CHAPTER TWO
Salome, slumped, sits still and steady with heavy shoulders edging forward. The feminine form is wrapped in too much shimmering orange, giving us only the breasts of this earth mother to ponderously proclaim her gender. If there is beauty about the face of this weighty woman, it is in her attitude rather than her symmetries. Contemplation ennobles. It matters not that while her mind wanders with elsewhere ideas, one of her long-arched fingered hands worries the severed head of John like a spider, slowly, silently, winding silk about a husk. The pressures of those digits, the same that beckoned the headsman, coax the cold and fleshy brow of the Baptist forth and back to form a sadly comic façade of face. He rests now, that too mortal bloody wreck, a dead mass in the dancer’s lap. She ponders though. She muses, she meditates, and so she is redeemed. The glass-glossed eyes of the Saint, so soon past his martyrdom, bear not a whit of introspection, not a hint of intelligence. He stares, this corpse, out of the canvas frame and when the dancer’s diabolic hand draws upward his lifeless lids, those ghosted eyes gaze out at you, who views, and he accuses.
Montaigne was pulled out of his contemplation of the painting by a knock upon his door. He thought first upon who it might possibly be, came to no conclusion, and then half out of curiosity, rose to attend to the intrusion. Salome would wait. Art would ever wait for him, patient and never judging.
Facing Montaigne through the doorway was a gentleman of slight architecture with de rigueur embellishments. Where mortal materials had moderated his volume, a commercial silk top hat elevated his stature, just as a fine tailor had constructed his grandeur. Red cheeks on a pale flesh face were accentuated by the monochromatic costume of the man. Charles though was struck most decisively by the elegantly ridiculous long taper to his visitor's blonde moustache. He had never failed to mark this marvel of vanity. '
With a twirl, the top hat then was deftly doffed.
"My name is Roland De Grenville," clarified the rare figure in the doorway. His manicured frame contrasted disconcertingly with the dilapidated background of the apartment corridor. Charles had not required this formal introduction. The great painters and artists of Paris would not know M. De Grenville but a failing dreamer, a broken craftsman, someone like Charles, knew him by sight. He was a rag collector. He bought from the Salon des Refuses. The depths of his wealth were likely shallow but it was splashed about. A good many desperate artists' had survived a winter from his charity. Charity indeed it seemed to be for there was little talk of his purchases finding him profits.
Charles stepped back and gestured for Hope to enter his world.
"I know you," he said.
M. De Grenville remained resolutely unsmiling as he crossed the threshold. It was such a small room (made more finite with the sealing of the portal) that it required only a pair of long steps before the guest had crossed to where the easel was erected. He silently took up position before Salome. The man patiently, one finger at a time, loosened and removed his white gloves and meanwhile continued to keep his eyes upon the painting. He was quiet. Charles was glad to note that the merchant's head tilted as he assessed the failed work.
He should not approve of it, thought Charles as he shifted his own hands anxiously. His foot began to quickly tap. It was a bad painting. If only he had more time. With more time he could have fixed it. He should direct M. De Grenville to a different work. Perhaps he would like the Sabines, even though it was not yet finished either. His Sabines were stacked against a host of other failed attempts at genius. They faced the wall for he had shunned their faces. They brought shame to his heart.
Still, the man stood and seemed like some solemn sentinel of time, surrendering up his tomorrows to ward over this one enduring moment that was their common now. For Charles, his morrow was precisely dependant on this prolonged instant. Even now he imagined his morning meal. Another day without at least some bread would mean further faintings and more delirium-induced mistakes. Hunger meant more failure. Hunger wasted him.
Roland's hands idly and neatly, unnecessarily, folded away his gloves and let them drop into the basin of his inverted hat. Perhaps, considered Charles, it was a positive gesture. The buyer made no move to hurry his assessment. His posture spoke of patience; his patience of intensity.
"It is a failure," said the critic.
Charles was surprised to find himself relieved by this judgment. Such is the weight taken off the shoulders of a guilty man when he is condemned for his crimes. No longer is he a liar. No longer is he a sneak. The justice of the world is aright and this sense of order washes warm over the soul of the doomed. He could only nod and mumble uncertain words through the beard that hid his mouth.
"It is not finished," defended Charles, unable to reject his instincts.
