CHAPTER THREE
A Gathering at Amance
Ghislaine pressed herself flat against the panelled hallway to allow Samuel and Charles to muscle her mother's heavy trunk past. She was glad for not having worn a crinolette today, allowing her slight figure to serve full advantage, in this instance. The large man pushing the load past her surely wouldn't have noticed, for his eyes rarely raised from the floor. If that was an apology as he and the servant cluttered past her, it was inaudible. Still, there was something intriguing about this shy, terrible giant.
When, from somewhere not far, the laugh of that other artist, the young and handsome one, penetrated the walls, Ghislaine tensed. Her eyes sought the source yet went unsatisfied.
Her mother followed the last bags in to stand in the doorway to the assigned bedroom. From there, Madame Ferland oversaw Ambrose acknowledge the assistance and dismissal of the two men. Her husband was then left to make decisions about the best use of the cramped space. He was already measuring walls and furniture with his handspans.
Down the corridor though marched Madeleine, regal in her red eveningwear. Adele, trailing after, stood a head above her mistress yet she was near invisible behind that presence. Madeleine halted before Ghislaine and Jacqueline and suddenly softened.
"I hope, Madame Ferland, that everything is acceptable. We must get you all settled quickly. Dinner is about ready."
Jacqueline smiled and bent her knees beneath her deep skirts. Only the daughter perceived this movement. "My husband is arranging things," said Jacqueline.
Following the wife's gaze, Madeleine advanced to look over the accommodations that had been set-aside for the Ferland family. The chamber, overlooking the back lawn through a window nearly as wide as the room, was crowded and cluttered with a variety of end tables, knick knacks, trinkets, china plates, and unwound clocks on all manner of shelving. For usable furnishings, there was but a single bed and a desk that was cluttered up with lamps, books, and writing instruments. Madeleine offered, "Samuel can remove some of the objects if they inconvenience."
Madame Ferland answered for her husband's ponderings, "We can make do. He only needs to clear space for Ghislaine."
"Oh dear!"
It was only then that the problem appeared clear to Madeleine. She cast her gaze back to the young lady and gave a sympathetic, pretty wrinkle of her brows. The look that she granted to Jacqueline was almost apologetic. "When my husband wrote to say that you were bringing your daughter, I assumed that it was a young girl. Your daughter is a beautiful young woman!"
Ghislaine dutifully blushed.
"My husband should have made it more clear," suggested Madame Ferland.
"I am certain that he did," replied Madame de Grenville." We will ready a room for your daughter."
Ghislaine's eyes widened with unheralded hope. Adele furrowed her brow and cast about.
"Do not trouble yourself," insisted Jacqueline "This will do very nicely, I am certain."
Now Ghislaine hid her expression artfully and pulled her shoulders back.
"Madame" Adele spoke up. "We have no more bedrooms."
The timbers of the house were heard to creak before the captain took charge of her ship.
"Mademoiselle Ferland, take what you require for your toilette prior to dinner. Adele, show Ghislaine to your room. She will be quite comfortable there."
Adele knew this mood and answered quickly with, "Yes, Madame." but only took a step toward her assignment before pausing to murmur to her mistress, in such a way that there could be no suggestion that she was planning any disobedience, "The duck…"
Jacqueline looked down upon her hostess and reappraised her with some new respect. She did not smile. There was a grin as bright as the sun hidden deep in Ghislaine's heart. She took up her now weightless bags and spun to follow after Adele. She was quickly brought up short as the journey ended abruptly. Only a couple of closed doors were passed before they were at the end of the hall and standing before the smallest door of them all. Adele held the portal open for the young lady and said, "This is it."
That room that the maid showed to Ghislaine was small enough without the pair. The corners of the little square seemed greater than the walls, but this may have been due to the single windows centered on each plane. A table rested against the northeast corner. There, beneath an unadorned, hand crafted wooden cross that was suspended from a single nail, was settled a brittle, neat bird's nest wherein two dry, pale, blue robin's eggs were sheltered.
The single bed in the room gave Ghislaine little pause. She had savoured more meagre mattresses at school. When you share a room with twenty other girls, to live with but one would be no great hardship and it was twenty-fold superior to confinement with her parents.
"It is small," defended Adele.
"No, no. It is perfect."
There was a flash of rebellion though as Ghislaine regarded the lone bed. There would be, she knew, another moment of social niceties to resolve.
Adele was obviously not pleased as she pointed out that, "I will sleep in the chair, Mademoiselle."
"I wish you wouldn't. There is room enough for us both in the bed. We can make room enough. I, at least, am a still sleeper." Ghislaine laughed then and added, "Poor Candice, at school, used to roll out of her bed in the night."
