Colette's POV
The days following my visit to Aurora's château Laurent lingered in my mind like the scent of turpentine and linseed oil clinging to an artist's hands – persistent, evocative. I'd spoken with Aurora about Maximillian DeVille's intense interest in La Nuit Intérieure; now I found myself contemplating the implications, parsing them against my own experiences with art and the sometimes opaque motivations of collectors.
As a sculptor working with disparate materials – clay, metal, found objects sometimes imbued with their own narratives – I understood the pull certain pieces exerted on people. Art wasn't merely about creation; it was about resonance. Some artworks seemed to hold spaces, evoke emotions, or hint at unseen patterns in ways transcending straightforward explanation. Maximillian DeVille's focus on La Nuit Intérieure suggested he sensed such resonance deeply.
I'd promised Aurora I'd join her for dinner; it became a chance to probe further, to offer what perspective I had as friend and fellow artist. We met at Le Select, a bistro where Parisian artists gathered like birds on favored branches talking shop and life. Over wine and tapas, Aurora spoke more of her impressions post-DeVille's visit.
"He was… intent, Colette," she said, her eyes reflecting the dim cafe lights mingled with inner thought. "Talked about correspondences like there were hidden threads he followed. I wonder what he truly seeks regarding La Nuit Intérieure."
I nodded knowingly. "Collectors like DeVille often pursue things… let's say aligning with their internal mappings, Rory. Not always about money or straightforward art appreciation."
We ate; we talked of art – of the way light fractured in paintings by Morandi, of Giacometti's elongations speaking of human condition's tenuous balances. Art flowed through our conversation like a reliable current carrying us to places comfortable and stimulating.
"Aurora, do you sense DeVille might… push for more than just viewing La Nuit Intérieure?" I asked as coffee arrived, probing delicately.
Aurora's expression turned pensive. "I think he'll want… access maybe deeper than I've considered granting. I don't know… it's like he's looking for something specific tied to that painting."
As we parted that evening – Aurora returning to the château's quiet, me heading home amid Paris's night sounds – I found myself drifting to my own studio's clutter. I worked with forms; I sought expressions in three dimensions sometimes jarring, sometimes harmonizing with intent. Art was pursuit of captures – of feeling, of idea – in physical manifestation.
Would DeVille contact Aurora again soon? Would he press regarding La Nuit Intérieure, maybe wanting to own it or understand it in some way beyond ordinary collector's possession? As friend to Aurora, I felt a wish to see her navigate wisely whatever ensued.
La Nuit Intérieure lingered in my thoughts – dark, potent like a night holding both threat and mystery. Augustine Laurent had infused it with… let's say her inner combustions transmuted into brushstrokes. Few saw it; its power seemed tied to things half-hidden like much of art's truest impacts were.
Paris – city of art – swirled with openings, with gossip, with serious dealings in galleries like Rousseau's where Aurora's _Whispers in Darkness would soon face viewers. I moved in those circles; knew artists, collectors… knew whispers circulated about DeVille's reputation as a collector pursuing particular alignments in art.
As days passed, I checked in with Aurora casually – phone calls, brief meetings. She seemed contemplative still about DeVille's interest; I sensed her weighing things carefully tied to family, to art.
My own work demanded attention – a commission for a public sculpture loomed; I'd wrestle metal and space into forms hopefully speaking beyond mere objecthood. Parallels existed between my efforts and Aurora's painterly grapplings; we understood art's pushes and pulls in somewhat similar ways maybe.
Night descended; I settled with sketchbooks, pencils catching nuances of ideas half-formed like so much in art's realm hovered preliminary. Maximillian DeVille remained a figure on the periphery of my thoughts about Aurora and La Nuit Intérieure – a man perhaps driven by patterns, by unseen correspondences he pursued with focus.
Aurora's path – like mine – involved creation, involved navigating relationships with art's potent outcomes. Would DeVille's interest alter things for her