Those were not human eyes.

In the darkness, a pair of wide-opened eyes emitted a terrifying light, staring straight at the unextinguished candle on the table. The white candle flame flickered incessantly in the dark room, casting devilish projections on the walls.

Actually, it was just a huge rat.

Fortunately, it was no longer the 14th century in Europe; otherwise, the sudden appearance of this rat would have frightened even the dead.

"God bless, let the Black Death go to hell! Let the Night of St. Bartholomew go to hell! Let all the ghosts go to hell! Amen."

This was the prayer Alan Chartier said before going to bed.

He wore a thick robe and climbed into bed, but dared not blow out the candle. Three weeks ago, one night, a prisoner's cart passed through the streets of Paris. Alan Chartier nervously peered out through the window slit, and saw several blurry figures on the cart, undoubtedly to be taken to the guillotine.

That morning, he had a strange nightmare, in which the head of a man on the cart appeared. He woke up drenched in cold sweat, had difficulty breathing, and tremblingly opened the window. He saw a white ghost floating over the dimly lit street. Her dark long hair rose high, and her white robe was stained with crimson blood. She even held a bloody head in her hand.

Although Chartier was born in Wallachia, the birthplace of vampires, it was the first time in his life that he had witnessed a ghost.

From then on, he lived a fearful life, nailed the windows shut every night, and dared not extinguish the candle before going to bed. He allowed the rats to scamper around the easel, leaving paint footprints behind.

Would the terrifying sound of carriage wheels still ring out tonight? Would the nightmare recur? Was the ghost outside still wandering? Chartier curled up in bed, tossing and turning, trembling at every thought.

Suddenly, a rapid knocking on the door sounded.

The continuous knocking reminded him of the Night of St. Bartholomew two years ago - no, was it that ghost?

The knocking became more violent. Several men outside were calling his name. At least it wasn't a female ghost. Chartier opened the door, but his eyes were dazzled by the torchlight, and before he could see the appearance of the visitors, he was pulled onto a carriage by several burly arms.

Oh, God, is this a kidnapping? Chartier begged in poor French, "Gentlemen, you must have mistaken me for someone else. I am a poor painter, with no wife or child, and nothing valuable at home."

A cold voice replied, "Have you painted portraits for the king?"

"Yes, I am court painter Aran Achebalte. I beg you to release me in the name of the king."

"I ask you to leave in the name of the queen mother."

Achabart was so scared that he dared not speak again. The carriage had thick curtains, and he couldn't see the street outside, only feeling the wheels turning quickly on the gravel road.

After a moment, the black-clothed men pulled him out of the carriage and draped a clean coat over him, making him look somewhat like a nobleman. Torches illuminated the huge house in front of them, and Achabart remembered that he had been here before and exclaimed again, "The Louvre!"

Before he could finish his surprise, he was pushed through a side door. The black-clothed men led him up a steep spiral staircase, climbing countless steps in a never-ending circle, until they reached a giant iron door.

Two burly guards with helmets and long battle axes stood in front of the door. The black-clothed men whispered something to the guards, and they opened the iron door, revealing a long corridor. Achabart thought to himself that he was entering the most secretive heart of the Louvre.

They stopped in front of a baroque-style door, and the black-clothed man knocked on it rhythmically. The door slowly opened, revealing a splendid palace room, which, although not large, was decorated with exceptional refinement. Sitting in the room was an old black-clothed woman, with several palace maids standing beside her.

The old woman glanced at Achabart and waved her hand toward the room inside. The black-clothed man guided him in, and Achabart whispered, "Who is that old woman? Is she Her Majesty the Queen Mother?"

The black-clothed man fiercely pinched his thigh, "Don't talk nonsense! Otherwise, I'll kill you!"

Achabart was so frightened that he could only follow him into the inner room. The room was slightly smaller than the outside, but equally decorated with extreme luxury. Strangely, there were no windows, only dozens of candles were lit. This was a secret chamber hidden in the Louvre.

