La Galerie des Colours
Written for Catherine.
One of Combeferre's greatest pleasures was going to the little art gallery tucked away in one of the dead-end alleys in Montmartre. It was something of a guilty pleasure, since he was sure there were other things he ought to be doing instead of looking at the paintings, but he had never really been able to give himself a good reason he should stop.
The paintings displayed could done by anyone. If you thought yourself an artist and sent in your work, it would usually be put up. Persons who stopped in could purchase it, and the gallery's owner, an old man who didn't charge to have the paintings displayed there, would send you the money. Multiple rumours circled as to his social status and wealth, but it was generally decided he was quite rich and lonely and liked owning the gallery because he was able to socialise with the artists and buyers alike. For all this, it was never particularly crowded. Perhaps that was because of the location.
Combeferre preferred to visit on Tuesday, and allowed himself to buy two paintings every month, but no more than two. His little apartment would not bear a huge collection. As it was, he still couldn't display his current twelve all at once.
This Tuesday, the first Tuesday of February, he was walking through thoughtfully looking for something to purchase--but not for himself; this would be for his younger sister back in the country. He had high hopes for finding something perfect. With all the different artists who contributed, there must be something for every kind of person.
Monsieur, the old man who owned the gallery, shuffled over to him cheerfully.
"Ah, Monsieur Paul! How nice to see you. I do keep forgetting, but this is your day, is it not? Tuesday. Yes. This is also Monsieur Georges' day, and Mademoiselle Helene comes to-day and Saturday."
No one was known by his or her last name--they preferred the sort of friendly anonymity of les pr�noms. Monsieur never went by anything but Monsieur.
"Now, Monsieur Paul, I do not remember if this is your buying day. But if it is--you are fond of Monsieur Alexandre's paintings, are you not? He just sent in three new ones."
"Non, non, Monsieur," Combeferre said pleasantly, "to-day I'm looking for something to send my sister. Her birthday is in a week."
"Ah, but I understand! Madame Catherine brought a new picture yesterday that I believe no one has discovered yet, and Mademoiselle Michele had an errand boy bring two particularly nice landscapes. Your sister is--?"
"Madame Claudia. She lives in the country, but she tells me she misses Paris. Her husband brought her here when they were first married."
"Well, in that case, Monsieur Eduard has several lovely paintings of the Seine, and various salons and caf�s. He is fond of painting les caf�s."
"May I look at them?"
"Of course. Come with me."
As Combeferre followed Monsieur, he continued to look around. He caught sight of Monsieur Alexandre's new paintings hanging on the Blue Wall (where they were backed by blue velvet). Monsieur Alexandre did rural scenes with children picking flowers or young women reading in gardens, but the works Combeferre loved best were the paintings taken from literature. He already owned several illustrations of Shakespeare plays and various myths. After he'd found a picture for Claudia, he must look at these new ones.
"Here we are, Monsieur Paul. Monsieur Eduard's best work."
Combeferre stared.
Standing by the Green Wall, looking earnestly at the busy caf� scene full of bright light and colour, was someone he knew well.
"Monsieur Jean!" Monsieur beamed. "Monsieur Jean, I did not know you liked Monsieur Eduard's paintings! But how nice! Monsieur Paul is also here to look at them. Monsieur Jean," he added to Combeferre, "has only just begun coming. He has not yet found a day."
"Yes. I know Monsieur Jean, Monsieur."
At his name, Jean Prouvaire turned around, looking surprised and delighted. "C--"
Monsieur gave him a warning glance. "You know Monsieur Paul, Monsieur Jean?"
"Oh, yes, yes, I do. I didn't know your first name was Paul, C--Monsieur Paul." He tilted his head engagingly.
"That's les amis for you, Monsieur Jean." Combeferre smiled over his spectacles and turned to Monsieur. "That one, the outdoors caf� with the stone patio and the metalwork tables and all the people. How much is it?"
Taking the painting off the Green Wall, Monsieur said, "Oh, this one. Seven francs. But perhaps I may suggest that one, which is only, I believe, five francs and slightly better painted."
"This one?" Combeferre touched the frame. "'Le Caf� Nuit'. You're right. It's actually eight francs, by the way."
Monsieur smiled indulgently as he put the first painting back. "Ah well; everyone makes mistakes."
"So they do. I think she'll like it."
"Excellent, Monsieur Paul! I shall wrap it for you." Laughing, Monsieur left the room, carrying the painting carefully.
"Is this place good?" Jean asked nervously, after he'd gone. "I--I like the paintings, but I'm never sure."
"It's wonderful. I can't think of a better place."
"All right."
"It takes a little while to get used to the names, doesn't it?"
"Why does he do it that way?"
"For the privacy of painter and purchaser alike," said Combeferre. "That's just the way it's done. I wonder--have you seen Monsieur Alexandre's paintings on the Blue Wall?"
"No. No, I've not."
"Then I must show you. He's my favourite artist."
"All right." This time, Jean giggled. "I like it here. It's so strange. Do you think he'd let me write here?"
"I'm sure he would. We're supposed to support the arts here. But you can ask--here he comes."
"Monsieur Paul, Monsieur Paul, here is your little painting. Please give Madame Claudia my regards, and I am very much in the hope she likes it."
"I think she will." Combeferre gave Monsieur the money, and then politely went to the Blue Wall to look at Monsieur Alexandre's paintings while Jean put his question to the owner of the gallery. In a few moments, Jean joined him. "Well? What did he say?"
