Written by me.

English translation by Elwen_Rhiannon.

[Author's note] For Elwen_Rhiannon, Cary and all fans of Balzac.

[Translator's note] For Frédérique, a fellow fan of Balzac, with many thanks for our talks.

The Picture of Lucien Chardon

I

The beginning of August 1822 was extremely hot. The sun was still getting up early and before it set, the heat was not subsiding even for a moment and there was no chance to fight it with almost no clouds in the sky. All one could do was to surrender. Every single day meant long, slowly passing hours wasted on a fight with the heat: the best you could do was to hide in a shade and pray for rain. Nights were sultry and heavy from masses of heated air, but the rain was not coming. Distant thunders foreshadowed what should come, but did not.

There were people for which the heat was more of a curse than for the others: Lucien Chardon would give a lot for even a slight blow of wind or even a few drops of rain. The heat meant to him early sunrises next to Coralie's bed, stuffy air of the sleeping room, the scent of her illness and the heated forehead of his former lover. He was touching it often to check if the fever ceased, but it never did. He was spending all nights like this, falling finally asleep in an old armchair, with his palm on her forehead, till being awoken by far too bright sunrise. Every dawn was bringing a new hope for the fever to be smaller and Lucien's very first morning gesture was touching Coralie's forehead again: half with silent begging, half with fear. Because the fever never ceased, and Lucien knew he had to do something to get some money for new, perhaps better medicines.

Right, Bianchon did help him to get a credit at the apothecary's. Lucien was using it regularly; he knew he would be unable to take care of Coralie without it. Yet there was something embarrassing for him in this arrangement, another act of charity – or was it pity? – towards the poor, lost kid that used to be one of them. The burden of all his misfortunes was unbearable. It was killing all that was left of his ambitions, no matter how much smaller every day. He was unable to look into the eyes of any of his ex-companions from the Cenacle. Bianchon's kindness was to him more of a burden than poverty and the illness of his lover. He was always unsure what is the real reason behind it: true care about Coralie or the will to show Lucien how wrong he was to live against their advice.

Yet there were things in the world his former friends were unable to understand, enclosed in their own circle of utopian dreams. It had not mattered to Lucien how many paths and roads unknown to the Cenacle must he walk, as long as he had been sure that they would lead him to where he had wanted to get. He had been even able to believe it, as long as he had been on his own and his ambitions still alive.

But then Coralie got ill and all back paths connected into one wide road leading him to the filthy, grey tavern. One could not think of a more ill-omened name for a place: a red sign with a name Devil's Horn was reflecting sunlight right into his face, hurting Lucien's weary eyes. He half-closed his eyelids, raised his head and looked again, ensuring himself that he was in the right place. In an act of desperate courage, he opened the door and stepped in.

The stuffy air inside the tavern was a kind of a shock to him, no matter how used to the scent of an ill body has he recently become. It was almost unbearable. The whole room stank of a cheap alcohol, wormwood, anise and tobacco, and the dirty dishes standing on old, darkened tables seemed to be witnesses of far too many fights in the past. Servant girls with grey faces were moving like ghosts among those tables, becoming material only when there was a need to bid farewell to some of the more drunken guests. Even for the tavern, the place was repulsive, and Lucien could not think of a person choosing to spend here time willingly. Especially when the person was supposed to be an artist, a painter, and quite a good one, at least according to Berenice. Berenice, who knew nothing about art.

He knew what is his biggest problem: he could not force himself to take any fancy to the stranger he was going to meet. On the contrary – he disliked the unknown painter almost instinctively. No matter if he was going to save him or torment him, the job was sure. It was the last stage of Lucien's personal downfall. He would never agree to do something like that for anyone but Coralie. Besides, Berenice had told him that this man is sure to pay him and he trusted her like no one else: if nothing else, she was one of the few who did not leave them when things started to be hard. Even if she could. Well, he had no choice but to believe her. This faith was the only thing supporting him when his world was falling down.