Adele too smiled then. "Did she wake?"
"With a start. We all did! There'd be the shortest of screams." Ghislaine tried to create that demi-scream for her roommate so that both girls laughed at the plight of Poor Candice.
"My sister took restless slumbers but never had such adventures. She would over-complain though if my leg bumped up against hers in the night."
"Well, I mean, some bumping will happen…"
"Oh no, Mademoiselle, my sister quite cured me. I will be still as the dead."
"Until morning only, I hope, when you will live anew," quipped Ghislaine but Adele seemed to lose the line.
The duck.
"I'll clear a space for your things after dinner… later this evening. I must go to the kitchen."
"Thank you. I haven't many bags. Mother allowed only the rudiments."
"Your dress is very nice, Mademoiselle."
Instinctively, or perhaps from training, Ghislaine’s hands ran down the front of her dress, pressing it and setting it to order while she thanked Adele.
"Adele…"
In appraising Adele, Ghislaine did neither assess the servant girl's beauty (there was little) nor her social bearing (there was less), but instead was pleased to see that her smile was easily conjured and ever earnest. Her brown hair was kept well enough and neat. Her scent seemed acceptable. There was nothing not bright about the girl. She should serve entirely suitably as a cellmate.
"Mademoiselle?"
"Hurry to the kitchen!"
The girls shared the shortest of laughs while Adele hurried off to her duties. The moment after Adele was gone, Ghislaine dropped her bottom onto the bed and let the play of springs resound. Glad again for no crinolette, she bounced to play the bed like a drunken accordionist. Her feet flew from the ground to get better performance from her slight weight. One buttock and then the other was employed to make new, awful sounds and fresh variety of bounces and then she collapsed, relaxed beneath the low beige ceiling.
She should wear her only good dress.., the ugly blue one, the one that used to be her mother's. She looked good in it anyway. And she should put her hair up, of course. It will need serious tidying, she knew as she ran her fingers through the loose mess. Where were her good shoes? Did she pack them? Mother would have. Oh, the duck will be marvellous.
Beyond the unpainted, simple window frame, through the square glass panels that were clean outside and in, a robin's chirp went unanswered.
There was but a brief interlude for reflection and happiness before Ghislaine hurried herself to ready for dinner.
The dining room, where gathered the entire company, was too large to be comfortably filled and decorated too rustically to satisfy the tastes of the host. The rounded edges of the long table, clashing violently with squared mantelpiece, had been a small victory for M. de Grenville but it would remain Casus Bellum for Madame. The candle chandelier was a discordant compromise toward an ostentatious design. The hostess was equally thankful and disheartened to find that none of her five guests seemed to disapprove of, not least notice, the asymmetrical furnishings.
Adele's duck had been satisfying enough that none saw fit to have expressed anything but compliments to Madame de Grenville. There had been some debate about the wines to serve and Roland had gained a triumph by having the best wine poured at the end of the meal so that whatever shortcomings might have been found in Adele's cooking, they would be chased away by the fine taste that followed.
On the question of seating, Madame had won the field. Monsieur held court at the head, as was fitting. He presided over the hearty meal with requisite charm and good grace (something which both surprised and delighted Madame). On Roland's right hand was the venerable Ambrose Ferland. Someone had convinced the genius to put a comb through his long grey beard and some peculiar sense of decorum or style had resulted in the remnants of his hair being combed overtop his spotted pate. No illusion was achieved.
"It would not be the quality of your garden that I would be judging," answered the elder to his host, "It is the irregularities and rarities that I desire to observe. Every new sight is a wonder."
"My wife will be delighted, I am sure, to tour you through our accidental eccentricities tomorrow."
Jacqueline, at Ambrose' side, nodded a smile toward M. de Grenville in appreciation for his offer to her husband. Jacqueline Berthe Ferland's dinner dress was modestly conservative, rising high to her throat, with sleeves too long to be fashionable, even for a woman of her weathered years. She denied her still dark hair any liberties, restraining it thin and stretched about her tall skull. The woman's light blue eyes danced free and celebrated their liberty. She said nothing, but stood witness to everything.
