Catherine D'Aubergine

Catherine D’Aubergine

The horses ground their teeth into their bits as the lash fell upon their backs, and they understood it’s meaning, faster, forward, faster. They pulled the carriage along a path which cleft the wood and wound its way around the hills. Inside the carriage a young lady sat looking out the window, pretending to be considering the scenery. In her head drawing room scenes passed; she auditioned her potential replies.

Across from her sat her chaperone, the elder Mr. Sturridge who was looking out his own window. As he looked out into the trees an agitation crept over his features and he too ceased to truly watch the forest pass. After some time he brought himself to turn and look at his young charge and even parted his lips as if to speak, but was unable. He averted this initial glance, leaned forward, and began to rub his hands back and forth across his thighs, looking as though some thought were paining him, and said,

“Rockland’s grounds are most comely in the fall, don’t you think Catherine?” The young lady nodded in what could only be taken for agreement and they were each released to their respective window. The forest was, in fact, quite comely. Beech and hazel trees twisted their way out of the thorn and brush with branches that were just beginning to bare themselves. The canopy above seemed to open slightly, diffusing less of the dull Autumn light, while the shrubbery below began the slow descent back into the soil.

The carriage broke free of the wood and began its way up a long and open drive lined with evenly spaced trees and low cut grass. The effect was to draw the eye to a rectangular building in the distance whose yellowish stone and many windows drawn shut seemed greater than the sum of the lives it had been made to shelter. The many carriages parked out front were the only evidence that there was any life present at all.

As their own carriage pulled up two liveried serving men approached to open its door and lower its steps. Mr. Sturridge and Miss D’Aubergine allowed these men to help them down but did not greet them. Instead Mr. Sturridge motioned for them to see to the horses while the other lead them through the front doors and into a vast entry hall whose contents added up to a small fortune – or the entirety of Catherine’s family’s own estate. As they approached the gallery the muffled din of a multitude of conversations from within grew louder, and with it, their anxiousness. After a brief respite and a deep breath, the doors were opened to reveal the Lord and Lady of the estate.

“Your Lordship, may I present Mister Sturridge and Mademoiselle D’Aubergine.”

“Lord Rockland, Lady Rockland.” Each bowed to the depth of their station.

“You have kept us all waiting my dear girl, I do hope all is well.” Lord Rockland naturally was first to speak.

“Yes, I must humbly apologize we were detained most unavoidably.”

“I was informed your parents were unable to make our engagement. We are sorry to miss them,” said Lady Rockland. Mr. Sturridge braced himself and stepped forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with Catherine,

“Yes Monsieur and Madame D’Aubergine asked that I humbly apologize for their absence and that I communicate their deepest regret that they are presently detained by circumstances most unalterable.” Lady Rockland smiled unpleasantly,

“Oh one can hardly blame them, even we English are unhappy to quit the continent this time of year, no matter how good the society.” Miss Prouste looked appropriately abashed while Mr. Sturridge truly mortified. Lady Rockland let this moment play for a beat before continuing,

“Well, think nothing of it. After all tonight is for you my dear, in your honor. Your uncle has been entertaining everyone. You really could not have a better ally in support of your cause. Indeed he has everyone hailing your paintings as the second coming.” Catherine bowed again.

“My Lady is most kind. Is my uncle near? I would like to thank him for his efforts on my behalf.”

“Yes of course, we don’t stand on the ceremony between guest and host in this house, but would rather that everyone be able to do just exactly as they wish.”

All four bowed once again, the two guests with deepened gestures of discomfiture. As they were then admitted Mr. Sturridge relaxed visibly, glad to be finished with the main of this evening’s obligations. The gallery took in their arrival with a guarded recognition. In small circles the other guests stood, their mouths producing not words but whispers creating a certain air of reserve which Catherine had not imagined in her many projections of the evening. She did not know any of the faces, half turned toward her, but doubtless they were people of excellent quality; her uncle would have arranged nothing less.

