Chapter 506

“It was my mistake. I was the one who was wrong. Why did I ever put my paintings in the Salon? Why did I let people learn the name Eugène Lamour?”

Eugène Lamour’s bleak voice drifted through the air. It was as if time had stopped, and the only things still moving in the room were his lips and vocal cords.

“It’s over now. I think I’ve endured this long enough. If you’re all human beings, then leave me alone starting tomorrow.”

“Sir Eugène Lamour! What do you mean by that? When did you decide this?”

“Did you make this decision because of what Sir Guéret said? When are you going to sell the paintings you have left?”

The reporters rose from their seats and shouted. The sound of chairs scraping and falling, pens scratching across paper, reporters calling their newspapers… The theater, which had been so quiet moments ago, became as noisy as a marketplace.

As the veil over my mind began to lift, I stared at him with my mouth hanging open, wondering if I had heard him wrong.

He was retiring.

An artist’s retirement had essentially the same economic effect as an artist’s death. From this point on, the prices of Eugène Lamour’s paintings would skyrocket. Not only the paintings already in the hands of other collectors, but even the works held by the Eugène Lamour Foundation would become worth dozens of times more. It depended on the individual painting, but most would probably sell for several billion won, while large works recognized internationally could fetch more than ten billion won.

Eugène Lamour roughly folded the contract his secretary had handed him and slipped it into his jacket pocket with a smile. Vernell Guéret’s face stiffened.

With Eugène Lamour’s announcement of his retirement, the one hundred thousand francs bond—worth one billion won—that Vernell Guéret had acquired had suddenly become an absurdly cheap purchase. If he hadn’t handed it over just now, he could have sold one oil painting and three sketches for at least two billion won immediately. If he had been willing to hold onto them as an investment until their prices rose further, he could have gotten even more.

Eugène Lamour probably wouldn’t have retired if Vernell Guéret hadn’t signed the contract. But regardless, Vernell Guéret had acquired the bond, and the four paintings had gone back to being Eugène Lamour’s property.

As Eugène Lamour laughed, his throat showing as though some of the resentment he had carried for ten years had finally loosened, Vernell Guéret was the first among the stunned audience to flush with anger. Veins writhed beneath the thin skin of his forehead.

Whether he was angry at Lamour’s undignified behavior, angry at being mocked, angry at having received less money than he could have, or perhaps all three at once, I couldn’t tell.

But whatever Vernell Guéret might have thought, Eugène Lamour wasn’t smiling because he was happy to have gotten his revenge on him. If Guéret thought Lamour had singled him out and attacked him out of deep-seated hatred, that was a serious misunderstanding. No matter what anyone else might say, Lamour knew that much for certain. Eugène Lamour was in the process of freeing himself—not from Vernell Guéret, but from the world that surrounded him.

Eugène Lamour looked as though he wanted to cry and laugh at the same time. There wasn’t a single tear in his eyes, but I thought his face had twisted from within. His smile was so fleeting that it barely felt like a smile at all.

Had Eugène Lamour really chosen of his own free will to lay down his brush? No. This was a cessation forced upon him by others. But to anyone watching, it would look like this—

Eugène Lamour gripped the voice amplification artifact tightly, his eyes filled with emotion, and spoke passionately.

“I should have done this long ago! Ah, what have I been painting for all this time? I don’t know anymore! I was too young. I knew nothing, and I never imagined it would end up like this. I thought it was amazing that I could create my own world with nothing but canvas, paint, brushes, and charcoal. So I foolishly believed that if I submitted my paintings to the Salon like everyone else, I could spread my joy to others as well. How stupid of me to think people would actually look at the paintings!”

Eugène Lamour pointed a finger at Vernell Guéret.

“You dare speak of art and criticism? Did you even look at my paintings closely enough to criticize them? You said I knew nothing about art or criticism. But you’re the ones who started seeing me as a famous person instead of an artist. Instead of opening new horizons of interpretation for the public, you’re obsessed with tearing me apart. Perhaps people like you are the reason condemning someone to the point of death has become part of the entertainment of this age.”

“Sir Lamour!”

“Wait! Sir Lamour, you need to see this!”

The reporters shouted the moment he finished speaking. Eugène Lamour continued despite his displeased expression, while a reporter from the back of the room rolled up a newspaper and rushed onto the stage.

“The article Saxony Daily announced has just been published.”

Already? Had they decided they couldn’t delay the report any longer after listening to the press conference? The timing couldn’t have been worse. At this rate, Eugène Lamour’s retirement speech was going to turn into a statement of explanation.

I quickly turned my head. Elias unfolded a newspaper that had been folded in half and handed it to me.