Counterpoint to her husband to her left, the youthful Boniface Roy was beardless, handsome, and armed a smile that would prove dangerous. His attire was fashionable enough, were it not slightly dandified by the adoption of a large yellow carnation beside an upturned collar. Yellow-ochre tresses cascaded as far as that ebon collar but ended there with an abrupt, cultivated line. This youth's animations were sometimes exuberant but ever calculated. Democratic with his demonstrations of attention, Boniface shifted easily within conversations and despite Jacqueline's quiet to his left, he made certain to offer that woman numerous and generous opportunities for inclusion. His efforts were more notable for the seating of the rarefied Madame de Grenville to his right and the beautiful Ghislaine Ferland directly opposite. No fox among the hens, he. Boniface was a near perfect gentleman. It is, some might contend, a gentleman's duty to flatter, flirt, and otherwise stimulate conversations with Ladies.
"It is surprising that one who boasts as much promise as yourself, Monsieur Roy, is not yet married," teased Madame de Grenville.
"I have not yet met the woman that I could love for all eternity..." began the young man but then he paused, making a point of looking at each of the three ladies near to him. "No...Perhaps I have," and demurely now he looked into his wineglass. "We can be certain of nothing."
Madame Ferland bottled up a retort and did not reward the quip with anything approaching a smile. Opposite, Ghislaine, did give a look of sly acknowledgement but when she caught her mother's disapproving eye, there bloomed a rose-red blush.
Ghislaine's physicality, and indeed the whole of her self, was still forming. Her features spoke of promised riches. Her dinner dress spoke of enforced modesty but its cerulean blue was the brightest adornment of the room.
"We can be certain of one thing now," said Madeleine. "Monsieur Roy has a talent."
Her slight fingers toyed with her glass while she studied Boniface rather intently until, satisfied, she looked across the length of the table to regard her husband. The hair of the diminutive hostess was grandly bound and styled and her dress was a dark red design with an effective décolletage. Cheap yet stylish jewels marked the woman's bare arms and throat. She alone gave a sense of Paris to the country affair.
Madeleine de Grenville spoke past Ghislaine to Montaigne, saying, "Monsieur Montaigne, you have been quiet. Your journey was as eventful and interesting as desired?"
Most eyes looked to the dark form, to see if some beast would be roused from its cave to sniff at this feminine baiting.
Massed shoulders shrugged unevenly behind the potato-peppered beard before Charles responded with words, "It was good, yes. I am not accustomed to locomotive travel." He stared at his empty plate and not at the young girl that sat beside him.
"You did not travel on them in the army?" questioned Ambrose with less malice than implied.
The shoulders once more shifted. "I never left Paris." The weight of his brows descended.
There was a pause as the table mulled over how best to plumb details from the ogre. Most, it seemed, resigned to doing without. The military had failed so completely six years earlier that it was almost as though citizens were more heroic and loyal to France if they had not been soldiers. There was vague, unstated nobility in not being involved in the fiasco. The silence that followed was, in some sense, a collective moment of remembrance for the horrors of the Paris commune. It was also simply impolite to speak of Paris that short time ago. It was a gangrenous wound that was left twitching at the top of the doctor's limb basket. One did not grope blindly at the ghastly discard, poking and prodding, for fear that more pus would be found. The blood soaked dressing had been washed and changed.
M de Grenville fidgeted, but his wife rescued the situation with surety. "Roland, perhaps now would be a fine time for your words." No part of it was a question.
The master of ceremonies smiled up to Adele as she commenced to clear away the dinnerware and then he sounded the chime of crystal with a silver spoon. He had everyone's attention. Roland commenced to unravel a neatly folded sheaf of off-white papers. He read them over once more for reminder and then rose to the occasion.
"Let this be our manifesto. It is our declaration of the Responsibility to Art." he announced and then paused and sought the eyes of his wife. When Madeleine gave a single nod, he proceeded to read.
"We, the artists, do solemnly swear that we shall, in community with one another in mind and body...."
Montaigne's fingers beat out an impatient, silent, tuneless rhythm upon the tabletop.
De Grenville continued, "... labour with devotion and courage in the noble service of Art. To her alone do we swear allegiance. We accept, in this service, the first and greatest task that we, her defenders, could ever hope to be given: We quest for lost beauty. Where now is our Raphael, our Rembrandt? Where now is our Michelangelo or Giotto? There is no Titian. Beauty has been stolen away. Can we trust the realists to recover her? The Classicists? Even the Impressionists covet her but they hold her not! Gentlemen, Chevaliers, it falls to us to be her Champions. She shall not languish while we remain true! ... And we swear to remain true to her, unto death.
"Our shield shall be order. We hold faith with the ancient principles of composition, and the laws of symmetry and proportion. Vitruvius, Vasari, and da Vinci are emblazoned there. Hubris will not deceive us into casting this surety aside."
Boniface was a captivating audience. His eyebrows and lips were obligingly excited, displaying enthusiasm at each of Roland's punctuations. When Madame de Grenville pressed a delicate hand upon the enthusiastic young man's sleeve, he matured. The reader had not paused.