Inside the tavern, Lucien fell on the first chair, nervously clasping his palms dressed in unfashionable gloves. He was not sure what does his supposed saviour looked like, the description that Berenice gave him was far too enigmatic to create an image of a man he was waiting for. He knew from experience that whoever the man is, he will pay him more if he thinks Lucien can do without his money. But the only thing he could do to pretend to be more wealthy was his worn out hat and damned, unfashionable gloves, all that was left of his past wealth just because he was unable to find anyone to buy them. Far too little to pretend that he belongs to the higher society.

Lucien smiled sadly: he knew well that no matter how he tries, he will not be able to impress anyone anymore, neither with his clothes, nor with his looks. He was scared by what he had seen in the mirror before leaving: he could not recognize himself in the shadow of a man looking at him. Blue eyes darkened, looking with a sight of a man who knows that he has no more to lose, and his famous golden hair were ruined by far too many nights in an armchair: he had neither money to have them dressed properly, nor time to think about it. There was a time when he used to be able to seduce any townswoman with just one look, and a less severe lady, who did not mind his provincial manners, with only a few more; now, even Parisian courtesans and prostitutes were looking at him with dislike, professionally sensing his poverty.

Lucien closed his eyes: he felt he was going to fall asleep, unable to fight it even if the tavern was not the safest place for rest. He knew that whoever wanted to rob him, would find only a few coins, being his sole property now. Even if somebody dragged him out of the tavern now, demanding to choose between money or life, Lucien would be happy to choose the second option, if he knew, that he would be able to rest afterwards.

Nobody was bothering him, and Lucien gave up to his tiredness. He thought that he was dozing for no longer than a moment and was startled by being woken up. The voice – feminine? – was telling him to open his eyes. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder: one of the servant girls was tugging him by his sleeve with the same gesture she was waking drunkards up, and Lucien reddened with humiliation.

"Want to order something?" she asked in an irritated voice, looking suspiciously at his hat and gloves, unfashionable, but still different from what other guests tended to wear.

Lucien shook his head, still trying to wake up, and lifted his hand up, wanting to calm the girl down, but it was then when he saw the man who could be the one he was waiting for. Of all the visitors of the tavern, he was obviously a frequent one and what more, he was quite matching the description Berenice gave him. One can recognize him even in a crowd, she said, and the stranger was exactly like that: there was something that distinguished him in the crowd of drinking men. Maybe it was a book laying on a table next to him, or his gaze, concentrated at one point, laying somewhere far away from him.

The stranger looked around. He seemed to be searching for something in the faces of customers, as if he was valuing their usefulness to him, and turned towards Lucien. Their eyes met.

If it was him, he looked different than Lucien thought him to; his looks were enough for a person to expect a step into a deeper level of Hell rather than salvation. There was something almost grotesque in the stranger's thick hair, bushy eyebrows and much too big nose, something demonical that made Lucien move himself back and stick to the chair's back. It wasn't even the ugliness of the stranger, but the expression on his face, more repulsive than everything else, that took the rest of Lucien's hope.

The stranger could be a few years younger than himself, perhaps in Coralie's age, but there was already this particular look in his eyes, the nonchalant cynicism Lucien knew so well from the face of Etienne Lousteau and people like him. His appearance made the impression even stronger: the clothing, even if more wealthy than Lucien's, was wrinkled and rather not fresh, with traces of dried paint. The mixture of welfare and abnegation – conscious, as much as Lucien could judge – was strangely ostentatious, as if the stranger was trying to prove something with his looks. Yet somehow he suited Berenice's description and that was why Lucien decided to slowly approach the table in the corner occupied by that man.

"Please, excuse me," he said, much less surely than he wanted to. "I'm Lucien de..." he shrugged and touched his forehead, wet with nervous sweat, trying to convince himself that the visibly sarcastic half-smile of the stranger is not a bad omen. "Chardon. Just Chardon."

The stranger did not respond. Impatiently, Lucien moved closer; he sensed a strong scent of alcohol and could barely fight sudden dizziness.

"Would you mind if I sit down?" he asked, grasping the back of an empty chair. The stranger nodded, indifferently, without even casting a glance at him.

