a canticle, in prelude- pt. 1

Paris, France – Early Seventeenth Century

two lovers in the night

My final thoughts, as I lay dying, centered around her.

The streets of Paris might have been cold that night, or it might have been the chill of blood loss overwhelming me while my body rested on the dirty ground, my eyes fixed on the heavens. The night appeared brighter than I ever recalled it being, with more stars lit in the cosmos than I was used to seeing. Perhaps I had never stopped to evaluate them properly until that moment. Whatever the matter, the pain in my stomach told me the end was nigh. And I could not help but see her face.

My dark-haired beauty. A pearl of great price born from a family much different than mine. While the Catholic nobility still held rank and honor within Richelieu’s France, my family – mocked with derision as Huguenots – had been stripped of titles possessed by generations not-so-distant. Recent enough that the taste of aristocracy remained in their mouths as they swallowed the bitter pill of religious persecution. Her father did not know that when he commissioned an artist to paint his daughter’s portrait. He only saw a young man who could wield a paintbrush like a sword and came recommended by other members of nobility.

Like a sword. The thought caused me to cough and rest my hand atop the bleeding mortal wound. What would my parents have said if they could have seen me lying like a discarded piece of refuse? Especially knowing there would be no justice for my death.

My family chided me for my treason. Servicing their antagonists while not so much as stepping foot in a church, content with the one adage faith sealed upon my soul. Everything happens for a reason. Father claimed this did not a theology make, but it became the cornerstone of my life the moment I saw her preparing for her sitting, attendants making a fuss while she grumbled at their meddling. I smirked as I arranged my materials. She wasn’t the first noble daughter I ever noticed become vexed with a portrait session.

She was the first, however, that paid any attention to the young man who smiled at her from the other side of the canvas.

Her raven-colored hair and jade eyes inspired me. Several times over my tongue slipped and uttered words even a Catholic commoner should not speak to a woman of nobility. “Vous êtes très belle,” I said as I focused on the soft, smooth skin of her face, intending to study the color palette while winding up surveying far more.

She did not ignore me, but her crimson lips curled in an aristocratic smirk. The gesture meant to issue condescension, it failed in its task when she spoke. “Do you call every woman you paint‘belle,’ monsieur?” she asked.

“Non, mademoiselle. Only those who deserve it.” I raised my eyes from the canvas to wink and saw the blush rise to her cheeks. In twenty-six years of life, I had kissed many lips and enjoyed the company of women both noble and common. I had never made one of them blush in such a manner, though.

The blush made its way onto her portrait. Nobody noticed but her.

I could tell because she blushed in the same manner, our eyes meeting after she gazed at her likeness on canvas. While desire remained a taunting presence throughout the entire session, the hint of seduction in her stare stirred that fledgling longing into the forefront of my mind. When she said, “Merci, Monsieur,” the words floated past lips parted as if begging to be touched.

I said, “Avec plaisir, chère,” but spoke in the same soft tone of voice she did.

We were both damned from that day forth.

I strolled the streets of Paris close to her family’s estate. She would walk amongst the grounds and steal glances at me from the corner of her eye while I dared to look directly at her. My efforts were rewarded in time. One day she stood by her gates, admiring the flowers growing beside a thick row of bushes, and this time she looked directly at me. “Peintre,” she said, walking beside me as I passed. “Comment t’appelles-tu?“

“Julien,” I said, my stride slowing to keep pace with her sedate footsteps. It was a picture perfect day. Mild and sunny, a gentle breeze blowing past. “Why do you ask?”

“From what family?”

“It doesn’t matter. Je ne suis qu’un pauvre portraitiste. Non pas un aristocrate.“

“Surely even painters come from families.”

“None of them of note.” I winked. “Otherwise we would be too lazy to paint.”

She smiled, but maintained her stiff, regal posture. We walked to the edge of the grounds where we both paused, turning to regard one another. “A pleasant day for a walk, n’est-ce pas?” I asked.

“It may be, but I cannot go anywhere,” she said with a sigh.

“Pourquoi, chère?”

She shrugged. “It’s too dangerous. Father says I’m not allowed to leave the estate unless I’m accompanied by servants or the rest of my family.” Her jade-colored eyes appeared melancholy when they gazed into mine. “What fun is that?”

“I wouldn’t know. I come and go as I please.”

“I wish I could do the same.” She frowned.

“Why can’t you?”

“And risk getting caught?”

I shrugged. “So what if they catch you? What are they going to do? Send you to le Bastille?”

“They would certainly send anyone I was caught with there. If they allowed him to live.”

Her eyes possessed a dare. She stepped a little closer to the edge of the grounds. Closer to me. I closed the distance between us by one pace as well. Neither of us spoke for several seconds, but our gaze remained fixed, each sizing up the other. Finally, I said, “Have you ever seen the moon’s light shimmer on la Seine? Or counted the stars in the sky while sitting beside it?”

She shook her head. “Non.“

I nodded. “The moon is full tonight. It would look lovely, I’m sure. The nights are still mild and will remain that way … pour trois ou quatre semaines, peut-être.” Looking to the sky, I smiled and allowed that grin to linger while my eyes lowered to meet hers again. “It would be a shame to waste the best days of l’automne, ma belle chère.”

I expected her to play into my plans like a fiddle, but within a split second, she stiffened and shook her head. “That’s a stupid thing commoners do.” With that she curtsied. “Adieu, Peintre. Bonne chance with your painting.” I watched her storm off toward the lavish house, disappearing into the interior with me unable to chase after her. I might have been playing with fire to seduce her, but entering the grounds with the intent to woo her would be suicide.

Our short discussion planted a seed of temptation, though. Rather than return the next day, I returned that evening and strolled along the boundary to their grounds by the light of the moon. Humming underneath my breath, I circled the estate as though Joshua trying to bring down the walls of Jericho. My would-be paramour was nowhere to be found.

I returned the next evening. Once again, I traversed the entire circumference of the estate, only I did so twice this time. My humming gained in volume. I thought I saw a flicker of candlelight in the distance, but it disappeared as quickly as it surfaced. I claimed the minor victory, though, certain she was debating whether or not to come after me now that she knew she had a visitor.

The following evening, I walked back to the estate and stood close to where we’d spoken, gazing as much as possible through the darkness, craning my neck to see any hint of her. Somehow, that night felt different than the two which preceded it. The air possessed an electricity, as though the stars shimmering in the cosmos wished to watch the events about to transpire. I moved to walk around the estate, as had become tradition, but stopped by the gates when a person emerged and stopped my forward progress.

She folded her arms across her chest in frustration, the gemstones in her eyes flashing annoyance. “Monsieur Julien,” she said in a huff. “What do you want from me?”

Part Two

~ by peterdawes on April 20, 2009.