"Your genius is your sword. With wit, imagination, knowledge, and intellect, no foe can stand before you. We are not limited to earthly bounds if our heart tells us to fly and our minds have the brilliance to bear us aloft."
The fingers of Montaigne had been stilled. Ambrose leaned back and bridged his own digits across his breast.
"We will find lost Beauty where so e’er she is hid. We will bring her back to her people that they may find Hope, Faith, or Charity in her presence. Beauty may be the noblest pursuit of Humanity and we, my friends, will be the foremost in the march of art to restore her to her throne. All this, we do swear."
Madeleine initiated light applause and each of the others at that table echoed the sentiment but the speaker halted them with a raised hand. He folded the papers and improvised.
"There has never been a better opportunity for Art. We have better materials and access to everything from the past. I could behold the Sistine ceiling in two days and then hurry to London two days later to marvel at the Elgin marbles. Between the two lies the Paris salon and across the Seine, the Salon des Refuses where wild variety is offered. France's artists are not hunted by any inquisition and in the prosperity and vivacity of this Third Republic, we find a culture that hungers for new art. As there has never been a better opportunity, so too has there never been a greater need for it. We, the people of Europe, flounder in the face of our times. Anarchy and modernity threaten us. Democracy need not mean mediocrity. Atheism need not mean faithlessness. Romanticism need not equate to naivety. France stands on the brink of tomorrow and it is for you artists to tell us that tomorrow can be better than today but more…tell us that tomorrow can be the summit of all of our yesterdays."
Roland de Grenville fell to silence then and his face was possessed of a new youth. His once immaculate moustache may have wilted over dinner but there was a gleam in his eyes and highlights upon his cheeks that demarked honest happiness. He had said his piece and won over his audience. Ambrose, the ancient edifice of reason, rose and took the young patron's hand. He shook it eagerly, earnestly. The others rose, in unison, and each of the artists congratulated the proud orator. The ladies too effused and threw garlands of praise upon him.
Montaigne resumed his seat and frowned at the others until they did the same. Ghislaine leaned toward the large man and quietly asked if he did not like it.
"I did not come for theater," answered Charles, louder than it deserved.
The fox grinned at the bear. "Words, words, words?" asked Boniface.
Raising his hands defensively, Montaigne sought to clarify his position. "It was a fine speech. I was moved by it… but…but I am afraid of words because words … because nothing can disguise emptiness so well as words."
Madeleine raised a protest. "My husband is providing you all an opportunity to act. He is doing more than merely saying words and we are asking you to do the same. You have been brought here to attempt something great."
"I know. I know." was all Montaigne could muster in his defence.
"So where have we erred?" asked Roland.
Montaigne pressed his heavy hands against his face and rubbed vigorously.
"I believe," suggested Ambrose with bald brow furrowed, "…that Monsieur Montaigne is not doubting the will and efforts of our host. He doubts his own ability to meet the challenge."
Across from him, Montaigne expanded with relief. "Yes! Thank you! I am not going to celebrate undertaking a task. I will celebrate when it is completed…when it is achieved."
Ghislaine looked at Montaigne with some new level of appreciation. Her mother assessed the whole company with an undisguised look of frustration.
"I will celebrate the undertaking." spoke up Boniface. "Declare me a romantic but I believe that Hope and Industry are sisters who are rarely separated. Your hospitality and vision are warmly appreciated." The young man raised his glass high with his left hand and while the others were mirroring the demonstration, none but Madame de Grenville noticed Boniface placing an appreciative hand lightly atop her own. She tensed but neither withdrew from the contact nor sought to make any reaction to it. For the moment, everyone was distracted by Boniface's expression of nobility, but soon someone would notice the trespass.
Boniface, without ever meeting the gaze of the object of his advances, took his palm away with as much subtlety as it had encroached. Madeleine then boldly stared at the handsome young artist. She imagined his genius and his wit and now she saw his courage and confidence. Too, she was witness to the man's physicality. His eyes met hers then but it was for the briefest of moments. She looked back to her husband and reappraised his worth.
Roland rose. "Gentlemen, let us retire to the library to speak of details. The ladies may remain without."
They did disengage then and separated. Adele made a more temporary exit, pushing her laden way through the door. She passed her load off to Samuel, who was neither allowed to enter the dining room nor touch the food. He was happy to catch a glimpse of the ornate festivities and the handsome ladies through the closing aperture. The women watched their men leave before looking over one another speculatively. Madeleine, again, spoke to end the silence. "You look charming this evening, Ghislaine. You have brought beauty to the company."
