Marcel and Van Gogh turned around at the sound of the voice.Behind them, on a row of long benches, sat a man of about thirty, accompanied by a woman of similar age whose face showed slight fatigue but whose eyes were gentle. She held a drowsy little girl in her arms, while a curious boy of about five or six snuggled beside them, staring with fascination at Van Gogh's red hair."Yes, I am Marcel," Marcel replied politely. "This is Mr. Van Gogh."The man's face immediately broke into a simple, honest smile. He stood up excitedly, extending his hand to shake hands with both Marcel and Van Gogh in turn: "It really is you! How wonderful! I'm Cameron White, I work in the railway maintenance section. This is my wife, Jenny." He gently touched the woman beside him.Jenny White's face flushed slightly, her eyes sparkling with grateful light, her expression somewhat excited: "Mr. Marcel, Mr. Van Gogh, Merry Christmas! We don't know how to thank you enough!"Marcel and Van Gogh exchanged a puzz

In the yellow house at No. 2 Lamartine Square, the fireplace crackled and popped, the scent of pine wood mingling with turpentine and linseed oil, creating a strange, reassuring atmosphere.Vincent van Gogh stood before his easel, his chest still heaving slightly, as if he could still hear the soul-piercing organ and choir hymns from Saint-Trophime Church thundering deep in his eardrums.In his eyes burned a flame that Marcel had never seen before—an almost sacred fire."Color... Marcel, do you understand?" Van Gogh's voice was excited as he grabbed a brush loaded with chrome yellow. "That's not sound—it's light! It's the light God pours down through sound! Gloria is exploding chrome yellow! Laudamus is flowing cobalt blue! I heard it... I saw it!"He almost lunged at the canvas, smearing that mass of yellow as blazing as the midday sun onto it with wild yet devout movements."Vincent, slow down..." Marcel began to speak, then stopped.He saw the expression on van Gogh's face—a mixtur

Aurier smiled slightly: "He is Mr. Vincent van Gogh!"The words weren't loud, yet they struck like a massive boulder hurled into a lake, instantly stirring up enormous waves!"What? Him?!""How good could his paintings possibly be?!""Mr. Aurier, surely you must be joking?"The room immediately erupted with barely suppressed gasps, scoffs, and incredulous whispers.The smile on Lemaigne's face completely froze, as if he'd been punched in the face. The color rapidly drained from his features, then surged back with a vengeance, turning purple-red.The lackey artists beside him looked as though they'd heard the most absurd joke in the world, exchanging glances with undisguised mockery curling at the corners of their mouths.Van Gogh was also stunned, his blue eyes widening enormously, lips slightly parted, even forgetting to wipe the breadcrumbs clinging to his beard. He instinctively looked toward Marcel, his gaze bewildered, as if asking: "Is he talking about me?"Marcel's heart pounde

The hills on the outskirts of Arles seemed particularly tranquil on this New Year's afternoon of 1889.The winter sunlight generously cascaded down, painting the withered grassland with a layer of warm gold.In the distance on the hills stood a grove of cypress and olive trees.The air was filled with the mixed scents of hay, earth, and pine resin."Right here, Vincent!" Marcel set down the easel from his shoulder and pointed to several cypress trees with peculiar, twisted forms at the top of the slope. "Look at their lines—how much they resemble writhing green flames!"Van Gogh's deep-set blue eyes immediately blazed with fervent light.He almost pounced toward the chosen spot, nimbly setting up his easel while muttering to himself: "Yes, yes! They're not trees—they're staircases to heaven! The vigorous force of life! I must use chrome yellow, emerald green, cobalt blue... no, that's not enough! I need to use the entire palette to sing of them!"Marcel watched Van Gogh instantly imme

Two days later at noon. The Yellow House. Marcel carefully moved his right arm. The ointment Emily had prepared with cypress resin and plantain was indeed miraculous. Only a cool numbness remained where the wound had been, the burning pain greatly diminished, and it had almost completely healed. Marcel was carefully examining his bandages in the light from the window when Van Gogh suddenly popped his disheveled red hair from behind the easel, his fingers stained with ultramarine paint pointing excitedly at the canvas: "Look here! Marcel! The silvery-white luster Miss Emily mentioned—I've achieved it! Using zinc white with tiny amounts of ultramarine and emerald green!" On the canvas, the sun-facing side of the cypress tree indeed shimmered with an otherworldly metallic luster, as if gilded by the Provençal sun with a layer of eternal armor. The shadowed areas, however, settled into what Emily had called "sleeping blue-green," deep as the ocean floor, surging with dormant vitality