"He said yes! He said I'm welcome to come by and write whenever I please."
"That's wonderful."
After that, Combeferre saw Jean often. He was always sitting on the floor or standing by the Red Wall scribbling earnestly in his notebook. The buyers became used to him, curled up in the chair set out specially for him, which he moved around to write about and study a different painting every day. Unlike most of the regulars, Jean never chose a day. He simply came when he could; at least, that was what he said. Despite that, and to everyone's slight amusement, he actually came every day.
So, when one Tuesday he was absent, they were all rather surprised. Combeferre had already missed him at the college and Enjolras' caf� meeting, and inquired rather anxiously of Monsieur if he knew where Monsieur Jean was.
"Oh, yes, Monsieur Paul. Monsieur Jean is ill to-day. He sent a boy to tell us, along with his very first painting. It is displayed on the Blue Wall, next to Monsieur Alexandre's and Mademoiselle Juliet's."
Dutifully, Combeferre went to look, deciding with a vague smile that it was just like Jean to tell Monsieur, but no one else.
The painting was a portrait entitled simply 'Monsieur Paul'. It was a portrait of Combeferre.
He blinked once or twice, and looked at it again in astonishment. It was certainly him, from his red-gold hair to his spectacles to his usual grey waistcoat and jacket. "Good Lord," Combeferre murmured. Of all the things to paint...
"Er, Monsieur," he hailed Monsieur distractedly, "that new one of Madame Julienne's, with the dragonflies and pond. Could you please wrap that for me?"
"Monsieur Paul, that will be your third painting this month (it is also eleven francs, Monsieur Paul)..."
"Yes, I know. It's for Monsieur Jean."
"Oh! But of course. I am always making mistakes." Monsieur shuffled off pleasantly while Combeferre got out the money.
Combeferre carried it gently under his arm all the walk to Jean's apartment. The directions were supplied by a variety of shop owners. It seemed that Jean frequented all the shops selling either coffee, paper, inks, or paint, and it was easy to find persons who could tell him the way.
Combeferre knocked on the door of Jean's room softly.
"Come in," called a weak, ill-sounding voice.
Easing open the door, Combeferre entered, and set the painting down on the first chair he found. Oddly enough, there were four. "Hello, Jean. Monsieur told me you were ill."
Jean sniffled and sat up in bed. "Yes. I've got a terrible cold and--" he sneezed miserably "--a fever, too, I think."
"I'm terribly sorry. I bought you a gift."
"You did?" Jean smiled.
"Have you seen Madame Julienne's paintings?"
"Of course! She does ponds. And insects," he added, before sneezing again.
"I bought one of hers." Combeferre unwrapped the painting carefully.
"Oh!"
"Do you like it?"
"Terribly! Will you hang it on the wall? There're hooks all over. The man who owned this room before me had an awful lot of pictures."
Combeferre obeyed, looking over his shoulder at Jean, who had his nose buried in his handkerchief. "There."
"Thank you!"
"I'll come to-morrow if you like," Combeferre offered, wondering why he was. "I can bring you something to eat, if you think you can, and talk for a while."
"Oh, that would be nice. I hate staying in bed."
Jean was even more ill the next day and unable to eat anything, and Combeferre promised Jean's landlady that yes, he would be by the next day too to make sure Jean was all right. Thus it was that Combeferre began to take care of him while he was ill, in as easy a transition as it took for Jean to become a fixture of the art gallery. But Combeferre enjoyed it rather, because Jean was a sweet person, fond of talking in an excited, delighted voice and expressing his love for nearly everything. By the time Jean was well enough to go back to the art gallery, Combeferre was worried about the empty gap it would leave in his schedule where he'd made everything fit around his visits to Jean.
Jean was quick to try and thank him, and spent long hours in his chair writing constantly. Meanwhile, Combeferre couldn't wait for Tuesdays, so he could wander through the gallery, look over somewhere and see Jean immersed in his poetry.
Monsieur was the one to give him Jean's thank-you poem.
"Monsieur Jean wishes that I give this to you. I think, Monsieur Paul, he is a little too shy to give it himself. He has painted another portrait of you, but Monsieur Fernand bought it this morning. He said it was delightful and had beautiful soulful eyes. You should be flattered, Monsieur Paul."
"Monsieur Fernand is a hopeless romantic," Combeferre said, peering at Monsieur over his spectacles.
"Ah! I know. Now, you must read Monsieur Jean's poem! I shall assist Mademoiselle Helene with her purchase." He quickly disappeared.
Combeferre read, not noticing Jean edging into the room and watching him hopefully. When he looked up at last, he was surprised to find that his cheeks were wet. It was not as though anyone had ever written a poem for him, particularly one as pretty and awkward as this.
"Paul?"
"Jean," Combeferre said, taking off his spectacles with one hand and wiping his eyes. "Good Lord, Jean, thank you. That's beautiful." It was not beautiful. It was pretty and awkward. But that, Combeferre thought, was what made it so wonderful.
Jean beamed and suddenly hugged him, a hug that felt shy and warm. "You're welcome," he whispered, and when Combeferre kissed his cheek he hugged him tighter.
Monsieur looked around the corner of the Blue Wall at Monsieur Jean and Monsieur Paul and smiled delightedly. Ah, yes, yes, La Galerie des Colours, the art gallery, was a place of beauty and romance. How nice. Here, one came in contact with one's own soul and the soul of others; with the souls of the moon and the stars; with the beauty of art and love. Yes, everything fit perfectly.
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