Margaret's Secret

Chapter 2 Introduction
Those are not human eyes.

In the dark night, there are a pair of wide-open eyes, emitting a frightening light, staring straight at the unextinguished candle on the table. The white candle flame is constantly flickering in the dark room, making a devilish projection reflected on the wall .

In fact, it was just a huge mouse.

Fortunately, Europe is no longer in the fourteenth century, otherwise the sudden appearance of this mouse would have scared the dead back to life.

"God bless, to hell with the Black Death! To hell with St. Bartholomew's Night! To hell with ghosts and ghosts! Amen."

This is the prayer that Alan Archabalth said before going to bed.

He was wearing a thick nightgown and got under the covers, but he didn't dare to blow out the candles—three weeks ago, a prison car ran over on the streets of Paris, and Achabarthe looked out of the window in fear. Seeing the vague shadows of several men on the prison van, there is no doubt that they are about to be guillotined.

In the early morning of that day, he had a strange nightmare, dreaming of the head of a man on the prison van.After waking up from the dream, he was covered in cold sweat, had difficulty breathing, and tremblingly opened the window—he saw a white ghost floating on the dark street, with long dark hair raised high, a white coat stained with scarlet blood, and a ghost in his hand. Holding a bloody head.

Although Archabalt was born in Wallachia, the hometown of vampires, it was the first time in his life that he actually witnessed ghosts with his own eyes.

From then on, he lived in fear, nailed the windows firmly every night, did not dare to put out the candles before going to bed, and let the mice scurry around on the easel, leaving footprints of paint puddles.

Will there still be that terrible sound of wheels tonight?Will the nightmare come again?Is the ghost outside the window still haunting?Achabalth curled up in the bed and tossed and turned, trembling every time he thought of it.

Suddenly, there was a rapid knock on the door.

The continuous knocking on the door reminded him of St. Bartholomew's Night two years ago—no, was it that ghost?
The knocking on the door got louder, and several men outside were calling his name.At least it can't be a female ghost. Archabalter opened the door, but his eyes were dazzled by the torch. Before he could see the appearance of the person coming, he was dragged into the carriage by a few thick arms.

God, it can't be kidnapping.Achabarthe begged for mercy in broken French: "Dignified gentlemen, you must have mistaken the person. I am a poor painter. I have no wife and children, and I have no valuables at home."

A cold voice replied: "Have you painted the king?"

"Yes, I am the court painter Alain Achabarth, and I beg you, in the name of the king, to let me go."

"I invite you to go out in the name of the Queen Mother."

Archabalter was too scared to speak anymore. There were thick curtains in the carriage, so he couldn't see the street outside, but felt the wheels turning rapidly on the gravel road.

After a while, the man in black dragged him out of the carriage and put a clean coat on him, making him look a bit like a nobleman.The torches illuminated the huge house in front of him. Archabarthe remembered that he had been here before, so he exclaimed again: "The Louvre!"

Before he could finish his admiration, he was pushed into a side door, and the man in black led him up the steep spiral staircase. In the repeated circle, he climbed an unknown number of steps before he came to a huge iron door.

Two burly guards in helmets and long-handled battle axes stood guard in front of the door.The man in black whispered a few words to the guard, and the guard opened the iron gate. There was a long corridor behind, and Archabarthe thought he had entered the most secret heart of the Louvre.

They stopped in front of a baroque gate. The man in black knocked rhythmically on the door, and the gate opened slowly. Inside was a magnificent palace, although it was small, it was extremely well decorated.An old woman in black was sitting in the room, and there were several court maids beside her.

The old woman glanced at Achabalt, then waved to the inner room.The man in black carried him in, and Achabalt said in a low voice, "Who is that old woman? Could it be Her Royal Highness the Queen Mother?"

The man in black squeezed his thigh severely: "Don't talk nonsense! Otherwise, I'll kill you!"

Archabalter was so frightened that he could only follow him into the room.This room is slightly smaller than the outside one, and it is also extremely ornately decorated. Strangely, there are no windows, but dozens of candles are lit. This is a secret room hidden in the Louvre.

There was a huge bed in the room, supported by an exquisitely carved bedstead, covered with rich silks.There is a rectangular mirror inlaid on the wall, which looks like a picture frame.

But most importantly, there is a young woman sitting in front of the mirror.