Once assembled in the modest library, our four gentlemen found themselves seating as befitted their dispositions. They deferred to Roland the place of the larger chair behind the desk, though Boniface made demonstration of cheerfully doing so. Montaigne cascaded into the seat that was furthest from the vague circle and which was, conveniently and causally, the least fine while Ambrose simply sat in the most correct of chairs without any outward consideration. Briefly, Boniface battled Roland for the right to be the last to lower himself but finally took his unappointed place with a show of aplomb. The chamber fairly shook with the rolling of the eyes of Montaigne.
Roland first offered each of them a cigar before allowing a pause, as he and Boniface set the cylinders to smoking. Montaigne, hands clasped firmly before him, calculated the merits and vices of the other three. Ambrose only watched the wandering wisps of smoke play their way toward the summit of the high ceiling.
"My friends" assumed the patron, still savouring the taste of his tobacco, "I should relate my theme."
"Theme?" echoed the mountain.
"My scheme" answered Roland, "My idea."
"There is more then?" queried Ambrose, peaking his fingers.
"The details" was the reply from Boniface who paid attention.
"The swindle" countered that large man at the edges. "Now he reveals the trap. The trump."
There was a genuine light-hearted smile on the host's face as he shook it slowly in denial.
"There is no trick. This is, for you, only a good thing. I… " and here he leaned back to make a languid, self-appointing gesture with the cigar between his fingers, " … am the only one among us who will falter should my idea fail. Even so, what could I have lost? Some small coin and a single summer slipped past me from among so many that are yet to come. These slight things have I staked in a gamble, the prize for which will enrich the whole of our world."
Boniface, likewise leaning well back in his armchair to excessively luxuriate himself said, "You have placed your small purse on very long odds, I fear. I mean no disrespect but myself and my colleagues are not favourites to place in any extended race." The young man grinned most beautifully for Charles and Ambrose to show his mirthful humility. Ambrose acknowledged the gesture.
"No," responded de Grenville, "individually, your prospects are not great. No." He had to choose his words carefully now. "I believe that you are all, each of you, brilliant artists. No. That is, you can be great. No. You are each geniuses but your art is not what it can be." Both Boniface and Montaigne were sitting back with arms crossed but only the dark one was glowering. Roland continued, "Be honest. Your work is not perfect. You'd none of you be here if you were wholly successful in your craft."
"Certainly" spoke the elder. "Our crafts can be improved but who are you to presume that you can improve our art?"
Boniface cast a pointed look about the library. "Where are your masterpieces?"
"I don't…" Roland stammered. "I am not an artist."
Montaigne uncrossed his arms and gripped the arms of his chair, threatening them. "No. You don't. Damn it! You bring us here to lecture us? You think yourself so superior to us?"
Roland's mouth gaped open as he fought to find his footing but Ambrose offered him a handhold, saying, "Hold back, gentlemen. Let us give him a chance to speak. We are here… we should listen."
Boniface just shrugged and splayed his palms but Montaigne was not so easily mollified, "I can return home now. To Hell with this place… this aristocrat and his … this critic and his money. There are no stains under his fingernails. He does not know what toil is! He knows nothing of art!"
"Yet he calls you a genius" smirked the youngest of them as he checked the quality and cleanliness of his own fingernails.
"This is a farce!" and Montaigne rose up with massive clenched fists. Ambrose tried to calm the giant but his efforts were lost in the broiling anger.
Roland's cigar was waved about like a baton as he strove to assert himself. "Hear me out. I am a fool. I have misspoken" and then he found the words that worked the trick and calmed the storm. "You are right."
There was silence then. Charles Montaigne gnawed upon his lower lip and charcoal beard. The silence continued.
"We cannot afford to fight" said Roland. "We have too, too much to do. You are right. I can teach you nothing. You are… you are all very much my superiors. I have the greatest admiration for each of you."
"What is your idea, M. de Grenville?" asked Ambrose. Long fingers were braced against his balding pate, yet their movements were restrained. His grey eyes flickered behind a dim veil. When a pause followed, Montaigne used the opportunity to resume his seat.
After taking a long, delicious draw of the cigar, Roland opened his eyes to try once again to air his theory.
"There have been, in the history of the arts, moments of momentous and important advancement. I have been studying these movements, these renaissances, and their essential commonalities are fascinating."
Ambrose tilted his head but remained listening.
So Roland continued. "Obviously, they are centered in a locale, be it Florence, London, Vienna, Paris, Venice, or the Lake District of England. Why do we suppose that is?" He did not wait on any reply. "It is not for any quaint rationale of character or spirit. It has nothing to do with energy or cultural phenomenon. No, my friends, there is a perfectly scientific reason for this; one that has nothing to do with anything metaphysical."
