She opened the door and stepped back. The man stalled briefly, hesitant in his entrance to her home. Then, he bit his lip and entered. Montespan led him to the drawing room. With every step of the man, snow fell, which melted on the floor. She left her guest to stand alone briefly, then went to her chamber. She fetched a garment and returned.
“Before we parted, he draped this over it, telling me that it was his most prized coat. ‘Tis of such value that I have been tending to it since my arrival here.”
With these words, Montespan presented the Crown Prince’s justacorps. The memory of the pale rose hue appearing exquisite against the prince’s fair complexion remained striking. The golden embroidery and shimmering opal fasteners were of inestimable value, and the coat fitted the prince, as it should, having been tailored expressly for his person. Montespan had asked the prince how he had come to possess it. He replied that he had acquired it, alas, after a promise made to him long ago, his smile resembling that of a mischievous boy.
The man stared at the coat. He clasped it with both hands, seemingly at a loss, not knowing what to do or how he should act. Turmoil flickered in his eyes, appearing and disappearing repeatedly.
Montespan watched as he bit his lip and let it go. He remained thus for a long while. Then, he regained his composure, wiping away any distress from his countenance, and firmly grasped the garment. He looked at Montespan, his gaze appearing to convey his readiness. Their eyes met, and Montespan rose from her seat.
“He had bidden me to burn it, but... I did not, for in the mere chance that he finds me in some way, somehow, I deemed that he would dearly wish to be reunited with it. He had cherished it greatly, after all...”
Of course, what painter would regard his work with any less esteem... She mumbled her excuse. The object that Maximillian had instructed her to hold, the final painting upon which he had labored, hung in her chamber. She had hung it as soon as she had arrived in this house. The canvas was of considerable size, its presence in the chamber of a noblewoman quite fitting.
Montespan cast a brief glance behind her as she opened the door. The man stood still. She gently took a step aside. The painting hung in the center of the chamber, easily visible from where the man stood before the open door. She stepped behind the door and awaited the gentleman’s entry. However, he remained by the threshold, his chin slightly raised, his eyes unblinking, his gaze fixed upon the painting.
A ray of light shone upon the man. The sun appeared to glide past the twin large windows flanking the canvas, and the ray of light shone particularly bright, likely intensified by the reflection of the snow. Montespan studied the light, waiting for the man’s reaction. He stood motionless, as if rooted to the spot. The light grew too bright for comfort, yet his gaze remained fixed. Montespan found herself unable to speak. More so, for his eyes began to shed tears in silence.
The man did not speak but simply stood where he was for a long time. Only after a while did Montespan realize that he was clenching the pale rose justacorps in his hands. She saw the creases in the garment, brought forth by the tightness of his grip.
Montespan had not foreseen this. She observed the tears that had been dropping from the man’s eyes, which fell further down to dot his cravat. Before long, the man buried his face in the coat of the Crown Prince. He made no sound, but Montespan could see his shoulders shaking, and his hands as well, which were clutching onto the garment.
Montespan gently pushed the door to take a peek inside. She found the painting looking down upon the man. The painting, as if it were a reflection of its creator’s state at the time, bore a roughness, rendered in oil colors. There was nothing particular about it. She observed the canvas once again.
At first glance, it presented a depiction that might appear surreal. It portrayed the lofty ceiling of the prince’s chamber, and below, pearls trailed and scattered the floor like beads of water. Strands of pearls cascaded over the bedposts, resembling molten clockwork, and similarly adorned the carpeted floor and the bedsheet. There were other precious stones drawn as well, but the presence of the pearls far outshone any of them.
And above them all, a beast lay. It was lying indolently, its body fully extended. The creature gazed fixedly ahead, as if locking eyes with the painter through its own blue orbs. Its fur gleamed, adorned with light. Its eyes glinted fiercely. The air around it was warm, aglow with a shimmering haze. The depiction of the tiger was so intricate and sophisticated that it might even cause one to doubt Maximillian’s failing eyesight. Perhaps, that was why that at times, the painting captivated its viewer in a fearsome manner, just as it did now.
After alternating between looking at the man and the painting several times, Montespan slowly stepped inside the chamber. In the lower right corner of the canvas, the title, together with the painter’s autograph, was inscribed. She had failed to understand its meaning despite her repeated readings. Upon seeing it with the gentleman, however, it seemed as though she could almost discern the significance.
‘Ma Petite Perle.’
Montespan read it silently. And she could foretell the man’s name, for she had glimpsed the minuscule inscription following the heading.
‘My Jean.’
✦ ✦ ✦
-『Perle』 fin-