Chapter Text
When watching o'er its balmy rest,
I pray'd,—"Oh be this blossom blest,
Although in tears 't was sown;"
Then Death, whose form I did not see,
Still nearer sat, and watch'd with me,
And claim'd it for his own.
- From “The Dead Infant” in Poems by Lydia Sigourney, 1827
“But when he took it to his home…” the Father paused his dirge. He glanced up at the small gathering before him - grieving parents and their young daughter - then towards the tiny coffin on the frosted ground. He continued, “that narrow house where all must come…”
A breeze passed through the cemetery that rattled the barren branches of trees, their leaves long since lost. The frost shimmered as the wind picked up, ephemeral lights guiding the souls of the departed to distant shores.
The grieving parents, Aline and Renoir Dessendre, held close their young daughter, Clea, on the cold January morning, on a day that should have never been. What should have been a joyous New Year had taken a turn towards despair not a day after the echoes of celebration still rang through Paris’s streets.
***
On January 2nd, 1880, the first son of the Dessendre family had died in his sleep to causes unknown. Renoir and Aline awoke that morning to the screams of a maid calling for help, for a doctor, God, please, there was something wrong with the baby.
Aline and Renoir had scrambled from bed to hallway to the open door of their son’s room. The maid had collapsed to the ground and backed away from the cradle, not daring to look at the Dessendres for fear they might think she had something to do with it. She covered her face with her hands as she cried.
Renoir’s hand slid from Aline’s back as she rushed to the cradle, took her baby - her son - into her arms, rocked him gently, and whispered, “There, there, mon petit biquet. It’s going to be okay, it’s going to be okay.” She felt her own warmth on his cold skin and froze. She held his body ever tighter, hoping that she could somehow wrest his spirit from the underworld and keep it closed inside him. Hot tears fell onto his pale head as sobs wracked her body.
Renoir had not left his position in the doorway as he watched his wife hold their son in her arms. He felt as though time had stopped and the colour of the world had drained away. His legs gave out, knees crashing to the floor, and in greyscale watched his wife hold their dead son in her arms. Aline’s sobs were muffled by the ringing in his ears. This cannot be happening, he thought, not in my house, not to my son.
He recalled that just yesterday their boy had been fine. He had just experienced his first Christmas, his first New Years celebration, and soon he would experience the first of many birthdays. Soon he would speak his first word, and would it be papa or maman? In a few years, his son would pick up his first paintbrush and perhaps join his sister in a Canvas, would have a Canvas of his own where he would laugh and play. He would grow older, the head of the Dessendre household, and would surely bring them much pride and joy.
Renoir watched as Aline’s eyes grew wide as she peered at the bundle in her arms. Surely this was not happening. Not to their child, not to his son. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t think—
“Papa?”
A small hand gripped his nightshirt, tugging gently. Renoir turned his head and colour returned to his world when he saw his bleary-eyed daughter beside him. Clea rubbed at her eyes with her free hand, then stared into her brother’s room. Quickly, Renoir took her into his arms, shielding her from her mother’s grieving.
“What’s wrong, Papa?” Clea asked against his chest, moving her head to look up at his grave expression. Even though she was only a few years old, she understood something terrible must have happened to her brother for her mother to be crying so loudly.
Renoir looked at his sweet, innocent daughter and knew he could not lie, for in this moment he saw her future. Clea would become a Paintress like her mother and carry the burden of the name Dessendre in her brother’s stead. She was the future of their craft and the future head of the Painter’s Council. To lie to his daughter now would be a cruelty she could not afford.
He released her from his grasp, held her face, and whispered, “Something has happened to your brother.”
***
“It was not his, -but God’s,” the Father finished. He gingerly folded the poem and put it back into the pocket of his cassock. He took his Bible from beneath his arm and turned to a psalm he knew too well. He did not need to read from the pages but out of habit he looked at the words on the page.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…
He knew that God would always call his children home. Though, as he looked again at the Dessendres and the too-small coffin, he wished God would not call them so young.
