The faint mumbling of voices wakes me, along with the yeasty smell of fresh bread. A steaming loaf sits on the table right inside the door to my apartment. I didn't dare venture beyond the studio and its connecting apartments, but it only took me minutes to learn them. From the organization of the brushes and pigments to the placement of each piece of furniture, the rooms feel like Morel's.
I rise from the bed and savor the movements that release the scent of his eau de cologne, which has yet to fade from the down bedding. It feels like he isn't gone. Maybe that's why I haven't cried yet.
Listening to the pad of feet, I eat slowly and wonder who would be in the studio at this early hour. I'm careful not to overfill myself since I'll have to wrap myself in my stays soon. I removed the complicated gown on my own, but I'm not quite sure how I'll get it back on. A gentle rap of knuckles on my door interrupts my thoughts.
"Come in," I say hesitantly. My voice is still rough with sleep.
A girl enters with a dress draped over her arms. I try to catch her gaze, but her eyes don't leave the floor. She helps me put on the gown of thick, gold silk with a pregnant silence that makes the small chamber suddenly stifling. This dress comes all in one piece, but it's much more elegant than the practical gown that now lays over the chair beside my bed.
A musical laugh cuts across the quiet hiss of fabrics as they slide over each other. The girl picks up her pace. She drops into a curtsey when she finishes and runs from the room. I wonder how many others she has to dress. My room has a mirror, a luxury I've never been afforded, so I stop to pinch my cheeks and bite my lips before I hurry out to the studio.
Three men stand before the unfinished canvas. The first is shorter than me, I think. He gestures to the painting with stubby hands and strokes his bulging chin between the exaggerated movements. His voice is garbled and I can't understand what he says to the others. Lord Gardet stands to his right and the unwelcome sight of him makes my blood cool. The third man stands at attention, but distinctly separate from the others like he doesn't belong — or doesn't want to.
His back is to me so all I can see is his dark, curling hair and contrapposto stance, which curves away from the others. He is uncomfortable standing beside Lord Gardet. If the three of them were a painting, this man would draw the eye.
I clear my throat to announce my presence. Three sets of eyes turn to look at me, but one pair stops my breath in my throat. The third man's eyes are too blue for someone with such dark hair. They are light like Morel's eyes and it takes a surprising amount of effort to look away when he does not. He's clearly handsome, but not in the fashionable ways. His fair skin is too tanned to fit among courtiers and he's far too lean. The angles beneath his frac coat hint at a body that sees more motion than the average nobleman.
"Here's our petite apprentice," Lord Gardet says. He wears the same false smile, but today he wears it for the short man who looks like he's been squished by a giant hand.
I straighten at his words. "I suppose I can't be called an apprentice anymore." I wouldn't call myself a master, but I don't appreciate being belittled.
Lord Gardet's brows shoot up towards his powered hairline and I realize this is what Morel meant about my tongue getting me in trouble. A smile twitches on the dark-haired man's lips. It takes a moment for me to realize it, but I quickly come to the conclusion that correcting someone above my station is not tolerated here. Survive. Live another day. I offer a demure smile and hope my ignorance will be forgiven.
"Yes... Mademoiselle Florette, I would like to introduce you to our benevolent King, Louis the Sixteenth." Lord Gardet gestures to the squat, red-faced man.
I feel my eyes widen with shock, but a subtle shake of Gardet's head bids me to hide my surprise. I have seen countless paintings from my master's hand that depict the King as a man of great stature with a round yet handsome face. The King before me only bears a passing resemblance to the man in my memory. I remember myself and dip into a sweeping curtsy.
"Your Benevolence," I say with as little shock as I can manage.
"Let us hope Morel has taught her well. You know how much I liked his work," the King says to Lord Gardet. His eyes fall on me. "I didn't expect his apprentice to be a woman, but knowing him, I'm not sure why I expected anything else." He laughs at his own bawdy implications.
His chortle makes my stomach sour. Is that what everyone at court will think?
"This is General Destan Bordelon, our latest hero returned from the Austrian frontlines," Lord Gardet says. General Bordelon flinches at the word "hero," but Lord Gardet presses on unaware. "You can finish his portrait, can you not?"
Of course I can. "When shall we begin?" I ask.
"This afternoon will do. That will give General Bordelon time to change into his dress uniform," Lord Gardet says. "When you are done with today's sitting, the Grand Service begins at ten should you like to make your introduction to court."
