Page 43 of The Velvet Hours
In the drawer of her vanity table, tied with pink satin ribbon, Marthe kept the letters Charles had written to her over the years. The ones he wrote when she still danced at the theater, and the ones he penned after they had enjoyed a particularly rapturous session in her butterfly bed. But his letters had grown more infrequent over the years. Lately when he wrote, it was typically only to inform her of his current health or a change in his plans.
Now, she relished the chance to return Boldini’s letter, to write more about art, beauty, and the beginning stages of her portrait. She had been unable to see Charles for weeks, ever since his wife had insisted they now take a cure together in the mountains. “She thinks the waters there will help,” Charles had told her as gently as he could. “At this point, I’m not particularly hopeful, but I’ve promised her I’d try.” At first, she felt a pang of jealousy. But Charles was no longer the robust gentleman he once was, so she did not consider it a betrayal when she sat down to return the artist’s letter. After all, it was Charles’s wish to see the portrait completed as soon as possible.I’m only making him more motivated to finish, she told herself as she took out a leaf of paper from her drawer and withdrew her pen.
Dear Monsieur Boldini,
How delighted I am to hear you enjoyed the gift I sent. I hope it will inspire you for many more years to come. When I saw that particular piece, I knew you would recognize the same beauty that it stirred inside me. The man from whom I bought it told me they call it “a cracked ice” glaze, and that the potter must fire the porcelain several times, each time applying more coats of pigment in order to achieve this effect. How extraordinary is the result... to hold something in your hand that looks as though it has shattered, yet it remains firmly intact. I knew you would appreciate this paradox.
I do hope my portrait is coming along and that I’ll be able to see how it’s progressing. Should you need another sitting, it would be my pleasure to slip again into the same dress and pay you another visit.
With deepest respect,
Marthe de Florian
She couldn’t admit to being surprised when two days later she received another letter. On the thin, translucent paper Boldini had written:
Madame de Florian,
As usual, you anticipate my own thoughts even before they have registered inside me. Yes, if possible, it would be wonderful to see you for another sitting. May I be so bold as to suggest tomorrow, at three o’clock? And, yes, please wear the rose-colored dress. It is perfection.
With great anticipation,
G. Boldini
***
Charles had been away with his wife for several weeks. And although she still kept part of her mind engaged in thoughts of what he might be doing with Émilienne, Marthe was grateful for her burgeoning friendship with Boldini.
The dress now became almost a uniform to her. No longer did Marthe see it as an example of the Callot Soeurs’ masterful dressmaking skills, or a testimony to feminine extravagance. Instead, the pink confection was firmly connected to her portrait. Marthe reached for the gown and began to get ready.
When Giselle pulled the laces of her corset tight against her back, Marthe instructed her to pull harder.
“It’s as tight as I can make it,” Giselle told her.
“Tighter,” Marthe insisted. “I want him to feel as though my waist is as small as a wren in his hands.”
She could feel all of Giselle’s strength tugging to bring the laces toward her.
Against Marthe’s torso, the whalebones of her corset felt like knives.
“But how can madame breathe?” Giselle shook her head as she next helped Marthe get into her dress.
When the girl bent down to retrieve Marthe’s kidskin boots, she noticed Giselle’s hands were red from the exertion of tying her corset.
“I’m afraid I’ve made you suffer as much as I do for the sake of this portrait.”
“What is that saying? ‘Il faut souffrir pour être belle.’ ‘It hurts to be beautiful.’”
Marthe smiled. “Yes, my mother used to say that when she tugged a comb through my hair.”
“Mine, too,” said Giselle wistfully, as if touched by the intimate moment between them.
Marthe wondered if Giselle suspected that they had more in common with their childhoods. She always tried to be kind to Giselle, never taking on any airs of superiority when it was just the two of them alone in the apartment.
The girl was pretty. Straw-colored hair. Wide blue eyes. Her only shortcoming was her figure, which was as straight as a ruler and lacked any natural feminine curves.
“The pain of beauty,” Marthe mused as she looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror. “Every woman suffers in her own way... ,” she said as she fluffed up the ruffles of her sleeves. The faces of the two women floated in the glass like a portrait within an oval frame. “But to be born ugly... ,” Marthe said more to herself than to Giselle.
“Can you imagine how wretched that would be?”
