Ch 17
Before I left, Jean made me swear that I would not say a word to Raoul de Chagny about the purchase of the painting, and I promised that his secret was safe with me.
"My driver will take you home," Jean offered.
I shook my head. "There's no reason for anyone else to lose sleep."
Between the coffee, espresso, and the frigid night air, I was shaking violently well before I returned to my apartment, but I didn't mind the long walk or the discomfort.
The teeth-chattering cold distracted me from everything that had happened in recent weeks, from the continued disintegration of my relationship with Valgarde, to the conversation with Florine, and the incidents with both Ink and Abigail. Even the opera ghost couldn't make me more miserable.
I found myself walking down Hugo's quiet residential street with its large homes shrouded in darkness. It looked like a long line of mausoleums, processions of the dead lined up in silent reflection.
Hugo's home was the only one illuminated, the soft, flickering glow of candlelight in both the parlor and his bedroom. His maid stayed up with him, I imagined, and possibly a priest to administer last rites.
I stood across the street, my arms tightly crossed, left hand tucked beneath my right elbow as the cold made the nerve damage throb and I'd forgotten my gloves earlier in the day.
He roams the darkness.
The old fortune teller's raspy voice filled my thoughts unbidden and I found myself inhaling sharply, a cold gulp of air that stung my lungs. I blinked away the tears, uncertain of whether the sting of night air or emotion was truly behind the first ones that fell down my cheeks.
I had not treated Hugo the way he deserved in recent weeks. In months, really, if I was honest with myself. I had skipped attending the salon meetings all winter, preferring hot tea and a quiet night at home over a raucous evening with a handful of older artists who drank too much and argued with one another over baroque and impressionism.
Every invitation for supper or lunch at a cafe I answered with next week would be better. It wasn't personal; he was hardly the first person whose invitation I declined, but he wasn't just anyone.
I regretted not agreeing at least once a month to visiting with him, to catching up with one of my oldest and dearest friend.
"Please, don't go, Hugo. Please." I whispered. "And if you truly must go, if you see my brother..." I pressed my eyes closed and inhaled sharply, imagining Hugo with a toddler at his side, the two of them swallowed up by the night. "Tell Erik that I still think of him."
Hopelessness threatened to swallow me whole. I removed my handkerchief and wiped it down my face before I continued down the street, unable to bring myself to ring the bell at such an unreasonable hour.
oOo
Elvira, thankfully, was not as agitated as I expected when I returned to my apartment a little after midnight. It had been over sixteen hours since I'd last been home, and rather than scream with displeasure, she whistled several times in greeting, bobbing her head as she said, "Come here, gorgeous."
"Wait a moment," I said before she took flight. There were at least a half dozen envelopes in front of the door, apparently slid underneath while I was away, that I attempted to gather before I stepped all over them and ruined the contents.
Naturally Elvira didn't listen and flew to me, landing on my back where her nails scraped up my spine as she gripped my coat and walked toward my shoulder, making clicking sounds.
"Aren't you beautiful?" she said, whistling again in the way I had done to her for years.
"Your ego is nearly as big as mine," I said as I stood and she pressed her face to my cheek, making a trilling sound of affection.
She accompanied me to the fireplace, wings spread as I built up a decent fire and poked at the logs until I was satisfied.
I boiled water for tea, grabbed the heavy wool blanket in front of the fireplace, and took a seat in my favorite chair. One last shiver from the cold rattling through me before the chill finally left my bones and I felt less morose and more settled.
"None addressed to you," I said as Elvira opened her beak and attempted to take one of the envelopes from my hand. "But you can shred them once I've finished reading, my love."
One note was from Florine, inquiring about the status of admissions to the university for Marco, which I set aside. Another was from Val asking if I was paying a visit to his home on Sunday, which I immediately handed to Elvira for her to rip apart as I had no intention of spending my time in his company.
The third was from an anonymous neighbor complaining that someone was yelling obscenities from my apartment for the better part of an hour in the evening, which apparently wasn't appreciated by her or the other tenants.
"Are they talking about you?" I asked Elvira. She immediately took the envelope from my grasp and tore it in two. "Surely not. You are practically an angel."
The fourth letter was from the Opera Populaire in some of the nicest card stock I'd ever seen with a note asking if I could meet at noon the following Tuesday. They had provided a return envelope already addressed to the theater, which would be picked up from me by a courier in the morning with my response.
A brief meeting to discuss your request, it read.
"Better than an outright denial, I suppose."
