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Renoir cautiously opened the heavy door leading to the studio, hoping to find empty the gigantic room filled with completed or unfinished paintings of his precious family members. That wasn’t the case. His wife, his sweet and magnificent Aline, was still absorbed in the canvas of their deceased son. Exhausted in advance by the prospect of the task he had to accomplish, Renoir lowered his head. He had put that moment off for far too long, now he had no choice. Aline obviously couldn’t reason with herself, he should help her. Suffering seemed to follow his family since the brutal death of his only son. His precious boy, who died as a hero while trying to extricate his youngest sister from the flames, had cast a veil of sadness and despair over all members of the Dessendre family.
Saved from the flames at the last minute, his little Alicia was recovering far too slowly from her wounds to his liking. Despite the 3 months of intensive care and constant attention from Renoir and Cléa, her scars had only just begun to heal. His joy at seeing her finally awake was swept away by the intense suffering he could read on her burnt face, twisted with pain. If only he had been able to switch places with his little angel, he would have done so without any hesitation. Instead, he had to accompany her with gentleness and patience, hoping wholeheartedly that she would soon overcome this terrible ordeal. At least physically. Although her face is ravaged by burns and her right eye lost in the flames, Renoir knew that the hardest part would be to overcome Verso’s death. Despite all his efforts to make her understand that she wasn’t responsible, Alicia couldn’t help feeling guilty. It was indeed her fault that the writers had had access to the manor and started the fire, but if Aline and Renoir had managed to stop this useless war earlier, none of this would have happened. Renoir was truly responsible for this tragedy. If he had been there, he would not have had to bury a son and treat a crippled girl. Perhaps he would have perished in the fire, but his death would have been in the order of things. It was simply against nature for a father to bury his child.
And then there was Aline. She had never expressed it openly, but he could read the hatred against him on the rare occasions when he met her piercing blue eyes. And honestly, he couldn’t blame her. Despite all her efforts, she couldn’t bear his absence during the drama. He should have been there. The laughter of his son would still echo in the vast spaces of the manor instead of this deafening silence, interrupted only by Aline’s cries and tears. But what she had the most trouble to accept was her own inaction. Her husband was certainly absent on that tragic day, but not Aline. On the rare occasions when she had fallen asleep since that fateful day, she tirelessly relived every moment and sensation as if they were unfolding before her eyes. She had seen the deadly fire spread at an uncontrollable speed to every corner of the children’s wing. Trapped in the glasshouse by the asphyxiating fumes while trying to reach Alicia’s room, she survived only thanks to the arrival of Cléa. She could still feel the flames draw dangerously close to her skin, the smoke filling her lungs causing her to choke, or even Cléa’s voice encouraging her to move forward as she dragged her out of the house. Then the horror set in when she heard her son’s agonizing screams that echoed tirelessly in her ears. Again and again and again. Until she woke up with a start, drenched in sweat while shouting the name of her son in vain. Tireless and resigned, Renoir drew her towards him, trying to calm her but only succeeding in worsening her distress. Once so much sought after, she could no longer bear his contact, nor his vision that reminded her too much of their missing son. As soon as he had placed his large hands on her, she pushed him back violently and fled in tears towards Verso’s room, under the wounded and helpless eye of her husband.
At the slow pace of his cane touching the tiled floor, he approached the immense painting placed in the back of the studio, where the blue and white reflections ran at irregular intervals over the wide canvas. Aline, faithful to her post, was sitting upright on a small stool facing the canvas. Renoir placed his hand on his wife’s already emaciated shoulder. It had been far too long since Aline had fled their presence to take refuge in the painting. Previously, she would still take time to get out to have her meal, rest and mourn the loss of her son. Now, Renoir dreaded that she would let herself slowly die, something that was intolerable to him. It was out of the question to bury his wife alongside Verso. Losing his son was an open wound that will never completely heal. It was unacceptable to relive this suffering once again. For the moment, he hadn't yet dared to follow in her footsteps, obviously thinking wrongly that she only needed to see the world created by their son one last time in order to complete her mourning. Seeing her strength decrease drastically from hour to hour had convinced him to take the step and go get her himself. He had tried to hide the painting on the rare occasions when Aline had left the canvas, hoping to force her to join the world of the living and accept this new reality that was theirs. At his greatest distress, the opposite effect occurred. Furious, his once sweet wife had exploded with a rage he had never seen before. Like an addict in need, she immediately started looking for the precious painting to finally find it and dive back into it even more assiduously as a reprisal. Renoir’s pleas had changed nothing; only her pain and her desire to get drunk on their son’s creations and memories mattered.