She strode calmly into their midst, instinctively mirroring their image of self possession. On the wall at regular intervals hung the eight paintings she had prepared for this, her first public viewing. Such a thing was generally unheard of, a woman artist having her works viewed by the public. Even a woman with real talent would be lucky to be given a pat on the head and the assurance that she had done very well for a woman. It was a testament to the ability of her Uncle that this gathering had been made possible. At the moment no one was paying any of the paintings an obvious fuss, and of course neither would she.


Before the lady and her chaperone had gotten far one of the many circles of people suddenly began to move, and set itself directly in her path.

“Miss Prouste, we were beginning to fear you might not attend your own debut. But now that you have indeed graced us with your presence, come let me introduce you to Lord Harlow and his wife, the Lady Harlow. I am Lord Edland. This is my wife, the Lady Edland.”

“How do you do, I am Catherine D’Aubergine and this is my chaperone Mr. Sturridge.”

“How do you do. Miss D’Aubergine, I daresay I felt as if your paintings were nearly as good an introduction to you as meeting you in person. Very bold, vital. One piece in particular I believe to be of special merit, the “Mediations on the Child Christ.” I’ve told dear Lady Edland I don’t intend to depart this evening without it being secured for my collection.” She had not discussed this eventuality with her Uncle, in fact she had somehow never really considered the sale of her paintings at all.

“I’m very honored my Lord.”

“Yes there’s something of the spirit of the Renaissance in the use of light in that one, and yet the characters are depicted so freshly. It gives one the feeling that one is experiencing the subject in a way which is at once familiar and yet entirely new.”

“My lord is most kind.” Lady Edland leaned forward confidentially,

“Tell me dear, were your parents not able to attend tonight?” *

In such a way Catherine went from group to group, never staying in any one place too long, never failing to be praised for her work and never failing to respond with anything other than sincere appreciation and humility. There were so many kinds words. She wore a beautiful dress. There were so many prospects. Her hair had been just yesterday cut and styled in a fashion that was new and not yet overly used. Indeed she cut a formidable figure despite her relatively young age and lack of experience; such had been her breeding and her preparation for this the arena of her life. Her presence, her beauty and her wit made it plain to everyone that she would rise to the status of social darling within the year if not in the course of the evening.
As Catherine excused herself from another small company of guests, for the first time that evening she caught sight of her uncle coming through the large pair of double doors at the back of the hall. After him came a pair of gentlemen who each departed in a different direction without adieu. Whatever they had all been at had been settled behind those doors. Her uncle’s eyes found her quickly.

He called to her from across the hall in his purposefully thick French accent.

“Ma belle enfant, I was beginning to wonder what other engagement could have been so pressing as ours!” They kissed each other lightly on each cheek under the eyes of the gallery.

“Everyone is here, and now that you’ve joined us we are complete.” Catherine could only smile and murmur thanks and agreement under the force of her Uncle’s arrival.

“Come come my dear, you must be introduced.” His eyes quickly scanned the nearby guests. “Ah Lord Harencourt! The enchanting Lady Harencourt, bonsoir. My Lady, you look stunning, I don’t know how you could have stayed hidden to me up until now.”

“Monsieur you flatter me.”

Her uncle engrossed himself in Lady Harencourt without haste, but in such a gaudy, grandiose way that her husband could see no suspicion in it. There was in fact an almost charlatan manner with which he engaged himself with her, not really looking at his companion when speaking or listening, giving these introductions the feeling of a dance. After three such exchanges Catherine pulled her uncle aside and spoke to him in her native French.

“Lady Rockland was quite hard on me for being late.”

“I do not doubt that she was, dreadful woman. But as I have told you it is of no import whatsoever, the Rocklands are desperate to outdo the Edlands in these sorts of gatherings. They need tonight, and both of them know that. In fact, I was going to mention to you that you should leave early tonight, say, in about an hour or so. By then they will have drunk enough for you to slip out unnoticed, and they will not realize that you have done so until they look to take their leave and give you a goodbye.”

