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Suddenly a match ignited only a few feet in front of them and they both yelped and leapt back. Henri tripped over a rotting timber and scrambled to look around.
“My heroes, I presume,” said Juliette, holding the match to the wick of a lamp. She sat on a crate in her periwinkle dress; the Blue Nude was propped up against a timber behind her.
“Juliette,” said Lucien. He stumbled to her; his eyes filled with tears as he took her in his arms.
Twenty-four
THE ARCHITECTURE OF AMUSEMENT
THIS WAS GOING TO REQUIRE SOME DELICACY, A CERTAIN FINESSE, A BIT more subtlety than her normal strategy, which, in most cases, was to remove her clothes. As she kissed Lucien by the orange lantern light in the mine—felt him trying to wrap his very soul around her with his arms, pour it out to her from his heart, in tears, now damp and slick on their faces, as they shared breath and warmth, the moment frozen not by some magical means, but by the exclusive singularity of their embrace, where nothing existed that was not them—she thought: It’s so much easier when you toss up your skirt, shout, “Voilà!” and you’re off to the races. This was going to be complicated.
Toulouse-Lautrec cleared his throat loudly and glanced over his shoulder as if he’d been casually browsing around at the edge of the darkness and had only just noticed his friend voraciously snogging a girl down a mine.
Juliette broke the kiss, nipped Lucien’s ear, then pulled his head tight to her bosom and said, “Bonjour, Monsieur Henri.” She winked.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” said Henri, tipping his bowler hat, which was dusted with the white gypsum powder from the mine.
Lucien seemed to come awake, then, and pushed Juliette away, held her at arm’s length by her shoulders. “Are you all right? I thought you might be ill.”
“No, I’m fine.”
“We know all about the Colorman—how he controls you, all the models over the years. How they lose their memory and become ill. We know all of it.”
“You do?” She suppressed the urge to throw up her skirt and try for a bit of misdirection, but with Toulouse-Lautrec there and … well, it would be awkward. “You know all of it?”
“Yes,” said Lucien. “Camille Monet, Renoir’s Margot, even Henri’s Carmen—who knows how many there have been? We know he somehow enchants them—you—with his blue color, how time seems to stop. I was worried you wouldn’t even remember me.”
Juliette took Lucien’s hands and stepped away from him. “Well, that is very close to the truth,” she said. “Perhaps we should sit for a moment and I’ll explain.” She looked to Henri quickly. “Do you have a drink?”
Toulouse-Lautrec produced a silver flask from his jacket pocket.
“What is it?” she asked.
“In this one? Cognac.”
“Give,” she said.
Henri unscrewed the cap and handed the flask to Juliette, who took a quick sip and sat back down on her crate.
“You brought more than one flask?” Lucien asked Henri.
“We didn’t have a pistol,” said Henri with a shrug.
“Leave him alone, he’s rescuing me,” said Juliette, sitting splay-legged now, elbows on her thighs in the manner of pirates conspiring over a treasure map in the dirt. She toasted the two painters with the flask and took another drink. “Sit, Lucien.”
“But the painting—”
“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” said Henri, tipping his bowler hat, which was dusted with the white gypsum powder from the mine.
Lucien seemed to come awake, then, and pushed Juliette away, held her at arm’s length by her shoulders. “Are you all right? I thought you might be ill.”
“No, I’m fine.”
“We know all about the Colorman—how he controls you, all the models over the years. How they lose their memory and become ill. We know all of it.”
“You do?” She suppressed the urge to throw up her skirt and try for a bit of misdirection, but with Toulouse-Lautrec there and … well, it would be awkward. “You know all of it?”
“Yes,” said Lucien. “Camille Monet, Renoir’s Margot, even Henri’s Carmen—who knows how many there have been? We know he somehow enchants them—you—with his blue color, how time seems to stop. I was worried you wouldn’t even remember me.”
