Chapter 18

Lionel silently sliced his steak. There was no need to answer Richard’s question. Ignoring his cousin’s inquiry, Lionel brought up another topic.

“By the way, who painted that portrait? Was it her father?”

“No, it wasn’t Arno Sollier. It was his protégé who painted it.”

If it was Arno’s protégé, that person must have spent a lot of time at the atelier. Naturally, he would have been close to Clarette since childhood.

Naturally, he must be a man.

“What’s the name of this protégé?”

Lionel’s voice was gentle, but his tone carried a subtle sharpness. Richard sensed the nuance and smiled inwardly.

“I don’t know his name. To be honest, I only learned Clarette Sollier’s name again because of the commotion at the Marquis’ mansion.”

“I see.”

“If you’re curious, why not ask her directly? She’d know better than anyone who painted her.”

Again, Lionel didn’t reply. Richard watched with interest how Lionel’s attitude had changed compared to when they discussed business.

Just what kind of woman was she, that the renowned Captain Lionel was so carefully interested?

* * *

Clarette spent her first day at the ducal mansion completely absorbed in copying the gallery’s artworks. Alone, quietly focused on her painting, she even appeared somewhat aloof.

But the mansion’s staff seemed to accept her as one of their own almost immediately.

“……Where did all this come from?”

Returning from Earl Crowley’s mansion, Lionel dropped by the gallery and was startled to see Clarette.

Cupcakes, cookies, candy. All sorts of little treats were piled around her. When their eyes met, Clarette answered in a calm voice, as if used to this sort of thing.

“The staff here gave them to me as gifts. I sketched quick croquis for them.”

“Croquis?”

“It’s a quick sketch of a subject. Just simple linework.”

Apparently, the maids had found it fascinating to watch Clarette draw and had approached her. Lionel imagined her surrounded by maids and asked,

“If the maids keep pestering you, it’ll just waste your time. Should I ask Susan to warn them not to bother you?”

“No, it didn’t take long, and it was actually fun. It helps me practice, too.”

Clarette spoke generously, picking up her charcoal.

She sat on the floor, leaning against the square sofa in the center of the gallery. Resting her sketchbook on her raised knee, she drew bold black lines without hesitation.

It was right in front of a statue of two n*ked figures. Lionel sat at the end of the long sofa where she leaned and spoke.

“This sculpture looks quite famous.”

He glanced down at Clarette, absorbed in her work. Her hands moved swiftly and precisely, blocking in the large shapes as the first step in her sketch.

“That’s right, it’s probably the most famous sculpture in this gallery. ‘Spring’ by sculptor Castion.”

“‘Spring’, huh. Fitting title.”

Lionel looked at the white marble man and woman. Longing for each other, the couple embraced, lips almost touching. The man’s muscles were firm, and the woman’s soft flesh pressed gently against him.

“Do sculptures like that have models too? Did he carve it with n*ked people posing in front of him?”

Clarette felt a strange sense of delight at his interest in the artwork, and answered kindly while sketching.

“Yes. For someone like Castion, it wouldn’t have been hard to find a beautiful n*de model. For the model, it would have been an honor.”

“Have you ever been a model? In front of other people?”

Clarette paused her sketch for a moment, but soon resumed, as if nothing was amiss.

“Yes, once.”

“So, did you pose like that…?”

“I didn’t undress.”

This time, Clarette looked at Lionel with a hint of reproach.

“It was just an ordinary portrait, Your Grace. What are you imagining?”

Lionel glanced away, feigning distraction. As Clarette turned back to her drawing, he asked quietly,

“Who painted that portrait?”

Clarette sensed the subtle intent behind his question. Even if the Duke wasn’t interested in art, he seemed to know about her portrait.

She recalled the painting hanging in the Rosenta Art Museum and answered calmly.

“One of my father’s protégés painted it. He wanted to practice portraiture, so I agreed to model.”

Lionel watched her hand move across the sketchbook and continued questioning.

“You must have been close to him, to model for him.”

“Yes, we were close. Not anymore, though.”

“Why?”

“After he painted me and became famous five years ago, he left my father. Since then, we haven’t even run into each other.”

“So, now you and he…”

“Your Grace.”

Clarette cut him off coldly. Without looking at Lionel, her eyes fixed on the sketch, she spoke firmly.

“I don’t want to talk about him. Or about that painting.”

Seeing her sensitive refusal, Lionel felt a strange sense of déjà vu. Clarette had shown this side before.

<I did have someone I liked. But that was a long time ago.>

The meaning behind her reactions was clear.

The man who painted her portrait must have been Clarette’s first love.

It was obvious, even without asking. With Lionel’s experience with women, he was sure Clarette had liked that man more.

<No, it wasn’t Arno Sollier. It was his protégé who painted it.>

According to Richard, the one who painted her was probably the most prominent man in the Sollier atelier. Talented, close to his master, and naturally able to mingle easily with Clarette, the master’s daughter.

In her art-filled world, that protégé must have seemed the most attractive man. Lionel could easily imagine the two together.

The man would have monopolized Clarette’s attention, and as a man himself, surely felt attracted to her beauty. With the same profession, they’d naturally become close, talking about art and such.

Clarette might have admired him. Maybe she’d smiled whenever their eyes met.

What must that have felt like? Lionel tried to imagine the experiences of that man, basking in Clarette’s pure affection.

How could he have given up that joy and left her?

After a while, the sound of charcoal scratching resumed. Lionel stopped his jealous imaginings and looked down at Clarette.

She was so focused, not even a breath could be heard, working hard on her sketch of the sculpture. Gripping the black charcoal, she drew quick lines and smudged the powder onto the paper, her once-white hands quickly turning black. Every movement was perfectly trained, with no unnecessary action.

‘……She would’ve made a good soldier. Incredible concentration.’

Lionel could only marvel at her. Clarette’s skill was a kind of perfection he’d never witnessed before.

On the blank white paper, ‘Spring’ was being born.

Clarette started with the overall form of the statue, then began to render the faces in detail. Lionel watched her blackened fingertips, and a single strand of black hair trailing down her straight nape.

Now, he understood why she always stubbornly pinned up her long hair. It was like donning a uniform before deployment—a basic requirement for a successful operation.

Then, what did she look like when she wasn’t painting? For example, in bed before sleep?

Lionel looked at her hairpin, fixed a bit more loosely than usual. It was within easy reach. If he wanted, he could easily pull it free.

Then, Clarette Sollier would look at him in surprise, hurriedly gathering her loose hair, calling his name in a flustered voice.

Not as a model for a painting or sculpture, but looking only at him.

“Clarette.”