Grantaire and Steve
Steve usually liked to support these sorts of things where he could. And as an artist himself, though quietly so and he'd never categorize himself as good enough to be counted among those displaying, he liked to see everyone else's work.
The weather was good and he was just wandering around, found himself stopping to look at a few paintings presented by a vaguely familiar sort of man. One, in particular, caught his eye, and Steve immediately pointed it out, a tinge of apology in his voice at interrupting the man's sketching.
"Is this Pont d’Austerlitz?" He knew the bridge. He'd crossed the bridge. A different time, a different life, but like a lot of Europe, it was a part of his history.