Page 55 of The Velvet Hours
Marthe returned with a porcelain pitcher and a basin of water. Through her sash, she had tucked a tea towel.
“Let me cool you off,” she said gently as she pulled the sheets away from his body. The towel, which she had dipped into the water, she now firmly wrung with her hands.
“My dove,” he struggled to say.
“Shhhh,” she whispered as she dabbed the towel over his skin. “Save your breath.”
As she struggled to cool off his skin, her mind began to race.
“I think we need to get you into a carriage and to your doctor at once.” She looked around the room to find his clothes.
She brought his underclothes, white shirt, and suit to the bed.
“Let me help you,” she said as she tried to dress him.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed to show her that he could manage by himself. But as he stood up, Charles fell to the ground.
***
It was Pierre, the concierge, to whom she now called for help, as there was no one else nearby that could come to her aid. Giselle lived nearly an hour away, and would hardly be able to carry Charles to the street with her. No, Marthe needed someone who was strong enough to lift Charles, and the only person she could think of was Pierre.
She dressed quickly, putting on one of her simpler wool dresses and buttoning it as she raced toward the door. She did not wait for the elevator to get to her landing. She simply lifted the hem of her dress and rushed down the stairs to the ground apartment.
“Madame de Florian,” Pierre said, shocked to see her without her hair done, nor a single stroke of makeup on her naked face.
Young Gérard was by his knee.
“I need your help,” she blurted out to him.
His eyes seemed to register how distressed she was. “Gérard,” he said as he gestured toward the back of the apartment, “go find your mother. I need to help Madame de Florian.” The little boy looked up at his father with wide, curious eyes before scampering toward one of the interior rooms, dragging a little toy boat behind him.
Pierre closed the door of the apartment and came outside to the vestibule.
“What has happened, Madame? You are white as a sheet.” His hand reached out to touch her shoulder, and the warmth of his gesture surprised her.
“I have a friend who is in desperate need of a doctor.” Her breathing was rapid.
He didn’t ask another question. He saw Marthe ignore the elevator, and he followed her as she raced up the stairs.
***
She opened the door of her apartment and ran down the hallway toward her bedroom, Pierre keeping pace behind her.
Charles had pulled on his clothes and somehow managed to get himself back to bed. But just looking at his face and hair matted with perspiration, it was clear how important it was that he get to a doctor at once.
“Come.” Pierre lifted him off the bed. “In two minutes I’ll have you downstairs and into a carriage. Just tell me the address of your doctor.”
She heard Charles say, “Seven Rue du Chevalier.”
Pierre lifted him to his feet, wrapped Charles’s arm around his neck, and began dragging him toward the hallway.
Just before they reached the door, Pierre paused to gather his breath, and Charles took every ounce of his remaining strength to lift his head in the direction of the parlor. Marthe knew instantly that Charles was peering through the French doors to take one last opportunity to look at the portrait he had commissioned of her.
“My painted dove.” His breathing was labored, but Marthe still made out his words.
She came closer to him, kissing him on his forehead and then on his mouth.
“Yes... I’m here,” she said, fighting back the urge to cry. She would not permit his last image of her to be of a blotchy, tear-streaked face.