Roland did not turn from the painting. He weighed the worth of that argument and responded, saying, "You will never finish it. Never. One day, perhaps, you will undertake another version of it but this... no. You will never finish this one. You hate it."
The painter was stunned. How dare he? How dare he claim to know his mind? There the man stood: weak, defenseless, and so brazenly keeping his back to the artist that he was insulting. Charles' hands could be around the thin throat of this gentleman and full payment could be dealt within moments. Charles balled his fierce fists into two tight mallets. Angry tension writhed its way up his arms, filling his veins and massing those strong arms for action. Payment could be made.
Roland turned to face the tortured Montaigne. His expression was not at all what Charles expected. It was neither smug nor mocking. No, it was sad. More still, Charles could at once see passion playing upon the muscles of the patron's pained face. The anger of Montaigne was thwarted.
"You know exactly what your hands are capable of!" declared De Grenville. "You are failing yourself."
Charles' fingers ground upon themselves and clawed at his clustered palms.
"You are too good a painter..." Roland continued, "...to be satisfied with that. It is not good enough for your genius."
"What do you know of my genius?" challenged Charles. His hands refused to unclench but they were heavy and useless at his side.
De Grenville opened his right palm and held it up. His response was distinctly reassuring "Indeed. I do not know. I believe though that you are holding yourself back. You are torn between your vision, your desires, and your understanding of what art should be... and all of that is crippling you. You have lost your way." De Grenville's gaze rose up to challenge Montaigne's glower.
Charles looked past de Grenville to the unfinished painting and recognized it for what it was. He locked eyes with the dead face between the dancer's powerful thighs and found some truth in the expression that was eternally affixed upon the decapitated self-portrait. That soulless capital was the centerpiece of the work. It was the quiet and calm core of the composition. There, dead in the hands of a murderess, the Baptist had found contentment. Without hands, the corpse was free to fail. He was wallowing contented in his impotence, finally, in death, allowed to fail. And the cutthroat caressed him consolingly. She was more mother than murderess. More Madonna than seductress. Here were Charles' own longings put plain to canvas. The painting was telling him that he yearned to be finally defeated. His way was toward such surrender.
"Are you done?" asked Charles, continuing to study the Baptist's face as a mirror.
Roland turned his palm toward himself and closed his eyes. His fingers, long and lean, were poetically splayed while he pondered his retort. Finally, he found his words and his lashes drew open to appraise the painter's response as he said, "I can offer you salvation. I can offer you a path to achieving all that your soul, your genius, and your talent demands of you."
Charles swung his attention to the fine mouth of the speaker. He noted that the man had complete teeth.
Roland continued, saying, "There is, I believe, a way to create a new renaissance. We, together, can bring about a world where your art, your vision, will be what the masses are clamouring for! Before you write me off as a dreamer, hear me out, I implore you." When the painter said nothing in reply, the buyer took it as acceptance. He was clearly not wholly convinced.
"I have been watching you and a few others. I want to bring all three of you to my estate in Franche-Comte, near Amance for the summer at least. You will be my guests. You will have everything you require… and you will make great art."
Montaigne fretted, “And you would imagine that you own it all."
Roland affected the slightest aura of taking offense but replied, "I had not even thought of it. My interest here is entirely artistic."
Charles' thick eyebrows rose so Roland clarified, "Well, that is not entirely true. I am also interested in helping you three and proving a theory of the Avante Garde."
"How can I trust you?"
"Why should you not? Seem I some monster that seduces promising young artists to his hidden lair to throttle them in the night? Should it not instead be I that fears what unknown evils I am bringing into my wife's home? The truth is perchance that we will each be making reckless leaps of faith. We may all be hapless fools following ridiculous dreams but fools we are in any case, for such must idealists be."
"It is not foolishness to pursue beauty and art," answered Charles.
Roland responded, saying "An intelligent man would be in banking or bureaucracy. An intelligent man would strive to profit at every turn and at every revealed mistake by others. In such a world, such fools are we."
There was a silence between the men now. A myriad of unspoken conversations, arguments, and debates filled the small room. They were each conscious of their probable differences in backgrounds, politics, and economics but pushing all that aside was the palpable sense that there was something uniting the two.
