Page 78
The ring and pinky fingers are missing.
“If we followed that line of thought,” I step closer to the canvas, “we would live in nothing but complete anarchy.”
“You think so?” There is an ironic note in his voice.
He moves half a step closer.
“Is there nothing you would wish to perform if nothing were forbidden?” His words are drawn out by a heavy French accent. “If the world had no règles?”
The painting behind him seems to writhe further. The bluish veins of the androgynous body pulse like a warning.
“What would differentiate us from a beast, then?”
“Who tells you there is a difference?”
Duchess Durant’s voice arrives behind us, rustling like her satin.
“Is there not a risk of the paintings catching fire with these candelabras so close?”
I turn. Her champagne silk skirt has caught on the base of a candelabra. The man tilts his head slightly toward her.
“They are placed at a good distance, Madame, il n’y a aucun danger, there is no danger.”
She giggles and tries to free herself. The man beside her bends down solicitously to help her. As he rights himself, he lifts his face and his eyes meet mine.
I stiffen instantly.
I would recognize those emerald eyes anywhere.
He averts his gaze too quickly, almost burned by the contact, and takes a step back as if the ground were giving way beneath his feet. He reaches for the air, seeking composure.
She, unaware, takes his arm naturally and pulls him along toward the next room. The folds of her skirt recover their softness as he advances, rigid. I follow him with my eyes until he vanishes behind another gilded frame. I loosen my cravat slightly, the knot was squeezing too tight.
The man in the burgundy mask has disappeared; where the Duchess once stood, Lord Dorian now towers.
His entirely white figure shines beneath the candelabras, he is motionless, his gaze glued to another painting.
I turn to continue viewing the rest of the works, but I hear a knuckle crack.
I observe him, curious.
What is bothering him now?
I approach, step by step, trying to perceive the tension vibrating around him.
The card on the easel bears the title:
Piété Profane.
The bodies of two young men stand out before me. One, pale and motionless, lies in the arms of the other, who grips him with a desperation so tangible it seems solid. The face of the living man is contorted in a mixture of bewilderment and obsession, the hands sunk into the flesh of his dead companion trace indelible lines between love and desire.
Lord Dorian does not move.
I shift slightly to the side to observe better, not daring to interrupt the silence that seems to envelop the painting. I avert my eyes from them only to meet his. Though his face is covered by the mask, his tense jaw and fixed stare highlight a profound discomfort.
“Do you not like this painting?”
He does not answer.
