CHAPTER 25 - Crashed illusions


Vadim Kiselev - Frozen, Waltz to the leaving sun


The teachers' room was empty and quiet. The collegues have just gone to lessons, and Oscar decided to sit for a while longer and check the students' work so that she would not have to take them home. She sat down at the table next to the window, lifted the shutters and breathed deeply in the air blown by the wind. It smelled of decaying leaves and slowly approaching winter. However, the day was sunny and warmer, as if autumn was saying gentle "good-bye" to everyone.

Oscar folded her hands under her chin and thought. She was worried about the passage of time and the failure to make a decision as to what to do now. The truth was that the situation between her and Andre was getting more complicated day by day. Ella seemed to ignore Andre's requests and explanations, and Oscar plunged deeper and deeper into the black abyss of remorse. There was also Lusien, whom Oscar could not leave behind, but at the same time she was aware that the boy shouldn't live in such an unclear family situation. Lusien should have a mother and father, and be able to observe a normal, loving family, and not two people who were actually almost like strangers. Oscar felt a violent wave of regret pouring into her heart. If that time in the past.. She clenched her hands into fists and tried to chase away unwanted thoughts. She shouldn't be dwelling on a past that she couldn't have changed anyway.

Lost in thought, she hardly noticed Pierre entering the room. He sat quietly in front of Oscar and stared at her absent face for a moment. Then he cleared his throat to let her know that he was there. Oscar twitched and looked blankly at the man sitting on the other side of the table.

- Good morning - the boy said in a friendly manner - I see that you already have coffee – he smiled and pointed to the cup she was holding.

She nodded and there was silence for a moment. Oscar was staring at the contents of her mug now, and Pierre fiddled with his fingers nervously.

- I am very sorry for invading you then - he said finally, in a slightly more confident voice. - I don't know what made me interfere with your privacy. After all, we hardly know each other, so I had no right to bother you like that.

Oscar looked at him curiously. In fact, she had almost forgotten that he had visited them. Pierre's face was sincerely repentant, and Oscar suddenly thought that the man was really beautiful. If only she could command her heart, her choice would surely fall on this young, innocent boy who would gladly give her his own heart.

- You don't have to worry about it - she replied reassuringly. - How's your painting? Is it finished? - she asked, changing the subject.

Pierre's eyes flashed.

- Not much is missing. A few details. Iris of the eyes. Mouth. But..

- What? - she became interested.

- Painting portraits is a difficult art - he explained. - It's not easy to paint someone without having them in front of you.

- So you want me to pose for you again? - she laughed.

Pierre looked at her half surprised, half joy.

- Yes! - he replied, and the smile on his face widened.

- Let's go then - Oscar replied without hesitating and began to collect her things.

They approached Pierre's house hardly talking. The large building was located not far from the market square, on one side adjacent to a large street, and on the other, to an overgrown square. Now all the leaves from the bushes have fallen, but in the summer it must have been really nice and cozy.

- Wait for me here, will you? - Pierre said, pushing the heavy gate leading to the stairwell of the building.

Oscar grabbed his arm gently.

- I don't want you to carry the paiting - she said, not meeting his eyes. - Better if we come in.

Pierre stood still for a moment, his hands resting on the metal carvings, as if he didn't quite understand her words, then nodded. He opened the gate and held it for Oscar to pass.

Pierre's apartment was on the top floor of the building. The wooden stairs squeaked softly as Oscar put her feet on them, just following the boy who was showing the way. The metal latch also creaked when Pierre opened it. Everything seemed to have stopped in time at least several decades earlier. Even the door decorations resembled those that were fashionable in Paris when Oscar began her work at Versailles.

- My father made them himself - Pierre smiled as he saw her peering curiously at the carved door frame. - I knew you would recognize!

- Pardon? - Oscar shuddered.

- Come on, come on, you'll see for yourself! - the boy rejoced, grabbed her hand and dragged her inside.

The apartment was flooded with sunlight coming from a large window in a big room that was probably both a living room and a work room. There was elegant furniture, a desk and two large shelves filled with books. Easels, canvases and rolled papers were also visible in every corner, brushes, paints and other painting accessories were strewn everywhere. However, this was not what got Oscar's attention. As soon as she entered, she stopped frozen, staring stunned at the wall in front of her, on which hung a huge painting in a gilded, richly inlaid frame. The painting depicted a city landscape that she couldn't help but recognize. On the right, the Seine flowed, gilding and silvering, and on the left were tall tenement houses with dark roofs. In the distance loomed the majestic walls of the Notre Dame Cathedral, illuminated by the warm light of the setting sun.

- Do you like it? - Pierre asked right next to her, and she jumped up - Oh, sorry, I didn't want to scare you - the boy laughed, completely oblivious to her eyes full of consternation.