Charles cast his perception around the cluttered apartment, taking in the painting that was Salome, the neat figure of Roland De Grenville, the filth of his life's debris, and that stack of paintings that hid from him. His bed, with its two blankets in a chaotic embrace, was a broken and stained mess. The jetsam of soiled clothing cluttered the corners but the detail of their disarray was lost in the shadows of the too dark chamber. How he hated the yellow of those threadbare curtains. It was made worse by the vile bile green of the wallpaper that had faded so unevenly.
But what of his pride? What of his passion? Could his dignity so easily be discarded? The strength fell from Charles' shoulders though. He had nothing and so nothing to lose.
"I'll need time to think. Where can I reach you?" asked Charles.
De Grenville was reaching for his card when Charles turned about on his decision.
"No. I accept your invitation though I insist on the freedom to depart as my needs dictate."
That is when Roland De Grenville first smiled, "Of course. You are my guest, not my servant. I will pay your full passage the moment that you say that you wish to return to your home." He extended a bare hand then toward his intended confederate. "It is my faith that you will stay the summer." Awkwardly, Charles sealed the deal.
"Very good," said the patron. "Let us hope that this results in full fortune for us all…and for Art. I am returning to Amance in two days time and will expect your company on the train."
Charles' eyes widened at the prospect of traveling by locomotive.
After passing his grateful prospect several centimes, Roland replaced his gloves and let a white fingertip glide about the brim of his headpiece. His expression was half sad as he surveyed the ruin of a room but the other quarters were triumphant and hopeful.
When the door had closed at the back of the departed, Charles Montaigne pressed his fists and forehead against the wall. He massed the great strength of his heart to crush what hope tried to fly.
*
Down bounded Boniface from the Montmartre terraces, his golden hair bouncing with every stair. What few billowing cloud wisps flew high in the cerulean sky were but fawning retainers to that celestial regent sun, today returned triumphant. If Boniface cast some shadow he cared not a whit, for the sensations of those silken sheets yet lingered on his flesh and the favours of her painted lips still pressed upon his memory and wish. He sprung two and sometimes three tread stones at a time, falling and flying with a gleeful need to hurry to his appointment. The young man collapsed though, laughing, and leaned against a metal lamppost at the bottom of the rue to rest and regain his ragged, still peppermint scented breath. From his fingers fell de Grenville's card and he laughed anew while chasing it among the scattered leaves against the faintest breeze. It could not escape him.
Two workmen, clad in coveralls and caps, watched the merry man, with some bemusement of their own. A student, they might surmise, or a gentleman early to his cups. They could envy him, thought Boniface, for all manner of his life. They would not know, he told from their disapproving smirks, that his talent at the easel was unrivalled. They would think him drunk or, worse, in love, and could not imagine that one could simply be filled past brimming with life and spirit.
"This, is how to live!" he said to them, his face still red and his eyes not cleared from his night abed. Their chuckles are common while his laughter rings musical, he thought.
One answered his challenge, saying, "It is a fine way to die too".
Boniface drew himself erect, less steady than a girded tower, and defied them. "Death comes to those who turn their backs to life. I am life's favoured son and she will not spurn me."
The men just shook their heads and rolled their eyes and smirked and tapped their temples thrice. They turned from him to start their journey up the steep incline, neither looking upward for they knew what was there.
Through simple signs nailed to the sides of plastered houses, Boniface collected his bearings. Soon enough, after seeking directions only a few times from locals, he found his way to the door of that art dealer of little renown: Roland de Grenville. The house, thought Boniface, entirely suited the man's stature. It was small, yet tidy, and separated from its adjacent counterparts by a well cultivated yard with garden. The door to the home was ostentatiously large, ill fitted, as though it had expected a grander façade. The emerald green paint on the door seemed an effort to appease the portal for the affront.
Certain of the correct address, the young artist withdrew a second card from his breast pocket. Standing on the porch of that bourgeois home, waiting for a response to the rung bell, he admired the black and white drawing that was printed upon a half of the card; a fine pen and ink depiction of a pair of cherubim at play. The printer had transferred it well.
Boniface Roy,
Painter of portraits, miniatures, and classical scenes by commission
It was a bored, overfed servant that pulled upon the emerald door and lifted his eyebrows by way of acknowledgement. The artist presented his pair of cards and lifted his heels in anticipation.
"M de Grenville is with another. Please wait in the foyer."
"Ah ha!" thought Boniface. "It is he that now keeps me waiting. If I am late, the fault has now been passed to M. de Grenville. Make me wait, will he?"
