51. Before the Jury
Samantha
It’s the big day. Alexander gave me a ride this morning before going to work.
After breakfast, I kiss the Lacroix sisters goodbye and wish Emelyne good luck. She has her own exam this afternoon at the Fine Arts School. We’re both tense, overcharged, swinging between excitement and sheer panic.
“You’re going to crush it,” she tells me, squeezing me tightly.
“You too,” I reply, my throat tight.
Then I take the metro. The ride feels endless. I rehearse my presentation in my head—my arguments, the connections between my pieces. Each station we pass ratchets my anxiety up another notch.
I arrive at ten o’clock.
The Richelieu Library rises before me, majestic and intimidating. My stomach knots.
The staff greet me as I come in. After all my comings and goings these past few days, they’ve started to recognize me. Their familiarity steadies me a little.
Visitors begin to trickle in. Most head straight for the reading rooms, ignoring the exhibition galleries.
I continue on to the Mansart Gallery.
My thirty paintings are hung, perfectly aligned. The sight should fill me with pride.
Instead, doubt crashes down on me.
Maybe I should have done things differently. My watercolors look too delicate next to the oils, despite their vibrant colors. Is the contrast interesting, like I imagined—or just confusing?
I should have chosen a single medium. Been more coherent.
Am I really answering the question? Movement and Persistence Through Time. Is the connection clear? Or is it only obvious to me, because I know my own reasoning?
Calm down, Sam. Breathe.
I pull out my notes and reread my presentation text for the tenth time this morning. The words blur. This is not the moment to panic. I start my breathing exercises, trying to regulate the stress.
Deep inhale.
Long pause.
Slow exhale.
I did the best I could. That’s all that matters.
I wonder if Alexander will be able to come.
He told me he would, but I know things are tense at MatchMapping right now.
He has a crucial meeting today with the board of directors, from nine to eleven.
In two days, he has to announce the first post-IPO results to the shareholders.
From what I understand, he’ll have to present the bad news as well as the recovery plan.
He’s completely overwhelmed.
Maybe I shouldn’t expect so much from him.
At noon, my anxiety spikes.
My phone remains stubbornly silent. I check it every five minutes, just in case I missed a notification.
Will he keep his promise?
Don’t be selfish, Sam. He has a company to save.
Twelve-oh-five. My phone vibrates.
I grab it so fast I almost drop it.
Alexander: I’m leaving the office. Traffic is heavy. GPS says I’ll arrive around 1:00 p.m.
My heart leaps in my chest. He’s coming.
I type a reply quickly.
Sam: That’s great! I’m waiting for you.
I reread the message. Not very mature. I delete it.
Sam: Thank you.
Better. More composed. I hit “Send.”
A wave of relief washes over me. Now that I know he’s coming, I go back to my notes, rereading my presentation one more time.
The minutes crawl by with unbearable slowness. I hear doors opening and closing, hushed conversations, muffled laughter.
And then suddenly, he’s there.
I look up and see him crossing the gallery, searching for me. When our eyes meet, the rest of the world fades away.
I stand and walk toward him. Without thinking, I throw myself into his arms and curl against him.
His woody scent soothes me instantly. His arms close around me, solid, reassuring.
“Hey,” he murmurs against my hair. “I’m here.”
“You came,” I whisper, my voice muffled against his chest.
“I promised you.”
I nod. Yes, he keeps his promises. He ends our embrace, stepping back just enough to look at me.
Then he checks his watch.
“We’ve got a little over an hour. Come on, let’s go outside. You need some air.”
We find an empty table in the library’s inner courtyard. The May sun is gentle, warming my stress-chilled skin.
“Here,” he says, handing me a sandwich and a bottle of water pulled from a paper bag. “I don’t think you took the time to eat.”
The gesture moves me deeply. He thought of that, even in the middle of the chaos of his morning.
“I’m not very hungry,” I admit.
“I know. But try anyway. You’re going to need the energy.”
He pulls out another sandwich and takes a bite, setting the example. I follow suit, swallowing a few bites that go down with difficulty.
The sun feels good. The fresh air soothes my frayed nerves.
We don’t talk much. He simply holds my hand in his, his thumb tracing calming circles against my skin. He looks at me as if the world narrows down to just me, as if nothing exists beyond this courtyard, this moment.
“Tell me about your morning,” I finally ask, searching for a distraction.
“Nothing important,” he replies with a smile. “Just a meeting that dragged on longer than expected, and that I left early.”