Renoir looked with pain at his wife’s eyes full of paint that began to overflow and spread over her cheekbones. Never mind, if his love didn’t want to go out of her own free will, he would go after her. Aline would be furious, but no matter, he wasn’t going to watch her waste away before his eyes.
“So, have you made up your mind? Are you really going to go get her and leave us, Alicia and I?” said a woman’s voice in a tone cold and full of reproach behind him.
He turned around to see his perfect double in every way, watching him with a dagger look from the entrance, arms crossed on her chest. Since the fire, Cléa had tried by all means to hide her pain, but no one was really fooled. The loss of her brother had deeply affected his eldest daughter. She survived the tragedy only thanks to her visceral hatred and thirst for revenge. Her gray eyes, once so expressive and curious, were now cold and angry. Everyone knew it, nothing would stop the fury of his daughter except the fall of the culprits, at whatever costs. Renoir knew deep down that he should dissuade her from taking this path, but let’s be honest, he wanted exactly the same thing as she did. If Aline and Alicia hadn’t needed him right now, he would have been at Cléa’s side, tracking every suspect and analyzing the slightest clue, in search of these bloody murderers. Between the two of them, they were assuredly invincible.
“Cléa, there’s no other way. Your mother can’t handle it alone. I have to help her.” he replied in a calm tone while approaching her.
“Aline made her choice and she chose to abandon us. She is only obsessed with her little person.”
“You know very well that this isn’t true. Your mother loves both of you deeply. She isn’t in her normal state.”
“Maybe, but the result is the same. She lets herself die of her own free will, as her disfigured daughter slowly returns to us and her son’s killers still at large. And you’re about to follow in her footsteps.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I will never abandon you.”
“That’s exactly what you’re going to do. Alicia needs you... I need you.” she added in a breath, lowering her eyes in front of this admission of weakness.
His fatherly heart broke a little more when he saw her so helpless. He could count on one hand the number of times his Clea had cracked her thick shell. Softened, he placed his immense hand under the chin of his daughter and forced her to raise her gray misty eyes towards him.
“Ma puce, I don’t want to leave you, but your mother is in a more dangerous situation than ever. Look at her. She won’t hold for long without my intervention.”
For the first time since entering the room, Cléa turned her gaze towards her mother, still sitting motionless in front of the canvas. Renoir was right. Aline had only been inside the painting for a few hours, but her weakened body already showed signs of failure.
“Papa, do you really believe that she won’t defend herself? That it would be enough that you appear for her to submissively follow you? You are more naive than I thought.” She replied, redirecting her gaze toward her father.
“Probably not, but I will find a way. Aline has not yet recovered from her previous incursions, which is to my advantage. At the peak of her strength, your mother is much more powerful than I am, but now she is weakened and therefore vulnerable.”
“Maybe. Or maybe you’re heading straight into a trap that will be fatal to the both of you.” she replied, irritated by the turn of the conversation.
“Don’t worry about it. I can defend myself. After all, I’m a master too.”
“What about Alicia in all this? Do you think about her?” added Cléa as a final argument. If the thought of his precious little Alicia didn’t make him waver, nothing could. “She has lost her brother, her face, her voice, and soon her mother. She is alone and fragile. Do you really believe that she will survive your loss?”
“Apart from watching over her bedside, I can’t do anything for her anymore. She is out of danger, unlike your mother. I failed to save Verso, I can’t lose anyone else in this family. Cléa, please, don’t make my task any more difficult. Let me save her. Then, we will take care of the writers and everything will be alright. I promise you that, mon ange.” He replied while placing his hand on his daughter’s cheek.