"First time here, at Devil's Horn, sir Lucien?" he murmured in a voice hoarse from too much alcohol. „In case you have not noticed yourself, I can ensure you that this pretty name is not a coincidence and, moreover, a portent of who may meet you here. Well, since it seemed that you dared to enter here anyway, abandon all hope. People who come here, always return. Not that anyone finds this place by coincidence, my personal guess is that it's this place that finds us." He shrugged and moved towards Lucien his half-drained bottle of absinthe. „Have a drink, sir, and forget about everything outside. Better for you to not think about what you drink and what you may see. One can hardly bear this alcohol and the girls aren't much better, but it's one of the very few places in Paris when we are really equal, well, at least for a moment. No matter if you are wearing this elegant gloves that used to be fashionable something like half a year ago, or have a background much better than most of the mortals drinking here. None of it matters, sir Lucien. Everybody drinks in the same way. With or without „de"."

He stopped talking and concentrated on his glass of absinthe. The silence between them was almost offensive. It awoke Lucien who waved his hand and impatiently moved the bottle far from him.

„I did not come here to drink with you," he said firmly. „It's about the picture," he kept watching a temple of the stranger, who turned his profile on Lucien, and waiting for any kind of reaction. „It is you I've been looking for, isn't it? You're…"

It made Lucien's interlocutor finally raise his eyes from the table. There was a slight shadow of interest on his face, disappearing as quickly as it appeared and morphing into a kind of reluctant grimace.

„Grantaire," he said, puckering his forehead. Lucien fought the sudden need to leave as fast as possible.

„Grantaire," he repeated. He cast another glance at the stranger and froze, with a hand already extended to shake the man's, noticing his openly mocking gaze. „You're a student of Gros, right? A friend of Berenice…?"

A sudden burst of laughter cut into the sentence, throwing Lucien off the balance. Surprised, he pulled away from his interlocutor and let his hand fall. Grantaire's laughter was even more unpleasant than his look, cold and mocking, as if he took the other man for nothing. It was the last thing Lucien needed, too exhausted to bear mockery now, when he stopped hoping that listening to them may benefit. He was getting up, sure about leaving the tavern, when he felt Grantaire's hand catching his wrist in a grasp of steel.

"Right, sir, you're right. On student, acquaintance, whoever. If you say so." The painter bowed with a visible mockery and this time it was him studying Lucien attentively. He was silent for a brief moment and let his wrist go, pouring himself another glass of absinthe. "So you really think you can personify Apollo? With this eyes, hair, and the rest? Looking as someone who has just fallen into a gutter?"

Lucien clenched fists. His back bent and his shoulders were shaking.

"I don't know," he said with paled lips, without looking into the painter's eyes. Grantaire slowly raised a full glass to his mouth.

"But I do," he murmured, taking a deep sip of absinthe and putting the glass away. "Yes, sir Lucien, I think you can, when you have to. Which is why I agree to test you. That is, of course, if you can also do something with you to look like a god or at least as a human being and not a ghost. Till tomorrow. Come to my place at six and we shall see. I guess dear Berenice gave you the address?"

Lucien nodded; he felt too much of relief to trust his own voice.

"So we have an appointment, at least for now," Grantaire clasped his palms on a bottle with the rest of absinthe. "And for now, goodbye, sir Lucien.

Their talk was over. Pressing Grantaire made no sense: the painter was brusque and unpleasant like no one else, right, but he also did agree to give him a chance and that was all that mattered in his situation. Better not to wait till he changes his mind: even if Lucien felt his knees shaking out of tiredness, or perhaps relief, he knew that the best he can do at the moment is leaving. Even if this would mean a quarter in front of the tavern's door: he might be too weak to go further.

Lucien closed his eyes and leant on a doorframe. He was brought to consciousness by a sudden pain: a door leaf, pushed with a great strength, hit his barely healed, now touched wound. Lucien cursed Michel Chrestien, not knowing himself if for wounding him, or not taking aim more carefully, and dragging his feet started to walk towards his place.