Chapter 55
Claude Gillis paid a visit in the middle of the afternoon, and his unexpected arrival woke me from where I had fallen asleep slumped over my desk in the bedroom, surrounded by stacks of unfinished music.
The painter was greeted enthusiastically by both Bessie, who had woken from her afternoon nap at my feet and nearly fell down the stairs, and Alexandre, who could not have been more pleased that his guest had not only decided to accompany us for the evening, but had stopped by on his way to another appointment.
"Monsieur Gillis!" Alex bellowed once he opened the front door. "How wonderful to see you again!"
"Monsieur Alexandre Jean Kire, I am honored to see you once more as well."
"Are you here to see my father?"
"Actually, I came to deliver something to you."
"To me?"
"Yes, Monsieur Alexandre. You have inspired me."
"Oh! I am being rather rude," Alex said suddenly. His words surprised me. Perhaps Charles had recently reminded my son to use his best manners. "Monsieur, this is our dog Bessie. Bessie, this is Monsieur Claude Gillis."
I started to stand, but Claude did not seem offended or surprised by my son's words. I lingered a moment longer in my bedroom, amused by their exchange and impressed by Claude's patience with my son.
"You are the first person to ever introduce me to a dog, Monsieur Alexandre."
"She knows shake!" Alex said. "Bessie, say hello to our guest. Shake, girl! Shake!"
"Ah, well then, Mademoiselle Bessie, it is a pleasure meeting you as well." Claude grunted, presumably as he climbed to his feet after kneeling to shake the dog's paw. "Monsieur Alexandre, I unfortunately cannot stay long, but this is for you."
"A gift! But it is not wrapped!"
Claude chuckled. "I am afraid it is not, but I hope you will forgive me once you see the other side of the canvas. Are you ready?"
I assumed Alex nodded as a moment later he exclaimed, "Flying snakes! Is that me in the painting?"
"But of course."
"This is the most wonderful gift anyone has ever presented to me!"
Their exchange brightened my dismal mood. I had not slept during the night and had purposely stayed downstairs as I had no desire to disturb Julia.
Once Madeline returned home, I sat for a while in the parlor, reading through old letters and found myself increasingly upset with my uncle for keeping Phelan a secret from me. I read through two dozen letters and he did not write a single word about my brother.
Whether it had been intentional or not, Phelan had been effectively erased from the narrative of my childhood. Letter by letter, I searched for a hint of who he had been some thirty years ago as an adolescent. He would have been sixteen or seventeen years of age when my uncle took me, not a boy by any means and not a man.
I wondered when my brother had taken an interest in painting and if he had been formally taught. I wondered if Phelan knew of my love for music when we were children, if perhaps he had sung to me as an infant and fueled my interest in melody. I wondered if I would ever have the opportunity to speak with him about his talent or see his work-or if he would want me to discover his paintings. With every letter, I felt increasingly desperate for more information on a man I knew virtually nothing about.
"Monsieur Gillis, you can come upstairs with me," Alex offered.
I saw my son's shadow along the floorboards and rug long before he appeared at the door. Without my mask and hair piece in place, I shot out of my chair and pushed on the door much harder than necessary, afraid Claude was a step behind Alex.
"Father?" Alex called out.
"A minute, Alexandre."
"I did not intend to interrupt," Claude said apologetically. His voice was thankfully much further away than my son's, and as Alex once again opened the door and peeked his head inside, he offered a sheepish grin as he watched me straighten my hair.
"Have you no manners?" I brusquely asked without turning to face him. "Honestly, Alexandre, must I remind you a hundred times?"
Alex bowed his head. "I wanted to show you my painting."
I took one last look at my reflection before I turned to face my son, who stood with his gift hugged against his chest. I nodded, and Alex immediately thrust the painting out toward me and grinned. It was a highly detailed depiction of Alex standing outside of a pit ringed with rocks, bursting with flying snakes of various shades of green. Some were spitting fire, others bearing fanged teeth. Meg would have been absolutely horrified.
"It is magnificent," Alex beamed. "May I display it in my room?"
"You may. Now, ask Monsieur Gillis if he would spare a moment of his time in the parlor."
Alex immediately turned on his heel and sprang out of the room. "Monsieur Gillis! My father would like you to see him in the parlor!" he shouted.
I cringed at his boorish behavior and silently shook my head. "Alex," I said under my breath. "You shall be the death of me."
"I would be most honored," Claude replied.
Alex showed Claude into the parlor, and I found the two of them examining an oil painting Charles had purchased years earlier of a gentleman on a horse. The moment I entered, Claude immediately turned to face me and stood straight as board with his hands behind his back. He looked equally ready to be called to attention or shot by a firing squad.
"Monsieur Kire."