"Well, of course," countered Ambrose, "It is only a movement or renaissance because several artists happen to coincidentally emerge from one locale at the same time. Put the chance of it occurring down to educational institutions. Geniuses blossom all over but only when they are together is it called a movement."
Boniface tried to exchange a glance with Montaigne but was shorted.
"I believe that you are wrong, Monsieur Ferland. My studies suggest… My studies reveal with certainty that these creative phenomena are quite exceptional. It is not simply that geniuses emerge from time to time and we call these happenings movements. No. Distinct forms of geniuses arise nearly simultaneously in a single location, share a common aspect of a vision but express it in unique ways, and then from that initial burst of genius there yields a cornucopia of artistic creativity. You narrow your eyes in disbelief! Distrust. Hear me out. I agree that there is luck, say Divine Providence, at play as to where and when these geniuses emerge but I contend that they would wither away, dragged down by weedy, weak peers were it not for the rule of the three!"
Now the three artists unnecessarily took account of one another.
Roland remained on his course. "The rule of three. In every case where these grand artistic moments have blossomed, there have been three near simultaneous masters of their craft and this, this is most important; they have in each case been masters of a specific aspect of that art. They are not always in intimate proximity and often do not directly associate yet they collectively initiate and fertilize that outgrowth of beauty."
Montaigne rumbled a question, "You said that they were masters of specific aspects. What do you mean by that?"
Boniface was squirming uncomfortably in his seat but was giving full attention to the scene around him.
There was another pause, whether for dramatic effect or to carefully consider his answer, before Roland responded. "For each of Michelangelo, Raphael, and Leonardo, there is a counterpart in every occasion. Beethoven, Mozart, and Haydn. Byron, Wordsworth, and Shelley. It still happens in this day: Rossetti, Millais, and Hunt. How about Dostoyevsky, Turgenev, and Tolstoy?"
Montaigne was losing his place now. He knew little of these names and certainly was not about to read some Russians.
"You will, Monsieur Montaigne, see how Titian, Bellini, and Giorgione fit the formula perfectly."
But the mountain shook its furious beard. "I don't see it."
Boniface wrapped his lips around his cigar so as to stop up any remark he might have considered. Ambrose weighed in though, saying, "Monsieur de Grenville believes that we three match the pattern. I admit, I can see how he comes to that even if I do not concur with his argument."
"You see fault with it?" asked Roland but Ambrose could only shake his head.
"Not yet. But it seems… That is, your examples seem so obvious. The pattern appears apparent, yet one should entirely distrust the obvious and especially the apparent. I will think upon it."
"I hope you will," said the host and then, with confidence and calm, he shifted in his chair to directly address Montaigne. "In every instance, there is a pattern of three repeated characters with the same three repeated approaches to their craft. Firstly, there is the Giant, a larger than life figure that works in massive figures that fill the frame and overwhelm the viewer. He deals in broad, powerful strokes and solid, earthen tones. He is Michelangelo. He is Beethoven. He is Titian and he is Rossetti. He is you."
Suspicious and wary of being grouped in with such masters, Charles slumped less large into his seat. Roland turned then to square off against Boniface. "There is a lyric. His art is linear, beautiful, colourful and precise yet… seeming simple. Everything comes easy for him, or so he makes it seem. He is Raphael and Mozart. He is Bellini. He is you, Monsieur Boniface Roy." And Boniface, with a generous smile, offered an elegant salute to the patron.
"You would put me on the Leonardo and Haydn pile? What have we in common then?” asked Ambrose.
The cigar was once more pointed at Ambrose as Roland answered the elder. "You are the inventors, the great experimenters. You are the ones that approach your art as science and invest your intellect fully into the process."
"You are not wrong" was the reply.
Montaigne had something to say on the matter. "You say that we do not apply our minds to our art? You think that I am only hurling boulder sized blocks of paint at the canvas?"
A bright laugh emerged from Boniface then. "You speak of your David and Goliath then. I have seen it. Blocks of paint, yes."
Both Ambrose and Roland inserted their voices quickly into the discussion, separating the two before things could escalate.
"You mix passion with intellect. You apply your mind to unleashing your spirit!" assured Roland. He ground his cigar out and before issuing a summation. "Please, I want none of you to take offence at these characterisations. I think you will see that if my theory has some credibility, then you would be three that do follow the patterns. I have been searching Paris for years looking for the right artists and when I discovered Monsieur Roy, I decided that the set was complete. Now would be the time to test the theory." He read the question in the old eyes of Ambrose and replied before it was asked. "By bringing you three great artists here together, you can be mixed, like some alchemist might, to bring about a new renaissance in art. You three can return beauty to our pallet. There is a German word: Gestalt. We can be greater than the sum of our parts."
