Aurora's POV
The morning after Maximillian DeVille's nocturnal visit filtered into the château Laurent like a slow-dawning awareness, bringing with it threads of unease mingled with curiosity. I'd slept fitfully, my mind replaying fragments of our conversation – the intensity in his eyes when discussing La Nuit Intérieure, the palpable sense he sought something specific, perhaps profound, tied to that painting.
I rose from bed with the determination to sort through impressions, to understand better what had transpired. The château's corridors felt quieter than usual, as if holding secrets of their own alongside mine. Coffee became a necessity; I sought it in the breakfast room where Marie had likely arranged a thoughtful spread.
Colette Dupont arrived mid-morning, her presence like a burst of vivacity countering my somewhat pensive mood. "Aurora, darling! I heard a collector of note visited you last night? Maximillian DeVille, no less." Her eyes sparkled with curiosity.
I smiled wryly, pouring her coffee. "Colette, you hear things quickly. Yes, he came – interested in La Nuit Intérieure."
Colette's expression turned thoughtful. "That painting… it's not something you show casually, Rory. Augustine's work carries weight. What did DeVille say exactly?"
I recounted portions of our conversation – omitting perhaps the deepest intimations Maximillian had made – as Colette listened with an artist's and friend's attentive mix of critique and care.
"He sounds focused on correspondences, patterns," Colette mused. "Some collectors like DeVille aren't just about accumulation; they're seekers. But La Nuit Intérieure… be cautious, Aurora. That painting isn't merely art; it's a touchstone potentially."
I felt a nudge of agreement with Colette's caution, mingled with my own protective instincts toward family artworks and histories.
The day progressed with interruptions typical of an artist's life – decisions on framing for Whispers in Darkness, phone calls about the upcoming exhibition at Galerie Rousseau. Yet Maximillian DeVille lingered in my mental periphery like an unresolved chord.
Colette departed mid-afternoon promising to join me for dinner and more talk. Alone again, I wandered to my atelier – half-expecting perhaps to find echoes of last night's discussion with Maximillian amidst canvases and sketches.
As dusk approached casting the château in hues both familiar and subtly altered, I couldn't shake a sense of being on some interior threshold regarding La Nuit Intérieure and Maximillian's overtures. What did he truly seek? And how far was I willing to… engage?
Later, dining with Colette proved a pleasant distraction; we spoke of art markets, Parisian openings, and inevitably circled back to Maximillian. "If he's serious about La Nuit Intérieure, Rory, consider carefully," Colette reiterated with a friend's seriousness.
I nodded, aware of complexities – not just about the painting but perhaps about boundaries with a collector like DeVille.
Night fell; I retired with thoughts unsettled like leaves in an unseen breeze. Maximillian DeVille had planted queries; now I wrestled internally with responses, with gauging interest against caution.
In darkness broken only by faint moonlight seeping into my room, I felt like a painter considering composition – balancing elements, sensing where unseen vectors might lead.