He's speaking to me. Grand Service? I have no idea what these words mean together but in order not to seem more ignorant, I smile and nod. Morel never taught me the intricate rules of court life, and now I will suffer for it. My stomach knots at the thought of even leaving the studio.
"General Bordelon can escort you," Gardet says with a nod.
"It would be my pleasure." General Bordelon finally speaks and his voice is deep but it's softer than I expect. There's a gentleness there that catches me off guard.
I should be relieved to have an escort, but General Bordelon is a stranger and I'm not sure I'm ready to admit to my ignorance of court protocols. It's not hard to imagine offending a sensitive courtier and getting sent back on the next coach to Paris.
Before I can object, they bow, signaling an end to our conversation, and follow the squat king out of the studio. I bide my time by inventorying Morel's supplies, grinding pigments, and mixing paints until General Bordelon returns later that afternoon. He enters alone, wearing a cavalry officer's dress uniform of a deep blue coat and brilliant white breeches. Gold braiding sparkles on the coat's white facings and a white baldric crosses his chest and meets the clasp of a Venetian Red, velvet cape at his shoulder. The blue makes his eyes sing and I try not to stare.
"You can stand over here between the windows." A few props litter the studio and I retrieve the ones Morel has already painted into the portrait.
The general takes his spot by the window, his posture is stiff, his mouth a thin line. He flinches when I touch his arm to pose it on the Grecian column.
"Is something wrong?" I ask, worried I'd inadvertently found a recent injury.
"My apologies... I suppose I'm nervous," he says with a smile at the end. Unlike Gardet's smiles, this one feels refreshingly genuine.
"Why?" The idea makes me laugh. "Didn't you just come from the front lines?"
"Laughing at me won't help. I've never posed for a painting before."
"All you have to do is stand there, Monsieur. I'm the one who should be nervous. It's my work on display after all." I can feel a smile creeping onto my lips and it feels like betrayal when Morel's memory is a constant ache deep in my gut. My smile falls. I've just met this man. The feeling of desperation that grows inside me begs to find someone I can trust — a friend. But I need commissions before I need friends. I finish moving the general's limbs into place to form a pose that suits his figure and catches the afternoon sun streaming through the window.
His eyes study me, like he wants to figure me out.
Something flutters in my chest when he doesn't look away. I push the feeling aside.
"How long will this take?" he asks, hesitant. Perhaps he is as nervous as he claims.
"A few hours at most." I can't let him distract me from my task, no matter the color of his eyes. There is too much at stake in this painting.
"If we're spending a few hours together, you can call me Destan."
I probably shouldn't. "Don't move, Monsieur Bordelon," I reply as I begin to draw his figure on a sheet of sketching paper.
"Are you always this serious when you work?"
"Talking is moving." My coldness seems to stop his chatter, but it doesn't stop him from watching me. I study him, memorize the shapes of his lithe figure, but I refuse to meet his gaze though something in me begs to. Every time I look up from the painting my stomach ties itself into new knots, and I begin again the dangerous game of cat and mouse to avoid looking directly into his eyes.
"Is this really your first time at court?" Destan hazards to ask once the sun has dipped behind the trees to darken the studio.
"Yes. Is it obvious?" I let myself steal a glance at him. He is smiling again but I try not to show how much it stirs in me.
"Well... I can see everything you're feeling on your face as clear as day."
I'm not sure I like being so transparent. People who wear their emotions on their sleeves risk much more, and I don't like risks. I throw him a questioning glare.
He runs a hand through his hair to shuffle the rich curls. "Everyone here wears a mask because the machinations of court life are one never-ending card game. If you show your hand, someone will take advantage of you."
These words from Lord Gardet might have sounded like a threat, but the gentleness in Destan's voice tells a different story. He is looking out for me.
I cover my palette with a linseed oil soaked rag to keep the paints from drying and begin to clean my work station. When he doesn't make a move to leave, I ask him a question that goes against all my instincts. "What is the Grand Service?" Shame for my ignorance heats my cheeks. I don't want to know what he thinks now that he knows how clueless I am to the way of life at Versailles.
Destan laughs. It's a hearty, full laugh that makes wish I could laugh so easily as he does. "Ah, yes! That is where we watch the King eat."
"What a silly thing to do."
"It is even sillier than it sounds."
I look down at my plain dress. "Will this do for watching the king eat?"
Destan's thorough examination makes a heat rise to my cheeks. "No. Most certainly not."
"This is all I have," I admit.
