Paris 1795.

Madame Bouffant's pallid breasts perched over the whalebone corset straining to hold her portly torso above waist level. She perched awkwardly on the edge of the velvet chaise lounge, her plump hands playing with the jewelled wedding ring on her finger. On the other side of the room, a capped figure huddled behind an easel. Carbon dust fell from the cartridge paper onto the opulent wool rug beneath.

Nicolas-Jacques Conte had been painting portraits since the age of 14. He began each drawing in the same meticulous way of a scientist. Starting with the right eye of his subject, working outwards in the spiral of the golden ratio. Always preparing guidelines for his paint with sharpened sticks of plumbago that he carried with him at all times - in case of inspiration. Life behind the easel had always felt more comfortable than that in front of it. His love of science and all things technical had meant he stood out from his peers from an early age. Social interactions were painful and no one could understand his technical bullet point delivery anyway. Drawing and painting were his protection against the world where people and emotions could be transformed into sweeping lines and tonal palettes.

"Monsieur!"

The door of the studio Nicolas-Jacques had called home for 10 years swung open making way for a rotund, sweating man of his late 50's. Charles Rousseau had seen the young artists work years before and taken it upon himself to act as agent and mentor. His passion for art was only outweighed by his passion for the luxuries that Nicolas-Jacques' work could pay for. Luxuries that were harder and harder to come by since the trade embargoes and blockages brought about by six years of social and political upheaval.

"Monsieur! There is a crisis! Mon dieu! It is terrible!" "Charles, slow down. What is it?" "Monsieur, the English...they...no more plumbago" "What do you mean?"

Nicolas-Jacques' heart quickened, this could not be. He did not care for the revolt that was happening around him, not while he had the sanctuary of his drawing. The tumultuous world he had so carefully hid from melted away when he worked.

"But I will die!" "We will all die, Monsieur."

Totally ran out of steam with this as I hadn't got a clear idea of where the ending was going! All critiques gratefully received