a canticle, in prelude – pt. 3

A shiver ran from the base of my spine to the tip. Clenching my eyes shut, I moaned and shook my head from side to side, attempting to ignore the pain. My body and I were at odds with blood continuing to spill onto the streets; a pool forming beneath me, staining the ground crimson red. I felt a bead of sweat run along my face before it fell from my pallid skin.
Footsteps paused somewhere nearby. I opened my eyes.

“Monsieur!” the female voice called out. “Qu’est-ce qu’il t’est arrivé?!”

I heard her words, but my brain was shutting down, dizziness making the stars above me seem to blur as though the world had begun spiraling around me. I swallowed hard. My throat felt as though not a drop of drink – be it water or wine – had touched my mouth in ages, yet my lips still managed to utter a name to the stranger gazing at me.

With my dying breaths, I watched my last days play inside my head. It started with the name I spoke.

A week went by. I found myself standing at the gates every night, walking with her to the Seine while we dreamed up notions of another time and place. I questioned what she might do if ever she could step outside of her aristocratic lifestyle. She grinned and said, “I like le théâtre. Or maybe I could just spend my days sitting by the river, admiring it every night while sitting on the banks.”

I laughed. “I wouldn’t mind that so much if I could paint it.”

My eyes fixed on the water. A smile remained etched on my face. When I looked at her, however, I saw the melancholy confusion in her gaze and raised an eyebrow at it. “Why can’t you paint it?” she asked.

Sighing, I fought against the frown that wished to surface. I turned and looked at the sky again. “Déesse, I don’t have the luxury of painting much beyond what I’m paid to do. What little I have after purchasing more materials goes to food and having a place to rest my head.”

When she fell silent, I looked at her, surprised to see her eyes still set on me. She furrowed her brow at me when our eyes met. “Tu m’as appelé comment?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“Déesse.” I succumbed to a playful smile. “Ma déesse de l’amour. Of course, if you’d like for me to call you by your real na … .”

“No,” she said. The suddenness of her answer forced her aback. Composing herself, she added, “I think Déesse is sweet.”

“You don’t like your real name?”

“It’s not that.” She frowned. Her eyes drifted back to the water. “I hear who I am all day. Anymore, it reminds me that I can’t walk to la Seine whenever I want to. That one day, somebody will find out I sneak away with you and will return me to mon père.” She sighed. “You said you don’t have a family name of note? Tu es béni, Julien.”

I regarded her with a frown finally overthrowing the grin I struggled to maintain. “Oui, ma chère,” I whispered. “Je suis béni.” The words rang hollow as I spoke them, though. I hid my family name from her and did not have the heart to flaunt around my pseudonym as though it was the truth. Maybe for the nobles, but not for her. Perhaps if she never knew, she wouldn’t have the chance to reject me.

As I walked back to my room that night, though, the sadness in her eyes played out in a series of pictures, each preventing me from rest. I stayed up the remainder of the night, candles lit and a bottle of wine sitting beside me I imbibed from while stretching canvas over wooden bars. Swearing to myself I would sell a few private pieces at market to justify the expense, I laid out my paintbrushes and mixed paint until the hues I memorized from a few weeks prior emerged. Her jade-colored eyes and raven hair were all I had the chance to start before sleep claimed me until morning’s light.

That night, I dreamed of Italy and saw her by my side. I had never seen the canals of Venice, yet I saw them in my sleep. When I rose, the genesis of a notion whispered romance in my ears. It infected my mind.

I saw Paris as a sojourner from that day forth.

Between attempts to barter in the marketplace, I rehearsed all manner of whimsical dialogue. “Déesse,” I whispered to the cobblestone street. “Toi et moi, nous irons à Venise, peut-être Rome. Far away from names, chérie. Far away from Paris.” I returned to my room at sunset with a few extra coins in my pocket and drew some water so I could freshen up.

By the time my shoes touched the street outside the modest building I called home, I knew what I would say to her. “Belle chère, what if we left la Seine behind and traveled to see … .”

“Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur. Êtes-vous Julien DeBuchet?”