"Certainly."
The doorman puttered off to make announcements to his employer, leaving Boniface to assess the quality of the antechamber at his leisure. Two large portraits dominated the small room, their height making it impossible to view them correctly.
The left full-length work was certainly of the landlord himself. The detail was well enough executed but the pink was too thickly pasted upon the flesh. Similarly, the painter had, in that modern style, pushed too thick and too cool a yellow in an effort to excite the blond of the man. Forgivably, the artist had underplayed Roland's moustache or, perhaps when the work was commissioned the subject's facial hair was undergoing a regime of moderation. There was not enough grey in the blue eyes so that they suggested a porcelain animation. The painting was as colourful, weightless, and ordinary as a fairground exhibition balloon. The only prop that the artist had allowed his subject was a Maplewood walking stick. The feminine hand atop the handle (painted to portray le coq gaulois motif) was at rest without tension, marking the staff as unused and unecessary. Boniface judged the painting pedestrian, perhaps crafted by some middle-aged artisan who was trying too hard to be modern. A younger artist would have been more creative, seeking to impress their certain genius on to the canvas. The painter of this tall mess had long ago embraced his mediocrity.
The opposite wall was claimed by the Lady of the House, Madame de Grenville. Roland's background had been cold greens but hers had the lightness of chalk; no mean feat for oils. The artist had been learning lessons from MM Monet and Renoir. He lost his touch though when he undertook the foreground figure. Any illumination was buried beneath layers of glazes. Boniface scolded the artist for the disharmony. In fact…
Boniface smirked and peered closer. He was right! The background was not the original but had been over painted what had gone before. Here, he could see where the latter painter, in his energetic painterly manner, had missed his mark. Smears of turpentine had here and there tried to save the figure. There was a temptation to scratch away the bright gobs of background paint to find a clue to the mystery of what had been obscured. If the woman's hair had once had thin wisps of errantry, those strands were banished and forgotten. Her auburn coiffure was now bound tight to the rounded beauty of her angelic crown. Her dress was fashionable and elegant, with splendid corsage and finely detailed lace gloves. There was, of course, nothing to suggest her corset beyond her elegant figure. If the artist were honest, the lady was beautiful. Boniface knew her, and he knew her to be a splendid creature. When the husband and wife ventured out for a Parisian evening, it would be she that attracted any small attention. The couple moved in circles grander than Boniface might but they were on the fringes of their own society. They might be remarkable only when one recalled them at all.
It struck the young artist, as he waited, that there was no wall in this tight space spare enough for any expansion of the family portrait gallery.
When the servant returned to bid Boniface follow, the fellow somehow appeared slightly more bored.
Boniface was led but little deeper into the house, to a more cluttered, less ornamented library. What wallpaper was not buried behind bookshelves, was a warm green, lightened by the sunlight that pushed through the tall windows whose curtains were tied back perfectly, as though they were never otherwise. M. de Grenville, dressed neatly in his summer whites, rose from behind his oaken desk and advanced a pale hand on his new arrival.
The art dealer had another guest in the room. Ambrose Ferland was standing, hat in hand, as though on the precipice of a departure. From under furrowed grey brows, the elder witnessed the cordial greeting of the others, noting in particular the manner in which the young newcomer leaned forward into the handshake. When introductions required his participation, Ambrose tried that same leaning greeting to test out the momentum and imbalance that it generated.
Despite seeing a third at his private appointment, neither surprise nor emotion could find purchase upon the visage of Boniface. He answered, "I have not yet had the honour of meeting M. Ferland, but I have seen some of his works."
"Which ones" asked Roland, but Boniface had no names upon his tongue.
"It was a dark painting… a landscape…. a stormed sky."
"The March of Mars perhaps," suggested Ambrose helpfully.
"Yes," he guessed with confidence.
Ambrose nodded again while a pause lingered in the air between them. Three unspoken opinions threatened to burst like a rain. The wait was humid with the scent of solvents, exotic cologne, and cigars. Ambrose Ferland let fall the lightest of compliments.
"I know M. Roy from his Charioteer piece in the salon. It showed remarkable skill for one so young. You have studied obviously under Gerome and Benjamin-Constant."