I set it on the table, out of Elvira's reach, before opening the next letter, which simply stated I'm in town.
I furrowed my brow and looked at the envelope, searching for a clue of who had sent the note. There was no address or name on the outside and no identifying stationary that would give any indication who was visiting or from where. The handwriting was more feminine than masculine, but that didn't narrow down the possibilities.
"Cryptic," I said with a sigh. Elvira bobbed her head in agreement. "And probably no one I care to see."
The second to the last of the notes was on crisp white stationary with gold embossing which read:
Kimmer,
Come by tomorrow,
C.G
"I have plans," I whispered to myself.
When I closed my eyes and tilted my head back, I saw Abigail with the sheet wrapped around her, not Guin. Far too much of my day had been dedicated to a moment I would have rather forgotten.
"One more note," I mumbled.
It was the envelope I was most apprehensive about opening the moment I saw the initials in the corner. TVG/ G&C: Theo Van Gogh with Goupil and Cie.
I dropped the envelope onto the table beside me as if it were some venomous creature prepared to sink its fangs into my flesh.
Surely the young manager had reconsidered or perhaps made a mistake in inquiring about brokerage. Rather than meet with me as we had planned for Friday evening, I suspected he had sent a note of apology and canceled.
The combination of a heavy, late meal with Jean, far too much caffeine in a brief amount of time, and the note staring back at me threatened to empty the contents of my stomach.
I couldn't bear to open the correspondence and face the disappointment of a retracted offer, not after everything that had happened earlier in the day. My breaths were erratic and my hands were trembling again, making it impossible to open the seal even if I wanted to read what was inside.
I reached up to stroke Elvira's chest and immediately drew back, sucking in a breath past my teeth when she clamped down on my thumb and forefinger, most likely expecting I had a piece of dried fruit to offer her. She screamed in the same fashion I would have had she bitten me much harder.
Exhaling, I ripped through the envelope while Elvira slid down my lap and perched on my leg, attempting to grab one of the letters I had set out of her reach like an insolent toddler.
"You had better not bite me again," I warned.
"Careful! She bites!"
I issued a significant look in her direction before I placed her on the back of the chair and removed the one page letter from the envelope.
M. Kimmer,
Confirming our appointment for six-thirty Friday at The Social. If you would be so kind, please bring your portfolio with at least one sketch completed in the last six months as well as five other drawings for consideration.
Warmest Regards,
TVG
G&C Co
I must have read it through a dozen times, concerned that in my caffeine induced haze I missed the part where Monsieur Van Gogh canceled our appointment and told me to go to hell.
"Thank God," I said under my breath. "The offer still stands."
"Time for bed!" Elvira screeched once I sighed in relief.
It was one of the few phrases I was certain she actually understood as it typically meant she wanted into her cage with the cover so that she could rest.
"At least one of us can sleep," I said as I stood and walked her to her cage. "My love, never, ever, drink an espresso and coffee after eight in the evening. Your heart will explode."
"Good night, my dear," she cooed, pressing her beak to my lips. I gave her one slice of sweet potato as an apology for my long absence and held my arm out so she could return to her perch within the cage that seemed to take up half of my apartment.
With Elvira asleep beneath her cover, I wandered into my studio, grabbed my sketchbook and a pouch filled with several different pencils, and returned to my chair in front of the fire.
I wrapped my blanket over my legs and stared at the flames, my gaze slowly losing focus until the fireplace became a bright yellow blur of warmth. Despite the traumatic experience in my childhood, I had never been particularly wary around flames. Cautious, perhaps, but not afraid to build up a roaring blaze. I'd always been more concerned about freezing to death as I remembered with clarity what it felt like to lack warmth day and night.
I rolled my pencil between my thumb and forefinger, sketchbook on my lap, and thought of being cold and hungry, the tip of my nose stinging, my fingers numb, and my belly so empty I felt sick.
It was a desperate feeling, one that still gave me goosebumps when I thought of the not so distant past. I had been seventeen the last time I could remember going to bed hungry or locked out of Valgarde's aunt's apartment when I failed to return before curfew at nine, forced to sleep on a park bench like a vagrant.
Although I didn't have the wealth of the de Chagny's or even my friend Jean Moreau, I lived comfortably enough where I was not in danger of going hungry or cold. I'd made certain to pad my savings account, living frugally for the duration of time I spent working in finance so that I had something to fall back on should I need it in the future. Creating a financial plan was perhaps the only way in life I had succeeded in not being a failure.