[Eugène Lamour Returns to the Academic Style]

[Previously Unreleased Work from Private Collection Leaked… A Complete Return to the Academic Style, What Will He Do Next?]

What was this?

I was at a loss for words. The leaked photograph beneath the proudly displayed headlines was blurry, but it was unmistakably Eugène Lamour’s latest work. At the same time, it clearly bore the style of his younger days. Neither Elias nor Mecklenburg said a word. For a moment, neither did the audience. Everyone was watching for Eugène Lamour’s reaction.

“Is this supposed to be shocking news?”

Eugène Lamour spoke in a voice drained of all energy and simply stared at the newspaper for a long while. Then he threw it down and muttered, “They’re all insane. They’re blinded by circulation numbers.”

“You went so far as to hold a press conference over something like this. Good for you!”

Someone shouted in German with a French accent. Eugène Lamour answered bluntly, his expression dulled.

“So stalking is nothing to worry about now? I thought this would just become another reason to attack me. If nothing happened, you should have been relieved that nothing happened. Instead, you all seem to have been hoping I’d committed some crime.”

Eugène Lamour angrily held up the newspaper’s front page.

“I’m the one who should really be angry! Where did you get this photograph this time? Who am I supposed to suspect now? I painted this at my home a month ago. How could it possibly have gotten out?”

“Sir Lamour! Then is it true that you painted it yourself? Have you returned to the style of your youth?”

One reporter shouted the question, prompting the others to speak up as well.

“Sir Lamour, you clearly said earlier that you couldn’t continue to adhere to Academism. Why did you paint your new work in the academic style?”

“You had already painted your return piece, and now a completely harmless exclusive has been published. Are you still going to stand by your retirement announcement? Do you have any intention of returning?”

“Wait a moment!”

A critic stood up from the audience, which had once again become as noisy as a marketplace. He narrowed his eyes and lifted the corners of his mouth as he spoke. “Sir Eugène Lamour, you’re a man who knows how to accept criticism. And yet, wasn’t that long speech about how sick and tired you were of our criticism simply because your pride wouldn’t allow you to accept it? You were capable of returning to the academic style, and you wanted to do it yourself! If you’re now trying to claim that you didn’t return to the academic style because of criticism, then I suggest you take a serious look at yourself. Can you really say that our criticism had no influence whatsoever on your work?”

Elias’s mouth fell open. There were so many people here that bizarre remarks were coming from every direction. And yet, the essence of what that critic was saying was nothing unfamiliar. It was the same old argument. The critic gradually put more conviction into his voice.

“Sir Guéret is right. True art can flourish when you listen to the criticism offered by our critics instead of dismissing it, and use it to improve. That academic style is a perfect example. Once art goes down the wrong path, there may be no turning back. There is a danger that not only your work, but the entire course of art itself, could become frivolous and incomprehensible. In that sense, your return to the academic style means that your artistic talent can develop in a healthier direction from now on, and that you can have a positive influence on the art world in France and around the globe.”

Lamour stood there silently, his mouth hanging open. Just like Elias. His eyes were half-lidded again as he stared blankly into the distance. He muttered, dazed, “You think that if you lecture me about the parts of myself you don’t like, I’ll eventually fix them, don’t you?”

“No, it isn’t something that can be put so simply. In more professional terms, it would be mutual—”

“The reason I incorporated elements of the academic style into my painting was because my mind found a point where it connected with the past. Why are you taking credit for the result of my own personal reflection? Are you going to claim ownership of my paintings next?”

“Sir Lamour, you have certainly been exposed to countless critiques. Art magazines all over the world are watching you. Wherever you go, you can find assessments of your paintings. Can you really say that painting was solely the result of your personal reflection? Can you really say that the criticism of your style had no influence on it whatsoever?”

The critic tilted his head, trying to convince him. Eugène Lamour’s expression relaxed again at those words. He shook his head, his face looking a little lighter, much like when he had announced his retirement.

“I can’t read articles written about me.”

I checked the time and turned around. Already fifty minutes. A lot of time had passed—and nothing had happened. At least until the press conference was over, it seemed like I could leave things to Elias and Mecklenburg.

“What?”

Mecklenburg raised an eyebrow as he watched Askanien turn and disappear. He reached out to grab Askanien by the shoulder, but his hand caught nothing.

“Where are you going?”

“…….”

“Hey!”

There was no answer. Feeling increasingly annoyed, Mecklenburg watched Askanien’s retreating back.

“What’s wrong with your friend?”

Hohenzollern said nothing either.

“Do we really not need to follow him? Should I go after him?”

