While her brother was busy rushing about, Mademoiselle Forlan-de-Tréville, as she usually did, took her carriage to the prestigious studio of the renowned painter Karl Durrenburg to begin her day's art lesson.
As one could tell from his name, the painter was German.
In this era, the most common professions for Germans who came to Paris were musician and painter—which was, of course, infinitely better than the murderers and robbers in military uniforms who would come and go in the decades to follow.
Among the German painters in Paris, Herr Durrenburg was the most distinguished. After years of hard work, he had made a name for himself in the Parisian art world and was highly respected for his upright character. Over time, his studio had become the premier place for young ladies of high society to study painting.
And Herr Durrenburg's standards for accepting students were extremely strict; money alone could never secure a place as one of his disciples.
Any young lady who had studied under him was unanimously acknowledged as a woman capable of appraising a museum's collection or painting a first-rate portrait—in short, a woman of true discerning taste, a woman whose value could appreciate.
For young girls who merely wished to become famous or call themselves artists, but who lacked either talent or the most basic technical training, society was not yet so tolerant as to provide a talent show to satisfy their desires.
The studio had large-paned glass windows on its side to let in light, but now they were mostly covered with dark velvet curtains to block the intense summer sun. Along the walls were stacked empty frames or unframed canvases, while the walls and floor were stained with a kaleidoscope of colors from various pigments. Plaster casts, all sorts of equipment, and even suits of armor were piled everywhere, giving the place the atmosphere of an opera house backstage.
The master had not yet arrived, so the female students, as usual, began their own painting practice. The girls each had their own beauty and bearing, their dresses all different. As the sunlight filtered through the velvet drapes, it created a variety of contrasts and strong effects of light and shadow.
To any visitor stepping into the studio for the first time, the scene itself was worthy of a painting.
However, if that visitor had the chance to stay longer and truly experience the fiery undercurrents hidden beneath the studio's splendid surface, they would likely be taken aback.
That's right. A 19th-century art studio was no different in essence from a 21st-century classroom, and the daughters of the rich and powerful were no different from ordinary girls. The students, following an unspoken set of rules, had found their own cliques and companions, and in doing so, had also defined their rivals and enemies. In the end, these small circles stood in opposition, ostracizing one another—for young girls, this was both an instinct and, one might say, a way of amusing themselves.
In the art studio, the status and wealth of one's father and grandfather should have been the first thing to be forgotten. And yet, here, they became the ultimate basis upon which the girls drew their battle lines and formed their factions.
The young ladies were divided into two distinct groups, occupying opposite sides of the room, separated by a distance that seemed short yet was perhaps impossible to cross in a lifetime.
On one side were the daughters of the new-money bourgeoisie—bankers, notaries, or merchants. All of them were wealthy, and they chattered away happily, their faces animated.
On the other side were the young ladies from old noble families. Their expressions were far more staid, their conversation more reserved, and they displayed no excessive emotion. From time to time, they would cast sharp yet hidden (but just obvious enough to be felt!) glances of contempt toward the other group.
The present state and future of France's two ruling classes could be seen so vividly, all within a single art studio.
These young ladies were all graceful in their manners and charming in their movements, yet their eyes lacked frankness. A strict upbringing had long since turned politeness into an instinct, but their childlike innocence had slowly been worn away by it—the guilelessness of a child was already far from them.
Of course, due to their age, society had not yet completely assimilated them. Thus, they could still occasionally offer a truly pure smile, revealing the true nature of a child—as for how long that quality could be preserved, only heaven knew.
Forlan took no part in the conflict between the "aristocrat party" and the "banker party." As usual, she retreated to her own corner to quietly continue the painting she had not finished the day before: a battleship in a storm, its captain standing on the prow, directing the crew against the tempest while observing the distant scene through a spyglass.
She forgot the whispers beside her, lost in the passion of creation. When she had painted the final stroke, outlining the storm clouds, she let out a long sigh, just as any focused artist would.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" a low voice of admiration sounded by her ear.
"Eh?" Startled, she whipped her head around, her long golden hair swinging with the movement.
Mathilde-de-Dilièron was studying her. She was wearing a long, lace-embroidered dress and holding her gold lorgnette in her left hand.
