Matthieu Amédeé Bonacieux
      It was a gorgeous day -- at least, that was how it appeared through the window. Having only just come inside, Matthieu knew that there was a cold bite in the air, remnant of a harsh winter. The sun shining down merrily in the blue sky gave the illusory appearance of spring warmth.
          But it will not be long 'til spring, he thought as he adjusted one of the long drapes of velvet that framed the aristocratic beauty next to him. With a few deft movements of his fingers golden sunlight spilled over her, setting her skin to glowing almost as brightly as the jewels she wore. The portrait would be a success, he knew -- the beauty of the Marquess de Belcour and the portal into her fantasy of a garden would be caught for eternity. Fleetingly he wished his master would let him have more of a hand in its creation, but he knew that he was too young to ask for such duties.
          Stepping back for perspective, he studied the setting once more to determine if it needed any other adjustments. No, everything was perfect. The sunlight glowed off her elaborate wig, the drapes matched her eyes, and even the folds of her gown were draped in artistic waves.
          "Will it be beautiful, cher?"
          Her voice, soft, light, interrupted his concentration. He glanced up, suddenly seeing her as a person instead of one of many components to be perfected. She was beautiful, he had to admit, though he knew her allure was enhanced by paint and costume and wig.
          "It will, madame," he answered, lowering his eyes respectfully, as he'd been taught. "M. Frérard will
create a master work for you."
          He heard the rustle of cloth as she stood, and he looked up at the unexpected movement. She approached him, an alluring smile on her lips, and when she reached his side she turned and looked at the setting. She studied it silently for a moment, then glanced at him.
          "I cannot judge it without someone sitting there." She pointed at her vacated chair.
          Matthieu hesitated, then complied with the implicit request.  But as he took the seat and then held still under her green gaze he could not help feeling uncomfortable. He was not used to being on this side of the canvas. It was difficult not to notice that she made no pretenses of examining the setting; her eyes found his face and left it only to travel leisurely down his body, then back to his eyes.
          "Has M. Frérard  ever painted you?" she asked, a hint of laughter in her voice as she walked toward him.
          "No. No, madame, he has not. I'm only his assistant."
          "Pity," she breathed. She paused in front of him, her dress brushing his knees, and then reached out a well-manicured hand to gently cup his chin. Tilting his head up, she forced him to meet her gaze. "You are quite beautiful.  One wouldn't mind looking at such a face for many years."
          Matthieu felt heat rising in his cheeks and knew he was blushing. "Madame is kind," he managed to say, wishing he could escape the situation. But with the arms of the chair around him and her in front he was quite trapped.
          "Madame can be very kind," she said, but there was something in her smile other than humor. "My husband and M. Frérard  will not enter until you tell them everything is ready. You will not do so until I consent."
          Leaning down, she pressed her lips against his. The kiss was soft but demanding, and as he tried to lean back, away, she pressed against him.
          Matthieu could not believe what was happening. Her husband was in the very next room; there was a servant watching them at the door! Fright was quickly overwhelming any desire she was evoking in him. When she took his hand and put in on the bare flesh above the plunging decolletage of her dress he did not do as she intended. Instead, he pushed her gently away.
          "Madame, no, your husband"
          She looked at him incredulously. "No?"
          He tried again. "Madame, it is not right."
          "Not right?" The words were no more than a hiss; her beautiful eyes narrowed.
          How had he ever thought this creature was attractive?
          "You would refuse me?" she asked, as if the entire situation was incomprehensible. She did not wait for him to respond; she must have seen the response in his eyes. Straightening, she gave him a glance of pure malice, then put her hands to the sides of her head.
          "Edvard! Edvard!" she shrieked.
          Matthieu shot to his feet, gaping at her inexplicable behavior. The door burst open and the Marquis de Belcour rushed in, followed by the painter Frérard  and a handful of servants. The Marquess ran to her husband and collapsed into his arms, sobbing delicately.
          "Edvard," she moaned pitiably. "That monster, that peasant, touched me. He kissed me! He tried"
          She did not have to say anything else. Already the Marquis' dark eyes were piercing Matthieu, even as he shook his head frantically.
          "No, my lord, I did nothing," he plead, but already he knew it was useless. He turned his pleading gaze to his teacher, and what he saw there was in some ways worse. Disbelief. Rejection. Frérard was washing his hands of the entire affair.
          The Marquis barked an order, and two large servants seized Matthieu by the arms.
          "Please, I did nothing." He glanced at the servant who had witnessed the entire event, but the man was stonefaced.
          "Take him to the courtyard," the Marquis ordered.
          Matthieu looked back once. He saw the hulking Marquis following close, and behind him the Marquess, sheltered in the arms a servant, smiling in satisfaction.