“Oh I don’t think they’ll stand for that.”

“Nonsense, they most certainly will. You must trust me in these things.”

“No one has asked me about my paintings, they just abuse all the French phrases that are in vogue and keep repeating something about my paintings reminding them . . .”

“Of the Renaissance? Yet in a way that is new and fresh?” Catherine scowled.

“Yes that was me. Don’t be angry my dear, the first rule of society is to strike a pose, and so far as I know there hasn’t yet been a second rule written. Oh don’t sulk. Everyone loves your paintings. Look around you - this is all for you!”

“I’ve had offers made.”

“Who did such a thing?”

“Lord Edland.”

“He would. If anyone else has the nerve to approach you about a purchase you must refer them to me. Make it seem as if you don’t care for the burden of it. You must be seen as being above such things, as you truly are. Let a creature of the world deal with his kind.”

“I don’t want to leave early tonight. If this is all for me then let me have it.”

“Oh dear.”

“What, is it so terrible . . .”

“No no my dear. It’s Count Obstrecht, he’s in the gin again. He can get ugly when he’s in the gin. I have to go and see if I can divert him. Look, leave early tonight. Trust me, I haven’t led you wrong yet. We’ll have them begging for you, trust me.”

Without waiting for Catherine’s reply her uncle went to see to the Count, calling out to him from across the hall. The other guests began to move in on Catherine in her Uncle’s wake, and she had no choice but to be engaged by them one after another.
At the turning of the hour Lady Rockland bid her guests retire to the drawing room, where a light fare was being served upon a table in the center of the room. Catherine wanted to sit down but, as everyone else had remained standing, felt that doing so would put her at a disadvantage. So instead she took another glass of champagne, which she sipped too often merely to have something to do.

“Yes very vital, a recasting of the spirit of the Renaissance.” Catherine thanked the connoisseur and excused herself as politely as she could manage. This ritual was wearing on her and all the champagne had begun to make her feel lightheaded. She had long looked to this day’s coming to banish the dreariness that had been her life when she had been kept cloistered at her family’s estate in Aubergine.

And yet as she stood in its midst she had yet to meet anyone really interesting. No one had engaged her in such a way as to signal to her that they were, as she had always believed herself to be, someone who really knew. She had imagined the sign such a person would give her, the unusually frank greeting or the particularly observant comment, yet no one had done anything of the sort.

She told herself she was being childish, that the champagne was making her flighty. But this remonstration, no matter how reasonable, did nothing to move the feeling of disappointment lodged in her breast, in that part of her which could only feel. She drained her glass as if it were not directly connected to the growing unhappiness in her, as if this drink would be different from those before it, and take her instead to the happy bubbly side of intoxication such as it had at other times.

It seemed that the passing hours and drink were affecting the rest of the party as well. People were speaking louder and even laughing at times. The previously tightly bound circles of acquaintance were beginning to break rank, and a pair of gentlemen were now actually seated at the table, keeping their own company without a care for those around them. On one side sat a behemoth of a man with a thick shock of beard in which those particles of food that had not found their way to his vest were tangled. He ate voraciously, sloshing wine about in a large goblet, which he must have brought himself as it did not match the set on the table. His companion was a young attractive gentleman in rather plain though well cut dress who sat impassively looking at his friend, or rather through him as his eyes did not seem to focus and his face bore the blank expression of distant thought.

“Miss D’Aubergine?”

Catherine received the inquiries and entreaties of the young couple and their sister who introduced themselves as Mr. and Mrs. Tompkins and Agnes. As she began to fear that she might have to be short with them she again spied her uncle who was leading the bluff and red-faced Count through the crowd. She took the opportunity to call him over and was then able to gauge the relatively low rank of her present company by the greeting her uncle gave them, a minimal,

“Enchanter.”

