In a forgotten parlor in the South of France hangs the haunted portrait of Violette. Her face, pale and austere, clouded by serpentine smoke hangs quietly at the end of the parlor.

It was once said, by those now long dead, that the lady Violette was a woman of mythical beauty and intoxicating allure. For the men who frequented the parlor, she wore the warmest smile but the coldest touch. 

However, none suffered more than that poor pitiful Alain, the painter from Vesoul. He fell in love with Violette and, like so many others, he drowned in it.

He was infatuated with her stories. How she could recall with absolute clarity events of long ago. Faraway tales of ancient kings and wars fought and won. Endless stories of her time with a slew of artists, musicians and politicians. All of which she recited quickly and plainly without pomp or embellishment

Like his body, Alain's creation now hangs alone and in the dark. The paint smudged and blurred where her face used to be. Residents nearby the abandoned parlour, swear they hear the forlorn wailing of a man floating on the wintry breeze. The portrait waits for a curious traveller. Someone like you to gaze upon that fatal visage once more.

As for Violette, no knew where she went or why she left her beloved in such a way. In fact, no one knew who Violette was at all...