1.
Marthe
Paris 1888
The first thing she noticed when he opened the door that afternoon was the unmistakable scent of flowers.
The fragrance was intoxicating; it pulled her deeper inside the apartment.
He took off his hat and placed it on a small pedestal table near the door.
“Violets.” She beamed, turning to him.
He was pleased she had noticed his gesture. He could feel her body against his own, and his fingers traveled beyond the curl of her back, reaching to grasp the tight middle of her waist. “I ordered them this morning. Cost me a small fortune... violets imported from Parma. I am told they are the best.”
She squealed with happiness, and the sound of her joy washed over him like a bath of golden light.
He had taken great pains to decorate the apartment on the elegantSquare La Bruyère. A large gilded mirror with a small marble table flanked her on the right. Two gourd-shaped Chinese porcelains in a peach-blossom glaze and a tall cloisonné vase occupied the center. As she walked deeper into the room, she saw French doors that opened up to a small salon with walls upholstered in powder blue silk. There was a love seat with fluted legs, and two large bergère chairs with cushions that looked like nesting doves. On the mantel of the carved marble fireplace, she saw even more flowers. Topiaries created out of orchids, ivy, and moss. It was an apartment in the palest colors, a palette that would offset a woman’s flush. A vault created for whispers and caresses.
“I wanted it to remind you of Venice,” he said. She looked around and saw the heavy drapes on the tall windows woven in silver, rose, and Nile green.
“The city where I was reborn,” she whispered into his ear. Their trip together had been her first time abroad, and its memory still stirred her.
“Indeed.” He nodded as his hand slid across her bare arm.
He had taken her to a room near the Accademia, where the air was laced with the scent of wisteria and the water outside the color of jade. They had walked arm in arm across the wooden bridge and a dozen others made of stone.
At night, he had pulled down the red silk coverlet on the tall bed with its carved spiraled posts and marveled at her beauty. She closed her eyes, and her former life seemed to slip away.
The next afternoon, he took her to Florian’s in Piazza San Marco, one of the oldest and most celebrated cafés in Europe. A place where the most beautiful and fashionable came to be seen.
“Mathilde Beaugiron.” He said her name as though it was a dessert that gave him no pleasure. “This name... it is not right. It does not do you justice.”
She lifted her chin and met his eyes.
“You need a nom de guerre.”
She said nothing in reply. She would allow him the pleasure of renaming her. In the momentary pause between them, she merely lifted the steaming cup of hot chocolate to her lips.
He looked around the café, with its walls of painted figures, mirrors, and bronze lamps, and then again at her.
“Marthe de Florian...” He extended a single finger and touched her under the chin as he said it. “It’s the perfect name for you...”
She curled her lips and smiled. The café was sumptuous and elegant. It delighted her that Charles thought its name also suited her.
“Do you like it?” he asked her.
“Very much,” she answered. “Who knew it would be so easy to lose my name and start again with a new one?”
He leaned back into the deep plush of the banquette and took out his pipe, its barrel intricately carved in the shape of an eagle’s talon holding an egg. She watched as he placed the mouthpiece between his lips and deftly lit the chamber. His movements were elegant and self-assured. She observed him, a student receiving a silent education. He closed his eyes briefly, and a plume of blue smoke wafted into the air. She could see how her new name, combined with the tobacco, filled him with a sense of satisfaction.
From the moment she shed her original name, Mathilde, a wonderful sense of weightlessness washed over her. “Marthe de Florian” evoked beauty and infinite possibility. She felt free.
***
In Venice, they steeped themselves in illusion. They soaked in a tub as deep as a Roman tomb. They ate food that tasted of the sea, and they drank wine from goblets the color of amethyst and gold.
She welcomed her new name and the anticipation of a new life. How wonderful it would be to have the opportunity to erase her past and the memories of her childhood, with its dark, crampedrooms. She would act as an artist with a brush dipped in gesso, and wash over the canvas of her previous existence. Her mother with the tired face and dusty eyes. The baskets of other people’s clothes that needed washing. The one window that looked onto an alley piled with broken furniture and garbage.
