Chapitre Deux

February 2018, Paris, France

I have seldom felt so small and insignificant. In the past, the situations that evoked similar feelings occurred at school, where I was an average teenager trying to keep up with assignments and get through school, avoiding those willing to make students' lives a nightmare. I also felt a similar way the many times I got fired because they could not afford to pay someone as clumsy and messy as me.

Generally, I manage stress well and I am able to get out of the situation unscathed, I can easily attibute that ability to the place where I work now, where everything must go quickly and flawlessly. But somehow, there is always something that ends up going wrong and I am the one who has to fix it before the boss knows.

However, nothing ever lived before had prepared me to endure the five pairs of eyes that looked at me, judging me from my appearance to the reason we had to share air.

The Lemaire family and the notary who was in charge of the inheritance are sitting at that long table in the courthouse, in front of me. There are bookshelves around us, but none of those books could give me the key to keeping the meeting in a peaceful atmosphere.

It is portrayed on their faces the unwillingness to accept Jacques's last wish with a positive attitud, but I understand them. His father has left a large part of his fortune to three people from an inferior social and economic class.

After the notary read the properties noe under my name there is an awkward silence, in which I find myself alone dealing with their hostile stares.

"That was all?" I decide to raise my voice, gathering all the courage I find within myself.

"Did you want more?" One of Jacques's sons replies, laughing softly.

I bite my lower lip to distract myself from the smiles the comment brought. I look at the notary, who checks the papers to make sure everything is in order.

"Well, it seems that everything is fine..." he murmurs, frowning. "We will deal with the taxes and the management of the works in private as I said before. Is that alright, miss Rousseau?" He tilts his head and waits for my answer.

"Alright."

I drag the chair back slightly and stand up.

"I have a question."

All the attention is diverted from me to the man who has been commenting throughout the meeting. From what I remember, his name is Théodore, but the three are so similar and I was so nervous that I could have mistaken their identities.

"Were you my father's... strumpet?"

His question not only disturbs me, but also his mother, who looks at him with disgust.

"Theodore!" She exclaims, confirming his name. "Pardon him, Miss Rousseau." Her blue eyes look at me seriously.

She has not liked having to lower herself to the level of someone like me, only to apologize for her son's behavior, and that unsettling reaction is shown in every feature of her face. None of them can bear to see how a woman of non-existent economic stability takes what they believe should be their property. And I do not like the tense and unfriendly environment that has been created around us, so I do not hesitate to take the first steps towards the door, with a folder full of papers in my hands.

Before I take the doorknob and walk away from the offensive murmurs, a voice I haven't heard in the entire meeting rises.

"Please wait, Miss Rousseau."

When I look around my eyes focus on the one who seems to be the older brother. His expression is of pure professionalism, straight shoulders, the suit perfectly coupled to his body shape and a rigidity that keeps him in the same posture.

He is attractive, every member of that family is, even the one who seems not to know how to make use of the education that he boasts so much.

So, remembering Jacques' descriptions of his three sons, I deduce that he is Sébastien. For hours I would listen to Jacques talk about his life before he ran away, the stories of his adolescence and early maturity were interesting, but my favorites were about his family. He constantly painted them, claiming that this way he made sure he would never forget them, while words as cruel as they were also tender came from his lips, describing the temperament of those from whom he would never take away the place they occupied in his heart.

"Could we talk in private?" He asks, forcing me out of my musings.

I frown and look at the rest of the people present in the room.

His brothers look at him in confusion, while his mother seems to argue internally, with the same countenance she has shown at all times. On the other hand, the notary gathers his things and prepares to leave the room, once he has understood that the rest of what happens has nothing to do with him.

Although I have profoundly wished to leave the room for half an hour, I agree, nodding in affirmation.

The sooner the matter is settled, the sooner I can live in peace.

"We'll wait for you outside," says Danielle, Jacques's wife, without losing her composure. "Come on, let's not waste any more time."

The passive aggressiveness with which she spits out her words does not go unnoticed, nor do I forget that it was the characteristics Jacques enjoyed the most about his wife. He defined Danielle as a transparent woman who had no secrets for him, as eager to show apathy as incapable of carrying it out.

When the members of the Lemaire family start leaving the room, my nerves descend proportionately.

At least until I realize that now I find myself accompanied by the one who most disappointed Jacques in the last years he spent with his family.

"What do you want to talk about?" I question hastily, yearning to go home.

"I'll be concise, don't worry." He sits back down, staring at me. "We were wondering if we could agree on a deal with you ."

"A deal?" I repeat confused.

"We wouldn't want to lose everything that's left of my father, especially after almost two years without hearing from him," he explains with a condescending look at me.

His gaze is indecipherable, unlike his brother Théodore, who is dominated by resentment and pride. In the descriptions of Jacques, both those written in his journals and those captured in his paintings, he claim that Sébastien enjoys a sense of duty that sometimes overshadows the rest of the whims, desires, and drives that any human being feels at some point of their life.

I came to the early conclusion that Sébastien was responsible, professional, serious and hard-working, but he did not possess Jacques's sense of humor.

"We are willing to offer a good deal in exchange for the works my father left for you."

I notice the difficulty with which he pronounces those words. He isn't even able to meet my gaze.

"They are of great value, and my father's disappearance has only increased that said value."

"Wait," I say, taking a step towards him, "you are going to sell them?"

"And what else did you expect me to do with some paintings?"

The short, arrogant laugh that emanates from his throat makes me shiver.

"Some painting?" I reiterate, suddenly offended, as if I'm talking about my own art. "You should know better than anyone else that those painting are much more than stained canvases."

"Why should I know better than anyone else?" He answers, arching one of his eyebrows.

I take a breath to speak, but end up remaining silent. Sébastien slams his tongue against his palate and stands up. Something has changed in him, the patience that dominated him seems to be gone.

"Do we have a deal or not?" Suddenly, there is no diplomacy.

"No," I answer sharply. "I'm not interested in any deal, thanks for the offer."

"How much do you want for the paintings?" He insists, approaching me.

"I want nothing."

"Everyone has a price." He shrugs.

"Not me, so, again, thank you very much for the offer, but I'm not interested."

"You weren't going to sell them?" He asks about to lose his composure, narrowing his eyes in my direction. "They will end up in who knows where, sold at a miserable price that does not compare to the talent of my beloved father." Sébastien ends the sentence with a hint of sarcasm. "Let us manage the sale, we'll know how to take full profit of it."

"Why do you think I'm going to sell them?" He smirks haughtily, as if the answer is obvious. "What I do with them is no longer your concern. I have already signed, therefore, they are already mine."

He takes a breath, seeking calm, and after taking a couple of steps back, Sébastien gives me a look loaded with fatigue.

"Okay, whatever you want," he finally gives in, or so I thought. "I'll give you some time to think about it."

"I don't need time to think about anything."

"See you soon."

Sébastien smiles and raises his hand to greet me, clearly mocking me.

Although I would like to make it clear to him that I am not as flexible as he thinks, I decide that it is not worth spending time in an argument from which neither of us will be fully victorious.

Besides, he won't be able to do anything once I cross the threshold of the door, and knowing there is no way he will find me gives me some security to finally get out of the courthouse.