Elysium (Incipit)

Part I: Asphodel

Marius glided through the halls of the Palais de l’Industrie, obsessively evaluating every canvas lining the walls. He glanced at his pocket watch and grumbled; Philomène had yet to grace the Salon with her presence.

As he ventured further into the building, the scent of varnish began to mingle with the sweat of anxious artists and the heady perfume of high society ladies; the atmosphere was nothing short of suffocating. Stretching into twelve rooms, the mostly sparse crowds left much to be desired from this alternative salon. In spite of Emperor Napoleon III’s best intentions, the Salon des Refusés initiative only served to reignite the sting of Marius’s rejection from the jury of the official Paris Salon, whose accepted pieces lined the walls of the very same building.

“So, this is what all the fuss was about?” A young woman whispered to the lady traipsing beside her.

“Such a bore,” her friend answered, flatly.

The maid trudging behind appeared visibly disinterested, and Marius became unnerved by his fellow artists, who appeared hellbent on inciting anything but emotions. It was truly revolting.

“Ha!” Marius exclaimed, causing the ladies to hurry away. “What am I even doing here?” He walked faster through the rooms, praying that it was not too late to pull down his oeuvre and stop it from being compared to such mediocrities. His eyes restlessly darted from one piece to another, each a testament to the inexperienced artists’ misplaced desires for recognition through transgression. But none of these attempts were genuine, turning the walls into grotesque displays of desperation.

“Oh, God! What a dreadful sight!”

Finally, Marius thought. He followed the sounds of dismay emanating from the room beyond, eventually stopping in front of a curiously large canvas depicting a nude woman lunching with two fully clothed men. Behind them, a woman dressed in a gauzy ivory dress bathes. The perspective was off and the size of the painting seemed generous for this mundaness. Marius inched closer to read the painting’s label: Le Bain, Édouard Manet. He shrugged at the unknown name and carried on to further rooms. He seriously considered haunting the halls of the official Salon but did not have the stomach for it this morning. Instead, he pulled out his pocket watch once more, realizing that the seconds had turned into minutes and Philomène still strayed far from his side. 

“What could possibly be keeping her this long?” He muttered under his breath.

A gentleman in a midnight blue morning coat seemed just about ready to leave when his attention turned to the door from which Marius had just arrived. Initially shocked, his gaze began to bear hints of curiosity as it lingered on the door. Marius turned around, confusion marring his initial delight.

Philomène materialized into the room dressed in white, just like he had instructed — a white garibaldi blouse partially covered under a white Zouave jacket and silk white skirt. Her usually wild curls were tightly wrapped in a chignon and tamed under a net of yarn. Marius congratulated himself for making such a request, as the contrast created by the light fabrics against her mahogany skin made her look like an angel who had descended from the heavens. But her clothes bore an opulence he greatly disliked on her. Philomène beamed upon seeing him and pranced across the room.

“Whose clothes are these?” Marius demanded, knowing that a maid could never afford such fine garments, even if she endured a thousand lifetimes.

“A gift from the baron,” she answered with a voice so saccharine, it sounded like a song. “He insisted I look my best for my debut.”

Marius wondered if she spoke to that man the same way, with her tone light and relaxed, letting her naturally thick accent shine through her words. He furrowed his brows in annoyance. “You mean, my debut.”

“Our debut,” she corrected. “Yours as an artist, and mine as your muse.”

“You cannot be my muse when you have only posed for me once.” His words came out harsher than intended, but he loathed the Baron de Moreau with a burning passion. He always kept Philomène longer than necessary, as for his wife—he would not know where to begin with a woman of her temperament.

Nevertheless, it would be impossible to erase the smile from the young woman’s face. She snaked her arm around the artist’s, eliciting further stares and whispers, and pulled him into the back rooms where his painting was sure to be presented.

“Have you seen the American’s painting?” She paused to recall the name. “Whistler, I believe. I seem to be dressed like its subject!” She giggled.

“You mean to say you have looked at every painting?”

“Did you not? They are all just so beautiful,” she crooned.

“That is one word to describe them, though not the one I would have chosen,” Marius replied, detached.

She nudged his ribs. “How would you describe them, then? Between the two of us, you are the artist.”

He liked the sound of us when it came from her. For the use of a word that warmed his heart, he decided to reward her by entertaining her futile question. “Firstly, I wouldn’t consider them as a cohesive cohort. They are each so—erm, different and unique.” He prayed she could not hear the strain in his voice as he pained to share a few positive words about his colleagues’ works.

But, Philomène knew him better than that as she replied, “And yet, they all seem to inspire the same reaction within you—that is, none at all.”

“No matter, we only came here for one painting,” he blurted out as he pulled her into the final room of the exhibition.

A crowd had formed around a singular canvas, which stretched above ten feet and towered over the throng. Stroke after stroke, a ravishing Vestal Virgin—the Vestalis Maxima—was depicted alone behind the sacred fire. Her darkened eyes looked more like a melancholic glare, defiant yet languid. She stood in a decrepit temple, her bare feet bloodied from the rubble.

Marius kept his eyes trained on Philomène, who was drawn to her portrait like a moth to a flame. She began to carve a path towards the front when she grew distracted by the loudening whispers of the people who recognized her as the subject of the painting.

“What vulgarity,” a man expressed.

Marius’s lips curled into a smile as Philomène’s face paled. She pulled away from him, desperate to disappear from the premises, though the crowd made it impossible for her to do so. Faceless hands wrenched her clothes, while ravenous mouths hounded her with more insults than comments.

Just as she had pushed her way to the entrance, Marius grabbed her hand. “Where are you going?”

“I can’t be here,” a humid film glazed her eyes and she looked away. “They hate it. They hate me.”

“Yes, that’s the point! It’s a riot!” Marius’s smile was uncontrollable, unable to stop himself from behaving like a madman. In a matter of seconds, the glee of Philomène’s presence had turned to irritation. “Why are you not happy? We should be celebrating!”

Philomène’s face contorted into a grimace like she was unable to recognize the man standing before her. She batted his hand away and swiveled on her heels, leaving Marius alone to bask in what he believed to be his own success.