The Father cleared his throat and began to read, the familiar pages an anchor to keep his faith from becoming unmoored as Aline and Renoir Dessendre’s quiet cries flooded the space between them. He looked to the daughter holding a few roses, face blank, and wondered what she must be thinking in these moments. Certainly, the boy was too young to have perished, but the girl was too young to have lived through this type of loss.
When he finished his prayers, he closed his Bible and looked to the Dessendres with a small smile. He gestured his hand towards the coffin and said, “Mademoiselle, if you like, you can give your brother his flowers now.”
Clea stepped forward and thought not of her brother’s life lost but of her burden gained. She was only just barely four and knew she would have to carry his weight for the rest of her life. Her father had told her so. She had already held a paintbrush and her mother was overjoyed at the promise she had shown. Clea liked painting and was happy to hear her mother’s praise. She was excited to have a little brother to share this joy with and to have someone to play with besides Noco. She had wanted to make a Canvas for them to play in together when he was old enough. But now that would never happen because he had to go and die. And now she would have to be the head of the family and become the best Paintress ever and be some sort of painting leader, whatever that meant.
As Clea dropped the flowers onto the coffin, she felt not sadness but anger. The tears she shed were not for him. They were for her life lost.
***
“Maman, what’s wrong with Papa?” Clea asked. She paused mid-brushstroke and looked behind her towards her mother.
Aline stood sentinel by her daughter, watching her every stoke, guiding her with words alone. Clea was so young yet had talent beyond her years. The promise of her bright future was the rock Aline needed in the raging waters of grief that threatened to drown her at any moment. She would not - could not - let a weak grip carry her away into the deep. So, she spent as many hours, as many days, as she could teaching Clea the Art of Painting.
Though, her presence was almost superfluous at this juncture; she stayed anyway to give advice and advanced guidance to the young Paintress.
Her lips twitched awkwardly. She balled her fists, inhaling sharply.
“Don’t worry about Papa.” It came out harsher than she wanted. “Clea,” she lowered herself to face her daughter, “dear, please just focus on your painting.” She smiled tightly and touched Clea’s shoulder. “It’s coming along so nicely. Daughters shouldn’t have to worry about their Papas, non?” She squeezed Clea’s shoulder, then stood.
Aline hid the worry behind a smile, though she wondered if Clea could see behind the mask. For a girl so young, she was quite perceptive to the emotions of those around her.
Clea stared at her mother for a moment longer, her visage inscrutable, then turned back to her painting.
Aline waited for Clea to begin again before turning to leave. “Marguerite,” she called to the nearby nanny, “please watch over her. Make sure she finishes her painting.”
“Yes, of course, Madame Dessendre,” the young woman said, bowing her head and shuffling into the small atelier.
Aline paused, then turned back towards Clea. “Clea, dear, if you are good for Marguerite and finish by the time I return from some… business I must attend to, perhaps it might be nice to play with François before supper?” Clea hardly asked for anything, but a couple of weeks after the funeral she asked for a pet turtle. Aline and Renoir obliged, though they couldn’t understand the appeal. However, it brought their daughter no small amount of joy, an emotion hard to find within the Dessendre manor those days, and that was all that mattered.
“Really?” Clea squealed in delight, twirling around, shaking her paintbrush just enough to splatter paint droplets on to her dress. Aline frowned - only a little - at the mess made. Clea snapped to attention, a flash of fear and regret passing behind her eyes. She froze, bowed her head, and said, “Sorry, Maman.”
Aline sighed and shook her head. She wasn’t sure if she was bemused or exasperated, too frayed at the edges from other matters to truly discipline her daughter. “Be more careful, Clea. Your brush holds the very essence of creation; do not be careless with the chroma in the paint.”
“Yes, Maman. Sorry, Maman.” Clea’s eyes were shining as she bit her lip. Without looking up, she turned back to her Canvas, white knuckles holding the paintbrush close to her chest. Aline was satisfied with her daughter’s diligence.
Aline left the atelier without another word. She feared for the worst as she bounded through the manor towards her and Renoir’s atelier. For Clea to have asked her about her husband… she could not let herself think about the state he must be in. How long had he been spending in his Canvas lately? It was more than usual, sure, but it couldn’t have been that much time, could it? She wasn’t entirely sure.