"Monsieur Gillis," I replied.
Claude was still wearing older, dark colored trousers, but he had donned a newly purchased waistcoat and white shirt and a pair of new leather boots, which Bessie found fascinating.
"May I be of service to you, Monsieur?" Claude asked as he extended his hand to me.
"Alex, if you would give us a moment," I said, nodding at my son.
Alex gave a heavy sigh and trudged out of the parlor with Bessie a step behind him. "I am going to show Aunt Meg my new painting!" he exclaimed, and to my surprise, he closed the door behind him without protest.
"Is something wrong?" Claude asked once we were alone. His gaze flitted nervously toward the closed door, and he looked like a wide-eyed child afraid of being scolded.
There were still letters scattered across my desk, which I gathered up and returned to the wooden box Joshua had given me before I addressed Claude again.
"I merely wanted a moment to ask about another painter," I said.
Claude nodded readily. "Yes, of course."
"Are you familiar with Phelan Kimmer?" I asked.
Claude moved to lean against the wall, however, he was not close enough and stumbled backward. He cleared his throat and rubbed his hands together, clearly mortified by his clumsiness.
"From Belgium?" he asked.
"No," I said. I stopped and thought a moment. "Honestly, I am not certain where he is from."
"I would not think there are many painters by the name of Phelan Kimmer," Claude said. "But of course I could be mistaken."
"I shall assume he is from Belgium. You are familiar with him, then?"
"Yes," Claude said proudly. "I suppose. I mean to say I know of him, but..."
I crossed my arms and felt considerably less confident in asking Claude about my brother. The only other person I could think of asking was Raoul de Chagny, however, I had no desire to initiate a conversation with the Comte unless absolutely necessary.
"Have you met Monsieur Kimmer?"
Claude furrowed his brow and thought a moment. "Tall gentleman? Your height, possibly taller?"
"Shorter, I would say."
"Dark hair, a bit of gray? Beard?" He gestured with his hand to signify an imperial style beard.
I nodded. My heart thudded wildly as Claude described Phelan's physical appearance. Clearly they had at least been introduced at some time. Even if Claude was not well acquainted with my brother, there was a possibility he had artist friends who knew him well. If Joshua would not be forthcoming with information and if the letters from my uncle proved a dead end in my query, this was possibly my best chance to learn more about Phelan-and in a more timely manner than waiting months for him to reply to Joshua's letter.
"He is somewhat…"
I wanted to say unpleasant, but I held my tongue and waited for him to find the correct description.
"Eccentric," Claude finished. "I suppose all of us artists are a bit on the eccentric side."
"Indeed."
"But I do not mean that as an insult to you," Claude added quickly.
"I did not take it as one."
He looked me over briefly. "Actually, you resemble Monsieur Kimmer. In height and build, I should say and...your...the side of your face that is visible...if you did not wear..." His cheeks turned bright red and he could not keep himself from glancing at the masked side of my face. I noticed he placed his right hand over his left and wondered if he had seen the burn to Phelan's left hand and forearm.
"You are not the first to make such an observation," I said to keep him from stammering on. I sat on the edge of my desk, stretched my legs out, and folded my arms once more.
Claude appeared somewhat relieved by my words. "Have you met him?"
"Briefly."
Claude slowly nodded. "I have met him a handful of times. Not enough to consider him a friend of mine, but he showed some of his work at a gallery over the winter and invited me to attend his next show. Did you attend? It was at the Aquitaine in March. One of the art brokers took interest in his work and sold a painting to an American before the end of the exhibit. I am friends with the broker's brother, actually, which is why I remember the show."
"I did not attend, unfortunately."
That would have been around the time Christine performed in Paris for the last time for the World Exposition. I had not noticed anything other than her arrival. Phelan could have stood beside me during her aria and I would not have noticed him, such was my frame of mind.
Claude merely nodded. "There is a show at the Rodez. Are you familiar with that gallery? It is on St. Emilion, on the corner between a cobbler shop and a place that sells perfumes and such."
"Vaguely familiar."
I recalled passing the perfume shop late at night and being quite amazed at how strongly the storefront smelled of different flowers and musk. It was one of the few places Bessie did not want to venture toward as she preferred scents of a much more rancid nature.
"I am almost certain he has at least one painting at the Rodez."
"The show is currently open?"
"I believe the gallery show opened four days ago. I recall seeing the advertisements in the park with his name on it. Quite frankly I do not know how one could miss it as there are posters nailed to practically every tree."
That certainly would have explained why Phelan had traveled to Paris sooner than Joshua was expecting him. I assumed he hand-delivered whatever paintings were on display in the gallery and perhaps stayed to attend the opening.
"He is well known, then?"