The tip of my pencil scraped against the blank page, ideas flitting through my mind as the image began to form. It had been there for days, the seeds of a drawing that I would eventually commit to a canvas, but I'd ignored the thoughts until I was alone and able to truly focus on what I kept seeing.
I thought of the girl on the steps of the opera house, the one quite literally singing for her supper with her breathy but beautiful voice, and drew the outline of her face and shoulders first.
She had long, thin arms like Elizabeth, her hands clasped in front of her and hips tilted to one side as she sang, weight balanced on the outsides of her feet. Her eyes were cast upward, over the crowd as she couldn't possibly look in the eye as there were far too many of them–a crowd of onlookers who had come to see her.
I placed her in the center of the stage rather than the steps of the opera house, her small frame dwarfed by the scenery behind her. The top of the conductor's body peeked out from the bottom of the page, baton in his right hand.
In a different life, this girl had taken my advice. The eighty francs I had given to her had gone to purchasing a room for the night and a new skirt and blouse for auditions the following day, leaving her with enough funds for a few hot meals and at last another night alone in a warm bed.
I imagined she didn't fit the criteria of what the theater needed as far as the chorus, but someone had seen the potential and given her a chance.
All it took was one moment, one small chance, one nod of agreement for life to change.
I paused, then began drawing another figure off to the left, seated in the front row: the man who had turned to the musical director and whispered, "For pity's sake, give her a chance."
The thought made me smile as I filled in the details of a scruffy looking older man. I softened the scraggly appearance of his beard, every stroke of my pencil like a clothes iron that smoothed the wrinkles from his overcoat.
"Hugo," I said, running my finger over the figure's shoulder, blending the lines.
Despite my obstinate ways, he had given me a chance. And when I'd ruined the first one, he had been gracious enough to give me a second opportunity.
I turned my sketchbook to the side and shaded in the pattern on the girl's skirt, then her shadow, adding details to the buttons of her blouse and the ribbon in her hair. Turning the book upside down, I smudged my thumb along the darkened orchestra pit and added a few softer lines to indicate the shape of musicians and their instruments.
Once the sketch was complete, I turned to the next blank page and immediately began drawing, the subject already formed in my mind. So well formed, in fact, it may as well have been a brand on the back of my eyelids.
When I was at my most prolific, the artistic process almost felt as though I merely needed to trace the drawing that was visible in my mind. I could see each detail clearly, soft and hard lines, colors and shapes. Sometimes I could even hear the breeze in the trees or lap of water along the lake, such as was the case with Willows on the Shore, which I had sketched at my little dining room table in the middle of winter, relying on memory of a day I had spent outside the previous summer.
My eyes were gritty from an unusually late night, and I yawned, ignoring the clock on the mantel. Once I finished the rough sketch, I would call it a night and manage two or three hours of sleep before my body roused on its own accord somewhere between four and five in the morning.
For as much as I longed to find Erik, I rarely drew images of him, but at two in the morning, he was heavily on my mind.
Do you have to draw him like that? Valgarde had asked me once, when I had drawn my brother frequently out of fear that I would somehow forget him.
The scars on Erik's face had never bothered me, and I drew him exactly as he had looked. That wasn't to say that I lacked the comprehension of how others might react to him, but when his face was so close to mine that I could see the flecks of gold in his irises or the change of green to almost blue depending on his mood, when I could feel the heat of his breath when he laughed, I never recoiled.
He annoyed me at times, he danced upon my last nerve almost daily, but I never once told him that he was ugly or repulsive.
I feared how others would react to him, knowing that one day he would encounter fishermen on the beach we frequented as children. Eventually Alak would bring all three of us into town with him and people would stare at my little brother–or worse.
Numbness crept over me, a familiar and heavy blanket that smothered all other emotions. I studied the face staring back at me, the keen eyes and quick smile despite his misshapen bottom lip.
We were by the seashore and it was summer. The water was calm, the surface so still it was like a mirror allowing the sky a view of itself. There were gulls hopping along the sand and Erik wanted to chase them. He could never simply sit still and build structures with me using rocks, sticks, and shells that washed ashore. He wanted to be on the move, hands digging through the sand, bare feet splashing through the water. He had never had an ounce of extra meat on his bones as he could not help but be in perpetual motion.
I handed him a rock to skip across the water with me, a challenge I posed to him frequently merely because I was quite good at it and he still lacked the motor skills and strength. Instead he hurtled the rock toward the birds, causing them to screech in protest and scatter. I knew he wasn't strong enough to throw it far, but I had scolded him nonetheless.
