Page 105 of The Velvet Hours
“And still after all the chaos, you come here... I had hoped you’d be able to spend more time with your family now that Marthe is gone.”
Giselle placed down her feather duster on the lower shelf. “I have spent nearly all my adult life here, Solange. It’s hard now to know what to do with all the extra time I have.”
My eyes softened as I looked at her. She was still strong. And with her silver hair and blue-gray eyes, she appeared attractive despite her age.
“I have kept this house sparkling and the household running for fiftysomething years. During the rare times when your grandmother’s coffers were low, I went weeks without being paid. But your grandmother never went back on her word. She always managed to come through for me.” Giselle’s voice began to waver slightly. “Do you know I received a letter from her lawyer? She left me a small pension for my retirement.”
“Yes, it’s so well deserved,” I answered. In my conversation with Marthe’s lawyer, I was surprised how much thought Marthe had put into the planning of her estate. In addition to creating a fund for Giselle, she had also put a considerable amount of money aside to pay for the annual maintenance of the apartment.
“You are now nearly the same age as your grandmother was when I began working for her,” she said, her gaze firmly focused on me.
“You have the same dancing eyes, and soulful intelligence. I cannot properly express how happy it made me to see you come into your grandmother’s life.”
I could feel the emotion thick between us.
“And knowing your loyalty toward my grandmother all these years has been a great comfort to me,” I added.
Giselle lowered her gaze. “I know you no longer need me. But it was important for me to come back to the apartment for one last good-bye.”
I smiled, and could feel the emotion welling inside me. Tears began to form at the corners of my eyes.
“I, too, am going away now, Giselle. I’m not sure when I’ll return, but you needn’t worry, the apartment will be well cared for. Marthe will still rule over the apartment.” I lifted my chin in the direction of her portrait. “Just as she wanted, and just as she should.”
***
“We must assume that I won’t be coming back for some time,” I told her. “So we should remove anything that is perishable and clear the cupboards and icebox. Take whatever is left home for your family,” I told her.
So she packed up the flour and sugar, the jars of fruit preserves, and even the tins of dried herbs. I then went into the little room where I had slept since December, and made sure nothing had been overlooked. I left the Mickey Mouse doll from Father and a few of my old notepads. Taking only the journals of Marthe’s story that I had filled over the past two years.
It was only after I had embraced Giselle and we said our good-byes that I allowed myself to amble through the apartment one last time. I pushed open the French doors to Grandmother’s bedroom, which had remained untouched since her death.
Giselle had made up the bed. The pillows were crisp, the silk shams puffed up like clouds. And in dazzling colors woven above, butterflies danced within the upholstered headboard. I could almost hear the beating of their wings.
***
I walked down the hallway and stood gazing at the portrait of Marthe rising over the fireplace, ruling over the room. I heard her voice in my ear, as if she were still there beside me, telling me another story, and sharing with me her wisdom from a well-experienced life.
“Go,” she said, urging me onward. “I am as I should be, safely ensconced in my home. And I’m still young and beautiful.”
I felt the warmth flowing from her pearls around my neck. I gave one last farewell to all her beautiful ceramics, the two matched rhinoceros horns, the velvet bergères, and cushioned settee. All those things that Marthe had handpicked and kept so dear. And in those final glances, I pressed them each into my mind as though they were pieces of her that would remain forever beautiful and untouched, like a secret treasure chest sealed from prying eyes.
Only then did I reach into my pocket for the key to the apartment. I stepped out and quietly locked the door.
53.
June 1940
In the days before our own departure, we could hear cars being packed, the men and women shouting at each other as they tried to tie their suitcases atop their cars and cram as many people inside.
“Can’t they leave more quietly?” Monsieur Armel complained. He lifted his fingers from the typewriter and pressed them to his temples.
From the Armels’ tall living room windows, I could see several cars loaded with trunks and suitcases. Carpets tied to the roofs. Dogs ran alongside the cars.
“Where will they all go?” I asked Alex, who now stood beside me.
“To the countryside. Burgundy, perhaps. Some to the south. No one wants to be here if there is another bombing.”
I was surprised that I didn’t feel panic. Instead, a numbness had overtaken my body as if I couldn’t allow myself to think further than a few hours ahead.