The Count did not introduce himself but instead looked them all over as if from a dark and hazy distance. If his belligerent searching of their faces moved anything in him he did not show it. Her Uncle shortly obliged him by introducing first himself and then his companion as simply, “The Count.” There followed a moment of silence which was unbroken by Monsieur Delacroix’s mumbling something congenial. This was then replaced by an awkwardness of a different kind when a young girl passed by wearing a low cut dress in the company of who one could only assume to be her mother. The Count stared openly at her as she passed bringing looks of embarrassment to the faces of those present save for her Uncle who only remarked,

“Lady Belfore brings her girls out when others would have them still with ribbons in their hair.” Catherine could not help but say something,

“Count please, she can’t be but fourteen.” The Count turned and looked her up and down in much the same manner before replying unsteadily,

“Nature does not care for your . . . artificial bounds. Why pretend to be something I’m not. Better to be wholly a beast than some sort of lying, half-life gentleman,” again eyes fell to the floor except for those of her uncle who was actually smiling.

“As for me I’ll stay here,” the Count motioned about the opulent drawing room, “in the jungle. Until I see something worth coming out for.” He then moved as if to follow the young girl but was intercepted by Monsieur Delacroix who suggested that they go in search of a game of cards.

The rest of the company seemed torn between the excellent company of the Monsieur and the evening’s guest of honor and the Count’s frightening behavior. But Monsieur Delacroix relieved them of this decision by politely excusing himself from their company. Catherine followed closely behind him.

“The most eloquent speech I’ve heard all night and spoken in the defense of lechery.”

“Suffering the eccentricities of the rich is a part of the price of admission. It’s their means that does them in; consummation begets perversion I’m afraid. But perversion is really only the penultimate stage of desire for those who have the means to achieve it.”

“Tell me something, who’s the pair at the table?” Her uncle looked over her shoulder before replying that he did not know, with noticeable disdain. Catherine did not press him or ask that he make further inquiry; he would most likely make his own in any case.

“Well I suppose I had better see to the Count. I may have to appease him with another drink. It’s an endless circle my dear, gin to subvert the very behavior brought on by the gin.”

The Count who had appeared all this time oblivious suddenly said,

“I suffer you and your foppery for the memory of Montmartre. For that and that only.”

Monsieur Delacroix was not in the least phased by this, and led the Count away, leaving Catherine free to approach the gentlemen at the table. She did so quickly, before anyone could intercept her; so quickly, in fact, that she found herself standing before the pair of them without having prepared any sort of introduction. The larger man eyed her dubiously while the younger did not seem to have noticed her approach or that she was standing there smiling.

“Gentlemen, I do hope you are enjoying yourselves and not merely for the fare but all that which is currently at your backs.”

Now the young man did look up, but not with a look of bemusement, just the same dreamy expression, as if the meaning of her words were beyond him. The larger man continued to look at her dully with the type of dumb strength that comes from truly not caring about the thoughts and opinions of others.

Neither responded and Catherine began to feel as if the mere act of standing had somehow become suddenly an absurd thing to do. But then the larger man relented, introducing himself as Baron Kline and his acquaintance as simply, “The Young Lord.” His accent meant that he was either British or had been living her for sometime, though his name sounded German, while the purposefully oblique title given to The Young Lord hinted at eminent standing. Catherine gave them her name in return and asked if she might sit. The Baron looked openly annoyed while The Young Lord appeared unconcerned.

“Do you often attend these types of gatherings?”

She looked directly at the young man as she spoke and he looked back at her with a gathering presence – as if he perceived she were making an accusation. that seemed to have been brought on by being directly confronted with her. After a few moments when it became clear that he was not going to respond the Baron replied,

“No, not often.” Catherine was anything but affronted by this strange treatment and proceeded confidently,

“Are you lovers of art?” The Baron went so far as to snort derisively while The Young Lord looked on coolly, yet now plainly intent upon her.

“Well in any case a love of art is hardly a requisite for this sort of gathering.”

