@victorcharbonneau
The exhibition was horribly empty. In the days past the crowds had come and gone, and now only stragglers came to gaze at the latest works unveiled to the public. Her friends in the art world had wanted the occasion to be monumental, but without the backing of royalty it had fallen quite short of the mark. No great event was this. But still Catherine was enamoured by the works unveiled to her, and fond still of those she had seen before.
She stepped light-footed through the auction rooms. Surely by the end of the month the crowds would come bustling again as the works sought to be sold. But for now they were uncrowded for the eyes of even the poorest of men and women. Perhaps Catherine should have come then, when she would have a willing partner in discussion with whom she could excitedly whisper oh, such a beautiful light, or see how the copper shines bright through his painting, or even I think the sitter quite ugly, but ne’er have I seen drooping jowls painted with such grace.
For now she paced the room quite alone, ‘til she came to one of Stubb’s horses, rendered exquisitely, so that it appeared almost as if it would snort, and bray, and paw at the ground. Before it stood another, dark of hair and wide of eye. Silently she came to stand beside him. Her eyes were transfixed upon the coat, which seemed to shimmer, and to split into thousands of hairs.
“It is beautiful, is it not?” she asked the stranger, her voice quiet as if she were in a church.