- Who.. Who painted this? - Oscar managed to choke out.

- My father of course! - replied Pierre proudly. - The painting is many, many years old. He painted it back when we lived in Paris.

Oscar felt the panic rising in her heart. But she was once a soldier and fighting her own fear was just as important as fighting the enemy.

- You never said you lived in Paris - Oscar tried to keep her voice from trembling too much. She had to find out everything without raising any suspicions. One thing she was sure of, the boy didn't know her true identity. If it were otherwise, he would have revealed it long ago.

- I'm sorry I didn't tell you right away.. - Pierre was embarrassed - You thought that I came from here and it's actually a bit true, because my parents were born New Aquitaine. But I was born in Paris. When I found out you just came from there.. I thought I would just bring you here and you would see for yourself. But you didn't want to, so..

It was at this point that Oscar remembered their conversation from a few weeks ago. The one they had when she posed for him in the rose garden. So Pierre didn't mean to seduce her. Oscar felt herself blush with embarrassment. She had misjudged him from the beginning.

- I'm sorry I was distrustful - she turned to him and smiled apologetically - Why don't we just sit down and you'll tell me everything?

The boy's face lit up.

- Okay! - he took her hand gently and led her to the comfortable couch - Chocolate? - he asked, laughing a little.

- Chocolate! - Oscar nodded.

While Pierre lit the stove to heat the water, Oscar had a moment to look around. The apartment was really big, probably too big for one person, but very cluttered. All the walls, from ceiling to floor, were covered with paintings of various sizes and shapes. Most of them depicted landscapes of Paris. Paris during all seasons. Paris at night. Paris in the rain. Streets full of people. Mass at Notre Dame. Seine reflecting the colors of the sky. On one of the walls there were only portraits. In the center, there was a bigger portrait of the family. A beautiful woman with blue eyes was sitting on a small bench in front of the house, her arm around a teenage boy, a tall man standing behind the bench, smiling radiantly. Next to it, portraits of the same man and the same woman; portrait of a little boy on a rocking horse. Another image of an elderly couple sitting under a chestnut tree with golden brown leaves.

- This is my family - said Pierre, handing her a large mug with encouragingly fragrant chocolate - These are father's parents - he pointed at the portrait of the elderly couple - And this is me and my parents. Dad painted this portrait just before.. - the boy clearly stuck - just before everything broke down - he finished sadly.

- Please tell me about it! - Oscar asked in the sweetest voice she could make of herself.

She suspected that Pierre's family story was one of those sad Parisian stories. However, the amount of paintings on the walls made Oscar suspect that Pierre's father might have been someone more important than only an ordinary resident. And she absolutely had to find out.

- Would you mind if I paint at the same time? - Pierre asked, revealing a painting standing nearby. Oscar shook her head.

My father was from here, from Chauvigny, my mother from nearby Pouille. This apartment had belonged to my father's family. This and all these pictures are the only things left for me. You'll probably be laughing, but my grandparents really didn't want Dad to become a painter. Just like many years later, he didn't want me to be. Grandparents had a coffee shop right here in the center of Chavigny. They imported coffee from Africa and sold it to residents at fair prices. There was coffee to everyone's ability. Cheaper grains for poorer inhabitants, more expensive and more refined for richer townspeople and those noblemen who lived in the mansions in the neighborhood. My grandparents wanted my father to take over the business, but he wasn't interested. One day he met my mother at a dance party and they decided to run away to Paris together. So they secretly married and left. My mother dreamed of serving in Versailles - Pierre laughed aloud to his memories - Which, of course, was impossible, but because she was beautiful, she found a job fairly quickly in a wealthy Parisian house. My father decided to paint and earn a living with it. And you know, Francoise, he turned out to be really good at it! Just look at these paitings! When I was a few years old, I used to sit and watch him apply paint to the canvas with soft movements. He was always able to bring out beauty, bring out the light..

My father fell madly in love with Paris. Every day he wandered around and painted every corner of the city. And then he sold his paintings once a week at the Champse Elysses market. One day his paintings were seen by a noble who was passing by. He bought one painting and one more the next week. Father's paintings became famous and hung in all noble houses in Paris! Those were amazing times! We were so happy then. We had money, and there was still enough food in Paris. Nevertheless, I have fond memories of the rule of Louis XIV. We loved the monarchy.. - Pierre rested his hand under his chin - I remember when the dolphin Ludwik together with princess Marie Antoinette came to Paris for the first time! It was a fiesta! - the boy laughed happily, and his eyes stared into space, sunk in memories - We ran with the guys along the route of the retinue to see more, and then we climbed to the roof of the tenement house! It was fun! How old could I have been then? What year was it..?

