Aurora's POV
The days since Maximillian DeVille's visit lingered like shadows cast by the château Laurent's ancient stones – persistent, tinged with a mixture of curiosity and caution on my part. I'd spoken with Colette about his intense interest in La Nuit Intérieure ,discussing implications with her artist's and friend's insight. Now, alone in my atelier amidst half-finished canvases and the familiar scents of paint and turpentine, I found myself returning to thoughts of that conversation, of DeVille's palpable intent.
Maximillian had spoken of correspondences, of patterns aligning with La Nuit Intérieure like threads in some unseen loom weaving connections I didn't entirely grasp. His eyes had held a focus reminding me of certain artists I knew – people driven to capture essences beyond surface representations. What did he seek precisely regarding my great-grandmother
I worked that morning – brushes moving with a mix of intent and distraction as I tried to capture fragments of light and darkness interplay on canvas. Art was my way of parsing worlds both seen and sensed interiorly; sometimes the process felt like wrestling shadows into coherence. La Nuit Intérieure itself seemed a distillation of such wrestling by Augustine.
Mid-morning brought a knock; Marie announced Maximillian DeVille had arrived again at the château. I felt a flicker of surprise mingled with a sense of inevitability maybe – he'd said he had propositions; now he'd returned.
"Show him to the petit salon, Marie," I decided, wiping brushes, considering how I'd respond to whatever he'd come to say.
Maximillian looked contained as ever, tailored like a man comfortable in his skin and intent on outcomes. "Mademoiselle Laurent," he greeted with that low, modulated voice conveying both courtesy and underlying purpose.
I sat; he followed suit. "Monsieur DeVille. You've come back… about La Nuit Intérieure , I presume?"
He nodded, eyes fixing mine with their unnerving directness. "I have… a specific proposal regarding the painting, mademoiselle. One I believe merits your consideration given alignments I sense between it and… certain other elements I've encountered."
"I'd like to… facilitate a… let's call it an arrangement," Maximillian said, phrases measured like a man placing pieces carefully on a strategic board. "One where La Nuit Intérieure would be… showcased in a context allowing particular resonances to emerge – resonances tied to other artworks, to… patterns I've tracked. I'd ensure it's handled with utmost care befitting its… potency."
I listened warily; his words skirted edges of things collectors sometimes wanted – exhibitions, acquisitions… other motivations less straightforward. "What do you mean by 'context' and 'resonances', monsieur?" I asked, wanting clarity.
Maximillian leaned slightly forward. "I have… contacts, mademoiselle – people involved in… curated showings blending art with… let's say understandings of hidden coherences. La Nuit Intérieure would fit within a constellation I envision – alongside pieces sharing its… dark, interior gravity. There'd be… compensation, naturally. And I believe you'd find the… interplay revealing artistically."
I weighed his words – part of me intrigued by possibilities of showing La Nuit Intérieure in some potent arrangement; part of me wary of ceding control or exposing the painting to… vectors I didn't fully see. Family artworks held protective claims; Augustine's piece wasn't something I'd decide lightly about.
"Why is La Nuit Intérieure so… particular to you, Monsieur DeVille?" I asked, seeking to understand better motivations maybe lying beneath his polished exterior.
Maximillian's gaze turned inward fractionally like a person consulting inner maps. "There are… correspondences I pursue, mademoiselle – links suggesting deeper order sometimes hinted at in certain artworks. Your great-grandmother's painting feels… pivotal in a pattern I've… been tracing."
I didn't commit immediately; said I'd consider his proposal needing time to… parse things internally. Maximillian seemed unsurprised; nodded acceptance with the air of a man used maybe to waiting for outcomes aligning with pursuits of his
He departed; I remained in the salon awhile – thoughts circling like motifs in some unresolved composition. What did I think about his proposal? What did I want regarding La Nuit Intérieure and dealings with a collector like DeVille?
I returned to my atelier; brushes waited; paint held possibilities. Yet unease lingered