Claude shrugged. "Much more than some of the other artists I know. Definitely more popular than I am, not that I am comparing myself to Monsieur Kimmer. That would be like a monkey with a toy piano being compared to you."
I grunted at his analogy. "I would like to see some of his paintings."
Claude narrowed his eyes and turned his head to the side. "You are not familiar with his work?"
"I am not."
"He has a great command of color. The way he depicts shadows and darkness makes you feel as though you're standing in an alley-or in a similar dark place."
"I see," I answered warily. I was all too familiar with dark places. I wondered if Phelan had recreated images of our childhood home, or beneath it.
"If you would like, I could inquire about the art show at the Rodez before I return for supper," Claude offered. "The art broker I mentioned, I am meeting with him and his brother in a half hour to discuss an upcoming exhibit. The broker might know if Monsieur Kimmer is in town for the show."
I nodded. "That would be much appreciated."
"It is the very least I can do," Claude replied.
I started toward the parlor door and paused. "I would like to discuss something else following supper," I said before I showed him out into the hall and toward the foyer.
The same petrified look washed over Claude's face. "Yes, Monsieur," he politely replied as he gave a bow. "I am at your service."
"May I ask if you are you employed outside of painting?"
His face darkened, but he forced a smile. "Yes, Monsieur, I am. The Rioux factory. Been there six months now. Not quite enjoyable, however, I prefer sleeping with a roof over my head and the factory allows for such luxuries."
"Do you have a patron?" I asked.
He chuckled at my inquiry. "No, I do not. Perhaps you know of someone willing to support an artist such as myself?"
His words were meant lightly, but when I met his eye, Claude stood straighter, the grin on his face immediately sobering.
"I do, actually."
"Surely you jest."
"We will discuss the matter after supper, but I assure you this is no jest."
"Who is it?" he asked. "Is it Phelan Kimmer? Is that why you were asking about him?"
"It is not," I answered, feeling somewhat annoyed by his question.
"Should I prepare something to say? Or bring my sketch book? A painting? Or my paints and brushes with a blank canvas? Oh, but I would need my easel as well."
"None of the aforementioned."
"Right," he nervously replied. "I apologize if I am speaking utter nonsense. I'm afraid I do not know how to prepare for meeting with a potential patron, Monsieur, and quite frankly the idea has never crossed my mind. I would like to present myself well instead of being, well, like myself, I suppose."
"There will not be an interview to see if you are qualified," I assured him.
Claude nodded, but seemed no more relieved. "After supper then," he said quietly. "Thank you for your time, Monsieur Kire, I greatly appreciate speaking with you and meeting this potential patron." He paused and made an overly exaggerated grimace. "May I ask how you know of this person? Gentleman? Or lady? Gentlelady, I suppose?" He held out both hands. "No, of course I may not ask. After supper."
I merely stared at him, perplexed by his rapid fire rhetorical questions. His shoulders dropped, undoubtedly from the weight of his disappointment in having to wait several hours for an answer. Once he turned away from me, I rolled my eyes and shook my head at his response as he reminded me of Alex.
"The patron in question," I said before he reached the last step. He whirled around, nearly losing his balance in the process as he turned to face me. "It is me."
The look on Claude's face reminded me of Bessie when she heard me remove her leash from the hook and Alex when Meg asked if he wanted a cookie.
His delight was palatable, and more than a little contagious. He grinned, shook my hand with much more enthusiasm than was necessary, and thanked me profusely.
"I sincerely look forward to supper with you and your family tonight," he said. "Regardless of your offer for patronage, I am flattered and grateful to be in your company, Monsieur Kire. I truly cannot express how I feel."
"You have said enough," I replied.
After I shut the door, I turned and found Julia in the hall. She smiled as she walked toward me.
"That was kind of you," Julia said as she took my hand and put my arm around her.
"I beg your pardon?"
"That you told Claude about your intention to be his patron rather than making him wait until supper."
I grunted in response.
"He is quite fond of you, but I think he is a bit intimidated as well."
"Intimidated? By me?" I asked incredulously.
"Yes, you. You and your gruff tone."
"I am not gruff," I said gruffly, catching myself all too late.
"No, not at all," Julia teased. She sighed and rested her head against my chest. "He reminds me of Alex with his exuberance."
I considered telling her how Alex had introduced Claude to Bessie, but assumed she would find out from Alex. Undoubtedly our son would make certain everyone at supper was aware that Claude and Bessie had been formally introduced, and quite frankly I looked forward to the look on Julia's face as she heard Alex proudly describe our guest shaking the paw of our short-legged, droopy-eyed dog.
"Alex is very fond of Claude," I said.
"Yes, he briefly showed me his painting. That was very kind of Claude to think of Alex. I am glad he is coming to supper tonight. I like him," Julia said.
"As do I."
