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.”
“It did not prevent me from discovering it.”
“True… maybe I should rejoice instead of complaining.”
“As a matter of fact, if I can get the artist's permission, I have every intention of buying this wonderful painting.”
“Sell it? To you? Such a beautiful lady? Madame, that is against nature. I would be enormously pleased, though, if you would accept it as a gift…”
“That,” interrupted Julia quickly, “is a matter between me and the Art Commission with whom I intend to deal. Monsieur Michael, it was a pleasure having met you, and I hope that the feeling was mutual.” And with these words Julia de Corriero seemed to have ended the conversation.
“But I would never forgive myself, if I could not see you again.”
“See me again? What gives you that idea?”
“I can think of no reason why that should be so strange. I admit that I am an artist, and not a man of rank. But when I meet a woman who looks like Venus herself, I simply lose my head-of course, only as far as the prejudices of society are concerned. I promise that I would never lose respect, and I have already begun to adore you. I can feel that you are taking possession of my mind and heart. As a matter of fact, I can feel it clearly.”
“Really,” countered Julia with a smile. “And may I ask, if you are so much in love all of a sudden, are you in the habit of watching what you are doing?”
“But naturally! Because I am only in love when I can adore!”
“You better watch what you say, sir. You have already told me that you adore me…”
“How do I know what I am saying! All I can see is that you are able to walk away from me, and it tears out my heart!”
“Now, that would be too bad. I could not have such slaughter on my conscience. Well, since you have assured me that you will respect me, I could decide to…”
“You could decide what? Oh, please speak!”
“I could put you in a position to teach me your theories about love. They seem to me a notch above the average, and they are clearly unconventional. I am intrigued.”
“Oh, how sweet of you! Unfortunately, it is a long story, and I am afraid that the exhibition is about to close.”
“You are right. What a pity. And the world is so evil-thinking. You may not be aware of the demands of society.”
“Madame, I am the son of General Lompret,” the young man said proudly.
“Well, in that case, there are seemingly no objections for us to meet when the exhibition closes in a few minutes. My carriage will be waiting for you at the exit.”
Michael was a little bit stunned at the sudden turn of events, but he was tremendously pleased when the splendid equipage spirited him and the beautiful woman away from Paris.
“Sir,” Julia said, as Paris disappeared in the distance, “you know that I am eagerly awaiting your explanations about the theory of love. I am all ears.”
“Madame, how could you, since you obviously possess a brilliant mind and spirit, talk so cold-bloodedly about the one and only true religion. The religion of the heart, based upon the adoration of beauty and the search for the highest fulfillment of love.”
“You must admit that this religion has a tinge of paganism.”
“Paganism must have been marvelous! All the religions that followed have only shown us how beautiful paganism was. A time when men were men, instead of groveling eunuchs. The people in those times must have been beautiful.”
“You seem to be making quite a case!”
“Madame, everything that makes my heart go quicker is worth my making love to it. I am an artist. My feelings are my own, and it is my responsibility to make them as beautiful as possible. All things that are not directly related to nature are bad. There is a strange and compelling relationship between an artist's feelings, his mind and his body. It has to be in harmony, or he is miserable and cannot create the beautiful things he dreams of. True, I admit that quite often it is a physical desire and a physical satisfaction which brings us our best inspiration. But, alas, society does not always allow us to give full rein to our imagination.”
His vibrant voice, his passionate looks and the implications of his speech charged the interior of the small carriage with a large amount of electricity which was now waiting to be discharged.
