Aurora's POV
The night lingered like an unfinished thought, shadows in my atelier blending with the tumult outside as Paris surrendered to a tempest's caprice. I'd retreated to my chambers within the château Laurent, seeking rest amidst the storm's crescendo, when a sudden, insistent knock broke the nocturnal spell – a knock that seemed to carry the urgency of the wind itself.
I opened the door to find Marie, my loyal and discreet assistant, standing with dampened hair and an expression tinged with both concern and apology. "Mademoiselle Aurora, forgive the late intrusion. A… a gentleman arrived at the château. He insists on speaking with you. Says it's urgent, despite the hour and weather.
"My mind, still half-submerged in the night's creative currents, wrestled with curiosity and a touch of irritation at the disturbance. "Who is he, Marie?" I asked, glancing past her into the darkness where rain lashed like a thousand whips against the drive.
"Declined to give full name, mademoiselle. Says he's Maximillian DeVille. Mentioned art – said he'd viewed some of your work and needed to discuss something with you directly. I… I thought given Monsieur DeVille's reputation…
"The name sparked recognition like a struck match in my mind's darkened recesses – Maximillian DeVille, the collector Colette had spoken of earlier with hints of both admiration and caution. My thoughts flicked back to Colette's words about him collecting "art that breathes secrets," and a frisson of intrigued wariness trickled through me.
"Show him to the petit salon, Marie," I decided after a moment's hesitation, curiosity outweighing reluctance. "I'll join him shortly. Bring coffee – strong, please – and ensure the fire's lit; the night's fit to chill bones.
"Marie nodded and departed swiftly into the storm-swept darkness of the château's corridors as I took a moment to gather myself – smoothing my rumpled artist's garb, running fingers through hair that probably echoed my night's distracted brushstrokes, wondering what could impel such a man to seek me out at this hour.
I descended to the petit salon with a sense of deliberate calm belied by the quickened beat of my heart. The room, with its Louis XV chairs and tasteful disorder of art books on low tables, glowed warmly thanks to the crackling fire Marie had tended. Against this cozy backdrop, Maximillian DeVille stood – tall, imposing yet contained, like a figure excised from a canvas by an old master – as he turned from staring into the flames at my entrance.
"Mademoiselle Laurent," he said, voice low and modulated with an undertone that conveyed both courtesy and an unnerving intentness. "Forgive this nocturnal visit. I wouldn't have intruded but for a convergence of circumstances I felt compelled to act upon."
His eyes, dark and unnervingly perceptive like polished onyx reflecting inner fires, met mine with an immediacy that felt almost tactile – a contact preceding words. I sensed an assessing quality in his gaze, one accustomed perhaps to evaluating worth in objects, maybe in people.
"The storm seemed an apt accomplice for urgency," I replied with a slight smile, moving to indicate he take a seat as I settled into a chair opposite, the fire dancing shadows on walls like collaborating artists. "Though I confess, Monsieur DeVille, most visitors content themselves with daylight and more conventional approaches."
He sat with economy of movement suggesting leashed power, his tailored clothes darkly elegant against the coffee's dark richness. "I hope my timing doesn't prove an imposition, mademoiselle. I came because I believe we might have… intersecting interests regarding your art.
"Coffee arrived then, poured by Marie with practiced discretion, its fragrant steam mingling with the scents of wet wool from his clothes as he accepted a cup. I waited, cradling my own, noting the stark planes of his face seemed chiseled like those of men used to solitary decisions.
"You've seen my work, Monsieur DeVille?" I prompted after a sip, finding the coffee a welcome sharpness countering the night's strange intimacy.
"Indeed. Your Whispers in Darkness series intrigued me profoundly at Galerie Rousseau's preview. There's a… palpable tension in those canvases, a wrestling with absence and presence I find extraordinarily compelling. I collect works that harbor such dialectics – art that captures irresolvable pushes and pulls of human experience.
"His phrasing felt deliberate, almost clinical in its precision yet conveying an underlying fervor collectors of his stature sometimes possessed – a passion bordering on obsession for objects/art that resonated with their interior landscapes.
"I'm flattered you find merit in my efforts, monsieur," I said, studying him over my cup's rim, sensing layers here harder to fathom than the storm raging.