"I did not commission them at all." Aimé said, looking up at the man. "Yes please, something to settle my nerves."
He waited until the man had returned and he had had a few sips of the fortifying liqueur before he continued. "I suppose you can never really leave behind the past, can you? It always has a way of finding you again. I did not think when I was younger that there was anything wrong in those paintings and now I wish I had burned them."
"They were commissioned by a friend of sorts, as a gift to himself. The man is dead now, I believe. I was still very young, hardly seventeen and it seemed a romantic gesture and now I realise it was simply a foolish one. I am immortalised as a whore and now someone else, someone I despise with my very being, has those paintings."