which gave a frightened creak, while into the solvent was dipped the brush of Boniface and it chimed as it swished within the glass jar when that fair painter replied, "He means, I wager, to scold us for our less than perfect chromatic keys. We are flawed, he shall proclaim."
"No. He seemed angry." Charles opened unlocked desk drawers for distracted inspection.
"Precisely. That lunatic will rant and rave, roil and rolic... rend and revile, if our tonal harmonies are off by but a winter's shade." If the wet brush continued to spin, it was only because Boniface savoured the sound it made.
"No."
There came a slow knock and it was promptly pursued through the entryway by the old man and his beard. The bald brow of Ambrose was so deeply furrowed, his grimace so deep and dour, and his posture so tense that the wit of Boniface briefly took to flight.
"Monsieur Ferland."
"Monsieur Roy. Charles."
"Ambrose."
"Take a seat," commanded Ambrose, "We must talk."
When each of the three was assembled into facing seats, Ambrose crossed his arms over his thin chest and beard. He cast looks at Boniface and Charles and did not sweeten his bitter expression in the least. Charles, still behind the desk, placed clasped hands upon the varnished surface to wait. Boniface though was regaining his nature. He reclined back, legs crossed ankle to knee, and smiled to himself to find faults of ugliness in the aged face of his opposite.
Ambrose charged, "Your behaviour has been ridiculous. Shame!"
Montaigne curled his broad shoulders round and, lowering his head, he cast down his gaze to the desktop's wood grain browns. In defiance, Boniface sprung from his seat theatrically. His tenor was true "How dare you!"
"I dare because I am a father," answered Ambrose on the edge of anger. Thick brows furled above the bridge of the elder's beaked nose. His thin fingers clung to oaken arms of the chair to resolve, "Fathers and friends can say such things. My daughter..."
"Ghislaine? What has Ghislaine... I never ... Charles!" In a flash, Boniface was on the offensive. His anger now gone for glee. "He is the one playing with the affections of your daughter. Look at his drawings!"
Charles tightened his posture but did not raise his gaze to meet either accuser. Colour-stained fists knotted and released and knotted anew. He made no defense.
Ambrose said, "Boniface, sit down."
An unblemished finger swung immediately from Charles to Ambrose with the words, "Do not tell me what to do, you demi-genius!"
Ambrose returned a fierce stare and bit back his words, only saying again, "Sit down, Monsieur Roy."
But Boniface was not finished. Rather, he was inflamed. "I care not if you are a father or a mother or a sister, you do not accuse me... or M. Montaigne, of things which have not been done. You do not think to defame us! You must not dare, old man!" Here he commenced to wield heroic gestures. "No, Monsieur Ferland, you do not look at the young, see their energy and passion, and point boney and bitter fingers at them, as though decrying your own misspent youth. You have no right to judge the living. You, the dead!" He edged forward, aggressive. "And your art is just as dead. It is old and pointless. It is out-of-date... out of style... out of touch. Live, I say, but it is too late for you. And you kill your daughter with your lifeless ways."
The predatory stare of the silver bearded man was fixed upon the animated face of Boniface. Not once did it divert from there to follow flashing fingertips. "Sit down," was his only answer, and it seemed enough, at last, for the furious young man had no fuel to feed his bombast. Boniface fell back into his chair, where he immediately adopted a pose one half petulant and one third defiant.
Still, despite withdrawing, the young painter persisted pressing, saying, "Your daughter has nothing to fear from me. I have made no advances upon her." Then, silently, with a slow roll of his wrist, Boniface directed Ambrose to turn his interrogation toward the large and bearded man to his left.
"M Montaigne," replied Ambrose, "accepts my veracity. He wears his guilt like a threadbare overcoat." And now, indeed, did a boney and accusing finger get pointed at Boniface. "You deny and deflect, refusing to admit any fault... refusing to believe that any are so clever as to see through your deceptions." Ambrose laid out his charges across cracked lips. "You are making love to Madeleine de Grenville. You are trying to seduce the wife of our host, under his hospitality. Shame."
Charles swung his gaze to appraise his adversary and then, again, away. Boniface amended his pose and then answered, "What if I am? It is not your affair."
"It is. It is my affair because it offends me as a man and as a father whose daughter is witness to your brazen advances. It is also the affair of M. de Grenville and M. Montaigne and any decent man of respectability."
Under his breath, Boniface repeated that last word as though he were hearing it for the first time. He uttered "Stay out of it" but none paid heed.