The Baron laid his hands on the table and shifted irritably as if to force her purpose, but she was not really concerned with him, she had never heard his name and so far as she was aware he could do her no harm even should he wish it. It was The Young Lord’s reaction she measured, and her measurements told her that he was undoubtedly masterful in his silence, though his eyes betrayed everything. They were beautiful, questioning in a way that made her feel that he had a right to do so, as if suffering gave him that right.

She knew she could easily banish his trick by making some comment on his reticence and then judging him unjustly on its account. Catherine knew that clever people who constructed clever social defenses loved nothing better than to educate others on the moral impregnability of their position. But doing such a thing seemed terribly boorish to Catherine. She would be his conspirator in this rather than his challenger. She wanted to make it clear that none of this bothered her and that it was not beyond her comprehension.

“Baron I do not wish to keep you from your meal,” she smiled knowingly, “please help yourself.”

For a moment she was afraid she had miscalculated and was coming off as assumptive, but the Baron did resume his meal, which seemed to bring her and The Young Lord closer. Now she knew that any more questions on her part went the risk of going unanswered, so instead she made a show of inspecting the nearby furniture and wall hangings before bringing her eyes back to The Young Lord’s and speaking in an unabashedly French accent that bordered between the playfully innocent and the conspicously simple,

“Being here in one of your famous English estates does make me love my own family’s chateau all the more. This place feels so austere, forbidding even. When I am at home I feel as if it is all there for me, while here it feels very much the opposite.”

This vein of conversation Catherine thought to be in good taste. After all, for those whom conventional conversation rings as a lie, the exchange of subjective and sentimental observation serves as an intermediary, the sketching of a map to one another.

“This is not to say that England does not have its charms. The woods make me think of fairy tales. The trees all look full of secrets of the saddest kind, those which mean the world to them but can mean nothing to anyone else. England is full of this sort of feeling, kitchen sized tragedy.”

At this she gave him her Mother’s smile, withdrew a little, measuring and composing her expression by the moment, from smug to ironic, distant to endaring.

As she looked out over the room she saw that her Uncle was now leading a couple over in her direction. She leaned forward and engaged The Young Lord again, speaking of how she could not encapsulate France so easily in her own mind as she did England, being too close to it, knowing too much of it to dare simplify it as she did with her impressions of this foreign country, so that she appeared unawares when her Uncle arrived.

“Catherine!”

She rose slowly, smiling. The Young Lord and the Baron also rose, the latter making a great production of it.

“May I introduce Lord Durly and Lady Durly. My Lord, my Lady, this is Catherine D’Aubergine, Baron Kline and, actually I have not had the pleasure of making this gentleman’s acquaintance.” Everyone looked to The Young Lord who was himself looking at none of them. Catherine intervened quickly, having anticipated this,

“My Lord Durly, Lady Durly, it is truly a pleasure to meet you.” Normally Catherine would have received them much more coolly but the situation called for compensation.

“The pleasure is ours.” Lord Durly replied.

“Lord and Lady Durly have just purchased le ‘Shepherde de la Matin’ piece.”

“Oh, you do me great honor.” Catherine bowed.

“Yes, we were quite taken with it. And I daresay it will find itself in excellent company in my private collection.” Catherine laughed politely, wishing it were not necessary to do so. Wishing she had the bravery of The Young Lord.

“So tell us, how does England seem to you on your first visit here?”

At this the Baron threw his napkin down on the table and stormed off. The Young Lord did not make as if to follow nor did he even seem perturbed by his companion’s dramatic exeunt. The rest of the party craned their necks in the Baron’s wake until he finally passed through the doors at the back of the room, when they then exchanged phrases of open disapproval.

Monsieur Delacroix stepped in this time, commenting that he actually enjoyed the unlaced later hours of such parties, when the wine began to truly earn its keep. After attending to the Lord and Lady, Catherine finally excused herself, pulling her Uncle aside with her, by means of a promise to later discuss the possibility of plans for a dinner in the near future.