Boniface pulled his shoulders back and tossed his hair. "Only as the earth studies under the barren moon. My oceans swayed to soothe their aged egos but meantime I am raising great mountains up to the heavens that…"
Roland advanced an observation, saying, "We should get down to business, gentlemen."
The balded head bowed to the will of his host while Boniface, interrupted, grinned wide and gave a trill.
Ambrose fingered his hat and spoke up, saying, "I believe that our business is concluded. I have my daughter to retrieve."
Roland remembered, "Ah yes. You are enlisted then?"
"I am, for it seems an intriguing enterprise. I am appreciative of the value of your offer. And your wife, you are certain that she will accept my condition?"
While the others conversed, Boniface silently made assessments.
"I am certain," said Roland, though his voice betrayed some uncertainty. He gestured vaguely. "There is plenty of room. She will enjoy the company for herself. You know how women are."
"Yes. That is why I hope that you are as correct as you attest. Indeed, though you have persuaded me, I will need to convince my household. I am confident."
M Roy looked M. Ferland up and down. Yes, he was certainly the household variety of artist. His suit was worn and plain and multiple times mended. The last strands of his hair, descending down the back of his neck, were arrayed so neatly as to be absolutely inconsequential and ordinary. Here was a man that had sold his liberty and dreams for domesticity and contentment. Here was a man more finished than complete.
Roland produced a few banknotes from his pocket as though cash was something that he naturally had about his person. He passed the monies to Ambrose.
"Let us arm you with inducements."
Boniface checked his posture. Ambrose had no shame in taking the advance but resisted the urge to tug his long lost forelock. This was a business transaction. Transaction or charity, Ambrose still thanked his benefactor before making his farewells and exit. When he had gone, Boniface and Roland smiled pleasantly at one another in silence and it was through pantomime that Roland managed to get himself and his guest seated with the heavy desk between them.
"Thank you for coming. I hope to extend another invitation to you."
Boniface looked to the portal of Ambrose's exit.
"Yes," answered Roland "It is the same offer that I gave to M. Ferland."
Crossing his legs at the knees, Boniface leaned forward to show a smile to his host. "He has accepted. Is it a competition?"
"No. Not really. I don't think so," Roland's palms traced slow circles about the surface of the desktop. The unvarnished wood was smooth to touch but he appeared satisfied with how it stimulated the tips of his extended fingers. Nothing was on the desk to obstruct his repeated circles, nothing save a cigar box in a far corner. When the movements ended, he had a new direction.
"How long did it take you to complete The Charioteer?"
"A month," replied Boniface, without guile or expansion. His attention was otherwise fixed upon the sensual movements of Roland's hands.
"Including prepatory sketches?"
The young painter gave a languid shrug then. "There were none."
"Perfect! You are perfect!"
As surprised as he was by the art dealer's outburst, Boniface showed little indication of it. He did sit back though and, a moment later, smugly clasped his hands tight in his lap. The sunlight there marvellously lit him, he imagined. The gold of that celestial sphere shone upon his yellow suit and danced a ballet among his fine blond locks. No shades marred his neat complexion but those thin accents that lined beneath his eyelashes. Roland's eyes were dancing and the waxed tips of his long moustache seemed to bounce when his grin shifted.
It was Roland's turn then to lean forward. With palms lifted and with long fingers splayed in supplication, he said, "We need you to come summer with us in Alsace. I will provide everything… a roof, canvases, food. Adele is a good cook. The weather is always excellent. The landscape… there is a village nearby with the most charming of rustics. They drip with reality. But you are the lyric. You would want for leaves and streams. There is a splendid little scene not far behind our hideaway." He animated the air with flittering fingertips. "There is sunlight and butterflies and songbirds and such greenery."
Through all of this, the smirk never left Boniface's lips though the light in his eyes waxed and waned with new ideas.
Roland caught himself before diving forward again to say, "You will be free to paint whatever you desire and sell what you can. I make no promises or demands, but you know that I am a buyer of fine art. We grant you everything you require for a summer to do nothing more, little more than make great art, and we ask nothing of you."
"You say 'we'."
"I mean only my wife, Madame de Grenville."
" …And M. Ferland?"
"I gave him the same offer."
" …But…"
"All will be clear," announced Roland.
Elsewhere, high in the firmament, the sun passed behind a cloud. Boniface lost his light. "I hate to seem crass," he said.