- Seventy third - Oscar replied automatically, feeling that she was sinking deeper and deeper into the couch. She remembers that day as if it happened yesterday. Memories were carved in her memory like in granite stone. Frozen.

- Oh, were you there too? - Pierre rejoiced.

Everything was so beautiful! She was so beautiful. Princess, I mean. We were glad that now Paris will start to develop, that there will be more money, more food and no one will go hungry anymore. And then it turned out.. - the boy's voice hardened - that they were only illusions. We were deceived with splendor, and then thrown into the abyss of poverty. The monarchy has betrayed us.

Oscar sat still, saying nothing. Once she would probably get mad when she heard such brave words. She would draw her sword and, without a moment's thought, put it to the person's throat. The other day, no one in her presence could slander the royal family and the monarchy. But that was before.. Then she saw hunger, pain and death. She saw the bodies of ordinary residents lying in the streets. People who died because they hadn't eaten in days or months. People who couldn't afford a doctor. People who were shot as if they were animals. Oscar was no longer able to defend the system that had raised her, which had actually betrayed everyone.

You must know that it was getting harder with each passing year. - Pierre continued. - My father still painted, but selling was not so easy. Fortunately, people still ordered portraits. Family portraits. Portraits of children. The portraits that would remain after them when they stood at the edge of the grave. No money was spared for this. My father sometimes went from house to house to draw and paint. He saw the poverty with which Paris was permeated. And then he would go to Versailles and observe the splendor of the palace. And he was getting more and more devastated. Soon after, he got a job at a newspaper.

- In a newspaper? - Oscar asked, surprised.

- That's right - answered Pierre - No, he didn't write articles, you probably thought so. Dad made drawings.

- Caricatures - Oscar added in a flat voice, feeling her heart turn to ice.

- Yes, yes! - confirmed the boy vividly - I keep forgetting that you lived there too! There were three newspapers then, and Dad drew for one of them. At the beginning, however, they were only simple drawings related to the life of the inhabitants. Later.. yes, then he also drew caricatures - Pierre's face darkened.

He probably shouldn't have done that. He could have stayed painting. We could also leave Paris if life there became unbearable. We could take over a coffee shop and live like that. The three of us. But he was angry. Stubborn. He fell in love with Paris and its inhabitants as if he had always lived there. He also always said that it was not just about the city itself. That France was dying and the nobility had their eyes closed. That France was dying and the king and queen were having fun at that time.

I was so angry with him about it. Instead of thinking about my mother and me, he thought about other people as if we really had an influence on what was going on in the country. But now I know he was kind of right. The revolution showed that each of us has an impact on the fate of France.

- You can probably guess how it ended? - Pierre asked, and Oscar just smiled faintly.

She remembered all the people the Guard under her command had arrested for plotting against the monarchy.

One day the soldiers came and took him away. They threw him in the Bastille and then kept him there for a long time, for months. When he came out, he was a wreck of a man. - said the boy bitterly - At that time, my mother lost her job, because nobody wanted to keep the wife of the conspirator and the swindler. Then she fell ill immediately, and because we had no money for food or medicine, she died quickly. When dad got out of prison, she was gone. We packed up and went back to Chavigny. But he was never the same again. Tormented physically and mentally, he suffered a lot. He couldn't paint anymore because all his fingers were broken in prison. And he kept blaming himself for Mom's death. He died a year later. He died, but I chose to live on. I sold my grandparents' shop and I payed for my education. I got a job in the mayor's office and worked there for several years. But I didn't like being a clerk, so I became a teacher. And that's..

- That's all! - Pierre finished his sad story - And the painting is finished too - he emphasized his words, putting the palette and brush on the table - Want to see? - his eyes flashed again.

Oscar didn't reply, just sat staring at him blankly. Because suddenly, somewhere deep in her mind, a memory flashed. In her father's study, right above the parlor where they sometimes sat and discussed military affairs, a painting had hung for years. It was not big, but very beautiful. Versailles in full spring, with a garden where all the trees bloom and a carpet of tulips. Then this painting was torn off angrily and hidden deep in the attic so that no one would find it.

- What.. What was your father's name? - she asked almost in a whisper, as if not hearing his question.

- My father? My father's name was Paul, Paul Arnaud. - Pierre replied proudly.

- I have to go - Oscar said suddenly in a hoarse voice as she rose abruptly from the couch.

Almost running she made her way to the exit door, ignoring the boy's call. On the way home, she chased Caesar almost continuously. There was only one thought in her head: "danger." This time she was really scared.

- Pierre, the boy I work with - Oscar said in a trembling voice - Pierre is Paul Arnaud's son!

Andre almost dropped the glass of wine, which he inadvertently began to raise to his mouth.

- Paul Arnaud's?! - his eyes widened in astonishment - The same who..