“Don’t.”

“Why?”

“Don’t you think there’s a reason I’m not following him? And do you really need to go after him, Senior?”

Hohenzollern gave Mecklenburg an irritated look before turning away. At a loss for words, Mecklenburg furrowed his brow slightly and fell silent. Had this guy suddenly dyed his hair black and turned black-hearted along with it…? Or had he always been like this? He probably had. Mecklenburg had heard enough about his personality to have a rough idea.

Meanwhile, Sir Lamour asked the critic, “Would you be able to read a piece of criticism with your own name on it?”

The critic thought about it seriously before answering.

“I understand your troubles, Sir Lamour, but I can. We’re different people, after all.”

“You’ve never woken up in the middle of the night having a fit. You’ve never thought, just from imagining the newspaper articles that would come out the day after the Salon, that you’d rather die tonight and have them report your obituary tomorrow.”

Eugène Lamour was smiling. He looked like a man who had lost his mind. Mecklenburg was worried, but he was also certain that the man was ill. If he was having this much trouble carrying on with his life as a professional, he really ought to go to a hospital and seek medical help. And Mecklenburg also thought the French who kept pushing Lamour into saying things like this had gone too far.

“Even if I come to Bavaria, the people following me will write articles about me whether I go to Africa or Asia. And when a few years have passed and people are starting to forget me, they’ll bring up my name again. They’ll do the same even after I’m dead.”

“Isn’t that something to be proud of, perhaps?”

Eugène Lamour ignored the question and continued.

“If there’s nowhere left for me to flee to on this earth, there’s only one place left to go. But has anyone ever forgotten the name of a politician who went to hell after his death? If I want to escape your malice, the only thing I can do is turn back time and return to before I ever submitted a painting to the Salon. In other words, there is no way out. So even in death, I remain alive, and even in life, I am dead, constantly being taken apart by you. Do you think someone like that can open a newspaper?”

To be honest, Mecklenburg couldn’t understand what he was saying. Eugène Lamour’s words seemed to bounce off him, as though he were speaking in a foreign language Mecklenburg had never heard before.

“I had already been painting long before any of you knew I existed. I took every canvas I had made up to that point and poured it back into each new painting, building a world that had grown as large as my own life and pouring that into my work as well. All I have done is remain consistent with the artistic vision I held from the very beginning of my career. That is all. So to say that what I attempted a month ago was the result of your criticism is taking things too far. I’m afraid that if you take it as proof that I accepted your criticism, you’ll do the same thing to other painters. People like you viciously attack young celebrities who marry beneath their station, until you ultimately tear the two of them away from their fate. By that same principle, you are using your pens and your words to tear me away from free artistic expression.”

Eugène Lamour was remarkably calm compared to before. He was no longer angry. Perhaps thinking he had lost his mind for a moment had been a mistake. Mecklenburg felt somewhat relieved. But that, too, was a mistake.

As if he meant to pick another fight, Eugène Lamour pointed at Vernell Guéret.

“Let’s settle this once and for all. I trust you’re not the sort of person to walk out in the middle of a conversation. From here on, Sir Vernell Guéret, I’d like you to answer me. Anyone who is mature enough to understand people should know this as well: nothing a person does in life can exist without reflecting their own strengths and weaknesses. Is that right?”

Mecklenburg felt a headache coming on. He turned to Hohenzollern beside him.

“…Isn’t he basically mocking what Sir Guéret said earlier, just with different wording, before he announced his retirement? Or am I the only one hearing it that way?”

Hohenzollern did not answer.

Eugène Lamour waited for Vernell Guéret’s answer, but Guéret remained standing at attention, staring at Lamour with a sharp gaze. In the end, Eugène Lamour spoke again.

“Some people condemn gold as extravagant when it is brought before them, while others praise gold itself as something like the sun. Whose words are we supposed to follow? A person who listens to everyone will accomplish neither his own work nor anyone else’s. In the end, he is no different from someone who spends a single season building a house that will come crashing down the moment the wind blows. So who, exactly, should we seat on the donkey’s back? If you received criticism about your poetry saying that it was incoherent and weak, would you turn it overnight into something firm and resolute? The altered work might look solid at first glance, but it would be fleeting, like ice left beneath the summer sun. If we are speaking of true strength, a sincere poem that may look delicate yet swears its truth before God is far more resilient. There is a difference between accepting criticism through constructive discussion and being swayed like a reed by every word that anyone says. Yet everyone here seems to want me to be swayed by criticism.”

