Page 78 of The Velvet Hours
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That evening, I did not tell Marthe about any of these passionate moments. But I did go to her and ask her if she knew of any way she could help us.
I was surprised when she eventually asked me for the details of the letters. Alex’s name and his address, where and when he was to report to duty.
She could sense my despair even though her own cough and health seemed far worse than the week before.
“This Alex,” she said. “I would like for you to bring him to the apartment so I can meet him.
“Time is of the essence,” she said. “See if he can come by tomorrow at four o’clock.”
39.
Solange
March 1940
Knowing Alex would be coming seemed to reinvigorate Marthe. I watched how she acted buoyantly the following morning as she rose and took her bath. I could see she was taking multiple cups of tea and honey to calm her persistent cough.
In midmorning, she was still in her dressing gown, giving Giselle orders about the menu. Giselle reached into the tin for the extra money she would need to obtain such delicacies in the midst of the war.
By the time Alex arrived, Marthe had transformed back to the way I had first seen her. The beautiful dress. The rope of pearls. A sparkling comb set into her chignon of thick hair.
Her face, which had been gaunt for months, was dusted in powder. Her cheeks were rouged and her eyes glimmered. I had given her something to look forward to, and the sight of her appearing somewhat restored made me immensely happy.
Alex was wearing a suit and tie. He looked older in his elegant clothes. He had smoothed his black curls with pomade and smelled of sandalwood soap and night air.
“You must be Alex,” Marthe said, extending her hand. With great politeness, Alex kissed the space just above her fingers.
“Enchanté,” he said. His slow, deliberate pronunciation delighted my grandmother; for a moment, I could imagine her extending her hand to gentlemen such as Charles or Boldini who arrived at her door.
“My granddaughter has spoken so highly of you.” She smiled. “To the salon, shall we?”
He followed her as she gestured in the direction of the parlor. She opened the French doors, and I nearly gasped at the sight of how beautifully Giselle had prepared the room. It wasn’t just the array of small tea cakes and petits fours that Giselle had placed on a tiered serving dish. The tall famille rose vase from Marthe’s porcelain collection had also been filled with fresh flowers. Roses and lilies of the valley were bursting forth in great abundance from the vase’s mouth. The room smelled of the most beautiful perfume.
“Now I know why Solange has said your apartment seems as though time has stood still... Why, I would never leave if I lived here.” His eyes glinted first toward Marthe and then me.
But soon I saw his focus travel toward the mantel then to Marthe’s portrait. I glanced over at her. I now realized this was part of her ritual with every new visitor who walked through the doors of her parlor for the first time. They would meet her first, but the largest impression she would make was when her guests’ eyes fell upon Boldini’s painting of her.
It was Alex’s turn to discover the painting. He stood in front of it, entranced.
“Madame de Florian,” he said, prying his eyes away from the sensual portrait. “What an incredibly stunning rendering of you.”
Her smile was one of a coquette, even in her seventies. “Well,”she uttered, beguiled. “I’m quite flattered you can still discern it is me.”
‘There is little doubt,” he replied, his eyes returning to the portrait. “It’s captivating.”
“Thank you.” I could hear the satisfaction in her voice. Alex had passed her first test, and I was relieved.
“Let’s take a seat and have some tea,” she said as she gestured for him to sit on one of the bergères.
She rang a small bell to signal Giselle to bring in the tea.
We sipped dark, fragrant tea from porcelain cups and saucers decorated with butterflies and birds, the winged creatures that Marthe so loved. We spoke of Alex’s love of rare books, his apprenticeship in his father’s shop, and Marthe’s passion for Asian ceramics.
It wasn’t until the end that she asked Alex about his conscription.
“It is wrong to draft such a cultured young man into the army.” She shook her head. “Many men are built for fighting brutes who are natural warriors. And then there are those who have minds suited for wartime strategy. But you are gentle and blessed with an artistic eye.”