What would you do if you broke one of their wings? I asked him. They will die if they can't fly away.
Erik disliked harsh words. He was such a sensitive child that the slightest scolding made his bottom lip quiver. He looked up at me, then at the birds wheeling overhead before his chin touched his chest and he plopped down on the sand, arms folded, contemplating his actions.
Erik, I had softly said. Don't do it again. That wasn't very nice of you.
He had looked up at me, the sadness of the world etched into his features for the way I had reprimanded him.
The remorse in his eyes still haunted me, and I thought frequently of how we had walked back to Alak's house in silence. decades later, I wondered if he still recalled that moment.
I often wondered how Erik had navigated the world on his own with a face most would have thought of as ghastly. He would have been in his thirties and I doubted he had been spared life's cruelties for long after he had disappeared. I knew for a fact Bjorn had not treated him with kindness and thought, if nothing else, perhaps our own father's harsh treatment had provided a callous against the rest of what my little brother surely endured without me to defend him.
He had never been good at hiding his feelings from me, but I had known everything about him, whether he was filled with joy collecting rocks or afraid of the dark. He was the other side of my coin, the one person I knew better than myself.
The sketch was still in its rawest form, but I left the book open on the table beside my chair, atop the notes I intended to keep, and stood, giving one last, remorseful look at Erik's face the way he had appeared the day before he had walked away and I hadn't followed him.
"Goodnight, brother," I whispered before I crawled into bed without changing out of my clothes, taking the heavy wool blanket with me.
oOo
I woke at three-thirty and refused to leave bed at such an ungodly hour. With the blanket over my head, I managed to sleep a while longer and with a splitting headache.
Sleep was fitful, however, my mouth dry, bladder full, and eyes feeling as though they wished to pop out of the sockets.
"Monsieur Kimmer!"
I dreamed of being locked out of my studio at the university with my students trapped inside, pounding on the door for me to retrieve them. The entire studio was on fire, the smoke so thick I could barely see them.
"Monsieur Kimmer, are you there?"
Somehow I became aware that I was dreaming and that the pounding was coming from my apartment door. I sat upright, my eyes still pulsing with a migraine, and stumbled toward the door still dressed from the previous night.
"Dorothea asked if you would pay a visit this morning," a short man who appeared to be in his early thirties blurted out the moment I opened the door.
I couldn't imagine what the man thought when he took one look at me in my rumpled shirt and trousers, hair flying in all directions and eyes most likely bloodshot. If I looked anything like I felt, I assumed I appeared precisely like someone who had retired for the evening at two in the morning.
"It's Monsieur Duarte," the man said. "Hugo."
My heart dropped. "Is he…?"
"Alive still," the man said. "Barely, but he is still breathing. Dorothea asked after you. She said Hugo would want to see you again."
I wasn't sure what to make of his words. I had said my final farewell, but it hardly seemed good enough.
"Fifteen minutes and I will hail a cab," I said.
"I will wait for you," he offered. "I have one waiting on the curb."
I opened the door wider. "I apologize, you are?"
"Gregoire," he answered as if I should have already known. "Hugo's nephew."
"You may come inside if you'd like," I offered.
Gregoire declined, preferring instead to return to the carriage outside while I uncovered Elvira, placed her onto her perch with a fresh bowl of fruit and seeds, freshened up, and changed clothes. I glanced in the mirror at my reflection, deciding a beard trim would have to wait until later. Despite looking like an unkempt tramp from the less desirable side of the city, there wasn't a moment to spare.
I shrugged into my coat on the way down the stairs and tied my shoe strings before walking out the door to the carriage.
"They've taken his leg," Gregoire said before the cab lurched forward.
I blinked at him, my stomach instantly queasy. "Come again?"
"A surgeon was called around ten last night. Dorothea said they removed my uncle's leg, the one that was infected."
I wrinkled my nose, thankful there wasn't time for a bite to eat. "I see."
After that, Gregoire attempted to make pleasant small talk, but my replies were automatic, the image of the surgeon with a saw in his hand alarmingly stagnant in my thoughts.
I had no stomach for such things. The smell of infection and Hugo's bandaged foot was enough to make me shiver, but the thought of amputation made me feel as though I'd lose consciousness if I thought of it for long.
The carriage pulled up to Hugo's home and Gregoire stepped out ahead of me, briskly walking toward the front steps where Dorothea greeted him. She looked as though she had also spent the night awake, her eyes ringed with dark circles and an overall haggardness to her appearance.
