Read Online Lovers (9781609459192) by Howard (TRN) Daniel; Curtis Arsand - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Howard (TRN) Daniel; Curtis Arsand
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velvet for league after league. It was deadly boring, and his eyes were constantly drawn back to the confined, shimmering space where his friend was dozing.
He will never forget any of it. But what does that mean exactly? It is vain to believe that oneâs memory is infallible.
To believe, to hope, to live.
16
C réonâs chateau is not far from Moulins. Its gardens are adjacent to a broad, deep forest. Throughout the year, an army of gardeners labors mightily to ensure that the flowerbeds, statues and ornamental lakes are not overrun by tall grass and brambles. Referring to this conquering vegetation, the Princesse de Créon writes to her cousin Angélique de Fombeuse: It watches us, threatens us, soon it will cover the marble.
17
D ear Angélique,
It is a theater of box trees and roses that I gaze upon, but a theater where no actor performs. The audience is unusually restricted, a mother and her son, and a young man forced upon me by Balthazar. When will I see you, my dear?
18
F rom the terrace that runs the length of the chateauâs façade, Anne de Créon watches them. They have jumped down from the coach, and are now coming toward her. It is almost noon. The sun breaks through a sky honeycombed with clouds. Behind Anne de Créon, a tall French door in which her figure is reflected, fragmented by the eighteen panes. That is how Sébastien sees her for the first time and that is why, to him, she will always be two women, a creature of flesh and blood and a shimmering ghost.
Balthazar wrote to his mother: There will be someone with me. I wager that once you set eyes on him you will fall under the spell of my friend Sébastien Faure. In any case, I order you to like him.
Curious, skeptical, horrified, she looks the stranger up and down.
Is this the marvel of whom he spoke? she wonders.
She tells herself again: They are not lovers, Iâd stake my life on it. But they are in love.
Anne de Créon accepts defeat.
Welcome to Créon, she says to Sébastien.
19
I mmediately upon his arrival, he was installed in a wooden lodge, a kind of chalet, which Balthazarâs father Louis de Créon, who died of consumption in 1739, while still in his twenties, had built at the far end of the grounds in order to devote himself undisturbed to the art of the miniature.
The lodge, covered in Virginia creeper and wisteria, consists of two rooms: a bedroom and a study, whose walls are hung with miniatures. They do not depict faces, but apparently idyllic country scenes; only when examined closely do they reveal certain disquieting details: a pond tinged with purple, a hanged man swinging from a branch, an animal choked by a snare, a road obstructed by a mass of fallen rocks, a cutlass driven into a tree trunk. At the foot of the desk are heaps of little canvas bags filled with simples. The hearth is constantly aglow, as there is always some concoction simmering in a pot. The bucolic lair has been transformed into an apothecaryâs dispensary. Sébastien tests his preparations on the Créons and their servants. Most of the time, the results are convincing. Which gives credence to Balthazarâs prediction that sooner or later his friend will becomes the kingâs doctor. He visits him every day. In the evening, they dine in the chateau, in the company of Anne de Créon. Yesterday, a place was laid for Saint-Polgues, who was passing through on his way to Paris. The conversation was of ancestors and court intrigues. Glittering, uncontroversial chatter, until all at once the Princesse declared that the authority she had once had over her son was on the wane. That cast a chill over the table. They parted soon afterwards. And Sébastien went back to Louis de Créonâs miniatures.
20
H e has seen the Virginia creeper turn brown, then lose its leaves, he has seen the rain become a daily occurrence, turning the trees and the sand and the flower banks blue or grey, depending on
He will never forget any of it. But what does that mean exactly? It is vain to believe that oneâs memory is infallible.
To believe, to hope, to live.
16
C réonâs chateau is not far from Moulins. Its gardens are adjacent to a broad, deep forest. Throughout the year, an army of gardeners labors mightily to ensure that the flowerbeds, statues and ornamental lakes are not overrun by tall grass and brambles. Referring to this conquering vegetation, the Princesse de Créon writes to her cousin Angélique de Fombeuse: It watches us, threatens us, soon it will cover the marble.
17
D ear Angélique,
It is a theater of box trees and roses that I gaze upon, but a theater where no actor performs. The audience is unusually restricted, a mother and her son, and a young man forced upon me by Balthazar. When will I see you, my dear?
18
F rom the terrace that runs the length of the chateauâs façade, Anne de Créon watches them. They have jumped down from the coach, and are now coming toward her. It is almost noon. The sun breaks through a sky honeycombed with clouds. Behind Anne de Créon, a tall French door in which her figure is reflected, fragmented by the eighteen panes. That is how Sébastien sees her for the first time and that is why, to him, she will always be two women, a creature of flesh and blood and a shimmering ghost.
Balthazar wrote to his mother: There will be someone with me. I wager that once you set eyes on him you will fall under the spell of my friend Sébastien Faure. In any case, I order you to like him.
Curious, skeptical, horrified, she looks the stranger up and down.
Is this the marvel of whom he spoke? she wonders.
She tells herself again: They are not lovers, Iâd stake my life on it. But they are in love.
Anne de Créon accepts defeat.
Welcome to Créon, she says to Sébastien.
19
I mmediately upon his arrival, he was installed in a wooden lodge, a kind of chalet, which Balthazarâs father Louis de Créon, who died of consumption in 1739, while still in his twenties, had built at the far end of the grounds in order to devote himself undisturbed to the art of the miniature.
The lodge, covered in Virginia creeper and wisteria, consists of two rooms: a bedroom and a study, whose walls are hung with miniatures. They do not depict faces, but apparently idyllic country scenes; only when examined closely do they reveal certain disquieting details: a pond tinged with purple, a hanged man swinging from a branch, an animal choked by a snare, a road obstructed by a mass of fallen rocks, a cutlass driven into a tree trunk. At the foot of the desk are heaps of little canvas bags filled with simples. The hearth is constantly aglow, as there is always some concoction simmering in a pot. The bucolic lair has been transformed into an apothecaryâs dispensary. Sébastien tests his preparations on the Créons and their servants. Most of the time, the results are convincing. Which gives credence to Balthazarâs prediction that sooner or later his friend will becomes the kingâs doctor. He visits him every day. In the evening, they dine in the chateau, in the company of Anne de Créon. Yesterday, a place was laid for Saint-Polgues, who was passing through on his way to Paris. The conversation was of ancestors and court intrigues. Glittering, uncontroversial chatter, until all at once the Princesse declared that the authority she had once had over her son was on the wane. That cast a chill over the table. They parted soon afterwards. And Sébastien went back to Louis de Créonâs miniatures.
20
H e has seen the Virginia creeper turn brown, then lose its leaves, he has seen the rain become a daily occurrence, turning the trees and the sand and the flower banks blue or grey, depending on
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