With that, Roland stopped abruptly and rose. "I must see to my wife and retire. I will leave you three to discuss what I have said among yourselves. Stay here as long as you like."
Each of the others rose and nodded. Pleasantries were tossed about as their host withdrew and seats were retaken almost tentatively.
"He may well have a brilliant awareness. There may be some merit to his theory." posited Ambrose.
Boniface leaned forward in his chair and gestured expansively. "Yes, maybe, but even if it means nothing…even if it is all just so much wild fantasy, we have an opportunity to work here for the summer."
Ambrose just shrugged at that. "Here. There. I can work anywhere."
Filling his chair by the dark window, Montaigne twisted his sunken form before speaking up. "I can't. This is a real chance for me. This means food." Nothing about his facial expression suggested that he was ashamed of this admission.
The youngest painter gestured toward the dark brooding one. "Yes, it can be good for us all."
Now Ambrose shook his head, taking an opposing side to the argument, "We are out of Paris. We could perhaps learn more by going daily to the Salon to study the works of Mazerolle, Bouguereau, and Messonier?" At which point, Boniface rolled his eyes and Montaigne ground his eyelids together. Ambrose continued despite their animations, saying "In Paris, we can learn from the other artists. We can thrive on the energy of the city and learn to make great art."
Montaigne's fist began to rise and fall upon the arm of his stout and sturdy seat, meting out a silent beat.
Boniface paid no mind to the glowering firgure of Montaigne. He focussed on disputing Ambrose' claim. "We've all been working in Paris. We've all tried thriving there. This is where we have ended up. More though, I have no wish to follow the others. If we stay there we become them! I will not become them!" His arms began to awkwardly almost flail with agitation now, losing his regular refinement.
Ambrose titled his head and considered the protesting young man. He asked "Here, you would follow me and our friend?"
"No." exclaimed Boniface quickly and the elder interjected as swiftly.
"Would you instead lead us then?"
Boniface paused and fell back into the comforts of his seat. He and the old man still squared off with steady stares.
Still on and on again the steady, slow refrain of Montaigne's same heavy hand counted out his meditated end.
Receiving no answer, Ambrose asked, "Who would you learn from here then, Monsieur Roy?"
"I learn from doing." said Boniface. "Everytime I make a mark, I learn something new about mark making. Everything I paint or draw teaches me something new. I will master this art so long as I keep at it. I can do that here or in Paris. This place seems pleasant enough." He then sought to turn the tables, leaning in to challenge Ambrose, asking "Will you learn from me?"
The smile that appeared under that old man's hooked nose implied that his answer be positive but suddenly the sullen Montaigne erupted into a monologue.
"We must undertake this. We have a duty...a responsibility to art...to beauty...to ourselves. I know your work, Monsieur Ferland, and yours, Monsieur Roy. Many times have I seen your finished works, and even some rough sketches of yours, Boniface, and I felt that you were both brilliant and that you were both close. You were on the trail of the art that I was pursuing. You don't have the key but we are all three at the same threshold. I don't know about this man's theories and really, it doesn't matter if he is right or if he is mad. Even if there was no Roland de Grenville, I would be glad, most glad, to be able to share some kind of studio with you. I do wish to learn from you...each of you, and I hope you might learn something from me. We can give each other something even greater, I believe, and that is strength. By watching one another begin to step past that brink, we will have the courage to do the same...together."
Silence settled upon the seated trio as each of the men looked at one another expectantly. Who would next counter the argument?
Ambrose spoke up.
"Nothing more need be said. Good night, Gentlemen." He rose then, pained, and neither companion moved to aid nor deter his exit.
"Sleep well, Monsieur. I shall see you at breakfast." said Boniface sweetly.
Montaigne grunted and rested his bearded cheek upon a raised fist. From under heavy, furrowed brows his brown eyes watched Ambrose make his laboured exit. When the aged had passed, Boniface lightly addressed Montaigne.
"Did you mean that about liking his work? I might have seen some landscapes that he once did but they were commonplace. They might as well have been watercolours. Insipid."
One of those too large brows of the other arched.
"They seemed like an imperfect impersonation of an impressionist." continued Boniface.
"You have not been witness to his Pieta in the Church of St John the Divine. The despair on the face and fingers of the Magdalene alone will forever mark him a genius."
