Page 26 of The Velvet Hours
The talk of Hitler had unnerved each of us. Despite Alex’s filling both his father’s and my cups with more tea, none of us touched another cookie or took another sip.
I could feel a growing knot in my stomach after our discussion and decided it was time to return home. I thanked both Alex andhis father, then walked back toward the worktable and let Alex rewrap the books in fresh brown paper.
“We assume you are not interested in selling these,” Monsieur Armel said with understanding.
I nodded. At this point, I would not sell them for all the money in the world. My mother had her reasons for not selling them, and I would honor her wishes. And although I could not read the Hebrew or understand the layers of history that Alex and his father saw in these two rare books, for me it was still a thread that bound me deeply to her.
As I walked home that afternoon with the sunlight on my hair and the books clutched even tighter to my chest, I felt my mother’s spirit deep within me. I heard her voice, and saw her face fluttering before me. I had learned another chapter of her life today by bringing her books to Alex and his father. And her words, that “every book has a journey all its own,” echoed in my ears.
10.
Marthe
Paris 1898
They never spoke of his illness. Charles had made it clear to her that, no matter how much time remained for him, he did not want to spend it dwelling upon his declining health.
Marthe had now spent a decade with Charles as his exclusive lover. She had become an expert at maintaining the beautiful illusion he so loved. But whereas it was easy to re-create herself with silks and satins, or further refine herself with the collection of art and porcelains, it was far more of a struggle for her to silence her growing concerns about him.
His malaise had become the white elephant in the room. And although Charles refused to discuss it, his physical deterioration was undeniable. Marthe felt it constantly—whether they were sitting in her parlor or wrapped in each other’s arms in her bed. His illness was overtaking him.
He no longer possessed his insatiable hunger for her. He moved more slowly and she sensed his need to conserve his energy. Where there had once been athleticism in their amorous entangles, now there was a palpable fatigue.
His illness proved a challenge to Marthe. Her entire adult life she had cultivated ways to banish life’s unpleasantries from her mind. But Charles’s sickness was not something that could be forgotten by shutting one’s eyes tightly. It remained a shadowy presence that, as much as she tried, she could not keep from penetrating the walls of her apartment.
His eyes were jaundiced most of the time. His lips chapped and cracked. Even his beautiful skin now appeared ashen to her.
Sometimes she felt herself unable to remain muted, no matter how much he insisted it wasn’t something he wished to discuss.
“I come here to forget the outside world... to be with you.”
“But it’s not the outside world when it concerns you... your health.” She was trying desperately not to cry, but her voice was cracking.
“What will happen to me when you go?”
“You still have your youth, my sweet girl,” he said, though Marthe was approaching her thirty-fourth year. “You only need to walk on the Champs-Élysées or by Eiffel’s tower of steel, and some rogue will snatch you up for sure.”
“I don’t want just any rogue.” She lowered her eyes. “I only want you.” Around her neck was his necklace. She almost never took it off.
His finger reached for the butterfly clasp that had fallen forward, and touched it lightly.
“You already have the best of me, Marthe. You own my heart.”
She could feel herself starting to unravel. The first sign was the tears. She would do anything not to come undone in front of him. She had bitten her lip so hard when Louise Franeau had carried offHenri, she had cut right through her skin. And now she could taste the blood again on her tongue.
She was afraid if she spoke any more, her voice would betray her. He had treated her more kindly than perhaps anyone ever had. Marthe knew that her situation could have turned out very differently with him, when she first came under his wing. She was aware of men who simply paid by “the visit” to certain women of notable beauty and charm. Paris had a whole hierarchy for women of pleasure from the highest-paid courtesans to the girls at the lowest brothel. Marthe was lucky she hadn’t ended up like so many of those poor girls, for most of them had childhoods much like her own.
But Charles had treated her as generously and as kindly as he possibly could. He had denied her nothing. The only thing he had asked in return was for her to respect their arrangement. To not interfere with his life with Émilienne. And to open her arms for him when he needed her love.
***
The thought of losing Charles plagued her. Even with the pearl necklace as financial security, she could not imagine her life without him. She needed him to get well.
“The pocket watch,” she whispered. He reached into his coat, handing it to her as he did with each visit. The gold casing was now worn with its own patina. Clutched between her own fingers, she wondered if Charles often held it in his closed palm, the memory of her washing over him as the metal warmed in his hand.
She opened it to reveal the dial, the hands locked in the position from the last time he lay in her arms. “Are you going now?”
“Yes, my dove. Émilienne is already waiting for me.”