"Each of you has infected my daughter by your beguilings. You dishonour her."
"I have not touched your daughter!"
The answer from Ambrose was not poetic, "You have taken hold of her heart."
A dull bang snapped the attention of both antagonists toward Montaigne. It was made by the stout mahogany case, lifted from a drawer, being set down indelicately upon the desk top. After the clatter, it swung open noiselessly on well-oiled hinges but Charles allowed the lid to once more smack the desk, perhaps for dramatic effect. Each could equally see what lay inside the wooden box: a pair of pistols, seated within green velvet precision-frames, with blued octagonal barrels and percussion cap mechanisms. Their wooden handles, hand-carved to floral designs, were stained a dark rich walnut hue. Neatly filling the space around the weapons were all manner of rods, tools, and cleaning equipment. A bullet mould and powder flask were also present.
They were all three silent, those artists. They were all three understanding the import of this tabled proposal. The men confronted themselves wordlessly before the weapons of honour. First, Ambrose breathed, "Ridiculous." Boniface tied his legs in knots and leaned forward to study the dark brow of Charles. He would wait for the dealer to play before bidding, but Charles in turn, only glowered at Ambrose, despising him for his hastily discarded hand.
"We are modern men, of a modern age," said Boniface finally and then, "We are civilized."
Ambrose snapped back, "Civilized? You think your behaviour civilized?"
"It is modern."
Charles said, "There was talk of honour."
"This is serious!" Boniface was on his feet and then back into his seat. Exasperated, his fine fingers fretted at his blond hair. "Are you trying to see us killed? He's right; it is ridiculous."
And Ambrose then, "I may have spoken too quickly."
The heavy hands of Charles gripped the case of pistols firmly, yet with something akin to reverence. The black of his eyes reflected the other troubled countenances. Settee and lounge chairs were shrouded in off-white, unseen. Undraped windows showed an empty green lawn and garden to no viewers. Pastel wallpaper went on unobserved. No thought was given to the unfinished masterpiece.
"You cannot be serious. I do not wish to shoot anyone." protested Boniface. Then he was at a loss for words. Sitting back, Ambrose seemed to calm and took the time to ruminate upon previously unconsidered options. Charles selected steel callipers from the case and slid them to his eye for study.
When Boniface next spoke, he would rue the decision, "I wager that none of us even know how to load them."
"I know how," said Charles, changing neither focus nor inflection.
Ambrose steepled his fingertips and narrowed his eyes. He too had no experience with black powder, but he was not going to say any such thing at present. Naive to handling procedures, he had quickly assessed the relational ramifications of loaded pistols on a tabletop. There would be time enough for that truth. The mechanics that he was now trying to master were the social manoeuvres that would achieve his desired ends without either those firearms becoming discharged. He owned no desire to ever know the weight of those weapons.
"Is either of you seeking Ghislaine's hand?"
Charles promptly shook his head. The idea was impossible. Boniface was uncomfortable in his response, saying after a pointed pause, "I never suggested to her that I was."
"Are you? Do not play coy."
Boniface though could not so cleanly commit. He gave an exaggerated shrug of his ochre-clothed shoulders. The danger had apparently passed, but this might be some trap being laid by the wily elder. Clearly no harm could come from leaving all of his options open. Furthermore, if M. Ferland believed him to be a potential suitor, it could only be advantageous. He checked his hand and selected trump. Flattery never failed him.
"Your daughter, M. Ferland, is a splendid young woman. She is clever, charming, resourceful, and delicate." Beautiful would have been too much. "I must debate my own worth before I allow myself to imagine so wonderful a woman for my wife..." Wife is such an ugly word, he thought, too late and so amended, "... my beloved betrothed."
Ambrose pushed phlegm about his tongue and sucked air through failing teeth. Charles settled the callipers into their carefully cut place in green velvet. Boniface was watching them both when Charles lifted out one loaded pistol by its walnut grip. He hefted the thing and took aim beyond his companions, instead toward an oriental lampshade with extravagant red fringe. In the face of these antics, Boniface tried to adopt an even more casual seated posture, which allowed him to lean further back and away from the line of fire. Ambrose tensed and did not move. Through pursed lips, he muttered "Put that away, Charles"
Charles did not lower his weapon. "You will cease your advances on Mad... Madame de Grenville." The tip of the pistol quivered and Charles closed his left eye to confirm his aiming point on the not distant lampshade.