She was not at the manor much those days and, when she was, she spent most of her time with Clea. It had only been six months since their son’s funeral, but Aline had less and less time to spend grieving. She had taken some time away from her commissions and her duties at the Council during the first month or so, but was needed back quite suddenly.
Apparently, things had become too quiet with the other Arts Councils. Her expertise was needed to aid investigations into the other Arts. Strangely, there were delegates missing during the Spring Summit. More specifically, none of the Writer’s Council had shown. Formality insisted that any absences from formal gatherings were to be reported. The Painters never received a missive. Neither, it seemed, had any of the other Councils. Besides the Writers, most of the other missing delegates were from the Musician’s Council, though a few Painters were missing, as well. As with the Writers, no missives had been sent.
Aline knew that the current peace within the Arts was barely holding together, and worried that this was the start of a war; she just wasn’t sure who had played the opening gambit.
Initially, she had been wary of the Writers, but as they were nowhere to be seen, she couldn’t help but wonder if they had all been killed. Surely it should have been a boon for the Painters’ standing within the broader Artist’s Delegation, but she felt unease towards the fact they just seemed to be gone. Not to mention, the Writers were their biggest political opponents, and the sudden disappearances put a spotlight on anything the Painters did.
Aline’s focus returned to that of her husband’s own absence as she reached the doors of their atelier. Her hand paused above the handle, afraid of what she might find. She knew her husband and had felt his grief, for it was her grief as well. If not for Clea, she might have drowned in a Canvas herself. She had faith in Renoir and his abilities as a Painter, yet it was this same faith that worried her so. He had the power to Create truly beautiful works of Art. She remembered suddenly why she had fallen in love with him, her eyes alight in the majesty of his mastery over chroma and Canvas.
She burst through the atelier doors. Across the sea of colour and canvas, she found him slumped in a simple wooden chair, his face all in shadow. She ran.
Not again, she thought. She knelt before him, holding back tears, holding back a scream, holding back the sorrow she had kept inside for months. She could not break here, not now. Renoir needed her. Her beautiful husband, her Renoir.
Aline grasped his raised hand and desperately held it as she looked at his face. His head had begun to tilt forward, the weight of time pressing on his neck. His eyes were milky and dim. The paint and chroma around them was dripping onto his collar, staining his shirt like so many tears. She touched the paint on his collar, the bottom-most layer gummed into something tacky, partially dried. She moved her now shaking hand to his chest and waited.
Only after she felt his heartbeat did she exhale. It wasn’t too late. She should have been angry, furious. But she wasn’t. Not yet, at least. She was just happy he was alive.
Aline cupped Renoir’s cheek, paint trickling down her fingers. She smiled faintly and said, “Just a moment, mon ange. I’ll keep the lights on and bring you home.”
Aline rose. Like so many times before, she faced the Canvas and commanded the chroma with her gaze alone. She could feel her own chroma respond within her, pulling her consciousness and soul into the Canvas, through the threshold into the world he had made.
***
“We need to destroy it,” Aline said as a matter of fact, arms crossed. She nodded towards the Canvas. “The temptation—”
Renoir limped to stand beside her, his cane left behind in the atelier. He still wasn’t used to using it, depending on it. But he needed it, especially after his extended time in the Canvas. It’s just that… even knowing they were in vogue, it was admitting to being some sort of invalid. He knew the socialites within the political circles he traversed would pay it no mind, and yet, it made him feel a particular sense weakness that he never wanted Aline to see. But she had seen it. His frail body on the chair, his muscles starting to give out, and his delusion within the Canvas. He had only wanted things to be right again, for his world to make sense. Within that fantasy, she had seen him at his weakest, heart on his sleeve, soul laid bare.
Yet she still wanted him, as broken as he was. She brought him home. She saved his life. She loved him. How could he have left her behind? He wasn’t sure he could ever forgive himself for what he put her through, but he was so grateful for Aline, his pillar rising above the tides like a lighthouse guiding him home.