He placed a long kiss on his child’s forehead, then drew her towards him in a paternal embrace. Resigned and lacking human contact for too long, Cléa snuggled against her father’s comforting chest. She sighed softly at this harsh reality and tightened her grip around her father, refusing to let him go. Thus snuggled up against this reassuring mass, she let herself become once again a child lost in her father’s arm. After a few seconds, she opened her eyes and saw over Renoir’s shoulder her mother in a trance. Her anger and annoyance towards the situation in which Aline was putting them all came back in a second. As long as Aline won’t stop her childish ways, her dear father couldn’t help her. She was really alone to watch over her destroyed family. Very well, if that was his choice, she would manage on her own. Without a word, she detached herself from him and walked towards the door. She stopped before crossing the threshold to add, without looking back:
“If your decision is made, I might as well stop wasting my time. Someone in this family must stand firm and deliver justice for what happened to Verso. Do what you have to do and come back to us.”
“I promise. I will bring her back.” he replied, ignoring his daughter’s harsh remarks. “I love you, ma puce.”
Cléa simply turned her head toward him before nodding in response and leaving the room, letting Renoir alone in the company of his ghostly wife.
He sighed extensively, his head bowed. Everything in its own time. He couldn’t fight on all fronts. Cléa will eventually listen to reason. He was convinced of it. Slowly, he turned around towards his Aline and approached her. He caressed tenderly her cheek covered with paint that flowed from her eyes before giving her a soft kiss. Resigned and firmly leaning on his cane, he raised his right arm in the direction of the canvas and plunged into its depths, determined to put an end to this madness as soon as possible.
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A masterpiece, a pure masterpiece. Such was the first thought that crossed his confused mind when he opened his eyes to the streets teeming with life around him. At the time of its creation by Verso, 15 years earlier, only the gestrals and grandis walked the cobblestones of the city. Renoir was now surrounded by men and women, going about their occupations and not paying attention to his presence. All seemed joyful and smiling, as if the worries and horrors of the world could not reach them in this Eden of painting. Shifting slightly against a wall to leave the middle of the road and interfere as little as possible with these living miracles, he remained for a few moments amazed at contemplating this spectacle. As a child, and with the help of his parents and sister, Verso was able to recreate Paris in every detail, from the imposing Eiffel Tower that always towered majestically over the city’s rooftops, to the small courtyards typical Parisian architecture. Perfectionist to the extreme and true to herself, Aline had found some flaws to improve, but her husband could still read the pride overflowing in her big blue eyes. Their prodigal son followed in the footsteps of their daughter’s genius. Even back then, we could see their potential and that they would soon be able to match or surpass their illustrious parents. The future of the Dessendres was well assured with descendants like that.
Still fascinated by what he had in front of his eyes, Renoir smiled at the vision of a group of children running behind a balloon, a young man in the middle of an unskilled flirtation with a lovely young lady carrying a flower in her black hair or two old people helping each other walk. Of course, he knew that his wife was an exceptional artist, but she had simply outdone herself. He had never seen such a marvel in any other of her paintings. A fundamental question swept through his mind: for what purpose? How could creating life here help her to mourn their son? One thing he had learned from their 29-year marriage was that Aline never did anything without an excellent reason. The reason could certainly sometimes escape him, but there was still always one.
After spending a few more seconds looking at the passers-by, he finally moved in line with them, walking in turn through the streets bathed in a morning sun. He easily recognized his path, having traveled them for a long time with his son during their creation and subsequent adventures. Following the flow of pedestrians in front of him, he arrived after several minutes of walking on a large square where there seemed to be a market from which stalls filled with various objects for sale filled every corner. The scent of flowers and spices filled his nostrils with a far too pleasant smell. It felt so real, too real. If he were not careful, Renoir could easily let himself be intoxicated by this world without pain or sorrow. No more responsibility, no more feeling of being just a ghost haunting the walls of his manor since the death of his son. It was, of course, just a sweet chimera. His daughters needed him, and so did his wife. He couldn’t let himself die like that.
“Mr. Dessendre, what a pleasure to see you. Would you be tempted by these pretty flowers for your lady?” Asked a chubby merchant with a cheerful and friendly face, as Renoir passed in front of his stall.
“Excuse me?” asked Renoir while stopping, taken aback. “How do you know my name?”
“With all you’ve done for the city and after your mansion tragedy, everyone in town knows your name. Are you well, Mr. Dessendre? You are very pale.”
“Everything is fine.” Renoir replied, increasingly confused. “Have you heard about what has affected my family?”
“For sure, everyone in Lumière knows about the fire. Sad story. I was sorry for you for it. You are good people, Mr. Dessendre. Admittedly, no one deserves that, but still, it’s not fair that it fell on you. So, are you taking these flowers or not?”