She was one of the leaders of the aristocrat party in the studio, because her grandfather, the Comte de Dilièron, was currently His Majesty the King's Garde des Sceaux, the Keeper of the Seals.
Her eyes were dark and moist, her hair a light brown. The corners of her eyes were long and thin, which gave her face a serious cast, and she was usually a woman of few words. She was two years older than Forlan, already seventeen.
She leaned in, carefully examining the painting Forlan had just completed. "The composition is excellent, and the use of color is masterful. It's a rare and fine work—Mademoiselle de Tréville, you have just completed a masterpiece. You are truly worthy of being Herr Durrenburg's most admired student..."
"Thank you, you're too kind," Forlan blushed slightly.
"There's no need for modesty. My praise is sincere." Though she was praising her, Mathilde's face remained serious. "I have no special reason to flatter you."
Forlan lowered her head, wondering why the other girl had approached her.
"You must be wondering why I've suddenly come to speak with you," a faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Mathilde's lips.
"Yes," Forlan answered in a low voice. "Not many people usually come to talk to me."
"You are the prettiest among us. That alone is enough to make some people hate you for fifty years," Mathilde said, still with that faint smile. "Not to mention your grandfather..."
"Then why have you come to me today! Aren't you worried about angering certain people?" Hearing her grandfather mentioned, Forlan cut her off, nearly forgetting to suppress her voice.
A moment later, she slightly regretted her outburst.
What will she do to me? Will she continue to mock me, or will she call her friends over to bully me? What should I do?
The first and most important lesson a young lady must learn upon entering high society is to hide one's hatred. Forlan remembered her brother once saying that.
Brother's words are always so wise.
But Mathilde's reaction was completely unexpected. She simply pursed her lips in a helpless smile and gently shook her head. "Alright. I didn't come here today to discuss politics. That is just a pastime for our fathers and grandfathers—we have our own affairs."
Forlan looked at her, confused.
"You miss Marie very much, don't you?" Mathilde looked at Forlan. "Don't be so quick to deny it, my dear Mademoiselle. I can tell. You considered her a good friend, and you've missed her terribly these past days."
Forlan lowered her head slightly. "Yes, I miss her very much."
"Good. We finally agree on something," Mathilde nodded. "She was probably the kindest of us all, so respectful and good-natured to everyone. I was very fond of her. But fate dealt her such a terrible blow..."
Forlan kept her head down.
"Of course, sighing won't save anyone. Only action can," Mathilde continued with astonishing calmness. "I have decided to bring her back, and I believe you would want to do the same."
Forlan looked up, staring at Mathilde in amazement.
With an elegant motion, Mathilde raised the lorgnette in her left hand, holding it before her eyes, and peered at Forlan through the lenses.
"You're surprised, aren't you? I'm not as heartless as I appear." She paused for a moment, then continued. "A century ago, our ancestors had no choice but to bow their heads and live out their lives in a convent. But a century later, we should be a great deal stronger than them—at the very least, the education of this new era has put minds in our heads, not just God..."
"I thank you on Marie's behalf!" The discovery of an ally made Forlan a little emotional.
She then told Mathilde that she had already asked her brother for help.
"I knew I wasn't mistaken about you," Mathilde smiled with relief—a genuine smile this time. "However, your brother alone may not be enough to move the Marquis de Léaurand and get this done..."
"He can definitely do it," Forlan interrupted her again.
"Alright. Let's hope so," Mathilde nodded, clearly reassured by Forlan's conviction. "I trust him. A man with a name like de Tréville knows what he must do and what he is capable of. However, if there is anything I can do to help with this matter, please be sure to tell me directly. I will certainly do it."
Forlan nodded as well.
Seeing her plan proceed so smoothly, even a girl as composed as Mathilde couldn't help but feel a rush of joy. To dissipate this unnecessary excitement, she raised her lorgnette again and carefully re-examined the painting Forlan had just finished.
"It truly is a masterpiece!" she exclaimed again, then turned to Forlan. "Forgive my impertinence, but is the captain in this painting a famous historical figure? Or an imaginary one?"
Forlan's reply this time was extremely brief.
"My brother."