Le Colonial Read Free

beckoned.
    “Enter!” he said. “You will be more comfortable inside.”
    The copper urn emitted a steady glow under a thick layer of ash. Its light fell on the boxes of books he carried with him on his travels. The room’s heat had made the pages curl at the corners. The artist let out a groan of pleasure, thawing out his muscles in the warmth of the coal brazier. His cheeks were crimson. He covered his mouth to stifle a cough. Pierre offered the only chair to his guest and settled himself upon a wooden crate.
    “In this cold,” he muttered, “staying close to the hot coals can help protect the lungs against pneumonia. Do you feel better?”
    The young man nodded, still clutching his bundles.
    “I am Monsignor Pierre Pigneau de Béhaine,” he said. “And, sir, what is your name and title?” He leaned back, studying his guest.
    The artist regarded him steadily. “My name is François Gervaise. As you can see, I am just a humble painter with no title.”
    Pierre watched the artist scratch his head. The thick chestnut hair was pulled back in a braid.
    “Remove your coat,” he said. “Put down your possessions. Be comfortable!”
    François glanced at him from under his eyebrows and unbuttoned his coat. “I am sorry for choosing such a late hour to visit. If you wish, I can return at another time.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous!” the priest said. “You’re already here. I have been studying the painting you have left behind. That is what you wanted me to do, is it not?”
    “What I want is to get out of France,” blurted François.
    Pierre barked a laugh of astonishment. “And you think I can help you? Monsieur Gervaise, I don’t know how you came to that conclusion. How did you learn about me, or my lectures, or my planned voyages?”
    The artist looked back at him with blue eyes full of expectation. “At the Carthusian monastery of Val-de-Bénédiction.”
    “Oh, the charterhouse. Is it located across the river, in the town of Villeneuve lès Avignon?” asked the priest with a vague recognition.
    “Yes, sir. There were three monks who worked as almoners, feeding the hungry in one of the cloisters every afternoon. Your adventures have made you a man of legend. I overheard their conversation about you two days ago.”
    Again the monsignor laughed, rising from his seat. “Listen to me; I am a missionary, not a sea captain. I only recruit priests.” He reached for the door handle.
    “Please, let me explain,” François persisted. “You need an artist to capture the beauty of the lands you travel in and to chronicle your work. Remember the reaction of your students when they saw the painting? My art can help them experience the same excitement you once had. For that, you’ll need my assistance.”
    “Ah!” said the monsignor, narrowing his eyes. “So you have thought of everything to your advantage, even the response from my students. But have you thought about the dangers of these missions? The natives often react violently to intruders. You could be shunned, tortured, or even murdered.”
    “Every day I confront the same risks here in France.”
    The priest lowered his voice. “Monsieur Gervaise, you don’t act like an ordinary vagabond. In fact, you seem intelligent and calculating. Tell me, why is it so important for you to abandon this country? What are you running away from?”
    François slumped in his chair, looking down and tapping his foot against the stone floor. “We have just met,” he said. “I would rather not speak in detail of my past. All you need to know about me is my talent, and that I am a good and honest person. I can be of use.”
    Pierre turned his gaze to the nothingness outside his window. Even though he was just thirty years old, he knew how to use his poise to seem older. He enjoyed intimidating others and taking control of conversations. “Then why should I believe in your goodness? So far you have shown me only that you are a troubled soul.”
    The guest