The Velvet Hours by Alyson Richman

Author:Alyson Richman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2016-07-20T16:13:36+00:00

27.

Marthe

Paris 1898

It was Boldini, not Charles, who arrived at her door two days later. Seeing him dressed in black, she knew immediately why he had come.

“I am sorry to be here under such unfortunate circumstances,” he said as he stepped into her apartment.

“It’s Charles . . .” Her words were barely audible. “He’s the reason you’re here.”

He lowered his eyes and nodded.

“A few weeks ago, he wrote to me and asked that I be the one to tell you when the time came. He wanted to make sure you were informed as promptly as possible.”

She pulled her arms around herself. Her skin now felt terribly cold.

“He passed away last night. I was informed by a mutual friend.”

She remained quiet for a moment as she tried to gather her words. She felt the floor falling beneath her, and she struggled to regain her composure.

“He had been ill for some time.” Her voice faltered as she spoke. “I suppose he was holding on just long enough until you finished your portrait of me.”

Boldini nodded. “Yes, he wrote me saying that was the case. I painted it as quickly as I could, while still ensuring that you were captured with all the beauty and radiance you deserve.”

She looked at the floor, not wanting to show Boldini her eyes. She knew he would read her immediately, that he wouldn’t be fooled by her stoic expression. He was a master of seeing what lay beneath. One glance at her, and he would penetrate every emotion she hoped to conceal.

“Please,” she said softly. “Why don’t you come into the parlor and see how beautiful your painting looks now that it’s been properly hung. It made the delivery men blush; I knew you’d be pleased.”

She motioned for him to follow her, pushing through the French doors and into the room where only days before Charles and she had spent their last moments together.

“It is even more magnificent outside the walls of my studio.” He reached into his breast pocket for a cigar and lit it. The smell contrasted with the Oriental blend of Charles’s pipe, a fragrance she now missed more than ever.

She tried to force herself to smile, but it felt false. For the first time since it had been delivered, she felt at odds with the way Boldini portrayed her in the portrait. In the painting, she was depicted so full of life and warmth. But now, in her grief, a glacial coolness ran through her veins, just as it had when her sister died. It was the same feeling, the sensation that nothing in the world could ever make her warm again.

Giselle, who had overheard the news, brought tea and a plate of biscuits into the room, hoping the tea would calm her mistress. But even as Marthe poured the tea for Boldini and filled a cup for herself, she continued to shiver.

“You are a beautiful and clever young woman, Marthe. You will continue to have a good life, I’m certain of it.”

She could see his eyes looking around the room.

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