Perhaps feeling that his own words had unfairly put Vernell Guéret in the line of fire, the critic eventually sat down, his face ashen. It was obvious that he was unhappy that his opinion had not been accepted. Lamour continued speaking as though the critic weren’t even there, which made Mecklenburg think that Lamour wasn’t exactly a pleasant person.

“Sir Guéret. Put yourself in my shoes. Is allowing yourself to be swayed by criticism really fair to the people who trust you to give them your honest opinion on poetry? More importantly, is it the right thing to do for yourself? If I paint an academic work because I want to, is that wrong, while painting one because I followed your lectures is somehow right?”

“Sir Lamour! I have a question!”

Eugène Lamour waved the reporter off and waited until the room fell silent. He looked only at Vernell Guéret, whose eyes were bloodshot, and spoke. He crooked a finger toward him.

“You have belittled me as not being an artist until the very end, so for the sake of my last shred of dignity, I’ll defend myself ‘as an artist’ this time. Most people who look at paintings like to talk about the painting itself. They don’t care to talk about me nearly as much. They may ask about my life because it helps them understand the painting, and perhaps that is a reasonable thing for a viewer to ask. So whenever I appeared at the Salon myself, I always answered their questions honestly. For example, when they asked whether my wife’s death was what led me to paint a particular work, I told them it was. But the purpose of their questions is entirely to help them appreciate the work or satisfy some simple curiosity arising from it. They aren’t trying to make money by turning it into a scoop, determine whether I’m guilty or innocent, or manipulate my character for the sake of entertainment. To them, I’m a painter who makes unusual paintings and the owner of those paintings, not a celebrity who exists to make headlines.”

“Sir Lamour!”

Reporters shouted and flashes went off after every sentence. Eugène Lamour continued speaking to Vernell Guéret with a calm expression, as though he couldn’t hear them.

“Most viewers listen carefully when I, the artist, stand beside a painting and explain the story behind it. But in the end, they know how to project their own lives onto the painting and turn it into something new. Even if I painted a piece based on my wife’s death, they might see the death of a friend in it, or the end of an old era, or the erosion of our sense of human rights. Some might even interpret death as a new beginning. On the other hand, when I painted a picture emphasizing the light and darkness of the Industrial Revolution, a viewer might see their own illness reflected in it and think about how it has affected their life. It may have become something quite different from what I intended, but I consider that a great honor. I believe that is what healthy reinterpretation is, and how we open up the infinite possibilities of a painting. They don’t look at my paintings and make thoughtless claims that Eugène Lamour went mad after his wife’s death, developed a teenage mentality, or became a drug addict. Nor do they make baseless claims that I am having a harmful influence on society. Your interpretations, too, have become quite different from my intentions, just as the others’ did. But I consider that an insult. Where does this difference come from?”

Eugène Lamour held the voice amplification artifact out toward the audience.

“Wow.”

Hohenzollern, who had worn a grim expression the entire time, gave the faintest smile—it still looked grim on him. Vernell Guéret, on the other hand, said nothing, merely staring wide-eyed. It was obvious that he was already no longer listening to Eugène Lamour. He was too consumed by anger to take in anything being said around him.

Unlike Hohenzollern, Mecklenburg let out a sigh with a strange, hard-to-place feeling. He understood some of it, but for the most part, everything Lamour said sounded like something floating far above his head.

“I was often told that I was an odd child from a young age. My teacher also told me that there was something unusual about the way my mind worked, and that nothing but painting could give an outlet to my madness. He said that proper painting—by which he meant academic painting—could channel my madness in the right direction.”

Mecklenburg had read about that in an interview with Eugène Lamour. He just hadn’t realized the man was actually this strange. He almost nodded out of familiarity. Eugène Lamour turned his head from side to side and calmly addressed the audience.

“And after I changed my style, I started hearing even more often that I was completely mad. They said that no matter how you looked at it, my way of seeing things was far removed from normal, making my work fascinating yet uncomfortable to people with ordinary perspectives like yours. But I was never particularly hurt by evaluations that spoke about my state of mind in that way. Instead, I always found them deeply refreshing. Anyone with a little sense can tell the difference between the same words being praise, criticism, or a personal insult. I can also tell when a piece disguises itself as objective criticism while every word betrays how desperately the writer wants to insult me as a painter. These crude, insulting critiques are easy to notice because they become sensationally popular with the public or certain groups. Sir Guéret, the difference comes down to whether there is any human respect behind it. Did you know that I could tell all of this apart?”

“…….”

“You judged me to have dementia because you thought my style was utterly barbaric, a disgrace to art. You’re so obsessed with goals that have nothing to do with the work itself, and you value those goals more than human dignity, so you search my paintings for reasons to condemn me. That’s because you don’t see me as a person. You see me as a famous person who could have a negative influence on the art world.”