My stroll halted. I turned in the direction of the voice calling my name. It was the first moment I noticed the carriage parked beside my building and a short, wiry man standing beside it, his dark eyes fixed on me. I neither motioned toward him nor moved to resume my stroll. “Oui, Monsieur,” I said. “Et qui êtes-vous?”

He ignored my question. “Le peintre?”

I nodded. “C’est vrai. Now, who are … .”

“Je m’appelle Philippe, Monsieur DeBuchet.” The man bowed. “I am a courier for le Marquis François de Lionne. He requests your presence; it is a matter of urgency.”

I sighed, my eyes shifting to the horizon. Refusing an audience with a noble when they were my primary means of existence would reduce me from a poor artist to penniless street vermin faster than I could snap my fingers. Still, thoughts of my raven-haired beauty consumed my mind. Without any way to send word to her, heaven only knew what she would think when I did not arrive that evening. It was almost enough to tempt me into refusal, or postponement at the very least, until thoughts of Italy resurfaced and gnawed at my slender frame and near-empty pockets.

One couldn’t pay for passage anywhere with only a dream and a prayer. Nodding, I accompanied the courier back to his carriage, casting a wistful glance down the street first before disappearing inside. For the remainder of the evening, I struggled to stay on task as the visiting aristocrat laid out his demands for a set of portraits to be completed before his family returned to their estate.

I struck a hard bargain with the nobleman. “This will cost more than my normal rate,” I said. “I’m preparing to leave Paris and need the money.”

The Marquis shook his head. “Monsieur, I will pay whatever you ask, but it’d be foolish to leave Paris. You are the name every noble in Paris mentions whenever anyone requires the services of un portraitiste. So many artists are leaving France for Italy. You could easily become the royal painter.”

That was exactly what I feared. Noblemen like the Marquis never questioned who les DeBuchetswere so long as I continued appeasing them with my services. The king and his court would state the questions no aristocrat could be bothered to ask, though. They would see through the lies into my real name and then I would face prison for lying to France’s nobles. None of them would have hired the son of a Huguenot family, regardless of what the Edict of Nantes suggested. Our liberties were tenuous at best.

“Ah, peut-être. But …” I paused to grin. “There’s a woman who holds my enchantment even beyond the prestige of painting for le roi Louis. I think she would enjoy the sight of Venice or Rome a bit better.”

He scoffed. “Women are hardly worth it, but so be it. As long as you finish your work for me before you leave.”

I nodded and bowed. “You have my word, Monsieur.” He reciprocated my nod and his courier escorted me back to my residence, prattling on to me about some matter of non-importance while I studied the night sky outside the carriage window. By now, she and I would be at the river, exchanging kisses and talking about our respective worlds as they started to intertwine. I ran to her estate and then to the river when I did not find her waiting for me there.

La Seine boasted only a few late-night visitors. None of them were Déesse.

The next day, the carriage brought me to the Marquis. I swore at myself when I departed with unfinished touch-ups on one portrait and several others left to complete, but even in my rushing about, I still arrived too late to find her waiting for me. When the following day caused the same tardiness, I grumbled and walked home in the rain, drenched to the bone by the time I let myself in to the small area I occupied. The entryway opened up to where I slept and a doorway lead into the room where I housed my paints and materials. I stripped off my shirt and tossed it onto the floor, then headed for the portrait I began several nights ago, intending to make further progress with it.

Stepping past the threshold, I stopped the moment I spied a familiar woman standing in front of my easel. Her head bowed – gaze set on the painting – it took a moment for her to lift her eyes and look at me. I walked no further than where I stood.

Déesse’s crimson lips pursed, their curl hinted at more of a frown than a smile. Her clothing just as prim as always – a simple, yet elegant, dress hinting at the body underneath – my aristocratic paramour looked to have arrived before the rain started. This meant she was waiting for at least an hour, perhaps even longer.

“Where have you been?” ma chérie asked, her cheeks darkening into an angered blush. Her eyes narrowed. “You’re avoiding me because I know the truth, aren’t you?”

I shook my head, my brow knitted in confusion. “What truth?”

“I asked my father for your full name after our last meeting.” Her arms folded across her chest, Déesse tapped her foot. “Who are you really and why do you tell the nobles your name is Julien DeBuchet?”

Story Beginning | Part Four

~ by peterdawes on May 8, 2009.