Page 29 of The Velvet Hours
Marthe
Paris 1898
Marthe had not quite believed Charles when he promised her there would be a second present to follow the pearls. She couldn’t imagine anything that could possibly top what he had already given her. But less than a week later, as they lay in bed with his finger tracing the length of her body, he turned to her and said: “I’ve commissioned a portrait of you.”
She grabbed the sheet around her and sat up. “A portrait?”
“Yes.” Despite his fragility, she could see the pleasure in his eyes. “I’ve taken note of all of your little collections... all of your objects scattered throughout the apartment and all of those paintings in the dining room, too. Now, I want a large portrait of you to hang over the mantel in the parlor. I want to be able to see two of you whenever I’m here.”
“For such an ascetic these days... you’re becoming quite greedy,aren’t you?” She took her hand to his cheek. “Really, two of me?” She feigned a sense of modesty at his generous suggestion.
He reached out to kiss her. She closed her eyes. It was hard to see him so thin. He resembled one of those wire armatures that sculptors used to create the skeleton before they began applying the clay.
“I really wish you’d save your strength, instead of squandering it negotiating with artists.”
“Come now, Marthe... I know you far too well. Doesn’t the idea absolutely thrill you? To sit for one of the most fashionable portrait painters in Paris?”
“And who might that be?” she teased.
“A man named Giovanni Boldini.”
Marthe’s face went blank. She didn’t recognize the name.
“Why, he’s the biggest name in society portraits these days, my darling. He’s a good friend of Sargent’s.”
Marthe raised an eyebrow, intrigued. She had certainly come a long way from the first time she had heard the name John Singer Sargent mentioned while strolling the halls of the 1884 Paris Salon with her fellow seamstress, Camille.
Camille had always been full of ideas and was interested in making any spare time outside their workshop an adventure.
They had agreed to meet just outside the Palais de l’Industrie. Marthe had been so excited, she arrived early. She had never seen so many people crowding the streets. The day was beautiful. The chestnut trees were in bloom. A steady stream of horse-drawn carriages pulled up to the entranceway. Marthe watched as the city’s most fashionable women stepped out into the daylight, their pastel parasols opening like cabbage roses in the sun.
She and Camille walked together into the first salon rooms, their lungs filled with the strong, foreign smells of varnish and linseed oil. They wandered through the enormous hallways, clutching their Saloncatalogs. They walked past the enormous mural by Pierre Puvis and then stood for a few minutes contemplating the nude figures drinking wine in Bouguereau’sThe Youth of Bacchus.
But it was Sargent’s portrait of Amélie Gautreau that she remembered most clearly. It had been the scandal of the Salon. Displayed in the final room of the exhibition halls, the large portrait stood out in haughty defiance. The painting was nearly life-size, taking up almost the entire hall, and dwarfing the other paintings that surrounded it. Marthe could close her eyes and still recall how Sargent had painted Gautreau’s creamy white flesh and swanlike neck, her chiseled features as sharp as glass.
Marthe and Camille had walked past countless rooms of nudes that afternoon, but this portrait of the fully clothed Gautreau had been the most provocative of all. The nudes rendered in the other paintings all looked like sexless cherubs, most of them cast in idealized landscapes. Madame Gautreau, or Madame X as she was identified by the small plaque beside the portrait, appeared far more sexual than any of the other paintings exhibited. Sargent had painted his subject with her head turned in profile, wearing a plunging black bodice with one strap over her shoulder and the other dangling over her porcelain white arm. It was as if the dress could slip off of her at any moment. The painting had struck Marthe like a dare.
All these years later, Marthe had never forgotten the painting. Gautreau’s body, though sheathed in black velvet, had left little to the imagination. One could see every line and curve. This was a portrait that lit up the room like a match.
While everyone gasped and whispered at its inappropriateness, it had secretly thrilled Marthe.
Now, she could hardly believe that Charles was suggesting a contemporary of this great artist to paint her portrait. “I do like Sargent,” she said, curling up closer to Charles. “But I’ve never heard of this Boldini...”
In her mind, she started imagining how an artist might portray her. Already, she could envision herself sitting with her head turned, her body dressed in one of her most beautiful gowns. It was comforting to also know that even in his illness, Charles had not tired of seeing her from all points of view.
“I’ve made an appointment for him to visit the day after tomorrow,” Charles interrupted her from her reverie.
“Let Giselle prepare something nice for him. He’s small, but he’s known to have an enormous appetite.”
He smiled. “You’ll see what I mean when you meet him.”
She took his hand and brought it to her lips. “I am not too concerned, my darling. I’ve never been known to starve a man.”
***
Boldini arrived at half past noon. Marthe was already seated, waiting for him in the parlor. A pale lilac dress fell languidly over her long body. Around her neck, she wore the pearls from Charles.
“Monsieur Boldini,” Giselle announced as she ushered the painter into the room.