It had only been a day since he was pulled from the Canvas. He was nowhere near recovered but Aline had demanded his presence. Together they moved the Canvas into a hidden room at the back of the atelier, which they were now stood before. Renoir put his hand on Aline’s arm and looked at her. “That won’t be necessary.”
Without turning away from the Canvas, Aline glanced at Renoir. She was sizing him up, his conviction. She wasn’t entirely convinced he wouldn’t paint that false world again when she wasn’t around. She shifted in place, then looked back at the Canvas.
“Erasing it was enough, mon ange,” Renoir pleaded. He knew this was a gamble, but he didn’t think he could bring himself to completely destroy the Canvas. Something deep within him told him it would be used again for something - someone - important. “I won’t go back in. I won’t recreate that fool’s paradise. I know where I am needed.” He squeezed her arm in reassurance, never taking his eyes off of her.
“Renoir,” Aline started, this time turning to face him, “the dangers - the temptation - of going back in… you were this close to death’s door. Look at you,” she gestured to his leg, “and what this Canvas has done to you! It has taken from you - from us - and you want us to- to what? Keep it in storage?” Now it was her that was pleading.
Renoir knew better, she had taught him better, and yet he was still arguing to keep it. When she had seen him within his Canvas, she looked upon his Creation with disgust. He had no words to offer her. He knew she was right.
“You broke Council Law. There will be consequences if this gets out,” she said, then looked away. Then, barely a whisper, “I don’t know if I can protect you.” She held his hands, her eyes growing dark with concern. He had fucked up, plain and simple. If a maid squealed to the Council, his mistake could harm their entire family.
“Putain, Aline, I know.” Renoir looked at the Canvas, this blight on their marriage and the trust Aline had - has - in him. Yet he could not find it within himself to part with the Canvas, so he looked into her eyes and braced himself.
Gripping her hands tightly, he dropped to one knee before her. He felt his knee crunch as he hit the wood floor with less grace than expected and sucked air in between his teeth, but continued regardless.
“Aline Dessendre, Paintress of the Parisian Painter’s Council, I confess that I was lost in chroma and melancholy. You saved my life. Therefore to you and you alone am I loyal. I swear to you this will never happen again.” He brushed his lips on her knuckles, then looked up to face her judgement.
Aline softened. She looked down at this man, her husband, the love of her life, prostrate before her, begging for her mercy. She wanted to burn the Canvas; instead, against her better judgment, she relented.
“Oh, mon ange,” she said, and ran her fingers through his hair. “I believe you. I trust you.” She sighed. “I suppose it is enough that the Canvas has been erased. Perhaps it can be used again. Maybe Clea will find some use for it. Here.” Aline pulled upwards on Renoirs hands, helping him to his feet.
“Thank you, my love, for believing in me.” Renoir hugged her and kissed her cheek. He looked into Aline’s eyes and found worry buried deep beneath the warmth she spared him. He kissed her, soft and tender, then leaned his head against her shoulder. She pulled him close, placing soft kisses atop his head. They leaned into one another and stayed that way for a while.
Eventually they pulled apart and faced the Canvas. Renoir broke first, shuffling towards a large piece of cloth folded on a stool. He unfurled it, shaking out the dust and glanced towards Aline. She took the ends of the cloth and helped him cover the Canvas. They left the hidden room, hand in hand, trust renewed but future uncertain.
Renoir did not look back when Aline closed the door behind them. He remembered his son’s smiling face in the afternoon sun as he played with a toy train in his bedroom. He remembered his cries as he turned to petals and ash, life lost once again.
Behind them, the lock clicking shut brought into Renoir’s being a sense of finality. He would remember these moments no more. Instead, he smiled as he took Aline’s hand in one of his own, his cane in the other, and they departed together.
To their surprise, they found Clea in the drawing room. She was sat down on the floor by the fire, moulding clay into strange creatures. Aline took a seat in one of the chairs, picked up the book she started before her son had passed, and began to read. Renoir, despite himself, knelt beside his daughter and asked her about her creations. As she answered, he couldn’t help but smile and think about all the worlds she would create with those little hands of hers. He smiled not for the sons he lost, but for the life of his daughter he had found once again.