There was a huge bed in the room, with a finely crafted bed frame and luxurious silk spread on top. The walls were inset with a rectangular mirror, which looked somewhat like a picture frame.

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

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

She was truly a rare beauty. Achabart was already forty years old, but had never touched a woman before. Looking at the woman in front of him, he couldn't help but feel stupid.

The black-clothed man gently tapped him and placed painting tools, such as a canvas and paint, in front of him.

Only then did Achabart breathe a sigh of relief – they really did invite him to paint a portrait.

Strange, painting portraits for the court is an honorable job. Why did they have to choose this late hour and go through a labyrinth of obstacles? There were over ten court painters in Paris, all of them more famous than Achabart, a Wallachian.

In fact, Achabart's title as a "court painter" was just for having painted a portrait of King Charles IX during his illness, a portrait no other painter dared to create due to the contagious nature of his illness. So, Achabart, being poor and destitute, was the only one to take the job.

Before him sat a beautiful lady, and her maid draped her in a velvet shawl and put on priceless amber earrings. The maid added a few more candlesticks, brightening the light on the lady's face, but behind her was darkness, like an angel (or a demon) descended from the dark night.

The black-clad man urged Achabart to finish the preparations quickly, and he carefully observed the subject, a magnificent composition already emerging in his mind. The old woman in black entered the room and sat beside him, watching him paint. Her pale face, made even more terrifying by the candlelight, stared fixedly at the canvas and the lady in front of it.

Achabart quickly sketched the outline of the lady, and, under the old woman's watchful eye, he began to paint. The whole painting took three hours, during which time the lady remained motionless, occasionally blinking her eyes and revealing a particular look, but not saying a word, like a mute beauty.

When the portrait was complete, Achabart was dripping with sweat, and the lady in front of the canvas appeared a little weary, lowering her eyelids and taking a sip of water from the maid's cup. Achabart wiped the sweat from his forehead, took a step back, and looked at his work. The canvas depicted a peerless beauty with translucent emerald eyes, somewhat sad, staring at him as if wanting to confide something.

The Virgin Mary, it was a miracle! He couldn't believe that he had created such a masterpiece with his own hands. He thought even Giorgione or Titian could not have done better. No, he believed that this painting was not his work, but God had borrowed his hand to create it. It was God's work, God was controlling his brush.

Achabart's eyes were moist, this was the happiest moment of his life as a painter. Before he could recover from his short ecstasy, the old woman in black waved her hand and said, "You may go now." Although he was reluctant to leave the painting, Achabart stood up, ready to leave, and suddenly, he heard a young woman's voice behind him say, "Excuse me, sir..."

The sound was as clear and pleasant as the clashing of wine glasses, causing Achabalt to turn around involuntarily. It turned out that the beautiful woman was speaking, but her expression was somewhat awkward. She smiled and said, "Sir, you forgot to sign."

Right! Achabalt slapped his forehead. How could he forget even the most important signature? This outstanding masterpiece must bear his name for posterity to admire. He quickly left his signature in the lower left corner of the canvas.

The old woman in black urged impatiently, "Hurry up and leave."

As he left the room, he stole a glance back and saw the beautiful woman with an alluring smile in the flickering candlelight.

Angel or devil?

Although he was still thinking about the beautiful woman, his body was pushed out of the room. The man in black led Achabalt back to the corridor, through one iron door and corridor after another, and left the most secret maze of the Louvre.

Finally, they reached the moonlit area, and Achabalt stuttered, "Sir, may I ask about my reward?"

The corners of the black-clothed man's mouth twitched as he said, "Don't worry, you won't be left out."

He threw a small bag of coins into Achabalt's arms, and it was filled with ample weight.

"Holy Mary!"

He suppressed his ecstasy and lowered his head to count the coins. Suddenly, he felt a coldness in his throat, as if something had entered his body. Oh no! He couldn't breathe. Blood flowed from his throat, and he wanted to scream for help, but no sound came out.

The black-clothed man's blade cut Achabalt's throat.

The Parisian night sky became even darker, and he could see nothing but the beautiful woman's face in the darkness.