Shocked, Renoir shook his head negatively before moving away. Why would Aline have recreated a mansion and a fire in this world? Did she want to punish herself by reliving this dreadful day? No. Impossible. She would not have inflicted such suffering on herself here. If she wanted to suffer, she would have remained in the real world. And then, how could this man know his name? Perhaps she had implanted a memory of him in them, in case he decided to join her. As he pondered these questions, desperately searching for a rational solution, his blood quickly froze in his veins. He thought he recognized a loud and deep laugh that was so familiar, long since disappeared. He raised his head and froze in horror. Verso! His lively Verso stood about ten meters away from him in the middle of a discussion with a group of young people. Renoir held back with all his strength so as not to run towards him and hold him in his arms. He wasn’t real. His son was dead and buried. He had put him in his tomb with his own hands 3 months ago. And yet. He could see him there before his eyes. As tall and handsome as ever. His rebellious black hair fell back to the base of his neck, his teasing smile, his blue eyes similar to those of his wife, everything was identical. Aline had even managed to copy every expression of their lost child. Renoir turned away and leaned against the wall of an alley. He placed his head against the wall and tightened his chest with one hand, trying to calm himself in front of this devastating news. It was too much. Seeing him laugh and breathe in front of him was an unbearable torture for his wounded heart. That’s why she no longer wanted to leave the painting and had been mad with rage when he had hidden it from her. She had recreated a son for herself in the image of the one she had lost. She abandoned them all for a simple copy. But it wasn’t him. No one could replace him. Couldn’t she understand that? Madness.
He raised his head once again and looked around for this anomaly. He found him again and looked, his heart filled with conflicting emotions, at this lost son detaching himself from his friends and advancing towards an older man, leaning on what seemed to be a cane. Not a cane, HIS cane. His heart, already weakened by his son’s vision, literally disintegrated when he saw the man with graying hair turn around. No! Not that! How had she dared? The earth and the shimmering colors of the market began to swirl before his eyes, so much that he had to step back to try to protect himself, unconsciously seeking to flee this vision of horror. The sensation of his knee yielding and striking the atelier tiles brought him back to reality. He slowly opened his eyes and turned them to his wife, still sitting in the same unchanging position. He knew that he had not been up to the task of saving his son, but he could never have imagined this from her. His own double. To create their dead son was already an atrocity, but her living husband was an abomination. The mere idea that this thing could approach her, passionately taste her perfect lips or just place his hands on her made him feel nauseous. A throbbing pain pierced his heart at this thought, and he had to concentrate not to vomit what he had managed to swallow this morning. Did she hate him so much to make him endure such torture? The fact that she would take a lover was inconceivable to him, but a perfectly identical and idealized representation of her husband was intolerable. Gradually becoming aware of his surroundings, he felt a familiar presence behind him. He turned to find Alicia frozen with guilt at the sight of her mother standing still. Turning her back to him, she kept standing while leaning on a table covered with preparatory drawings just a few centimeters away from Aline.
“Alicia, what are you doing here?” He said with a worried tone while he stood up as fast as his knee allowed him to get up. “You’re not ready to stand up, you should rest.”
Alicia didn’t move at the sound of his cavernous voice, content to always stare at her mother without any movement. He approached his child and placed his imposing hand on her frail shoulder. Having no reaction from his daughter, he pressed on her shoulder to force her to turn towards him. Renoir’s heart was torn apart at the sight of his little angel’s face. Tears flowed in abundance from his valid eye and those held by the bandage of his right eye flooded the freshly laid tissue. Without a word, he drew her towards him and gently hugged her, trying by this embrace to convey all the love he had for her. It was really much too unfair. She had just lost her brother in abominable circumstances. She had endured herself terrible sufferings that would mark her for the rest of her life. And now she was about to lose her mother. Never. Him alive never. This comedy had gone on long enough.
“Don’t worry, petit chat, I’ll fix everything. Your mother will be with us soon.” he whispered in her ear in a reassuring voice.
Alicia slowly raised her head toward him, her eye still filled with tears. She opened her mouth and tried to pronounce a word that, in place of a sound, made her wince with pain. Resigned to her new condition, she then grabbed a pencil placed on the small table and wrote on a sheet that she then handed to Renoir.