"He does not seem the Pieta type." replied Boniface, unimpressed. "Did he do it years before, when he still had passion?"
Montaigne's shaken head denied it. "He never had passion...not like it is glorified today among the young. Passion is not something he would wear on his sleeve."
Boniface smirked at the irony.
Just as Charles Montaigne was lifting his fist to begin another round he instead hoisted himself out of the deep chair.
"Are you retiring then?" asked the fresh faced youth.
Charles paced.
He clasped his fingers behind his back.
"What he lacks is not passion. What he lacks is obsession. His styles change often and he is always trying new, perhaps bold things. He certainly has courage… but not the courage to stay the course with what must work…one day."
Boniface laughed merrily then and drained his glass of its dregs. "So he suffers from abandoning hopeless causes. Maybe this I could learn from him."
The other was not so amused. "No. I mean… He doesn't… it is not hopeless. I can see the destination but not the way through it."
"My destination is a bed, Monsieur Montaigne, and I can see that my way through it is past you," said Boniface rising.
Montaigne stepped aside without hesitation but Boniface extended a cordial hand toward him, seeking a clasp of comraderie. Frowning, Charles looked from the hand to the boy's face for the briefest of moments. He looked for some sort of deceit hiding in the corners of Boniface’s mouth, but saw none. He took up the offered hand and shook it vaguely. Boniface's grip was strong and persistent yet the moment Montaigne moved to release, his hand was set free.
"Do not stay up too late, Monsieur. If we are to be the advance guard for an army of artists tomorrow, we'd best be up early," said Boniface.
Montaigne shrugged and looked for a window to stare through while Boniface wandered off to find his room. Such, thought Charles, were the broken, twisted, and fragile threads that destiny has woven his future from.
*
Under the lemon-yellow glow of a low gaslight, Jacqueline wriggled obstinately into her off-white nightdress. It was a cumbersome ritual, getting this overlarge gown on over her dinner clothes, but performing the dance, she'd become an artist in her own right. It was, as her husband once observed (but not tonight), like a crow worrying her way back into her egg.
Ambrose faced away and tended to his own disrobing. One part of his mind was wondering why his wife had waited up for him, but the remainder focused on her pointed questions.
"Yes." was his answer to the first. "They did appear to each be in concurrence. I saw nothing to suggest marital disharmony."
"Then, again," replied his wife, "you did not pay attention. She has put him up to this affair and it seemed, to me, that she was not wholly satisfied with his performance."
Not looking over his shoulder, Ambrose sat upon the narrow lumped mattress to remove his shoes. "She was always first to rise and applaud him." he said.
"Exactly." answered the wife but felt it pointless to elaborate. She stepped out of her eveningwear and commenced to inspect it critically. She called to mind each memory of this evening, seeking that moment when the wine-violet lace of her left cuff, purchased three Novembers ago from La Joliette for two centimes per meter, must have snagged. Ambrose mulled over the silence and awaited the next lamp lit fusillade. Down, splayed upon the darkly patterned Turkish rug, his wizened, grey, and dying toes were flexed to furrow bubbled tendon rows, each over writ by pale and purple too-thin strands of vein.
While carefully dislodging a crumb, Jacqueline Berthe mentioned that, "Once again, no mention was made of money."
He could not restrain his sigh in time and Madame Ferland's gaze slid to set upon the grimly spotted, egg-thin skull of her lover. Expecting nothing more, she continued. "Does he expect you to work for nothing? What of the work in Paris that you would miss? How many more years do you imagine that you can work for? You have your daughter to think of."
He did turn to her then and nodded solemnly. "Yes..."
Exasperated, Jacqueline was speechless.
"Yes." he reassured his wife. "I am thinking of Ghislaine and you." Ambrose took the time to swallow then, "I am doing what I think best."
She had no answer. Setting the evening wear aside, Jacqueline set down before the small, wrought-framed mirror and reflected upon her life and what had brought her to this moment. She had no cause for regret yet; still, she allowed regrets to weigh down her heart. Hairpins were pulled and the taut tresses of Jacqueline fell free, disorderly and black, to her shoulders and beyond. Happiness eluded her and it always would. She took some solace in that. She took some measure of pride in that. She was the heroine who would endure for the sake of others.
Ambrose spoke quietly through crackled lips, at the point of exhaustion, "If I am wrong then I am deeply sorry. I know that you do not see hope in this, but, my dear, I am drawn to the hope that I see here."
Jacqueline gave her husband a warm smile of friendship. "Goodnight, My Dear."
He said, "Good night, My Love". Between the two, no other phrase was breathed before the dawn and too, the iron bed stood taciturn.