A deep intake of the aroma of Hungarian cologne might have given Boniface new courage. He answered Charles, saying "I will swear to do what Madeleine demands of me." With his second hand then, Charles pulled back the hammer until the sweet second click sounded with oiled smoothness.
Ambrose sprung, not spry, for the gripped weapon. The barrel swung at the startled face of Boniface when Charles pulled away. With a gasp, the blond hurled himself to the ground. Montaigne stumbled backward from chair to his feet and levelled the pistol alternately until Ambrose returned to his seat, having failed. They all remained there, poised for another act, and they all saw the violent shaking of the pistol in Charles' tight fist. They each knew what next must occur to end the scene.
"Boniface!" urged Ambrose.
Carefully, slowly, Boniface straightened his body to full height. Then, raising the point of his chin, somehow found composure to say, "Gentlemen, you have made your point. I will act the gentleman." Then, with an elegant nod, he went further, "I will leave the ladies be."
The heavy, dark beard of Montaigne barely bulged with his terse nod. Ambrose answered, "Very good" but pizzicato reverberations of tension strung on through the salon. A brief and merry laugh from Boniface allowed them all to feign a fleeting smile, so that Charles could slide the hammer forward on that pistol with sobriety, before sending it to its moulded grave. The case clicked close like a sigh. Without negotiation, the pistol set was returned exactly to where it had been found: in the drawer of the desk. No lock would secure it there.
Then, with the bravado of one wielding a pistol, Boniface insisted, "You gentlemen have made your point. You will now take your exit. I have work to do." They left him be, with neither one of them offering apology nor any word of social nicety in their departure. Ambrose and Charles, in the narrow hall, parted to their separate work rooms without indications of confederacy or even familiarity. In the corners of the house, dinner was being prepared by Adele and Madame Ferland while Ghislaine threw bread crumbs to the swans. On the patio, Madeleine tried to read a certain Tyrolean Romance but was determining it to be insufficient distraction for her imagination.
Later that day, with his paintbrushes in hand and an empty evening-lit room about him, Montaigne stared at the less than half finished piece of art. There on the new canvas was testament to his potential. He knew it to be very good: the best he had ever done but it was not finished. The swan, the greenery, the grass and the other symbolic objects that would need to be painted in, they were all undone and by that, he saw his own ruin. He could not hope to match the nude that he had painted over the previous two days. He daren't! To try would be to ruin what had been done. There only existed the possibility of failure.
Alone before the canvas, he was also small. He was not great enough to finish the work and in not finishing, he knew that he was failing the art. No! If he did it before, he could do it again. He must recapture the moment and apply himself with the same passion and energy. He had to put fire into his fists and hurl lightning. Great must the man become. The potential had been shown and it was time grow into the skin of a master painter.
Grey without black, Montaigne mixed his whites for the swan. Pale blues and faint pinks were set to the sides. A golden yellow was allowed. From the tube was squeezed out great globs of purest titanium white. Brushes were cleaned vigorously so that no trace of corrupt colour remained hidden between the hairs. He sat back and tried to visualize his bird. Where did it curve? Where did it arc? Which wing reached forward? Drawings were pulled out and tacked to the top of his easel. There was all manner of variety of swan drawn thereon and he took to his mental map the elements of each that he desired, that the picture required. He was ready.
There was a deep intake of breath before the brush was slowly lifted toward the unpainted space that was reserved for the great bird. It stopped though, hovering with white paint poised to drip from the glistening bristles. Oh what possibilities that paint contained; what failures were loaded upon that shovel. The tool was slapped back into the thick puddle of gooey paint.
The man rose and paced and froze. It was the energy that he had to get back. More than the excitement though, there had to be a focus. What he had achieved, perhaps, was due entirely to the funnelling of his furious passions through the narrow channel that was the tip of his brush. It was like some vast pile of wood, set ablaze by red hot coals, and so setting a massive steel sphere of water to a bubbling boil. Capped in, it is released and the steam power then pushes forward onto the canvas with fury and majesty. He had the fire. He had the desire. He could feel the passion churning within his soul but there was something blocking, something preventing the release. When he took up his hand to paint, there was only impotence.
Grasping at his tangled hair and gnawing on stray beard, Charles fretted the evening away.
*
Boniface finished his counted paces and spun about, flinging his forearm forcibly out and struck so manly a pose as ever he might, but the mass of the firearm, so wildly thrust, had left him aiming well low and far aside his Madonna.
So again.