"He will be glad to see you," Dorothea said to me.
"Is he…?" I started to ask before reconsidering my words.
Is he bloody? Grotesque in nature? Is the stump of his leg visible?
I felt ashamed wanting a bit of clarification before I walked into the room and immediately had to leave before I became sick over his physical state.
"He's awake," Dorothea said. "Weak, but he's still with us, praise God."
Gregoire was already in the room when Dorothea led me up the stairs. I lagged behind, mentally bracing myself for what Hugo would look like following surgery.
The room was considerably tidier than it had been the day before, the clothes strewn everywhere no longer spilling from the wardrobe or serving as a carpet across the floor. Most of the sketchbooks and canvases had also been cleared away, returning space to the previously crowded room.
The windows were open and curtains drawn back, casting morning sunlight onto Hugo's ashen face and removing the putrid stench of infection from his bedroom.
He was awake, but barely, and once I saw his weakened state, I regretted disturbing him.
Hugo looked at me, but didn't speak, instead offering a warm but distant smile. He was covered in layers of blankets that made it impossible to tell how much of his leg was gone, for which I was grateful.
I made my way into a chair to his right and sat with my hands clasped, unsure of what to say to him.
"They've cut me up, Phelan," he rasped.
"The bastards," I replied.
Hugo made a sound that was as close to a chuckle as he could manage. "You look terrible," he said.
"I was very much hoping you would notice."
He blinked slowly and turned to Gregoire, whom he asked to bring him tea. Once his nephew was gone, Hugo turned back to me.
"I would rather talk about you than me."
"I'd rather talk about something else entirely."
"Yes, I agree. When are you planning on getting married?"
I sat back and grunted. Of course he would ask that, knowing full well I would never attempt to upset him in his delicate condition.
"I have nothing marked on my calendar for the year," I answered.
"A handsome man such as yourself should be married."
"You literally told me I look terrible not two minutes ago."
Hugo smiled to himself. "If you were married, your wife would not allow you to leave the house looking as you do."
Despite his exhaustion and whatever the surgeon had given Hugo for pain, I was glad for his feisty disposition.
"Why do you want me married off?" I asked. "Are you collecting a dowry on my behalf that I know nothing about?"
"Because," he said, closing his eyes. "You should be happily married to one woman for the rest of your life rather than satisfying dozens and leaving yourself unfulfilled."
My lips parted, but I had no reply sufficient for his words. Hugo was nothing if not painfully honest.
"You have more to offer than you realize," Hugo said, closing his eyes. "Quit wasting it and settle down, Phelan."
"I thought we weren't going to discuss me?"
"We're not. We're discussing your future wife's stubborn husband."
His words made me chuckle. "Is that it?"
"There are plenty of good ones out there," he pointed out.
I nodded in agreement, silently deciding that the 'good ones' deserved equally good men to care for them.
"I care about you, Phelan," Hugo added.
"I care for you as well."
"I have a very nice niece named–"
"Absolutely not, Hugo."
"Fine, I will not say another word, but I will have you know I am still thinking of ladies that I am certain would make good wives."
He tugged at his blanket and I sat forward, adjusting it at his chest. From the corner of my eye I noticed his nephew had returned. He left a tray with tea and teacups near the door before he walked away again. I wondered if it was his sister that Hugo had mentioned and if he didn't want to hear about a potential arranged marriage.
"How many more paintings have you sold?" Hugo asked.
I sighed in relief at the change of subject. "In the last fourteen hours since I last saw you? Zero."
"Disappointing," Hugo replied. "I had hoped the Louvre was being emptied as we speak to make way for your collection."
The shift in conversation reminded me of the many years we had known each other, the comfort and ease of simply chatting with one another either before the rest of the group arrived at the salon or on days when we made plans together, long before I had started keeping to myself.
"My most prominent piece of art is hanging at the Opera Populaire," I said.
"Indeed? The lobby, I gather?"
"The stage," I answered. "Can you believe my students needed my assistance finishing their backdrops? And I provided my expertise with zero compensation."
"Oh my, that sounds nothing like you at all," Hugo said lightly. "You're typically such a Scrooge. I've heard rumors that you force your students to bring you snacks before the start of class."
"Yes, " I dryly said. "I'm practically the university miser."
Hugo clearly found his comments most amusing. He giggled like a devilish boy, shoulders jiggling with mirth.
"Since the theater isn't paying us a single franc for our time, I had a bit of fun with it," I continued.