“Everything is my fault. Maman. Verso. Everything.” he read with distress.
“Get that thing out of your head now, you hear me?” he cried out forcefully, grabbing his daughter’s arm and forcing her to look him in the eyes. “Writers are responsible for the death of your brother. Maman and me for not being able to prevent the attack and protect you. Moreover, your mother is in this position by her only choice. Hers and no one else! You are just a child caught in the turmoil and you are not responsible for anything. Absolutely not.”
Alicia fiercely supports her father’s gaze before finally lowering her eye. He couldn’t understand. No matter how much he tried to diminish her role, she knew the truth. If she hadn’t tried to contact the writers to stop this war between their two arts, none of this would have happened. Her brother would be still creating beautiful musical compositions and her mother masterpieces of painting.
“Mon ange, for now, focus on your recovery. You are still far too fragile to be standing and your wounds have just healed.” Renoir went on in a much calmer voice. “Don’t interfere with what’s going on here. I’ll take care of your mother. All right?”
Defeated, Alicia simply nodded, her eye still fixed on the ground. Renoir placed a kiss on his daughter’s forehead before helping her towards the exit. Both limping along and supporting his little girl as best he could, he helped her to walk the long way through the dining room, then the children’s wing, leading them to her room plunged in darkness. Arriving in front of the door, Alicia freed herself from the paternal help and advanced towards her bed while leaning on the wall. Renoir, remaining on the landing, gave her a last warm smile when she turned to him one last time before returning to bed. Then, he closed the door and returned to his wife in the atelier. Determined, he advanced towards the canvas.
“To both of us now, my love.” he murmured as he cast one last glance at Aline, still motionless on her bench.
Then, he turned to the picture and raised his hand once more in its direction, determined to put an end to all this madness.
-----------------------------------------
They were obviously no longer there. Despite the only 10 minutes spent in the real world, 3 long months had passed in the painting since his memorable last visit. The flowers and joyful market stalls erected in the middle of June had given way to the drabness and rain of the first days of September. Alone in the square, still asleep in the early morning, Renoir began his journey. However, he knew where to look. If Aline had recreated all the members of their families, she must inevitably have painted their manor on the outskirts of the city. Determined on what he had to do, Renoir surely advanced towards the manor, letting his cane resonate sinisterly on the cobblestones at each step. Whatever it takes, everything will be over soon. Arriving at the entrance of the manor, he distinguished two forms that came out through the immense wrought iron gate and headed towards a parallel street. Of course, he recognized them at first glance. His double, similar to him in every way, walked with a nonchalant step, leaning on his cane, while talking with a young girl who barely reached his thorax. Renoir could only see the teenager’s blazing red mane, but that was enough for him to recognize Alicia. If Aline had dared to recreate Verso and himself, he should not be surprised to see his youngest daughter near this father. Cléa was therefore also to prowl this painting. He shivered at the thought. If her double was as formidable as his Clea, he would not want to stand in her way, even as a painter/god in this world. As father and daughter slowly moved away from the gate, Alicia turned to take one last look at the mansion before turning around and following her father. Renoir had a movement of retreat in front of this fleeting vision. Her face. Instead of her multiple freckles, mischievous blue eyes and that face so identical to her mother’s, Alicia’s face bore the tragic burn scars. He could guess them all despite the half-mask she wore and which covered her mouth and nose. Her right eye was also missing and her skin had lost all color to keep only the immaculate white of ashes. Thankfully, his own daughter hadn’t followed him in the painting. If his Alicia had seen the creature representing her, she would never have recovered. She already felt far too guilty about the events, to inflict such punishment on her was cruelty pure and simple.
Feeling his blood bubbling with rage in his veins, Renoir waited for them to disappear into the streets before moving forward and entering the manor. Knowing the place by heart, having grown up and raised his own family there in the real world, he slithered through the lush garden without any difficulty before passing through the heavy doors to the huge entrance hall. Despite the early hour, he inclined his ear to try and locate the remaining members of this cursed family and heard the familiar piano notes coming from the music room. He stopped for a few moments in front of the imposing black marble staircase, listening with tears in his eyes to the melody that this Verso was playing. He was so talented, a pure genius. Then the more jerky but nevertheless just as beautiful notes of a harp come to be added to this piano solo. As in the joyful days of yore, brother and sister played together. As melancholy and memories slowly took hold in his mind with each new note, he felt more than heard the presence of Aline above him. Knowing his wife, she must have been in her precious inner greenhouse. With regret, he tore himself away from this bewitching listening and climbed the stairs. Arriving in the reception room with its glass’ floor allowing him to see through it the huge dining room and the music room below, he headed towards the last staircase leading to the greenhouse, being careful not to make his cane resound on the floor. He took one last look at this Clea and that Verso whom he could see continuing to play under him, then ascended the steps with a determined step. As usual, she was there, from behind, at the end of the greenhouse. Sitting in front of a canvas, a brush in hand, she was studying her new masterpiece.
