A Painters Passion
The wonders of Paris were initially lost on Jocelyn. Her host, a dazzling young man with blue-black hair and violet eyes, gave her less than a day to recover from her journey. Philippe was enthusiastic and ambitious.
"Collin sent you to me to paint, not to pout!" He announced the evening after her arrival. "You fancied him." Jocelyn looked up startled. Philippe rolled his eyes elegantly. "You are not the first apprentice to fall for their master; you will not be the last. I fell so in love with my first teacher I barely got a thing done the first two years. He dismissed me, just as Collin has dismissed you, and now looks at me, the toast of Paris!" Philippe touched her hair. "Red hair, that is good, perhaps you will have a bit of passion in you, no?"
Jocelyn shoved his hand away. "Let's paint then since you are so eager."
Philippe laughed a sound very similar to Collins confident mocking laughter. "Excellent, to the studio"
Philippe's studio was not part of his opulent flat, but a claustrophobic loft in the seediest part of Paris. "This is to ensure that I am able to really feel the city itself" He responded when Jocelyn asked the reason for the unorthodox location.
"This," He said gesturing wildly to the dingy streets below. "Is the heart of Paris. I paint from life. Nowhere else in this city is more alive." Philippe sprinted and danced up the stairs two at a time. She followed at a sedate English pace; she would not be taunted by the wild Frenchman.
Liquor bottles littered the studios floor. The rooms smelled damp and stale with old cigarettes and decay. A large easel in the center of the room proudly held a partially finished work. The portrait was a breathtaking portrayal of a young nude woman whose face evoked and impossible hopeless, sadness. Jocelyn stood before it her jaw dropped in awe.
"Yes I know it is spectacular." Philippe said, his voice containing no modesty. "This is why Collin sent you to me, to learn to capture emotion. Your work is wooden, Mon Petite Rouge" He grinned, "Mine however is passion, fire!"
Philippe grabbed her, sweeping her into an oddly timed waltz. Despite herself Jocelyn began to laugh. "Melt Ice Princess!"
Abruptly he let her go. "Enough foolishness, we begin."
Philippe was an amazing teacher. He encouraged questions, showed through example, and dared her to defend her opinions, to experiment and open her mind. Her work was vastly improved by his exuberant tutelage. They worked late into the evenings, and then rushed into the streets to explore the taverns and theaters of Paris. No performance or play was too taboo or too risqué' for her wily mentor. The blushing English girl was left behind, and Philippe began to introduce her always as La Petite Rouge.
Philippe had become fascinated with the Moulin Rouge, and had convinced one of their most famous girls to pose for them. Her name was Yvette Monclair, a pale blond with alabaster skin and shining blue eyes. She swilled expensive champagne and smoked endless cigarettes. Her master was utterly charmed, but Jocelyn found little in the cancan girl to admire.
One late night Jocelyn was rude to Yvette, unable to contain her contempt any longer. Philippe opened his eyes wide in shock, and rushed to comfort her, only to be pushed away.