There was an ungainly shrug from Roland then as he interjected, "I can provide a small amount, if required, but you will not have a wage this summer. You are a genius, M. Roy, and a genius is not hired like a workman."
Boniface opened his pretty mouth but had no words. He quite enjoyed the peppermint scent.
Charles Montaigne almost balked at the early crowd that was packed into La Gare de l'Est. There was no reason for this many people to be doing anything. The throng, that shifting mass of humanity, was going in a riot of different directions. He didn't understand that either. What could possess so many people to travel? Where was there to go?
The coal smoke and stench of steel was nearly overwhelming. A dawning light fought its way through the grey, grimed skylights but the filter deadened the pallet of the cavernous interior. The air was heavy with dust and Charles was pushing himself through this warm dryness with as much difficulty as he waded through the black crowd of anxious travellers.
It took him some time to sort out the ticketing and platform system of the station. It was all terribly machine-like and controlling. There were signs everywhere, but they were not helping. He knew he had to get to the Strasbourg train, but the translation of that into where he was supposed to stand was disconnected. Eventually he pushed himself out of the throng and onto the long walkway of a platform. Instantly, Monsieur De Grenville stood out in his blue suit beside the cars. Charles laughed to himself at the pomposity of the man's over-tall hat and the angled form of his figure as he leaned upon his unnecessary cane. He would demonstrate none of that sentiment though as he approached the critic with a nod in greeting.
"I'm glad you decided to come, Monsieur Montaigne. I am dependent upon you," greeted Roland de Grenville.
Montaigne grunted some sort of vague "Thank you," and then looked about. "We should board? Will the driver come to tell us when we leave?"
When Roland smiled, the tips of his long moustache angled sharply. "The locomotive leaves in five minutes, quite on schedule. Monsieur Ferland is already aboard. Let us join them. Have you no other bags?"
Charles had none but a wooden box of paints and easel under one arm and a sack of crumpled clothing and foodstuffs in the hand of the other. He shrugged to demonstrate them and then followed the other aboard. Instantly, Montaigne was surprised at the spaciousness of the car. Having experienced a few cluttered carriages in the past, he was expecting this to be just as bad. Still, he had to turn himself sideways to navigate the hallway made tight with passengers.
Roland slid open the door to a compartment and edged in. The bench seats were filled with a family of three along with their hand baggage. Quite an amount of luggage was also crammed into the space above them. Montaigne, following after watched de Grenville settle smoothly into the last open space and strike up a conversation with the man opposite. The fellow there was aged, near to completely bald, and with a remarkably long, hooked nose. From his chin there grew a pale grey beard that fell as smooth as water would. His eyes burned with energy and, as he spoke to de Grenville, his claw-like fingers were wildly animated. To his side was a thin middle-aged woman heavily wrapped in a black overcoat. It was certainly excessive for the summer season and left the woman bulking up space as though she were as large as Charles. Across from this matron was a young schoolgirl of pale complexion and soft almond eyes. She had the same agitated activity as her father, ever glancing about at whatever curiosities should stray into view. Catching sight of Montaigne through the open doorway, standing there and just looking, the young girl courageously looked back. For an instant, their eyes met, but immediately Montaigne threw his gaze downward to the shoes of the compartment occupants. She silently insisted though, and kept her attention upon the heavy-bearded giant.
"Join us," urged de Grenville. Room could be made. The young girl beside him on the bench inched closer to the exterior wall but Montaigne shook his head.
"I'm all right."
Roland and the man opposite him shrugged their shoulders. "This is Ambrose Ferland. You may know of him."
"I don't think we've met," replied Montaigne, "I know his work."
"We've met" said Ambrose in a matter-of-fact manner. "This is my wife, Madame Jacqueline Ferland, and daughter Ghislaine." Briefly, as briefly as possible, Montaigne acknowledged the ladies.
The first lurching of the locomotive caught the standing painter completely off his guard and he fell out of the picture. Ghislaine was the only one to lightly laugh, but then she was also the only one to ask, "Are you all right?"
"Well enough," Charles said, as he returned to the open doorway. He fumbled with his load, trying to get a surer grip on it. Bracing himself against the doorframe, he watched the seeming rapid movements of the world through the wide window. He could compose no picture through that frame, as the landscape drifted along. The ride was strangely smooth. The passage away from the train station seemed unreal. There followed several minutes of only the thrumming roll of iron wheels before Montaigne volunteered over the metallic din, "I know your work. It is good."
