My Husband Lives in a Painting - Chapter 13

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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My Husband Lives in a Painting — Episode 13
“At the banquet?”
She nodded carefully.
With measured caution, she continued her explanation.
“That day, I saw him arguing with the Duke.”
“Tell me more.”
“Gail Pistachio—he kept pressing the Duke about something. It sounded like it had to do with money, but I couldn’t hear the details. In any case, the Duke seemed absolutely furious.”
“Camille was angry?”
The shock hit me like a blow to the back of the head.
Camille was a man who had never once lost his temper with me, no matter the circumstance. Was it any wonder people called him the angel of Ortega?
If he’d reached the point of anger, it couldn’t be a trivial matter.
“Did that Pistachio fellow do something underhanded?”
Camille, who had been listening quietly, asked without hesitation.
“I’m not sure.”
“Or maybe he borrowed money and never paid it back? I mean, you said my past self was gullible enough to call such men friends.”
……
At his casual dig, I rolled my eyes.
But I couldn’t bring myself to argue back.
Because it was true—in my past life, I’d kept such people close and called them friends.
“Either way, he’s not a bad choice for a first target.”
Target.
He had an unsettling habit of choosing his words poorly.
Camille folded the newspaper with a crisp snap and rose from his seat, stretching.
“Well then, shall we begin in earnest? Before that, Ob.”
“Yes?”
“Paint me a picture. As a gift.”
“……I’m sorry?”
The way he said it so casually made me wonder if he was asking me to produce money I’d hidden away.
I blinked at Camille as if I understood nothing, then dropped my bomb.
“I can’t paint.”
A strange silence fell.
Camille asked back in a tone that was uncharacteristically flustered.
“……But you’re a painter.”
“I’m not.”
“What?”
“Pardon?”
Question marks hung in the air between us.
In an atmosphere as awkward as a third-rate comedy routine, Camille gripped his temple as if dizzy.
“Ob, you’re not joking, are you? I’m a bit confused right now……”
That was exactly what I wanted to say.
I was an art student. Or rather, to be precise, I was a prospective student who’d only received an acceptance letter to the fine arts university but hadn’t even attended the entrance ceremony, let alone taken a single class.
Aside from that, I’d never properly held a brush. I’d searched out plenty of free art exhibitions, but the only thing I’d ever drawn was doodles scratched with a mechanical pencil in the margins of a textbook.
“Then how exactly did I paint this?”
“That would be……”
A miracle.
There was no other way to explain it.
“……This makes no sense.”
He muttered those words, then paced restlessly around the room. He looked deeply troubled.
After a long while of pacing, he finally stopped, planted his hands on his hips, and exhaled heavily.
“I’m sorry to say this after I promised to handle everything myself, but the truth is, I’m bound to your painting—I can’t move about freely as I wish.”
“It’s the same principle as not being able to leave the painting, isn’t it?”
“Exactly. So to meet anyone, I need a conduit……”
His vague explanation didn’t allow me to understand everything, but it seemed clear that my painting was necessary for him to exercise any power at all.
As I pondered this, I finally hit upon a solution.
“What if I drank some wine?”
“What?”
“I painted this picture after drinking wine. Two bottles, in fact.”
After all, there are famous painters who say inspiration comes only when they drink.
Perhaps I was one of those types?
But his response was unexpected.
“That won’t do.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Wine isn’t good for your health. And drinking it so poorly—what’s the point?”
Camille continued with an air of absolute certainty.
“If you’re going to drink, do it when I’m here, and only during the day.”
……
“It’s a rule. You can’t break it. Understood?”
He added more after that, but the rest of his words didn’t reach me.
A scene from the past had suddenly cut across my vision.
“Now then, that won’t do. Wine isn’t good for your health.”
“But I’m not like you—I’m an adult. My tolerance is perfectly fine, and besides—”
“It still won’t do. Rather, let’s have a drink together later. If possible…… during the day.”
A memory surfacing in fragments. The Camille within it had spoken the very same words.
“It’s a rule. You mustn’t break it.”
“……One year younger, and yet.”
“Madam, what did you say?”
“Nothing at all.”
……Why was this man saying the exact same things as back then?
I stared at Camille with a bewildered expression, caught in that strange sense of déjà vu. But he, oblivious to my gaze, was murmuring to himself.
“I must say, that little box you drew earlier was rather adorable……”
My wavering gaze, like leaves trembling in wind, finally stilled only when Camille collected his thoughts and spoke again.
“Well then, let’s start with some practice.”
“……Oh, yes?”
“What were you staring off at? Hmm? Keep your eyes on me.”
He poked my cheek playfully with a mischievous smile. The skin where his fingertip touched burned peculiarly hot.
Seeing my flustered expression, he opened his mouth again.
“Let’s start by practicing straight lines. There’s no rush. All right?”
……
Speaking to me as one would coax a child, with gentle affection.
* * *
“……I want to tear them all up.”
Confronted with paintings so dreadfully miserable they assaulted the optic nerve, my head throbbed of its own accord.
Day after day, I’d applied myself with the dedication of grinding bone against stone……
‘And this is the result.’
But to be frank, it was a foreseeable disaster from the moment I’d skipped even the most basic foundations—line work—and thrown myself straight into composing.
Yet what tormented me was that I had already, once, completed a painting as if by miracle.
‘How on earth did I manage to paint that?’
A canvas unsettled yet strangely serene, as though painted by Monet or Pissarro in their Impressionist style.
Staring fixedly at the portrait of Camille—which I couldn’t bring myself to believe I had created—I grew uneasy.
‘Is it a matter of mindset?’
That’s right. To be honest, I still wasn’t certain.
If Gail Pistachio wasn’t the culprit, then I was condemning an innocent person to death.
“Sigh……”
Yet I couldn’t afford to abandon the effort. I gripped the brush again.
One day, while struggling day after day to refine my skill through painting.
“Madam, you have a visitor!”
“A visitor?”
“Yes! Baron Claude is waiting in the drawing room.”
Unexpected news found me.
“Father has come……?”
My brow furrowed deeply in an involuntary response.
Why would he come?
My father’s visits were rarely good news.
I suspect he felt the same way.
“Father.”
Sure enough, the moment my father—waiting for me in the drawing room—saw me, his brow tightened.
And then,
“Hmm……”
Tap, tap, tap.
The sound of rhythmic drumming on the table filled the drawing room.
The sound was regular and irritating, as though designed to induce a neurosis.
“…….”
It was a habit of his—my father’s.
He had plenty to say, but wouldn’t speak first; it would damage his dignity. This was the signal he gave when waiting for the other person to break the silence.
I decided to humor this petty stubbornness of his.
“……As it happens, I was meaning to contact you. I never expected you’d come in person.”
And with practiced ease, I lowered myself in a bow.
“I apologize for the late greeting. These past days have been overwhelming.”
“Never mind. You’ve never been one for pleasantries anyway.”
As though he’d harbored some expectation all this while, my father released a sigh tinged with disappointment.
“You must be troubled as well. Who could have foreseen such an unfortunate affair arising in merely a year’s time?”

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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