Le Colonial

Le Colonial Read Free Page A

Book: Le Colonial Read Free
Author: Kien Nguyen
Tags: Fiction, Literary, General, Sagas
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coughed as he traced a crack in the wall with his fingernail.
    “Are these your drawings?” the priest asked, reaching for the artist’s sketchbook.
    Without asking permission, he turned the pages, going through them with the tips of his fingers, discarding each sheet of paper on his bed as if he were sorting through a deck of cards. The room was silent except for the rustling of the pages and the crackling of the coals.
    “These are the work of a talented artist,” he said after a moment. “Where did you learn such technique? Who was your teacher?”
    “My skill has been largely self-taught.”
    The priest responded with a look of doubt.
    “At the age of sixteen,” added François, “I was introduced to Monsieur Jean-Baptiste-Siméon Chardin in his apartment at the Louvre and was fortunate enough to be invited to attend his master class.”
    Pierre was taken aback. Chardin was, in his opinion, one of the finest painters of his day, although unappreciated by the Royal Academy because of his simple subjects. He remembered seeing one of the artist’s early works, a painting of a youth playing with cards.
    He cleared his throat. “Monsieur Chardin has the support of many wealthy patrons, including His Majesty King Louis XV. How can you, a drifter, claim the company of such an illustrious individual?”
    François’s only answer was to continue tracing the invisible pattern on the wall. Pierre’s patience was fleeing.
    “I have a strict policy,” he said. “Because you cannot answer my simplest questions, I will not be able to accept you. What kind of missionary would you be if you cannot be forthright with your superiors?”
    “In due time, sir, I will.”
    “Time is something I have very little of. Soon I will be leaving this seminary. If you have anything to say, tell me now. As a priest I am bound by God to keep my silence when it involves a confession. Are you a Catholic, my son?”
    “Yes, I am,” replied François.
    “Then tell me who you are, where you came from, if you want to join me.”
    The artist gathered his drawings from the bed and stacked them back in the sketchbook, saying nothing.
    Pierre dismissed his guest with a wave. “You are a fool!” he said. “I can no longer be bothered with your nonsense.”
    François’s face darkened with defeat. Leaning forward, he muttered in dismay, “Please, wait.” With downcast eyes, he said, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two years, four-and-twenty days since my last confession. I was born in Villaume on the thirty-first of October. The year was 1751.”
    Under the flickering light of the candles, a smile tugged at the corners of the monsignor’s mouth. He reached under his pillow for the wooden box that held his Bible.
    As François uttered the words that led to his past, shame flooded his soul. The artist had come to visit the priest with one hope in mind—escape. He had believed that his talent would be enough to impress the monsignor. But now, although the priest was expressing interest in his sketches, he realized that to achieve his goal, he must give up a part of himself.
    François was in despair. Before he arrived in Avignon, he had been struggling to find the barest necessities of life. All the changes he had made seemed to lead him in a downward spiral. He was elated to be inside a warm room and hated the prospect of returning to the bitter cold outside.
    “Villaume,” said the priest. “Where is it?”
    “Sir . . .”
    “Don’t tell me,” interrupted de Béhaine. “I’ve heard this name before. Is it between the towns of Saint Gilles and Beaucaire, in Nîmes?”
    François nodded. The sound of his village’s name coming from the mouth of a stranger made him realize how unprepared he was to confront his past.
    “I was born in Villaume,” he repeated. “As an infant of about a week, I was abandoned in the stable of Saint Mary Magdalene Priory and was discovered by one of the priests. That was the only

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