She was wearing a dark court dress, revealing a smooth and white chest, and her long black hair hung down naturally like seaweed.On her elf-like beautiful face, there is a pair of almost translucent emerald eyes, reflecting the seductive light under the white candlelight.

What a stunner in the world-Achabarthe is 40 years old, but he has never touched a woman. Looking at the woman in front of him, he can't help being stupid.

The man in black touched him lightly, and put the easel, paints and other tools in front of him.

Only then did Achabalt heave a sigh of relief—as expected, he was invited for the portrait.

It's strange, it's a fair thing to do portraits for the court, so why choose this late at night, and have to go through several maze-like checkpoints?There are more than a dozen court painters in Paris, which one is not more famous than Archabarthe, why did he choose him, a Wallachian?

In fact, Archabarth's so-called "court painter" title was nothing more than a portrait of King Charles IX who was ill.

At that time the king was so ill that it was said that the disease was so contagious that no painter dared to paint him except the impoverished Archabarth.

The beauty in front of her was already seated, and the maid next to her put a velvet shawl on her, and put a pair of priceless amber earrings on her.The maid added a few more candlesticks, making the light shining on the beauty's face brighter, but behind her was a darkness, like an angel (or banshee) descending from the dark night.

Under the urging of the man in black, Achabarthe quickly completed the preparations, and carefully observed the subject of the portrait, and a beautiful composition appeared in his mind.

The old woman in black also walked into the room and sat beside him watching his painting. The pale face of the old woman was extremely terrifying under the candlelight, and her gloomy eyes stared straight at the canvas and the beauty in front of her.

Archabalter hastily sketched the outline of the beauty on the canvas, and under the eyes of the old woman, he began to apply paint with his brush.

The whole painting took three hours, during which she remained motionless, only occasionally blinking and showing some special look, but she didn't say a word, just like a dumb beauty.

When the portrait oil painting was completed, Achabarthe was already sweating profusely, and the beauty in front of the canvas seemed a little tired. She lowered her eyes and took a drink from the cup brought by the maid.

Archabalter wiped the sweat from his forehead, and took half a step back to look at his work. There was a peerless beauty sitting on the canvas, with translucent emerald eyes staring at him slightly sadly, as if he wanted to confide in something.

Holy Mary, what a miracle!He couldn't believe that the painting in front of him was actually written by himself. He thought that even Giorgione or Titian might not be able to paint such a masterpiece.

No, he believed that this painting was not painted by himself, but that God borrowed the hand of Archabarth. It should be the work of God, and God was manipulating his brush.

Archabarth's eye sockets were a little moist. This was the happiest moment in the painter's life.

When he hadn't recovered from this brief intoxication, the old woman in black waved to him and said, "You can go."

Although reluctant to part with the painting, Achabalth stood up and prepared to leave in a daze.

Suddenly, a young woman's voice came from behind: "I'm sorry, sir."

The sound was as crisp and melodious as a colliding wine glass, making Archabalt turn his head involuntarily.

It turned out that the beauty spoke, but her expression was a little embarrassed, and she smiled and said, "Sir, you forgot to sign."

Yes indeed!Achabalt patted his forehead, why did he forget the most important signature, such an outstanding and shocking work, he must leave his name for the admiration of thousands of people in the future.He hurriedly left his signature on the lower left corner of the canvas.

The old woman in black urged impatiently: "Let's go quickly."

When he left the room, he glanced back secretly, and saw that beautiful woman showing a seductive smile in the flickering candlelight.

Angel or Devil?

Although he was still thinking about the beauty in his heart, his body was pushed out of the room.The man in black led Archabarthe back into the aisle, passed through iron gates and corridors one after another, and left the most secret labyrinth area of ​​the Louvre.

After finally walking under the moonlight, Achabarthe stammered and asked, "Sir, may I ask for my salary?"

The corner of the man in black's mouth twitched and said, "Don't worry, you will be a dime."

He threw a small bag into Achabalt's arms, and the bag was full of gold coins.

"Holy Virgin Mary!"

He suppressed the ecstasy in his heart, lowered his head and nodded the gold coins.

Suddenly, he felt a chill in his throat, as if something had entered his body.Oops!He couldn't breathe anymore, and blood was flowing in his throat. He wanted to shout for help, but he couldn't make any sound.

The man in black's blade slit Archabalt's throat.

The night sky in Paris became even darker, so dark that he couldn't see anything, so dark that only the beautiful face remained.

Midnight, May 1574, 5 AD.

(End of this chapter)