“Sir Lamour, I have a question. Then what about the painting—”

As the reporters seemed ready to bombard him with questions again, Eugène Lamour raised an open hand. His gaze remained fixed on Guéret.

“The moment my work passed through your mind, it became somewhat removed from the intention with which I first picked up my brush. Every judgment, assumption, and statement you make reflects the depths of your own mind. And because you feel no remorse about exposing what lies at the bottom of yourself, I have no choice but to retire.”

“…….”

“I’m glad to break my brush. You should understand this clearly. I’m giving up painting because I don’t want to be killed by people like you. It’s not because I no longer want to paint…”

Eugène Lamour trailed off, then seemed to collect himself before continuing.

“Only the paintings completed up until yesterday will be sold. After that, I will not make any of my paintings public. There will be no next painting. Even if there is one, I won’t put it on the market. I won’t exhibit it anywhere. But you’ll go home and write another critique, won’t you? I intend to continue treating you with respect, as I always have, so I hope you will at least show me the basic human decency I deserve from now on. That is my plea to a fellow citizen of my homeland, France.”

Mecklenburg hadn’t seen Vernell Guéret’s face because he had been watching Eugène Lamour’s expression. But Lamour seemed to have noticed everything, because he shook his head.

“You seem to dislike even the idea of me considering you a fellow citizen. I suppose it wouldn’t make sense to you. To you, I was never a fellow citizen, but a celebrity.”

Eugène Lamour looked around at the audience and let out a small laugh. Unlike when the press conference had begun, his face now looked almost relieved.

“I won’t take back my decision to retire, but I hope we can meet again tomorrow on better terms. Even if we never meet again through our work, let’s at least remember each other that way. That is my final request.”

Vernell Guéret stared at Eugène Lamour for a long while before turning around and leaving. In the end, Vernell Guéret neither agreed with Lamour’s words nor accepted them. Perhaps it couldn’t be helped, given how deep the rift between them had become.

Lamour watched Guéret’s retreating figure for a moment before disappearing down the opposite hallway without answering the reporters’ barrage of questions.

Mecklenburg still wasn’t satisfied that Eugène Lamour had tried to treat Vernell Guéret kindly to the very end. He was glad that Lamour had dealt him such a massive financial loss, but if it had been Mecklenburg, he wouldn’t have stopped there. Not knowing what Hohenzollern thought about it, Mecklenburg spoke first to his discourteous junior.

“I almost wish Sir Eugène Lamour hated that man.”

“He probably did, once.”

Mecklenburg heard Askanien’s voice from behind him and hurriedly turned around.

“…! When did you get here?”

“Just now.”

Askanien stood there with his hands shoved into his pockets, looking much better than he had earlier. Hohenzollern’s eyes narrowed as he looked at him, but he said nothing.

Since Mecklenburg knew that Askanien hadn’t exactly been in good spirits the whole time, he cautiously asked, “Could it be Atropos…?”

“No… It’s nothing like that. I just went to get some rest. Eli.”

Askanien looked at Hohenzollern as if asking him to explain. Hohenzollern would know whether Askanien was acting any differently from usual. Hohenzollern answered curtly, “There’s nothing Senior needs to know. You can mind your own business.”

“Hold on, Lord Hohenzollern. I’d appreciate it if you used more appropriate language.”

As Mecklenburg reprimanded him sternly, Askanien immediately raised his voice.

“Right, then. Where did Sir Eugène Lamour go?”

“…He should be in the waiting room. He’ll have to collect his things.”

But Lamour hadn’t gone toward the hallway where Mecklenburg was standing. The thought occurred to Mecklenburg, and just as he opened his mouth, Askanien shook his head.

“The secretaries will take care of his things. Knowing Sir Lamour, he probably won’t go back to the waiting room. He’ll probably head out through the back entrance via the corridor on the left. Let’s go!”

He suddenly took off running without bothering to explain any further, so Mecklenburg reached out after him and shouted, “Go?! Where?!”

“Did you not realize we came here to guard Sir Lamour?”

“…?! You only said you’d let me meet Eugène Lamour! You never said anything about that!”

Beside him, Hohenzollern grimaced and covered his ears.

“God, seriously…”

“What’s your problem, Lord Hohenzollern? You’ve been acting strange for a while now.”

“I haven’t been acting strange for a while. I’m truly sorry to say this, but your voice is too loud, Senior.”

“…….”

At a loss for words, Mecklenburg looked Hohenzollern up and down before running after Askanien.