A/N: Elisabeth Vigee-Lebrun is a real person and I have tried to keep her life as acurate as possible in this story. Of course, we cannot know of her life at court (along with any intimate relationships she may have had) but, given her appearance and personality, I try to weave a story around her.
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I hope you are as excited to read this as I am to write it.
I gather my skirts hastily as I run through the rooms of the Château de Versailles, my heart hammering in my throat. It is almost as if it wishes to reach the apartments of the Comte de Provence before I do.
I pass through the Hall of Mirrors, but cannot relish in its beauty.
I glance up quickly at the ceiling, at the crystal chandeliers shimmering with the dawn light. Looking at their reflections in the mirrors, they seemed to go on forever.
I could not believe there were only seventeen.
As I enter the apartments, I slow my pace, eager not to make myself seem brusque.
When the door opens, I am greeted by the Comte Claude-Louis de la Châtre, one of the Monsieur's gentlemen. He smiles kindly and gestures for me to enter.
I seem to stumble into the chambers, my eyes wandering over the furnishings, the beautiful curtains framing the gardens outside, the rows of geometrically shaped little trees marching away from the château.
The sound of feet on the carpet before me rouses me out of my trance.
I look up and see the shining face of the Comte de Provence himself, his arms outstretched, reaching for my hands, which have burrowed themselves behind my back.
I am shocked by this improper greeting, but hide the surprise in a small grin and stretch out my hands.
As he clasps both of my hands, I execute an awkward curtsy and hold it, waiting for his words to bring me back up.
"Welcome Madame Lebrun," he breathes, ever the air of nobility.
I raise my head to meet his murky brown eyes and I can feel myself blush.
He lets go of my hands and gestures over to a small white settee in the centre of the room, just in front of a grand fireplace.
"May I introduce my dear sister, Mademoiselle Élisabeth Philippine."
I look past the Comte and spot a young girl, no more than twelve, spread on the settee, her light blue gown puffed out around her feet.
She reminds me of a cloud, wandering throughout a spotless sky.
No longer tangled in the arms of the Comte de Provence, I can more easily curtsy, and do so, tucking my satin slipper delicately behind me.
When I raise myself back up, she is already off of the settee and standing tall in front of me, her blue eyes radiating a kind of allure and comeliness.
"Praise of your works have reached even the most stuffed ears of those at Versailles. I am truly honored to see you perform in the medium in which God himself seems to have stationed you."
I nodded and lowered my eyes.
"It is sheer euphoria I feel when I hear such words of praise, especially when it comes from your lips, dear Princess."
My words are strong and unwavering, but in truth, my heart is fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird.
I feel out of place with these beautiful nobles, their soft locks powdered white and seeming to sparkle, while my own tresses are limp around my shoulders, the pallid brown not even enough to catch the light.
The young princess' cheeks flush with a most intense shade of rouge, while my own are flushed and blotched.
"Come, let us sit." The Comte de Provence seems to chirp like a bird when he speaks, the words harmonizing into a beautiful song.
The Comte and the princess are seated back down on the white settee while I am seated across from them, in an overstuffed chair.
The princess lounges back into the cushions and closes her eyes, relishing in their comfort.
After a moment of harsh silence, the Comte speaks:
"May I offer you my congratulations for your recent induction into the Académie de Saint Luc."
I smile politely and smooth out a fold on my dress.
"Thank you. It was recommended I join by my friend and confidant, Gabriel François Doyen."
He recognized the name and his eyes brightened.
"Ah, another master of his skill. I have seen his Miracles des Ardents at the St. Roch when I had last visited Paris."
As he continued on about various works of art, I began to tune him out, for I was too busy studying the contours of his face, his soft chocolate eyes and his coral lips, deviously curved upwards into a grin.
He reminded me of my own brother, Etienne Vigee, when I captured him in oils in 1773.
Both of their eyes conveyed a certain curiosity, a childlike wonder.
The Comte de Provence suddenly glances at me with a question in his brown eyes—
he knows I haven't been listening.
My face flashes red in embarrassment, but he reaches for my hand and pats it,
laughing all the while.
"Pardon my wandering mind," I remark, "but I was comparing Monsieur to my own dear brother. It is uncanny, for both you and he have a compassion to your looks, a strength I cannot describe."
His brows furrow as he deciphers what I have said. I am struck by my frankness in recalling my family to him, so far from my childhood back in Paris.
I begin to get nervous as he keeps his unwavering gaze upon me.
He drops my hand as there is a knock on the door of his apartments.
The door is opened and my servants are sent in, carrying my easel and paints.
It is time to begin.