To Serve a King by Donna Russo Morin Page B

gentleman.”
    Geneviève waved her thanks, enthusiasm once more ignited by possibility.
    Back in the castle, Geneviève begged directions, running the distance of the ground floor to the opposite end. But in the cavernous, steamy chamber, she found no satisfaction. Blazing a crooked path through the rows of women bent over the pools of hot water and scrubbing boards, beneath the tents of drying sheets, she queried them all. But not a one of them had heard of Baron Pitou, cleaned his rooms, nor changed the linens on his bed. It was as if he never existed.
    Downtrodden, Geneviève began the trek back to the far wing of the castle and her rooms, refusing to give up the search, peeking into every open door, no matter how intrusive or discourteous her behavior may be.
    The colors flashed by—greens, yellows, and blues blurring in her peripheral vision like a fleeting landscape glimpsed from anopen carriage window—so vibrant they stopped her in her tracks, and she sidled back, tipping to the right to peek in the open portal.
    Wearing a slate-colored smock, the artist caressed the canvas with his brush, the scene he rendered so vivid Geneviève thought to jump in and run across the beckoning meadow.
    “Come in, mademoiselle. I would not mind.”
    His greeting startled Geneviève; she lowered her head, chagrined like the child caught filching another’s toy, but she did not retreat.
    “ Bonjour, monsieur.” She stepped across the threshold. Though small, as petite as her own, the room was elegantly appointed with polished mahogany furniture upholstered in auburn velvet, clean rushes upon the stone floor, a warm fire dancing in the small grate, and everywhere paintings lay propped against every available space.
    He turned, and his lopsided smile came as warm as any welcome could be. His long, thin face, topped by a dashing chapeau and punctuated by a prominent, arched nose, was much younger than she expected, unattractive yet affable.
    “Good day to you, mademoiselle …?”
    “Gravois, Geneviève Gravois.” She dipped a fine curtsy.
    “Mademoiselle Gravois.” He bowed low, his brush waving the air with a graceful flourish. “I am Lodovico Rinaldi Ribbati, molto lieto . It is so very nice to make your acquaintance.”
    “And you, Signor Ribbati.”
    “Ack, no, no!” The young man turned his twinkling, deep brown gaze back to his work with a shake of his shaggy-haired head. “Call me Lodovico, per favore . I hear ‘Signor Ribbati’ and I think my father is here. It makes me want to run away.” He laughed and leaned toward her. “He is not a very nice man.”
    Geneviève smiled with delight at his candid chicanery. “Perhaps you should paint him unbecomingly then.”
    Lodovico laughed. “Oh, I have, mademoiselle, many times.”
    His dexterous movements upon his canvas continued unabatedas they spoke and Geneviève looked on in wonder at such a gift; it was as if he possessed two brains, each able to function on a different task.
    “They are very happy to be there,” Geneviève said, her eye on the two figures in the background of the resplendent meadow. “I can feel their joy.”
    He turned with a frown and whined, “You can?”
    Geneviève swallowed, floundering at his response, thinking she had complimented him. “Uh, oui, but … but I like it. It is quite beautiful. But perhaps you endeavor to paint as the other Mannerists do?” she asked, pale brows high upon her crinkled forehead.
    It was Lodovico’s turn to be surprised, pleasantly so. “Yes, I do. You know of art then.” But with a frown, his displeasure returned. “But I’m quite inept at it. It appears I am unable to keep my heart out of my hand.”
    He waved his brush-brandishing appendage as if angry with it.
    “Yes, and those lucky enough to look upon your work feel all that is in your heart. It is a wonderful thing,” Geneviève assured him, stepping past the young artist to study the other canvases lined up along the wall, drinking in