It was strange indeed, mused Laurent de Courtomer, how much the scenes of one’s life might change in so short a space of time as a year. This large, elegantly-proportioned antechamber, with its upper levels full of sunlight and its lower space full of fashionably-dressed ladies and gentlemen walking sedately through the room or standing and talking together in groups, was half a world away from the Vendean army camps of Laurent’s brief military career of a year ago—let alone from the little cave, that rude shelter cut off from the world by steep rocks and swirling water, in which he had spent an unforgettable few days of the last summer....
Yet here he now was, the adventures of the Hundred Days over, restored to a life of fashionable social gatherings in Paris. He was not quite a stranger to such things, of course; he thought for a moment of that reception at the Hôtel de Saint-Séverin where he had first been reunited with Aymar de la Rocheterie, before the interfering ambitions of Napoleon Bonaparte had plunged them both into those adventures. Still, it was different to be looking back on those days, rather than innocently unsuspecting that they would ever come... and the trials and hardships of the last year had brought Laurent something happier, also. He thought again of the Hôtel de Saint-Séverin; well, this time he need have no fear of Aymar’s being stolen away from him by the unwelcome intervention of Mme de Morsan—or any other lady.
‘What are you smiling about so, mon cher?’
Laurent turned his head, his smile growing wider. Apparently content to enjoy this sight without pressing for an answer to his question, Aymar squeezed Laurent’s arm where his own hand rested on it and said, ‘Shall we go through and look at the paintings?’
For they were attending the Salon at the Académie des Beaux-Arts, that grand exhibition—one pleasure of Paris society to which Aymar had been particularly looking forward during the recent months of quiet semi-convalescence at Sessignes, for he was fond of art. Laurent agreed to his proposal, and they went forward together, still arm in arm. Aymar no longer had much need to lean upon him, but he was as ready as ever to take Laurent’s arm whenever they went out together, and Laurent was very happy to continue the arrangement.
The hall which they now entered was an extraordinarily lofty room, many times the height of the little figures who wandered about it in, dwarfed by the grandeur surrounding them; and every inch of available space on those towering walls was covered with paintings. Broad canvases showing dark and dramatic landscapes or colourful set pieces stood shoulder to shoulder in rows at the top; further down all sorts and kinds of paintings began to jostle together like the contents of a badly organised lumber-room; into the irregular spaces left by the larger paintings there nestled demure little portraits and still lifes.
For some moments Laurent simply gazed about him in bewilderment, before the details of individual pictures began to appear out of the general chaos. Here in the near corner was a scene showing an armour-clad hero riding to the rescue of a maiden who was at the mercy of a sea monster; the hero was menacing his foe with a long lance, and the monster’s face bore an expression of rather comical dismay. Aymar, squinting up towards the higher levels, nudged Laurent and pointed towards a depiction of the death of St Louis which hung in one of the top rows. The unfortunate saint-king lay expiring upon a couch, surrounded by knights, bishops and other such adoring and sorrowful subjects; the space above his head was full of light, as if he saw already the way to Heaven.
Turning from the doomed St Louis, they went further into the room, stopping now and then to admire some particularly interesting work. The space was crowded with parties of people doing the same thing, and the murmuring scraps of their conversation which reached Laurent’s ears formed a pleasant background to the beauty, interest, wonder and occasional absurdity which the paintings variously presented.
They turned a corner, and Laurent’s gaze dropped from a pine forest painted in dramatic light and shade which hung high up in the jumble above to the picture now before them—and at once there went through him a shock of cold dismay. He tugged at Aymar’s arm, meaning to turn them in a different direction... but it was too late. Aymar had already seen the painting; his gaze was fixed on it.
It showed a beautiful young man standing upright against a tree, to which he was bound by cords tied about his wrists, pulling his arms behind him. The feathered shaft of an arrow projected from his chest, and another from just above his hip. He was naked save for a scarlet cloak wound scantily and inexactly about his lower half; its folds flowed down from his body as if it were the blood running from his wounds. His head, rather than being raised in supplication to Heaven, had drooped down and sideways onto his shoulder; whether or no he were still conscious it was hard to tell, but if his lowered face bore any expression it was one of stubborn, sullen defiance of his fate. Above his head the leaves of the tree clustered darkly, indifferently green. It was an oak tree, at least, not a beech....
Abruptly Laurent gathered his wits. ‘Oh, Aymar, I’m sorry,’ he said, pulling once more at his friend’s arm. ‘We’ll go somewhere else....’
How ironic his earlier musings had been! Here in the midst of the secure, elegant and comfortable life of the present, the past could confront them so suddenly and so horribly.
Aymar, who had been gazing at the painting with a peculiar expression, turned his head and regarded Laurent with the mild surprise of one disturbed, not suddenly, from a reverie. ‘Laurent,’ he said gently, ‘there’s no need. I don’t mind it.’
‘You don’t?’ said Laurent in real amazement.
‘No,’ said Aymar slowly. He turned his gaze back to the unfortunate young man in the painting. ‘Yes, it course it reminds me... but, you see’—and he indicated the little label on which the title of the painting was inscribed—‘this fellow doesn’t know his Lives of the Saints so well as he knows his craft! He is not “expiring”.... It was a horrible fate that he and I shared, but it was not the end for either of us. Not of our lives, nor anything else.’
Laurent thought he understood; and a smile began to lift the corners of his mouth. ‘I see,’ he said.
‘As for the tasteful wordplay of our hosts at Arbelles, you know I haven’t minded that in a long time. And besides,’ went on Aymar, bending down towards Laurent’s ear and lowering his voice, ‘I hope I have put those days firmly behind me; for I had the care of the most loyal and devoted Irene I could have wished for.’
At this Laurent had to turn his face closer towards Aymar to hide his blush from view.
‘Do you know,’ said Aymar after a few moments’ silence, during which the murmur of talk round about them seemed to flow like a wave of the sea over the disturbed sand of their previous words, ‘I believe this artist had other things in mind than the noble tragedy of martyrdom, after all. He really makes a remarkably handsome figure, spread out like that with nothing on, doesn’t he? And those arrows have made scarcely any disfigurement at all.’
Laurent was caught between amazement that Aymar was really so little discomfited as to be able thus to joke about the painting, shock that his jesting should take such a form, and a ridiculous urge to laugh aloud. He fought down this urge and controlled his features. ‘Certainly, he is very good-looking,’ he said solemnly, regarding the figure’s broad bare chest and the way his pinioned posture emphasised the muscles of his arms. ‘The artist knew what he was about, yes.’ And then, as though the imp of irreverent laughter must find expression in some other form, he dared a little further: ‘But I can’t think that he comes near comparison with his counterpart.’
‘You can’t, can you?’ murmured Aymar. Neither of them was looking at the painting anymore.
‘No,’ said Laurent firmly. ‘I never saw the equal of that person for perfect beauty—and I believe I never shall.’
Aymar’s red-brown eyes were dark and shining. Had they been alone Laurent would certainly have kissed him; as it was they gazed into each other’s eyes for a long moment, during which all the joy of their present happiness, so hard won after such great misfortunes, seemed to well up again in Laurent’s heart.
Then Aymar squeezed his arm and said, ‘We haven’t seen half there is to see here yet, mon cher, and I mean to make the most of the occasion! Let’s go.’
Laurent smilingly agreed; and they walked away together to another part of the great room, leaving the young man in the painting behind them.