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The Portrait of Petite Adalie

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Prologue

Paris gave Adalie a migraine. She had them daily anyway, but the grime and smoke that clouded the train station really didn't help.

She put her black veil over her face to ward the fetid fumes off. That made it harder to see where she was going, but thankfully, big brother Arthur led her by the hand. All she did was follow him like a droopy balloon and bump into him at times when he stopped abruptly.

Adalie loved it when others took care of the boring stuff for her. Choosing the way, making note of where to turn, or the horse carriages to avoid -- all the stuff she had no interest in.

She daydreamed instead. And the black veil that hid the ugly world from her eyes was such a great canvas on which her imagination could paint whatever she wanted.

"Hey, hey, hey!" Arthur yelled at a passerby who had almost hit both of them with his elbow. "Look where you're going, idiot! You could have killed us!"

"Talk louder, little brat and I just might," came the man's grumbling reply as his huge shadow loomed over Arthur's twiggy frame.

Dreamy, Adalie blinked inside her veil, trying to imagine what this man looked like without actually peeking out to see.

He must look dangerous, ah. Big, with a hooked nose. Utterly mean.

She also wondered how she could draw him with his head caved in for talking to Arthur in this undignified manner. The question was never whether she could. But only -- in which position and from which innovative angle.

Mmm, all the most important things to consider...

As always, Arthur was quick to improvise out of a tight situation. "A huge man bullying little children, ladies and gentlemen! Hurry up and witness while you still can! Paris, Eastern Train Station, 1867, canvas, oil!"

The man's reaction was that of stunned silence.

Then, after a long minute, "Huh?"

"Not a man of culture, I presume?" Arthur said even louder. "Tut, tut. And I thought Paris is known for how educated its people are."

Of course, the situation resolved itself straight away. Nobody wanted to deal with some strange young kids who called too much unwanted attention to themselves. Especially when these kids looked as clean, proper, and elegant as Arthur and Adalie did. With the flowers and ribbons in Adalie's hair bow, frills in her dark-red dress, and with the tasteful cravat around Arthur's neck and a hat on his head -- they both belonged more on a fancy postcard than on a grimy Paris street.

Most wouldn't believe these two weren't followed around by some strict governess or a burly butler to shield their childish innocence from any harm.

But nope. Just Arthur and Adalie here.

And luckily for her, Arthur was more than enough to deal with the world outside her veil so that she never had to bother.

"Now where's this stupid School of Fine Arts in this godforsaken city?" Arthur spat, poring over the paper map he had taken out of his waistcoat. He had trouble unfolding the paper with only one hand, but Adalie couldn't let his other hand out of her grip. Not that he minded.

With a satisfying crunch, Arthur crumpled the map to stash it away again. He'd decided on the route. His dark resolve translated to Adalie as he made his way, swinging their clasped hands back and forth.

"Here we come, Paris. Prepare to tremble and kneel before the true artistic talent, ha-ha!"

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Yet all their great expectations shattered against the bleak reality quite fast.

"How old are you, monsieur?" the fancily-dressed art teacher asked Arthur.

In his hands, he held Adalie's folder of silverpoint drawings. If at first, he and some of his peers had been yawning as they took a peek inside it, by the folder's end, most of the men's eyebrows had crept up well into their hairlines.

Well, no wonder.

Adalie was very proud of these drawings, herself.

Unamused, Arthur barely gave the men a glance. "Huh? What does my age have to do with it? We're thirteen if you're so inclined to ask (pervert)."

Thank God, the teacher didn't hear the 'pervert' part. Most people didn't enjoy Arthur's dark teasing at all. But to alleviate any potential problem with Arthur's rudeness, Adalie finally broke her silence.

"The drawings are mine," she said. "Arthur is a poet. I am the painter, messieurs." Her voice was soft and sweet as her mom had taught her it should be.

Unlike the precocious and arrogant boys, girls should never raise their tone or flash their temper in front of others. Only a cute little smile and dimples in her cheeks. The only things the world would ever want her to show.

And she obliged.

She even made a quick curtsy. "Adalie Rimbaud, at your service."

"My sister will be the greatest artist in this entire school, I tell you," Arthur echoed. "Come on, you've seen what she can do. Accept her already!"

But the moment Adalie had spoken to them, all the men in the room had already grown disinterested. Some looked awkward while others left the room, shaking their heads.

"Well," the art teacher spoke to Arthur again, timid. "I'm afraid that's not how this works, monsieur. Alas. But girls just aren't... accepted in the School of Fine Arts."

Oh.

She should have known.

Adalie smiled a tiny bit wider. But just as sweetly as before.

But Arthur had a harder time understanding. "Huh? Why?" he demanded. "I saw women there in the halls when he came here!"

"Those are... um..." The teacher became intensely uncomfortable. "Nude study models, khm-khm."

Miserably, he gave Adalie her folder back.

She took it with another curtsy.

From over the wide window, another of the artists who had been so intrigued by Adalie's art a moment ago, turned to her. A mustached young dandy.

His voice was playfully flippant as he leaned over Adalie's chair. "Hey, don't look so flustered, young mademoiselle. Nude models also get to participate in the art world. Most would say it's even better than to be a painter! You'd get immortalized in a portrait without having to do anything other than look pretty, ha-ha-ha. So if you're interested in modeling for the real artists, then she can come back in a couple of years or so. I'll personally make sure to find some good deal for you then." He gave Adalie a quick up-and-down, then smirked at Arthur. "Your sister seems to have a nice bone structure under all these frills, monsieur."

With a shy giggle on her lips, Adalie studied his face a moment.

Just a moment. All she needed to remember his features perfectly.

If this man thought that being a model for a painting was better than being the artist, she could surely help him with that.

However, Arthur glared at the dandy in the open.

"Is this a joke?" Arthur gritted out. "Please tell me this was a joke."

"No, no," the dandy chuckled, waving him off. "Just an honest proposition, young man. Lighten up. It's not a great tragedy for humankind -- to lose out on a single artist. Your sister is good, but not that good. She'll soon find something else she'll be much better at than drawing. I'm sure of it."

Teasing, Arthur smacked Adalie in the elbow. "Did you hear? He just said it. It's not a great tragedy for humankind to lose out on a single artist. Then I guess he won't mind what will happen to him tonight, hmmm?"

He spoke just loud enough that most people in the vicinity could hear. The art teacher in front of Arthur blinked fast in dismay, but the dandy only laughed at Arthur's words.

"And what will happen to me tonight?"

"I don't know." Arthur shrugged lazily. "Being shot at? Drowning? Exploding? Many things. Anything you can imagine, my friend. Just order, and you'll get it."

Now even those few who had been ignoring this conversation became drawn to it. Snickers and stifled laughter surged through the room.

"Oh, these children are entertaining."

"How much further can one embarrass themselves after being rejected, heh."

The dandy propped himself on his walking stick. Then gave Arthur a coy wink. "I can order, huh? Sure." He paused to think, then ah-ed as though arriving at a great idea. "Guillotine."

Arthur flicked his gaze to Adalie.

And all Adalie did was tilt her head in a subtle nod at the dandy's great taste in picking his own death.

So people had been right all along:

Those who went to the School of Fine Arts in Paris were, indeed, a very creative bunch.

She approved.

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