Page 18 of The Velvet Hours
Marthe was suddenly struck by that same dreadful feeling she had experienced when she had just given birth. That pulling sensation that made her breasts leak with milk. But now there was no moisture, only the same throbbing pain. She grew dizzy, as if the sidewalk was falling beneath her. She had suppressed the memory of giving away her child like a bad dream she could will herself to forget, but now a violent flood of emotions swept over her.
She stepped back from the edge of the sidewalk and tried to steady herself without success, even though Émilienne and the boy had slipped from view.
Marthe could barely raise her arm to call a coach to get her home that afternoon. In the confines of the buggy, she tried to regain her composure. She closed her eyes and rested her head against the leather seat for a moment, concentrating on taking deep breaths. But her normalbreathing still did not return to her. If anything, it escalated. And despite her efforts, a slight whimper escaped from her lips.
She fumbled to open her purse and reached for a small vial of Ricqlès that she kept tucked inside for emergencies. Once a few drops were dabbed onto her handkerchief, she pressed it to her mouth, inhaling the calming vapors.
By the time the coach arrived at her apartment, she felt a familiar sense of numbness overtake her. It was the same sensation that had come over her when Odette died, or when she had seen her mother trying to cover the bruises above her eye after one of her “visitors” had left. Marthe tried to cloak her emotions, just as one would roll a glove over a shivering hand.
When Marthe returned to her apartment that afternoon, she said little to Giselle after the girl took her coat and hat from her. She only asked her to draw a bath. There, under the blanket of soothing waters, she tried to forget the sight of Charles’s elegant wife and child, and her own painful memories the sight of them had reawakened.
Just as she had done years earlier when Louise Franeau had walked out the door of her apartment carrying her son, she shut her eyes as tightly as she could and willed herself to push all of them out of her mind.
***
That Christmas, Charles grew weaker and there was little doubt in Marthe’s mind that he was gravely ill. Her own health began to be affected as well. She lost her appetite and found it difficult to sleep. She did not want to burden him with her own fears, but it was frightening to imagine her life without him. It was hard not to see herself like Fauchon, a canary in a gilded cage. Every bit of food, every bit of conversation—even every touch—came from Charles. At night, she looked around and imagined everything she had grown accustomed to, vanishing. A sense of powerlessness came over herand she struggled with how to balance her genuine concern for Charles’s health with her own fear of returning to the hardships of her former life.
As much as she tried to get more information from him, Charles never spoke again of the specialist that Émilienne had arranged for him to meet. Nor did he even mention any medical diagnosis. It was as if his illness was like his wife and son, yet one more thing of which she was not allowed to speak.
And although his declining health was not a permissible topic of conversation, she could see how his waning strength had caused him to seek pleasure in other ways.
He had ordered a tall standing mirror to be sent to the apartment and instructed Marthe he wanted it brought into the bedroom, so that when she disrobed for him, he could gaze upon her from every angle.
A few days before the holiday, he arrived holding another present for her.
“Marthe...” The expression on his face was more serious than usual. “I have brought you your present early.”
In his hand, he grasped a beautiful red bag, its handles tied with a stiff red ribbon.
In the parlor, they sat side by side. He took a small leather box out of the bag and handed it to Marthe to open.
“This is the first part of your present.” She noticed his eyes were glassy and his hands seemed to shake as he gave her the package to open.
“Mellerio... ,” she said breathlessly, recognizing the insignia on the package. “This must have cost you a fortune.”
“It did, in fact...”
“I can’t take the anticipation anymore, Charles...” She knew Mellerio dits Meller was the oldest and most prestigious jewelry shop in Paris. The store on the Rue de la Paix had been the jeweler to thearistocracy for centuries. Whatever was in the box, Marthe knew it was going to be something extraordinary.
“Can I open it now, Charles?”
“Please.” He made a small gesture with his hand. “I would prefer you wasted no more time.”
She withdrew a black leather box with a gold crown embossed in its center. When she opened the box, a small gasp escaped from her lips.
“Now that’s the sound I’d been hoping to hear all day. Almost as good as that enchanting little cry you made when you saw the paintings at the church of San Giorgio dei Greci.”
“Better,” she said as her eyes fell again to the interior of the satin-lined box. There inside was a glimmering set of pearls with a clasp in the shape of a butterfly set in emeralds.
“Oh my goodness, Charles.” She covered her mouth with her hand. She could hardly believe her eyes.
“Try them on,” he insisted. “I want to see them against your skin”
She lifted them slowly from the satin interior, placing on the table the index-size parchment from the jeweler that gave the necklace’s details and vouched for its authenticity.
“That paper is essential, should you ever sell it,” he told her.
She was careful to keep it secured in the box as he leaned toward her to lift her hair.
