“You shouldn’t have done that.” Juliette stiffened with wariness, her gaze avoiding Jean Marc’s. “I would have let him go soon. What are you doing here anyway? Have you nothing better to do than take strolls in the garden and interrupt my work?”
“And a pleasant good morning to you also.” Jean Marc stopped before the easel and tilted his head in consideration. “You’ve caught his likeness. It’s quite adequate.”
“Adequate?” she asked, stung. “I don’t do ‘adequate’ work. It’s excellent.”
“But boring.”
“Boring.”
“There’s no sweep, no daring. As I remember, you didn’t used to be afraid to paint the truth.”
“Thisistruth. This is Robert.”
“And you obviously chose him because he’s a safe subject and would cause you no difficulty.” Jean Marcshrugged. “You shouldn’t feel bad. Many artists prefer to paint the ordinary rather than challenge themselves.”
“I’m not ‘many artists’.” Juliette glared at him as she set her brush down. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I do challenge myself.”
“Do you?” Jean Marc sat down on the marble bench across from her. “I’ve seen no sign of it of late. You’ve avoided the greatest challenge to your skill.”
“You?” A sudden eagerness tempered the anger in her expression. “Will you let me paint you? If you posed for me, I might be able to—”
“Not me.” He met her gaze. “The abbey. You haven’t painted what happened at the abbey.”
“No!” She recoiled as if he had struck her. “I don’t want to paint what happened at the abbey. It was ugly.”
“And you’re afraid of ugliness.” He nodded. “It’s entirely understandable.”
“No, I’mnotafraid. I’ve never been afraid. I just don’t want to paint it.”
“Is it that you don’t want to paint it or you don’t know if you can? Such a subject could be done only by a master.”
“I could do it!”
“But you’re afraid to try.”
“No, I’m not afraid. Why should I be afraid?” She drew a deep, shaky breath. “I wish you’d go away. You’re making me very angry.”
“Am I? You showed a great deal of promise as a youngster. It’s a shame you’ve chosen to become only mediocre.”
“I’m not afraid and I’m not mediocre. Why should I paint something no one wants to see?”
“Is that your excuse?” He leaned forward, his intent gaze holding her own. “Iwant to see what happened at the abbey, Juliette. I want to see what you saw.”
Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes glittering with tears as she thrust aside the easel and snatched up the sketchbook sitting on the bench beside her. “You like to see blood? I’ll show you.” She picked up the pen with a shaking hand and began to sketch with feverish,reckless strokes. “You want to see rape? I’ll show you. You want to see death? I’ll show you. I’ll show you. I’ll show you…”
In a few minutes she finished the sketch, threw it aside, and began another. She finished that sketch and began another. The sketches flew from her pen like dead leaves drifting from a tortured, twisted branch.
Jean Marc sat quietly watching as the pile of sketches grew around her. Her face was set in terrible lines of stress and her eyes glittered wildly. Every now and then she muttered something unintelligible, but he knew she wasn’t speaking to him. He doubted if she knew he was there any longer.
Late morning marched into afternoon and then faded into the first blue hours of twilight, and still the pile of sketches grew on the bench beside her.
Finally, Juliette stopped, staring numbly down at the sketch in her hands.
“Are you finished?” Jean Marc rose to his feet and walked over to the bench where she was sitting. “May I see them?”
Juliette nodded.
Jean Marc began to leaf through the sketches on the bench. She had shown him, he thought grimly. She had shown him rape and murder and unsurpassed brutality.Dieu, how had she survived it?
