Page 54 of The Velvet Hours
She wore nothing underneath, just the lace over her body. Her white skin glowing underneath like the pearls around her neck.
She wore no shoes. No earrings. She took the combs out of her hair, and let it fall over her shoulders and her breasts. She walked down the hallway, to the room they had happily sat in over the years for so many hours.
He turned to face her, his eyes finally leaving the portrait, to instead now gaze at the actual woman whom he had maintained as his private and precious jewel.
Even in illness, he felt himself stirring, the sight of her still settinghim ablaze. The room, illuminated by the orange glow of candlelight, was warmed a thousand times more just from the heat she brought into it.
“Come,” she said, and lifted his arms from the sofa.
She walked toward him, her footsteps as light as a butterfly’s wings, making hardly a sound.
Her fingers reached to untie the satin ribbon of her robe, the material loosening around her body before falling to the ground.
She watched as his eyes widened at the sight of her body, white as milk. She ran her fingers through his hair, and embraced him.
***
Hours later, their bodies remained entwined in front of the fireplace, the portrait above them radiant as a star. Charles in her arms, his body nearly weightless, his cheek pressed like a leaf against her skin.
She tried for a moment to savor every sensation. They were knitted together far beyond their bodies now, and this gave her a strange sense of comfort. She could hear his breathing, and feel his heartbeat rising beneath the thinness of his chest. What floated between them was far different than when their love affair had first begun. Then, they had read each other’s bodies like maps. They had navigated each peak and valley, and discovered secret places that came alive only by the other’s touch. But now, theirs was a dance of simple gestures. She took her finger and caressed his arm. Marthe had no wish to ignite his passion, only wishing to soothe him, even as he slept. And she knew this would be as close to marital sweetness as she would ever come. She closed her eyes, careful to lift her face away from his, not wanting him to feel the moisture of her tears.
***
She pulled herself away from him, covering him with the blanket she had brought from the bed hours before. Resting, he looked likea young boy as a peacefulness washed over him, and she wondered what sweet things he dreamt of that caused such a smile to curl at his lips.
Her mind was still fresh from the memories of the evening. She recalled how he had reached his hand into her robe and how his hand traveled upward to find the curve of her breast.
“I have lived well,” he whispered to her. He looked up at her portrait. “I have lived a full life, I have known love and experienced true beauty with you. I have been blessed.”
Afterward, she wrapped herself in her silk robe and helped him to the bed. She wanted him to sleep comfortably with the halo of butterflies circling above them. To rest against down pillows and beneath a silken coverlet. To sleep like a pasha, with his dreams scented in rose.
***
The next morning, she awakened early, just so she could watch Charles sleep beside her. She had fallen asleep with him in her arms, not even leaving him to close the curtains. Now the first fingers of morning light filled her bedroom. She stretched out her limbs, the white sheets twisted over her calves and her chin nestled against the inside of her arm. She felt strangely removed from Paris, even though the morning bells had begun to toll in the distance. Yet an unfamiliar bliss came over her. Her eyes lifted toward the colorfully embroidered headboard, and even the butterflies seemed to flutter off the silk.
As he slept beside her, she imagined they were someplace in the countryside. On a vacation far removed from the city. She dreamt of grapes on the vine. Tall blades of grass. A warm breeze against their naked skin.
In his slumber, Charles’s face appeared more flushed thannormal. And his forehead appeared moistened with beads of perspiration. She placed a hand on his cheek, and a sense of alarm gripped her.
His eyes opened at her touch.
“Marthe?” His voice was hoarse from sleep and, no doubt, fever.
“Darling, you’re burning up!”
She could see him struggling to focus on her.
She took her hand and held it on his chest. She could feel his heart beating rapidly beneath his skin.
“We need to get you to a doctor.”
Those few moments she had lost in early morning reverie had fallen away as quickly as they had arrived. Marthe jumped up and retrieved her robe, tying the sash tightly around her waist.
“I will get a basin and cold compresses.”
She looked back toward the bed. His eyes were wide upon her, and his skin looked aflame.
***
