Her curved figure was exemplary. Her neck was long, and her breasts full. Her thin waist and broad hips took one's breath away. Her long and skinny legs gave her a grand height. She could not have been more than 20, but she was beauty in its sheer form. Beauty that was acknowledged and appreciated by anyone and everyone.
About 3 feet away from Antoinette a simple portraitist stood in a white shirt. He had a life size canvas in front of him, and was capturing the heavenly angel. The painter was the most skilled gentleman in the whole of Paris. Kings and emperors called him and showered him with diamonds and jewels in return for just one of his portraits. He had gained a reputation to be the most accurate and realistic portrait artist ever known.
The portraitist dipped his brush in the paint and set out for Antoinette's eyes. This would be the most difficult part of the entire painting. Those eyes. There was something about them.
She sat elegantly on a blue velvet sofa. Although, she wasn't a princess, Antoinette was one of the richest and most beautiful people in the entire of France. She was always invited to the royal functions and treated royally, even better than the princesses. Now, she was wearing a long, sophisticated red dress. The floral patterns on the rich silk fabric completed it. Her one hand sat on her lap, and on the other rested her impeccable jawline. Her platinum bracelet dangled down. Her legs were crossed in a lady-like position, revealing her graceful glass sandals. It was all topped off by the gold and diamond locket, given to her by the king himself, for her eighteenth birthday.
The painter smiled. After a month nearly, the painting was completed. Now he would be able to go. He turned the final canvas towards the lady to see. His paintings had always been a mirror. At the sight of the canvas, Antoinette gasped. She choked. Her eyes widened. This was not what she had been expecting. Not at all.
The girl in the painting had red eyes, pale skin. She looked cold and evil. Her lips were red and moist, as though she had just drank blood. Her skin was dirty and bruised and cut. The hair was very messy and her cheeks and eyelashes were a sight of pity. Crooked teeth and high eyebrows added a tarnish to the already traumatizing face. Her body was disfigured and bent. Her dress- black and ragged, and she wore a vile cape. The girl in the painting was standing amongst thorns and nettles.
But it was her eyes, that chilled the soul. There was something about those eyes. Painted in red, hatred and aversion shone out of them. Looking in, a malevolent, and devilish feeling came out. It was as though all the bad and destruction in the world was captured in those eyes.
When one looked at the painting, they saw the most cruel, evil, sinister witch. A diabolical figure that overflowing with pride and haughtiness. A person that was the furthest thing from beautiful. And below that painting was written 'Antoinette' in a crimson hue- as though scribbled with blood.
Antoinette bubbled with fury. Anger overcome her. After all those weeks of posing and sitting still, this was what she got! How dare he? She would make sure his life was ruined. This was no joke to play on the most beautiful girl in the city. How could he ever portray her as this deadly girl in the painting? Was she not pretty? She could kill him with his bare hands for this!!!
Seeing her stunned in shock and rage the portraitist smiled and said,
"I only portray souls./je ne peins que des âmes"
Then he turned and left, leaving her there to stare at the painting, as the red roses bloomed out in the garden.
THE END
She sat elegantly on a blue velvet sofa. Although, she wasn't a princess, Antoinette was one of the richest and most beautiful people in the entire of France. She was always invited to the royal functions and treated royally, even better than the princesses. Now, she was wearing a long, sophisticated red dress. The floral patterns on the rich silk fabric completed it. Her one hand sat on her lap, and on the other rested her impeccable jawline. Her platinum bracelet dangled down. Her legs were crossed in a lady-like position, revealing her graceful glass sandals. It was all topped off by the gold and diamond locket, given to her by the king himself, for her eighteenth birthday.
The painter smiled. After a month nearly, the painting was completed. Now he would be able to go. He turned the final canvas towards the lady to see. His paintings had always been a mirror. At the sight of the canvas, Antoinette gasped. She choked. Her eyes widened. This was not what she had been expecting. Not at all.
The girl in the painting had red eyes, pale skin. She looked cold and evil. Her lips were red and moist, as though she had just drank blood. Her skin was dirty and bruised and cut. The hair was very messy and her cheeks and eyelashes were a sight of pity. Crooked teeth and high eyebrows added a tarnish to the already traumatizing face. Her body was disfigured and bent. Her dress- black and ragged, and she wore a vile cape. The girl in the painting was standing amongst thorns and nettles.
But it was her eyes, that chilled the soul. There was something about those eyes. Painted in red, hatred and aversion shone out of them. Looking in, a malevolent, and devilish feeling came out. It was as though all the bad and destruction in the world was captured in those eyes.
When one looked at the painting, they saw the most cruel, evil, sinister witch. A diabolical figure that overflowing with pride and haughtiness. A person that was the furthest thing from beautiful. And below that painting was written 'Antoinette' in a crimson hue- as though scribbled with blood.
Antoinette bubbled with fury. Anger overcome her. After all those weeks of posing and sitting still, this was what she got! How dare he? She would make sure his life was ruined. This was no joke to play on the most beautiful girl in the city. How could he ever portray her as this deadly girl in the painting? Was she not pretty? She could kill him with his bare hands for this!!!
Seeing her stunned in shock and rage the portraitist smiled and said,
"I only portray souls./je ne peins que des âmes"
Then he turned and left, leaving her there to stare at the painting, as the red roses bloomed out in the garden.
THE END
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