- Yes, the same one who drew caricatures of the royal family - Oscar sighed resignedly - and the illustrations for those horrible pamphlets about Marie Antoinette's romance. The same one we arrested then under the publishing house. What a horrible coincidence! - She put her head in her hands and rested her elbows on the table.

Oscar well remembered that middle-aged man dragged inhumanly across the ground by her own soldiers. After that, she even questioned him several times. Oscar never forgot his sad eyes and pleas. He begged her to let him go, promised to leave and no one would ever see him again in Paris. After one such conversation, Oscar, cursing her weakness, went to Marie Antoinette to ask for a reprieve. Marie Antoinette had always trusted her judgment, so she persuaded Ludwik to release the unfortunate man. As it turned out, it was actually too late to save him.

Hearing Oscar's words, Andre ran a hand through his hair in an anxious gesture.

- How did you find out?

- From himself! - she laughed nervously. He was honest and told me his family story.

- So he doesn't know?

- That I am the one who arrested his father? That I contributed to the death of his parents? That it was because of me that he had to flee Paris? - Oscar replied bitterly - No, I don't think he knows. But what if.. Andre.. What if he remembers after all? What do you think we should do now?

Andre thought for a moment, took a sip of wine, and looked at her seriously.

- If he didn't, then the chances of him suddenly remembering now are rather little - he said matter-of-factly. - If you quit your job now, someone may become suspicious.

- You're right - Oscar sighed resignedly - But.. it will be so difficult, you know? Live normally when.. When the face you are looking at reminds you of your own past mistakes..

Only now did Oscar realize what she said. She blushed and lowered her head so he wouldn't see her eyes.

Andre seemed to freeze for a moment. Then he took the glass and emptied it in one gulp.

- Don't go to work this week - he said, and started to get up from the table. He felt as if he had to leave as soon as possible, otherwise he would grab that end of the thread that was Oscar's words and pull it. And then he'd say something he shouldn't. - We will send a letter to the headmaster that you are unwell and need a break.

- Okay - she nodded, not looking up.

The past. Were the memories and guilt of the past to pursue her forever? Sometimes she wondered what it would be like if she could turn back time. What would she do then? What did she change?

If she could change something, wouldn't she just let Andre and the baby never disappear from her life? Or maybe that evening, instead of soothing her sadness in Andre's arms, she should just have gone back to her room and drown the grief in wine? What would their life be like then?

She didn't know that. And time couldn't be turned back.

...

- She's not here - Eve shook her head as she saw Pierre's eyes search every corner of the teachers' room. - She sent a letter saying she's ill.

- She's ill? - the boy's eyes widened with anxiety - Is it something serious?

- No, I don't think so - replied his collegue in a comforting voice - She wrote that she hopes to come back next week.

- Oh, that's good - said Pierre - I was suddenly worried because Francoise is always so tough. I've never seen her even having a headache - he laughed.

- Exactly! - Eve chimed in. - She's really tough. Nice, but serious and uncompromising at work. Sharp as steel. That's what we call her sometimes, steel Francoise. You know.. - the woman added in a dreamy voice - sometimes when I look at her like that, at her erect figure, her way of walking, so elegant, but also a bit stiff.. Sometimes she reminds me of soldiers who came to our parade sometimes when I was still living in Tours. Head straight, body stretched out like a string and that proud walk. She is such a soldier. Only in a skirt! - she giggled.

But Pierre didn't answer. Suddenly he felt cold sweat trickling down his back. Hunch. The hunch so strong and violent it almost took his breath away.

He quickly said goodbye to Eve and headed home quickly. He ran in, almost forgetting to close the door, then knelt by the bureau and began to pull out the papers. The entire interior of the furniture was cluttered with drawings and sketches. They were lying in piles of smaller and larger ones and were already heavily dusty, because no one had looked at them since his father's death. He pulled out one pile and looked at it page by page. Nothing. Only in the middle of the second pile did he find what he was looking for. The sketch showed a beautiful soldier on a white horse. The soldier wore a white uniform with decorative epaulets and many decorations on the chest, and his long hair was waving in the breeze. Pierre sat down heavily on the floor, and the hand holding the drawing trembled vigorously. For the soldier's face was familiar to him and engraved in his heart. It was the same face that looked at him from the portrait that, now finished, was leaning against the bookcase waiting to be framed.

There was an inscription at the bottom of the drawing, written in the familiar handwriting of his father:

Oscar Francois de Jarjayes, Commander of the Royal Guard, 6/8/1773

Pierre felt his eyes darken, so he rested his hand on the floor in a final attempt to save himself from passing out. The drawing fell from his hands and fell softly to the wooden floor.

He felt his delusions crushed by the awareness of reality. And desperation. Disappointment. Anger. All these feelings rained down upon him like a hurricane wind. And only one question.

Why does it have to be her?