“So this is where you’ve been hiding all this time? Was it worth it?” growled Renoir’s cavernous voice, full of rage.
Aline jumped at the voice she immediately recognized, but refused to turn around, unable to face her husband’s gaze.
“Can’t you hear him playing? Of course it was worth it.” she ended up saying, laying down her brush but remaining resolutely turned away.
“Aline. It’s not him. Our Verso is ...”
“Don’t you dare!” she roared as she jumped up to face her husband. “Verso is here, he’s fine.”
For the first time in days, their furious eyes met. They faced each other for a moment, each one camped on his positions, not wanting to give up any piece of ground. Only the resonance of the melody, still in progress and which did not seem to pay attention to the storm that was brewing upstairs, could be heard.
“Look around you, Renoir. All our children are alive and gathered in our house. We could live happily here and see them grow up together. You could stay too.” she added in a softer tone, her eyes filled with hope.
“And your daughters, do you think of them? They decidedly don’t matter to you?” he replied in a dry tone.
“They are here too.”
“It’s not them. Just like this Verso and this ... this Renoir.” he argued, an air of disgust passing over his face at the evocation of his double.
He paused, trying to regain control of himself before adding: "We are still alive, us. How could you replace us so easily?”
“I didn’t replace you. I just couldn’t live without you. Without any of you. I need you too to survive.” She defended herself, her voice trembling.
“This thing is not me!” He thundered in a voice of rage. “I am not the one who kisses you and holds you in my arms in our room in this world. It’s just a copy born of your imagination. How can you cheat on me like that?”
"Cheat on you? I love only you, Renoir, and you know it." she replied, panicked by the turn of the conversation. “But you would never have joined me and I would have died without having you by my side. When Verso came back to me, I knew you couldn’t understand. So I gave you life here too. Like that we can all be happy as before.”
“As before? I saw your Alicia’s face here. How could you do that to her? She’s just a child. YOUR child.”
“I can fix this.” She admitted to her embarrassment. "I don’t know what went through my head. Every time I wanted to create her, all I saw was her wounded body lying on her hospital bed. I couldn’t remember her before she was our undoing.”
“It’s not her fault, Aline, and you know it! She’s just a child who made a mistake in judgment. The real culprits are the writers and both of us. It was our role to protect them. Not hers.”
“And where were you when our son was burned alive?” she screamed madly in rage. “I wasn’t strong enough to save him, but you could have. I hear his cries of pain every day. While burning, he was shouting our names so that we would come get him. Your name! He was calling for your help, Renoir, and you didn’t come. You were supposed to protect us, and you failed miserably.”
“Do you think I don’t know that?” he shouted in turn, no longer able to contain his own pain. “Do you really believe that I don’t regret not having been here for him? I would die for him without the slightest hesitation. I’ll have this weight on my conscience for the rest of my life. If it makes you feel better, hate me as much as you want, but leave Alicia out of this. She has suffered enough as it is. Inflicting the loss of her mother on her and making her believe that she is responsible for it is nothing but folly. Just a few moments ago, I found her crying in front of your body, consumed by a guilt that is not hers. You need to go home to talk to her. Get back to us.”
“Don’t you understand that I need all of you in my life? Verso included. I lost my son Renoir. I was in so much pain.”
“You don’t have a monopoly on suffering, Aline. I lost a son too, and your daughters a brother. Don’t forget it.”
Hurt by his words that made a sense of guilt emerge in her broken heart, Aline turned away from him and folded her arms on her chest, holding herself in her arms. He couldn’t understand. Outside, she was just a destroyed shadow of herself. Here, she was happy and whole. She no longer felt this intense pain, nor this sensation of emptiness each time she searched for her Verso. Here, their son breathed, continued to compose, lived and maybe one day would love, get married and have children of his own. What parent wouldn’t want that for their child?
