Chapter 3

Pierre followed Leon through the neighborhood’s back alleys until they reached the cafe strip that they often frequented. He wondered which establishment they would go to this time; they often holed up in one of these places to drink absinthe and talk the night away, and it didn’t really matter where they went as long as there was good company and absinthe fountains.

Pierre was partial to absinthe. He liked the sedation, inebriation, and hallucination he experienced from the drink without his body going limp into a stupor like it had the night before in the smoking den; he wanted to wash away that confusing experience as soon as he could. He followed Leon into the first cafe that they came across, where they settled at a table with a few friends who were already there. Leon signaled for absinthe for the two of them.

As Pierre poured the water from the glass fountain over his sugar, he watched the water mix with the alcohol to form a cloudy drink in the glass. He placed the spoon on the table after the sugar dissolved, content to stare at the swirling of opaque hues through the liquid. Everything that day seemed to remind him of the stranger—the louching of the spirits seemed to be just as mysterious as the stranger himself. That’s if the stranger had been real.

Pierre sighed. Pierre couldn’t help remembering his innate beauty and the way the man in his dream had whispered in his ear. He had always yearned for a soulmate or someone tied to him by some sort of destiny. The books that he read by candlelight in his room and the talks that he shared with the other artists and lovesick poets he knew meant that he wanted a sweet, virgin maiden. A lover. And he felt attracted to that man, too, to his surprise.

He looked up from his drink to listen to his friends.

“Everything okay, Pierre?” Leon asked.

“Yes, just a little tired after last night.”

Leon nodded with understanding. “Last night was quite an experience. You’ll adapt to it once you’ve been a few times.”

As he said that, one of the other artists called for Leon’s attention. They resumed a conversation about painting. One of the poets at the table wanted to do a reading. They all gave him his attention as he stood at the end of the table to recite something that he had written that day. As Pierre listened, he gazed idly around the room. He was shocked to see the man from the night before—catching a glimpse of him as he, too, noticed Pierre. After they held each other’s eyes for a moment, the stranger smirked.

He was dressed in a black coat with a gold shirt, black vest, and striped trousers—stylish and well-groomed. He had the same striking amber eyes and black hair, with those attractive sideburns Pierre had noticed in the op**m den. As he winked at Pierre, he surprised the young artist. Pierre jumped out of his seat to run after him, not even stopping to don his coat. When he stepped out into the street, he saw no one there...Just the gaslights casting silent pools of light onto the cobblestones. With a sigh, he returned to the cafe. When he returned to his seat, the others were settling the bill.

“What are we doing?” he asked them.

“There’s a gathering at Richard’s salon. A few of us are going. Get your coat and join us,” Leon said.

Pierre slipped his arms through the sleeves to shrug his coat on. They walked through the sooty streets until they reached Richard’s place, where many of their friends had gathered. Pierre followed Leon in through the crowd of inebriated artists to squeeze onto a settee near the window. They were handed a bottle of wine from the others, which they helped themselves to. After a couple of hours of drinking and talking, Pierre still couldn’t forget his dream suitor. He looked up at the doorway when a movement caught his eye. It was him! The man from his dream had stopped in the doorway to look into the room. When Pierre noticed him, he nodded in greeting.

Pierre jumped up to walk over to him.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

The stranger smiled. “What a way to greet someone...”

Pierre smiled. “We’ve already met, though. Haven’t we?”

The stranger smiled. “Yes, we have.”

“Last night, right?”

“Yes, Pierre,” the stranger said with amusement.

Pierre gasped as his name rolled off the man’s tongue, pronounced so tenderly. He pulled the man by the hand to a loveseat against the opposite wall. Once they were settled, he had more questions for him.

“What’s your name? Why do I keep seeing you around?”

“My name’s Antoine. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Charmed to meet you, too. Are you from around here?”

“I’m an artist, just passing through,” Antoine replied.

“Ah, that’s why I keep seeing you among us.”

What followed was a conversation with some flirting and flattery on Antoine’s part. Pierre thoroughly enjoyed the attention. He was also drawn to Antoine’s attractive face. He realized that his drawings from memory hadn’t captured Antoine’s confident, ethereal glow. When Antoine suggested that they step outside on the balcony to talk some more, Pierre felt a magnetic pull to join him.

They discussed art for a while. While Antoine talked, Pierre secretly studied him. Pierre had no experience with women, and Antoine was definitely not that, but he took a risk and leaned into Antoine’s neck, complimenting his cologne; he wanted to be as close to him as possible.

“You’re friendly,” Antoine said with amusement.

“I feel drawn to you,” Pierre said simply.

“I feel the same way about you.”

Pierre felt mesmerized as Antoine leaned in. They kissed, brief and fleeting, leaning against the wrought iron railing. Antoine tasted like herbs, and there was a faint copper aftertaste again. Pierre parted his lips to let Antoine run his tongue over them. Antoine whispered that Pierre was quite bold to reciprocate the kiss, following it up with a few more kisses before he pulled back, acting as though nothing out of the ordinary had just happened when someone else stepped out onto the balcony.

The gaslights were the only illumination to their faces as they leaned over the railings to look out into the street. After a minute, Antoine ducked inside to get them a drink. It reminded Pierre of looking for him at the cafe—the man moved fast. As he studied Antoine upon his return, he noticed that he carried himself with great poise—a grace more refined than the others at the salon. Pierre wanted to capture his likeness before he disappeared again.

“I’d love to paint you. May I?” he asked.

“I’d like that,” Antoine said.

“That’s great! Right now, I mean. Tonight!”

Antoine raised an eyebrow at his eagerness. “Okay.”