I know he’s downplaying it, that he doesn’t want to stress me out even more. I’m letting it go… for now.
“You’re going to blow them away,” he says suddenly, his eyes locked on mine. “You know that, right?”
I nod. His confidence warms my heart. God, I love this man!
One forty-five. Time to go back inside.
I stand up, my legs trembling. Alexander stands too and pulls me into his arms one last time.
“I’ll be right here,” he murmurs. “If you need me, I won’t be far.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He kisses my forehead tenderly.
“Go show them what you’re capable of.”
I walk back into the gallery, my heart racing but steadier. Alexander stays outside, but I feel his presence like an anchor.
And that’s enough for me.
*
Ms. Mainville arrives five minutes later, accompanied by Mr. Hamid, head of temporary exhibitions at the library, followed closely by the two jury members.
The first is a man with a severe gaze—Mr. Dubois, a professor of art history. The second, Ms. Ilse, is the director of an art gallery.
They approach with confident strides. Serious. Professional. Impressive in their dark suits. My stomach tightens.
We exchange brief greetings.
“Good afternoon, Miss Chevalier,” Ms. Mainville says with a polite smile. “Is everything ready?”
My throat constricts.
“Yes, ma’am,” I reply.
My voice trembles slightly.
“Perfect. We’ll begin with a tour of your exhibition, then you’ll present your artistic approach. You’ll have thirty minutes, followed by questions. Does that work for you?”
“Perfectly.”
My heart is pounding, but I lift my chin.
This is it.
All those hours of work. All that doubt. Everything comes down to this.
I take a deep breath.
“If you’ll follow me, I’ll present my plastic research work around the theme: Movement and Persistence Through Time.”
We begin the tour. I guide them from piece to piece, explaining my choices, my process, the links between what transforms and what endures.
My voice trembles at first, then gradually steadies.
They listen without interrupting.
Impossible to read anything on their faces.
The minutes pass in a kind of focused haze.
I talk about time passing. About frozen forms. About the ephemeral.
About memory.
About traces.
About what remains when everything seems to have disappeared.
When I finish, a dense silence settles.
Then the questions begin.
“Miss Chevalier, you seem to assert that everything we perceive is movement,” Mr. Dubois begins.
“That’s correct.”
“It’s a bold position,” he comments skeptically. “By your logic, even architecture would be movement.”
My heart skips a beat. He’s trying to unsettle me.
He’s testing me—I can feel it.
A second of hesitation. Then I ground myself.
“In a way, yes. It all depends on the frame of reference we adopt. Take Notre-Dame de Paris: if we stand on its square today, we would instinctively describe it as ‘persistent.’ But if we shift to a broader timescale and journey through the centuries, we would see it rise stone by stone, burn, then be rebuilt again and again over time. It persists through time while remaining in motion. That dialogue is what I tried to translate in works twenty-one and twenty-two.”
“If I recall correctly, you also claim that movement is life,” he continues. “Would you say the cathedral is alive?”
A smirk flickers across his lips. He thinks he’s trapped me.
“Once again, it’s a matter of perspective. The cathedral isn’t limited to its walls. It’s also made up of the men and women who built it, maintained it, and passed through it over the centuries. In that sense, it’s permeated by life.”
“You seem very confident,” Ms. Ilse remarks.
Heat rushes to my cheeks.
“I don’t claim to hold an absolute truth. What I’m offering is a reading—a journey, a sensory exploration. Nothing more.”
She nods slowly.
Impossible to tell whether she’s convinced.
Mr. Hamid speaks for the first time.
“Your approach to the theme is interesting,” he says, and despite myself, my heart surges with hope. “However, I find it strange that certain areas of your paintings are executed with extreme care, while others seem barely sketched—almost unfinished.”
My stomach tightens.
“That’s intentional,” I say. “The moment is precise. Then it fades. All that remains is an impression. An emotion.”
“A bold choice,” Mr. Dubois comments.
Silence falls again.
“Art is a risk,” I say firmly. “What’s the point of creating if we don’t explore new paths?”
He studies me for a long moment, then turns to Ms. Mainville.
Glances are exchanged. Unreadable.
“Very well,” she concludes at last. “Thank you for your presentation, Miss Chevalier. We have other candidates to see. We’ll announce the results tomorrow evening at the school.”
I thank them and watch them leave, completely drained.
Alexander joins me shortly after. He smiles, then cups my face in his hands and kisses me softly on the lips.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I survived,” I say. “Answer tomorrow night.”