“You’re doing wonderfully my dear. You have everyone asking about this young man whose name no one seems to know and his absurd friend. It was upon my previous company’s third voicing of wonder that they did not know who you were sitting and talking to that Lord Durly announced he would buy your painting. Nonetheless, let us not be too coy with them. The hour is growing late. You should make a few more rounds before you leave.”

“Uncle, I want some time with him and I want to be left alone.”

“Beg pardon? I’ll save my critique of your taste for a later date, dear. The line between naïveté and foolishness is not a thin one; nor is it one our present company can forgive you crossing.”

“No one will care, look around you. You said it yourself, they’re too drunk to notice the offense at this point.”

“Did I say that?”

“I am asking you for this, give me some time with him.”

“Ech, you are becoming ‘la mistresse artiste’ already. I wonder if I shouldn’t miss my dear suppliant niece very soon.”

“What will you do with my chaperone?”

“Oh that’s quite easy, I’ll simply arrange an immediate invitation for Mr. Sturridge that is so far above him that he cannot possibly refuse it.”

“At this hour?”

His reply was a devilish smile.

“Very well, thank you for this.”

“Your appreciation will be short lived, my dear.” With that her uncle left her to pursue his errand. She had no trouble in seeking out The Young Lord, as he was still standing where she had left him. He seemed to have retained a retinue from the fiasco of the Baron's behavior, but he dispatched of them swiftly with a soft smile.

“I’m sorry to have driven off your friend. If I am imposing on you please let me know.”
Nothing seemed to have changed in his attitude toward her now that he knew who and what she was. It was true that Catherine had wished for at least some recognition, but then she also knew that her interest in him would have suffered for it.

“Well if I have not yet imposed on you then I shall try harder. Let’s quit this place, or at least find some place we can talk alone.”

Had The Young Lord had been completely unmoved by this, Catherine surely would have lost her composure. But his conspiratorial silence, coupled with his impudent posture, rife with suggestion, gave an unmistakable answer. Before long her Uncle rejoined them and told the couple to follow him. No one seemed to be watching them as they made their way across the room, but as they passed through the doors at the back of the room Catherine could almost feel the departing guests turning in her direction and knew then that she had most definitely underestimated their attention.

This complicity was an uncommon mood for her uncle to adopt, but fitting given the situation, it being the veneer of the least assailability to that eye in the sky, the phantom of social posterity. They passed through another large sitting room and into the hallway beyond that before her Uncle stopped at a door, placed a key into its lock and let them through.

It was a handsome room, with ochre carpet, oaken furniture and trimming. Two high backed leather upholstered chairs sat at an open angle to one another, facing an unlit fireplace. Everywhere was the sweet smell of cherry pipe tobacco and on the mantle a number of pipes were on display, fashioned from twisted wood, with a finish on them that accentuated their forms, like the rind on a wheel of aged camembert, or a glass of whiskey the color of a rotten pumpkin set aglow.

“I’m going now to escort our friend the Count home safely. I imagine everyone else shall be retiring as well. I wish you good night.”

Offering nothing more than his knowing smile, he then simply took his leave. The Young Lord stood looking at the empty fireplace. Catherine motioned for him to take one of the chairs. This he did. She sat down in the other but then got back up and put a few logs in the fireplace, struck one of the long matches, sheltering it with her hand until its flame spread onto the dry hay and began to crawl along the thin kindling twigs. She then removed a bottle of brandy from the leaded-glass cabinets on the wall opposite the fireplace and poured two small snifters of brandy, one of which she handed to him.

With the atmosphere set, she decidedly took her seat and cloaked herself in an air of self-possession before looking directly into the eyes of the man seated askew to her. The look he returned left her lips agape, at a loss. In this soundless exchange all of her projections were rent and reflected back at her. Her eyes fled, shifting quickly away, onto the fire. No, she had not been mistaken, a schooled simplicity yes, but not that. She began to speak, desperate to fill up the emptiness that had risen up to swallow her with the sound of her own voice,

“I began sketching when I was seven years old. By the age of twelve I began painting canvases under the tutelage of a well-acknowledged Master. Just still lives then but... painting has been my life’s passion.”

