Madame Couer-Brulant - The Cousins,volume II

“Aren't they all?” murmured Julia.

“He is charming, obliging, kind and-above all-delicate. In his arms I have tasted all the happiness one can expect in love. At least, as far as a man is concerned. I am afraid about one thing only…”

“And that is that little Cherub will not remain your only child. Am I right?”

“You must admit that it is a point which one cannot lightly overlook.”

“Oh, come on! Trust your luck. If you don't dare to gamble, you will never have a chance to win! And even if it were to happen, all we have to do is to make a little trip, and the whole affair would be over and done with. In other words, you are going to see Maxim de Berny again?”

“Tomorrow! And I am so overjoyed at the thought that I can hardly wait. Because, unless I am terribly mistaken, this man knows how to make love. He makes love exactly the way it should be done.”

“What on earth in your opinion is the proper way of making love?”

“Well, it consists far more of certain sweet nothings than…”

“Oh, you poor child! What a miserable system to live on! Don't you realize that these enchanting preliminaries are only designed to whet your appetite? You don't walk away from a table hungry after you have nibbled a few snacks, do you? You can't just enjoy a few preliminaries of love, and then have your partner walk away from you! And not only that! For heaven's sake, dear sister, don't start convincing yourself that such is the natural and desirable state of your love life! You would wind up a nervous wreck!”

“Oh, no, no! One only has to know what to do when the appetite has been aroused.”

“That sounds good. And do you know how? It's almost amusing, dear Florentine. I hope that it is not some offbeat little secret my Dorothy has told you?”

“Oh, no, not at all. On the contrary, Dorothy insists that using artificial means might kill me, or at least it would age me years before my time. But she did show me some exercises with my thighs, recommending this as one of the means which nature so generously provides to reach a healthy orgasm. But I do admit that this would not shut out the possibility that I could fall deeply in love with Maxim. If he were only capable of understanding me completely.”

“Sister, dear, you want too much. I hope that you won't give away our little secret.”

“Of course not.”

“Please, don't forget it. It is terribly difficult to keep secrets from a lover with whom you are sharing your bed.”

“And whom are you going to invite the next time?” Florentine wanted to change the subject. “After all, the poor young Count de Paliseul has fallen from your graces!”

“Oh I don't know, yet. I'll think about it.”

“Fine, while you think about it, I am going to take my little Cherub for a walk in the Jardins des Luxembourg.”

The two sisters each went their own way, and Julia ordered her driver to take her to the Salon des Beaux-Arts where, just a few days before, a new art exhibition had opened.

It was quite obvious that the show had opened only very recently, because the place was crowded, not only with artists and art lovers, but above all with those people who want to be seen at the “right places” in Parisian society. That they far outnumbered the real connoisseurs was immediately obvious when one caught snatches of their meaningless chatter while they strolled past the various exhibitions.

Madame de Corriero was not an artist in the real sense of the word. She could barely hold a brush, and she had not the slightest idea of how to hold a chisel. But her sense of beauty and poetry was natural and highly developed. She was especially entranced by those works of art where the artist had obviously poured his heart out, even though his work might not be acceptable by conventional standards.

She walked, rather aimlessly, through the exhibition halls, looking left and right. Now she would shrug her shoulder and then she would suddenly be captivated by something she saw, losing herself in reverie for many minutes.

Suddenly she stopped in front of a huge painting. She was afraid that the judges had ranked it at the bottom of the list, but she was captivated by the enchanting picture. It was nothing complicated-a forest scene, a big tree and a young couple in love. But it was this young, loving couple which caught her attention. The artist had succeeded in capturing that wonderful moment for two lovers when the world stops, and there is no one but themselves left in the entire universe. Though the painting had many technical mistakes, the artist had succeeded perfectly in showing a woman completely absorbed in the man she loves, and a man for whom the world consists only of his female partner. A ray of the setting sun brushed across the face of a beautiful young man in love.

Julia opened her catalogue to check who might be the painter. She fully intended to acquire this beautiful work. But suddenly she started, because before her, in the flesh and smiling, stood the young man from the painting. He greeted her with a mixture of respect and amusement.

“Since the painting seems to interest you, Madame, allow me to save you the trouble of looking up the name of the man who committed this deed. Michael Lompret, at your service, and I hope that you like me as much now as when I was considerably younger.”

Michael Lompret, the young man from the painting, had indeed matured in the way the painting had promised. He was no longer in the early spring of his life, but had reached the stage of summer-in full glory. He was tall, slim, wide-shouldered, and his hands were slender yet strong. It was obvious that his arms and legs were powerful. He was the perfect picture of elegant strength. His sharp features were framed by beautiful black curls, and his little beard was reddish and carefully trimmed, leaving his strong, red lips free. Ooh, those lips! They seemed to be made for kissing.

The clear blue eyes of the young man stared in open admiration at Madame de Corriero. They lit up at what they saw, which might not have been socially acceptable, but it sent shivers up Julia's spine, and it left no doubt what the young man would do if given only the slightest encouragement. Julia tried to regain her composure.

“Sir,” she said, slightly reserved, yet without pride, “I am very grateful for your assistance, but, please, don't let me take up your time simply because I was momentarily surprised by the likeness of you and the young man in the painting.”

“You don't know how happy you make me, Madame. You think that I look like this boy? That makes me at least ten years younger.”

“It is not a coincidence?”

“No, no, that was me at the age of twenty. And a little girl from the country, my first love. I believe she was sixteen,” he added with a melancholy smile.

“You mean that you are the painter?”

“I told you that I have either the honor or the misfortune to be the one.”

“I would call it fortune, Monsieur Lompret,” Julia smiled. “This painting personifies the spring of your productive years, and may be the beginning of your fame. It is obvious, though, that you have not yet reached your peak. But I have become curious, and I would like to know how the story in the painting ended.”

Michael hesitated a moment, and then he said, “It is impossible to set the clock back. We cannot, no matter how much we would like to, let fleeting time stop for one single second. Time has completed its banal destruction. Like a beautiful rose, she lived only one summer. Every year, on the anniversary of that first kiss, I exhibit the painting I did when I heard that she was no longer alive. I did have great expectations from this work of art and did not expect the Art Commission to hide it away in this miserable little corner.”