Page 68 of The Velvet Hours
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But as many guests as she had entertained in the years since Charles’s death, a particular young man had surprised her. One evening, she noticed a new name on Boldini’s suggested guest list. A Major Antoine d’Angelis.
“I knew his mother well,” Boldini informed her. “He will be a nice addition to the evening.”
He couldn’t have been more than thirty years of age. He did not smoke cigars or boast about himself, as did so many of the other aristocratic men Boldini enjoyed inviting to their soirées. The major instead had a surprisingly deep desire to talk about art.
He stood in front of Marthe’s portrait for several minutes when he first arrived. The cognac in his glass hardly touched his lips.
“A marvel of a painting,” he said as Marthe approached him. Dressed in chiffon, she floated through the room like a water lily.
“Thank you,” she said. “It was commissioned by a dear friend.”
“Well, Boldini certainly has captured you.”
“It was ten years ago,” she said. “I’m no longer so young.”
He smiled at her, and Marthe sensed that by the way he looked at her, she must have reminded him of someone from his past.
“A beautiful woman never ages...” His mellifluous voice was soothing to her. “I’m not sure if Master Boldini told you, but my mother was also a painter.”
She shook her head. “He alluded to the fact that you were more than just a military man, but, no, he did not mention that your mother was an artist. Would I know her name?”
“Marie d’Angelis,” he answered proudly. “She was an extraordinary woman.”
“The name doesn’t sound familiar... Not that that means anything other than that I’m revealing my ignorance.” She laughed.
“I look around your apartment and I see you are anything but ignorant, madame.” He took a sip of his cognac. “You clearly have a keen eye for beauty.”
She lifted her hand toward her collection of porcelains. “I started collecting Asian ceramics years ago. The glazes comfort me. They remind me of the fog rising off the Seine, or the sky before it snows.”
“Again, you remind me of my mother, Madame de Florian. The same words might have come from her lips.”
She smiled. “I believe that is the first time, Major, that someone has told me I remind him of his mother.” She let out another small laugh to show him she was pleasantly amused.
“I assure you it is an enormous compliment. One I have not bestowed upon any other woman before.”
“Well, in that case, I’m quite flattered,” Marthe said, placing a hand over her heart. It was a challenge for her not to flirt with the young man, who was clearly at least twenty years younger than she. But with great flair, she reanchored their conversation back to art.
“And do you paint as well, Major?”
“Please call me Antoine.” He smiled. “Unless you are planning on enlisting in the reserves.”
Marthe laughed. “Well, Antoine, I’m curious if you have inherited your mother’s artistic skill.”
“I have been known to pack a sketchbook in my rucksack.” His eyes were merry. She could see it brought him pleasure to discuss things he probably rarely had a chance to talk about in his military life.
“Your mother,” she asked as she stepped closer to her portrait. “When did she begin painting?”
She saw the light change in his eyes, as though his mother’s image had now washed over him. “Quite honestly, I can’t remember a time that she wasn’t.”
34.
Marthe
Paris 1917
With the Great War still raging throughout Europe and terrifying many of his patrons, Boldini was traveling far and wide in order to obtain new commissions. He found himself even as far as America, where he had first achieved prominence a decade earlier with his portrait of Consuelo Vanderbilt.