Tentatively she brought her eyes back to his, and this time they spoke to her, as an accusation,

Liar.

She broke from him again, looking back to the fire.

“I do love painting. Although, I admit, I do not love what I paint, but I feel that I may yet discover that which... I may be able to finally pierce this damnable...”

She knew what she felt but did not know how to make him understand it. She did not look at him again; she knew what his eyes would say. She laughed quietly, a dry husky sound, a bitter quibble without mirth.

“Perhaps it is the idea of painting I love. But I endeavor to create and will continue to do so. If true art were so easily penetrated it would not be the wonder that it is.”
She looked back to him now, hoping to find some compassion, some forgiveness at having extracted this confession, but his eyes only bore the same accusatory gleam.

“Everywhere I’m surrounded by practicalities and limitations; they choke me. I do not even choose what I paint, and so what do I care if it is auctioned off to fools who like what they are told to like.

“Tomorrow, tomorrow and forever tomorrow, I know. I am only just outed into society this night, you know. My parents only required obeisance and diligence in some form of art, and these two things I have done faithfully. They could not come tonight . . . most unavoidable.”

The fire continued to slowly consume itself, casting a soft outline around The Young Lord's stoic countenance. She wanted to go to him, yet she feared what might happen if her advances were rebuffed. Her throat tightened.

“Yes, I have done all that they asked, and yet there is this hole.”

Her voice failed her. She looked to him pitifully, o horror. It was not they his eyes said, it was she. At every turn there lay another lie to be peeled away until the truth, bald and terrible lay before her. She was the accomplice of those she denounced. She was her Mother. She was her Father. If she ever had a daughter no doubt she would do the same to her. She was a villain and simultaneously a witness to her own villainy, all to no end, with no hope for anything different.

Tears pulled her face paint down her cheeks in dark lines. She thought of how she must look, and for some reason this brought out of her the resounding “no” that the awareness of her life’s condition had not. She wiped her face in that age old manner which all women share when the time comes for them to tend to that which is left, stood up and instead of going to him she bid him to follow her.

They left the room and walked back down the hallway, through the now deserted drawing room, into the forbidding marble cavern of the gallery, ruthless in its dark, empty audacity. The reflection of a distant source of light off the parquet floor lent an air of lassitude to the eyes of the subjects in her paintings. She walked carefully from one to the next, seeing the same theme repeat itself.

When she came to the last one, which Lord and Lady Durly had paid a modest sum for, she wrenched it from the wall with more violence than she had intended and, after blinking away a tear, began to meticulously dismantle it from the frame. She separated the canvas and stole a glance at The Young Lord, sitting against the wall, his legs splayed out, pulling tobacco from a leather pouch. Her fastidiousness quickly gave way to fury, until there were two piles: the gaudy, heavy, gilt frames and her canvasses. She felt a mixture of exhaustion and elation as she approached him, now spreading the tobacco strands evenly across a sheaf of paper which he then crushed between his fingers and to rolled slowly back and forth, back and forth.

She ran back to the smoking room and took a log from the fire whose end had not yet caught, and carried it like a flaming club back to the gallery. She stood over her paintings and faced him again, her hair in disarray, her face twisted, her mind focused. The Young Lord rolled his eyes leisurely across the ceiling while the smoke from his cigarette crawled out of his mouth like a vaporous tongue.

She breathed deeply and heaved the log contemptuously down onto her paintings which quickly bubbled and rose up in flame as she gently slipped the straps of her gown from her shoulders, allowing her dress to fall. Unhesitatingly, she then undid her corset and removed her jewelry. These things she added to the pyre. Her witness sat just beyond the reach of the light of the fire, a mass darker and less visible than the darkness surrounding it. Under the eyes she imagined there, she turned and walked out into the night.

Et elle est allee, entre la nuit
Sans ses vetements, tous en nuis
(And she went out, into the night
Without her clothes, all in nude)