"Thank you. Yours have excellent strength. They are powerful and confident."
"Not very. Not enough," murmured Montaigne.
Madame Ferland slid a judgemental gaze sidelong to her husband though he did not see it.
"Join us," urged Roland.
"Excuse me," said Montaigne, and he stumbled away and down the thin corridor in search of solitude and air. The easel clattered and banged against the walls.
The large man would spend the eight hours of shunting, shaking movement sitting in a ball on the floor of the hallway, clutching at his beard and trying to imagine the journey ended. At one point, somewhere just beyond Toul, the man looked up to see Monsieur Ferland's young daughter standing in the corridor and watching him. She stood there with one hand upon the wall and eyes narrowed in observation. Spotted, she fled back to her cabin. Montaigne retreated back into himself.
The party was exhausted by the time they were able to gather their baggage to depart from the train. Charles, staggering back to the company he had left, was startled to find a sixth had joined them. The handsome young dandy, Boniface Roy, had met the train at Epernay. Boniface had spent the journey travelling with a friendly crowd of strangers that were quite free with their wine so he remained in high spirits despite the length of travel. Montaigne knew the very talented painter by reputation. He was a notoriously promising student coming out of the schools a couple of years before but had yet to make an impression on the grander art scene. None of the three artists that de Grenville had gathered was to any degree accomplished. He was still a rag collector, it seemed.
When disembarked, dull green earth tones and a vast sky of blue now coloured the world of the painters and their companions. The black locomotive rumbled away, spewing a trail of grey-blue smoke off toward the east. Then it was gone and there was silence. It was a stillness that a Parisian night could never achieve. Boniface made an audible, wholly enjoyable intake of the pastoral air.
De Grenville's driver, Samuel, was dutifully waiting at the small station. Luggage and guests were loaded into the two-horse carriage. Charles could not restrain a sigh when he was told that it was still another two hours to the de Grenville estate. The afternoon was already half spent. This would be a far less gentle journey, despite all efforts at avoiding the roughest parts of the road. Montaigne much preferred this endurance test to the last one. They travelled slowly and he could hang his arm off the side. He remained attached to the universe. Indeed, he was allowed to sit up front with Samuel and so could be certain in every instant of his connection to the earth. Watching the late afternoon landscape around the carriage, Charles could see clearly how a tree in front of him was still a tree behind him when they had passed it. Silent in the company of the driver, Montaigne was pleased to not be assaulted by the endless monotony of that same machine sound repeating itself every second. The wheels creaked and the horse hooves clattered, yet every instance of noise was specifically unique. The air was fresh here. There was no stench of modernity. Under the more present sounds, there was also the ongoing murmur of indiscernible conversation between Ambrose, Boniface, and Roland. They clearly had much to talk about.
They were still debating some point of aesthetics when the carriage entered the grounds of the estate. Montaigne was surprised. He had imagined some princely chateau, like a modest Versailles palace, but this was little more than a large farmhouse. Perhaps it had once been a hunting lodge. The main house was a single story structure with a higher than normal ceiling. The roofing was tiled and the walls were plastered white. Curiously, thought Montaigne, what windows there were on the front of the house were narrow and small. Some might have called the dirt road immediately before the estate a courtyard but the walls surrounding the circulating path were small and insignificant. There was one real fence but it was around the small stable and shed to the left side. This was likely where de Grenville's carriage would spend its days. The whole of the grounds were not properly kept up and they certainly were not loudly announcing the wealth of the owners to the neighbours. There were no neighbours in sight. It would turn out that a village could be found a bit further on. It was over a hill though and there was no shortage of shallow hills in the landscape. They rose and fell all around, preventing a viewer from seeing more than several kilometres in any directions, often less. In the south, low ridges rose up blue and grey a short way away.
The carriage halted at the center of the house and from the narrow doorway emerged a fine looking lady. Behind trailed her plain maid. Madeleine de Grenville smiled gloriously at the arriving party and indeed tried to shine as the perfect hostess, welcoming everyone with immediate familiarity. Following introductions and serried pleasantries, the hostess announced, "Adele will see you to your rooms. I hope that you will find them to your satisfaction. Warm water awaits you there so you may wash and change. Refresh yourselves. Dinner will be served shortly."