"Don't concern yourself," he says as he backs towards the door. "I'll have something sent to your chamber."
"Really?" My smile chases away the last of my blush. "You have an excess supply of dress at your disposal."
"No, but I know precisely where to find one."
We part ways for the early portion of the evening. Maids arrive to dress me in a teal blue Robe à la Française that looks fit for a queen and pin my blonde curls into an ornate display at the top of my head. I try to ignore my stomach which flips and turns in the confines of my corset when I find Destan waiting for me in the studio. My mind is scattered and I'm not sure I'm ready to leave the safety of Morel's studio, but this is my new home. I have to find a way to fit in here if I'm going to survive as a painter.
Destan looks slightly surprised when he sees me. "You look..." He pauses to find the right words. "Fit for Versailles."
His eyes on me stir something in my chest, but I hope it's just nerves. Destan extends an arm to me and I take it hesitantly. My previous suspicions are confirmed when my fingers feel firm muscle beneath the wool of his dress uniforms.
"We should make haste," he says. "I want to make sure you get a good view for your first Grand Service."
Destan leads me out of the studio and my pulse quickens. We travel through the winding halls of the palace, up marble staircases, and past well-guarded doors into the most lavish of any chambers I've seen yet.
"The King's Chambers," Destan whispers close to my ear.
I want to stop and admire the murals that I recognize as the artist Le Brun's, but Destan tugs me onward.
He smiles. "You'll have plenty of time to admire the ceilings another night."
We pass through another set of doors and I get my first real glimpse of the palace courtiers. Women glide through the room in elaborate dresses and even more outlandish wigs. One woman's ostrich plumes brush a chandelier as she passes underneath it.
"Just stand tall and look disinterested in everything and everyone around you," Destan says in a hushed voice only I can hear.
We follow the trickle of courtiers into a salon where a table is laid with gold plates and flatware. There sits the King, the royal family, and thirty of their most esteemed guests. A railing blocks the viewers from approaching the table, but still I'm not sure why everyone must attend this ceremony. I'm more interested in the strangely painted faces, both male and female, that pass through the salon. There's something strange about them — something ethereal in the way they move.
Destan finds a place for us at the railing near the side of the room where we can watch from out of the way. I soon find out why everyone has turned out in their finery to bear witness to the king's table. A pair of footmen appear through a hidden door in the salon wall. Between them, they carry a tray of more oyster half shells than I've ever seen in my life. Two more trays of hors d'oeuvres follow, but their names are as foreign to me as quantities of food this large.
I quickly find my attention drawn away from the food. The Queen sits to the King's left and laughs with delight at the sight of all the delicacies placed before her. She is an unearthly kind of beautiful, too beautiful for the blotchy-faced man to her right who seems to only have eyes for the paté.
Destan catches me staring. "She's beautiful, isn't she?"
"They make an... interesting pair," I reply.
"I suppose beauty has always been attracted to power." Destan's voice goes cold. Something about this upsets him.
"Or vice versa." I look back to the Queen who plucks oysters off her golden fork with a practiced elegance. Her face... The more I watch, the more obvious it becomes. Her face is too beautiful. The proportions aren't near perfect, they're flawless. It goes against everything I know from painting portraits: no one has perfectly symmetrical features.
Destan stiffens at my side and pulls his arm from my grasp. I tear my eyes away from the Queen to see Lord Gardet crossing toward us.
"General Bordelon." Lord Gardet greets the general with a nod. "I congratulate you on your new position. Indeed, a position in the Garde du Corps de Roi is not something to be taken lightly."
Destan throws me a nervous glance before making his reply. "Thank you, Father. The King has bestowed great honor upon me."
Father?
How can these two men be related? It doesn't seem possible. How quickly Destan has won me over with his kind smiles and warm words, yet Lord Gardet makes the hair at the back of my neck stand on end. As I watch them speak, my heart begins to race and an icy trickle of fear runs down my spine. At first the sensation catches me by surprise because I'm not sure what I'm even afraid of. The air in the room is stiflingly hot and thick with the cloying scent of perfume. My head swims. Perhaps Morel was right to think I wasn't ready for this.
Destan's gaze snags on me. "Are you well, Mademoiselle?" He looks concerned.
Gardet looks annoyed.
"I think I just need some air," I say.
I don't wait for their reply before I turn and run from the room.
***
Thank you for reading! If you're enjoying this story, be sure to vote and comment! I'm curious to hear what you guys think about Destan!