Hugo's eyes twinkled, and he leaned toward me. "Did you now?"
"Some of the flowers toward the bottom of the last scene look a bit like breasts."
Hugo laughed so loud I thought he would topple off the bed. He made himself cough, and I grabbed his arm to steady him, but Hugo shook his head.
"Professor Kimmer!"
"And a few of the stems look like–"
"You are such a delinquent," Hugo playfully admonished.
I highly doubted that while I was preoccupied with reading that not a single one of my students hadn't added a hidden trace of anatomy to their work, particularly when the instructions already suggested quite a bit of unsavory imagery.
"If I am able to procure tickets, you'll come with me to see the production, won't you?" I asked.
"And be removed for disrupting the whole theater with laughter when I spot one of your…stems?" he sternly asked. "Of course. I cannot think of a better way to spend my night than looking for your breast flowers and phallic stems."
I could tell he was getting tired from the conversation and suspected the opium was wearing off. His features were more pinched and he seemed to fidget a bit more as he attempted to get comfortable.
"Do you remember the end of your first week at the university?" he asked, folding his hands over his chest.
"I do," I answered.
"You were certain that every single student in your classes hated you."
"Yes, and I became more confident of their abhorrence at the end of the first six weeks," I said.
"And you wanted to quit."
"No, I wanted you to come back so that I could claim I was merely there to substitute while you were away."
"You were barely older than they were."
"I was thirty," I said.
"You seemed younger to me."
More immature, I thought, but not younger. It had taken me longer than most to get my feet fully beneath me.
"I feared that none of them would not take me seriously and may have…overcompensated…at the start."
"You were a bit of an intolerable bastard, if I remember correctly."
I snorted at his manner of speaking. I had walked in every day for weeks, issuing orders like the students in my classes had all joined the military rather than signed up for Drawing and Painting. Every remark was overly critical and I walked the room as if they were prisoners.
"You remember correctly, my friend. By the end of the first semester I thought for certain there would either be a mutiny or everyone would drop out."
"But they didn't."
"No," I admitted. "Because of you."
Hugo waved a dismissive hand. "I merely made a suggestion. You were the one who implemented my idea."
"Yes, to stop being an intolerable bastard."
"Quite right, my friend."
After many one-on-one meetings with students and overdue apologies, I'd managed to settle into a routine and become less of a sergeant and more of a mentor. "God knows why, but we stuck through to the end."
Hugo smiled and looked at me again. "Yes, you did stay. You continued through the muck and now look at you. Five years in and how does it feel?"
I didn't correct Hugo. He never seemed to know how long he had been retired, and I hoped it was a sign that he enjoyed his days enough where he lost track.
"How does it feel? Like I'm officially much older than them and occassionally act like it."
"Your age has nothing to do with it," he argued. "They all respect you for the person you have become. It was obvious when you walked through the park with your class how much they admire me."
"You know, they still draw me with the body of a donkey at the start of the year. I suppose it's become a bit of a tradition."
"I must say, you probably look better as a beast of burden than you do now."
My lips parted, eyebrows shooting straight to my hairline. His playful jab made me laugh harder than I thought possible.
"Better indeed, Hugo."
He chuckled to himself, his eyes gently closing as he yawned.
"I should go," I said.
Hugo nodded. "What day is it?"
"Friday. I have a meeting with my potential new broker this evening."
"What did you say his name was?"
"I don't believe I did. His name is Theo Van Gogh."
"Ah, yes, he's a good one."
I wasn't surprised Hugo knew the broker. He tended to know everyone in every aspect of the art world from curators to janitors at the museums and everyone in between.
"He has an older brother, yes? Vincent, I believe. They are both employed at Goupil and Cie. Nice young men. His brother is very perceptive of the world and how to translate that onto a canvas. Theo simply adores him."
"I will give Theo your best and pay you a visit tonight if you're up to it."
"I would like that, Phelan." I stood and Hugo's eyes slit open. "Behave yourself, Professor Kimmer. No more inappropriate drawings at unsuspecting opera houses."
I touched the back of his hand, wondering if the composer would notice my personal touches. "Never, Hugo. You should know me by now."
Once I walked out of the room, his nephew practically leapt in front of me. "Forgive me, Monsieur Kimmer," he said, keeping his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't want you to think I was eavesdropping, but if I may be so bold, please don't ask for my sister's hand. She's much too young for you. And she's...she's never been courted by anyone."
I grunted and patted his shoulder, smiling to myself. "You have my word."