Lucienne's right eye twitched.

"Unacceptable," she murmured.

Jacquet side-eyed her but remained quiet.

"This is simply unacceptable." She jerked her head from her son to her husband. "It's unacceptable. Simply unacceptable."

She repeated those words as her voice grew strained and her eyes stretched.

"Unacceptable. Unacceptable! Unacceptable!"

She screamed and shook her head.

"UNACCEPTABLE!"

Her gaze was directed at her sleeping husband. It was as if she were complaining to him the way she did when he was awake.

The shakes in her arms as she pleaded her case were truly a marvel. It was the best bit of acting Margaux Delcour could provide.

Everyone, including Averie, recognized her brilliance in bringing out the character in such a swift manner.

Perhaps, The Photographer, too, thought so.

He watched the frantic Lucienne with subdued alarm, while Jacquet observed him.

Charles's fingers twitched. A sense of dread spread through his conscience. He turned to the portraits on the walls around him.

They were numerous, almost dizzying. But they all had one thing in common. They were painted against black, as if foreboding a darkness lurking behind their glorious facades.

Jacquet tilted his chin, followed The Photographer's gaze, and finally rested it on his frantic mother.

"Servants will talk, Mother," he said, kneeling beside the bed. "The noble ladies will hear."

"No one will talk without tongues! Yes, pull out the tongues!"

With the camera at the foot of the bed, the scene was filmed in a wide shot, with the mother and son on either side of the bed.

'This scene is obscene,' thought Thomas Corsini. 'It's as if the sick man is a table—a coffee table. It came together so abruptly.'

"We can't have their tongues, Mother. How will they praise Father's paintings, then?"

"His paintings? Yes, yes, me. He painted me."

"Yes, his most cherished painting, Mother—" He lowered his voice to a whisper. "—is still you."

The woman nodded her head, squeezing her sick husband's hand.

"But this—" She abruptly turned to Charles. "I can't have this."

Jacquet stood up.

"We did clearly call for artists."

He walked up to Charles and nodded his head in thought, glancing at his mother cautiously.

"But I have heard the photographers from outside do consider themselves artists. They have their sense—"

"We are not outside! This is The City. Our city!" yelled Lucienne. "You want to mingle with filth? Go do it away from my eyes!"

Jacquet chewed on his molars.

"You want to compare something so crass and simple with your father's extraordinary work? A photographer? A classless one, at that?"

Jacquet scratched above his eye and ran his hand once through his hair.

"No painter so far has managed to fulfil our request, and my mother here doesn't believe in second chances. So, barely anyone has left to consider our request, isn't that right, Mother?"

His glare made her flinch, quieting her disgruntlement.

The man turned back to his guest with a sigh.

"Can you perhaps help us confirm your qualifications?" He looked toward the bag in Charles's arm. "You must have something to ascertain your artistry."

Charles gazed at Lucienne, who was still staring at him, and handed what looked like a tiny diary to Jacquet.

It contained a set of his most recent photographs stapled to the pages with further information scribbled underneath.

Jacquet looked through it, impressed and surprised.

As he reached the last photograph, his frown tightened. He glanced at his guest, but Charles didn't notice. He and Lucienne were busy in their staring contest.

What Jacquet held in his hands was a picture of Marianne, his only sister.

"Care to show me, my child?"

Those words snapped him out of his daze. He quietly took out the photo and held it between his hand and thigh before handing the curious booklet to his mother.

The scene showed the three of them throwing suspicious glances around.

"Do what you must," said Lucienne as she held the booklet in front of her.

Before Charles could, Jacquet received the booklet. "Yes, Mother."

"But know that I am not satisfied even if my opposition has faded."

"Indeed," whispered the man.

With his back to them, he slipped the picture back into the book while pretending to be reading it.

"You may retire early, Mother. I will handle the negotiations."

He returned the book as his mother closed the door behind her.

"Your tastes are quite extraordinary, Charles."

His smirk, full of meanings that The Photographer couldn't infer, left a sense of apprehension even as he turned to face his father.

Holding back his nausea, Charles flipped through the book. His eyes widened as he caught a glimpse of what looked like the side profile of Marianne.

The wide shot showed a ghastly Charles staring at the back of a smiling Jacquet.

The latter was truly amused at the new development. To find his sister's picture in there felt like divine providence.

His mother would have thrown a tantrum if she had seen it, talking about class and segregating the filth.

"Shall we talk business, Charles?" Jacquet stood by the window. "It is a hard thing, finding yourself in this vast city."

He nodded his head as if he understood it, even though the two had nothing in common.

"See, I understand—how it feels to want more than what one's station dictates."

He sneered as his glance met his sister's.

"Do you like my sister?" Before Charles could begin to think up an answer, Jacquet continued, "She is getting to an age most nobles find unattractive."

He brandished a finger at his guest.

"But you have what those distasteful suitors may never possess—a genuine appreciation, my friend."

Each sentence, every word sounded more frivolous than the one before.

"The price, for your services, won't simply be monetary, I assure you."

The voices grew distant.

"He offered the land and the hand of the daughter of the dying man," Les Vigne's monologue continued.

The silent scene painted the minute changes in the expression of The Photographer as he listened to the proposition.

The camera zoomed in on The Photographer even though Jacquet was talking.

This made Olivier Claude an unhappy man. The director had chosen to add Averie's close-up instead of his, which felt like a defeat.

"Won't you like it?" an out-of-frame Jacquet asked. "Won't you like Marianne's hand?"

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