Despite his anger still present, Renoir was moved by the vision of his wife battling with herself. She was going to give in and come back to him, he could feel it. She couldn’t be insensitive to Alicia’s argument. He walked the few meters separating them and took Aline’s hand in his. Surprise, she sketched a backward movement but finally let herself go. He took her small hand to his mouth and kissed tenderly her palm before placing it against his broad chest and holding it there by pressing his own hand over hers. Tears appeared in the corner of Aline’s deer eyes and she had the greatest difficulty in repressing them. The music that had accompanied their meeting so far died out, and they heard the outer door of the manor close again. They were now the only people left in this huge building. Two soulmates trying to convince each other that their path was the best.
“Aline, I beg you. Don’t make me watch you destroy yourself.” He begged in a faltering voice. “Our daughters are at the end of their rope. Cléa is nothing but fury and destruction. Alicia is the shadow of her former self. They have just lost their brother. They need their mother. They need you. And I need you too, my love.”
In front of this confession, Aline kept silent for a moment. With tenderness, she swept away the rebellious streak of Renoir’s grizzled black hair, which nevertheless returned before his right eye, and placed her hand on his bearded cheek. She pulled Renoir’s head towards her and placed her forehead on her husband's while looking into his bruised light gray eyes. He let her do without the slightest resistance and let out a sigh of relief when their skin finally touched, the first time since the death of their son. Aline looked at him lovingly a few moments before filling the small centimeters between them and kissing with love his thin lips. She had missed them so much. She reveled for a moment in his warm breath and in the sensation of his tongue running through hers, feeling goosebumps of pleasure appear on her body. His double was able to kiss her divinely well and fulfilled all her needs, but she had to recognize it, nothing was worth the original. He had to understand her, there was no other solution. Of course, she also heard his point of view, but Verso needed her here too.
“Our daughters are strong, they will survive this tragedy.” she ends up saying while replacing her forehead on her husband’s. “They have you to guide them. Who could dream better? Outside, our son lies under a stone slab, but here he lives. Our daughters will understand when they are mothers too. I am sorry, my love, I cannot abandon him. It is too hard.”
“Aline, you’re going to die. I’ll do anything for you, but not that. Don’t make me keep watching you waste away your life. I can’t dig another grave, I’m begging you.”
“I have no choice. Verso is all that matters.” she murmured, releasing her hand that was still trapped under her husband’s over his chest, and stepping back slightly, thus breaking the last connection between them.
Stunned by his wife’s decision, Renoir let her walk away without flinching, his hand still placed on his chest unconsciously filling the empty space left by Aline’s hand. Once so altruistic and generous, how could she now be so selfish? Very well, if she didn’t want to listen to reason, he would take care of it for her.
“Then you leave me no choice either.” he declared in a cold voice from which Aline could feel the rage boiling. “If I can’t reason with you, you compel me to force you. It is unacceptable to watch you die without doing anything. We will go out and I will destroy this painting once and for all.”
“No you won’t ! You won’t touch a single pigment in this painting.” She replied to him in the same tone. “Don’t forget who taught you everything. Even when weakened, I am more powerful than you. Go home, Renoir.”
“Only if you follow me.”
In a last hope, he stretched out his hand to her and waited for her to take it. Aline looked at this beloved hand with a cold look. Instead of taking it, she made a huge brush appear in her own hand. Disappointed, Renoir lowered his hand and placed it on his other hand, holding firmly the pommel of his cane anchored to the ground in front of him.
“Why do you always have to decide for us? Let me grieve in my own way.”
“Not if it means killing you. You are strong, yes, but so am I. The result is inevitable. You will come back with me even if I have to tear you from this cursed canvas.”
Understanding that the time of discussion was well and truly over, Renoir struck the ground with his cane, shaking the earth and flying countless stains of red paint.
Aline looked at her husband one last time. Very well. If that was his choice, she would not let it happen. Nothing would be spared from them. As they had just painfully realized, even soulmates can wage war against each other. She darted towards him, brandishing her paintbrush, ready to expel him by all means.
This war was going to be terrible, promising havoc, loss and tears whatever the outcome, but what one would not do for love.