Read Chapter 4: THE PRICE OF ENTRY

Atelier 7 occupied a disused anatomy studio in the oldest wing of Saint-Aurelie.

At eleven that Thursday, the corridors were dark except for emergency lamps and the blue reflection of rain against the windows. Élise climbed three flights of stone stairs and found the door unlocked.

Inside, six people waited around a worktable.

Lucien stood by the windows. Solène Artaud sat on the edge of a cabinet. Hugo Delmas was there, along with two older students Élise recognized from sculpture and photography. The sixth was a doctoral candidate named Maxime Roche, who assisted the director during public events and seemed too old to belong to any club that called itself secret.

On the table lay her painting.

Conditional Entry.

Élise stopped. “How did you get that?”

“It was in storage for the alternate list,” Hugo said.

“That wasn’t permission.”

“No,” Solène agreed. “It was access.”

Lucien watched Élise rather than the painting.

“Sit,” Maxime said.

“I’m fine.”

“As you like.”

Solène touched the edge of the canvas. “Your work should have been selected.”

“Thank you for the revelation.”

Hugo bristled. “We’re trying to help you.”

“You took my painting out of storage after midnight.”

“Technically before midnight,” Lucien said.

Élise shot him a look.

Maxime folded his hands. “The autumn exhibition is not important by itself. What matters is who attends. Two gallery directors. Four collectors. A residency coordinator. The school treats the jury as academic. It is not.”

“I had noticed.”

“Good. Then we can speak plainly.”

He explained Orphée without ever admitting to wrongdoing. The society, he said, had existed in one form or another since 1924. Its purpose was “continuity”: students helping students navigate a professional world dominated by relationships. Members shared information about jurors, collectors, grants, internships, and faculty preferences. They organized studio visits and private salons. Alumni remained involved.

“So networking,” Élise said.

Solène smiled. “Networking is what people call power when they want it to sound democratic.”

“And why am I here?”

“Because you are talented,” Maxime said.

“That’s not enough here. You’ve made that very clear.”

Lucien turned from the window. “Because you see structure.”

Élise looked at him.

“At the reception,” he continued, “you watched introductions. At the jury board, you didn’t just complain that you lost. You asked why Hugo won.”

Hugo gave him a wounded look.

“You also have no allegiance,” Lucien said. “No family patron, no gallery parent, no old school network. That makes you vulnerable. It also makes you useful.”

There it was again.

Useful.

“What do you want?”

Maxime slid a folder toward her.

Inside were photographs of student works submitted for the Fondation Necker travel grant. Applicants were required to present a portfolio and research proposal. The winner received six thousand euros and three months in Rome.

“We want your ranking,” Maxime said.

“My ranking?”

“Best to worst. Ignore names. Judge only the work.”

“Why?”

“Because internal taste gets stale.”

“Meaning you don’t trust yourselves.”

“Meaning we understand bias.”

Élise flipped through the images. Some were excellent. Some were visibly weak.

“You decide grants?”

“No,” Solène said. “We anticipate decisions.”

“Then why did Hugo get the exhibition slot?”

Silence.

Hugo’s face reddened.

Lucien answered. “Because one juror wanted his father’s support for a publication.”

Hugo stood. “You didn’t have to say that.”

“She asked.”

“And you think honesty makes you clean?”

Lucien’s expression cooled. “No.”

The room became very still.

Élise understood then that Orphée’s power was not centralized. It was a marketplace of favors, resentments, family names, secrets, and predictions. They did not need to order a jury. They only needed to know what each juror wanted.

“What do I get for ranking these?” she asked.

Camille would have slapped her.

Solène’s eyes sharpened with approval.

Maxime smiled. “A better question.”

Lucien picked up a second envelope and placed it beside the folder.

Inside was an invitation to a private studio visit with Marianne Roussel, director of Galerie Roussel in the Marais. Only five students had been invited.

Élise stared at the card.

“Your work deserves to be seen,” Lucien said.

“And this is the price?”

“No,” he replied. “This is the exchange.”

She should have walked away.

Instead she sat at the table.

“Give me a pencil.”