The silk curtains had been tied back, and crisp sunlight poured through the windows. Now that most of the leaves had fallen from the city’s trees, the light seemed sharper than ever. Marthe sat down, and I settled into the same chair I always did, directly across from her, and my suspicion that something had happened over the last several days was confirmed.
“Solange.” She said my name slowly and carefully as her hand touched her pearls, which I now sensed was the way she calmed herself when she was slightly unnerved. “It’s been some time since I last saw you... We had grown use to a certain rhythm, as they say...”
“Yes.” I smiled. “We have.”
“Did you bring your little notebook with you?” Her hand now fell to her lap and she smoothed down the pleats of her dress. The gesture was somehow automatic with her.
“I did.” I reached into my purse and retrieved my leather notebook and pen.
“And do you remember where we left off?”
“Yes, of course.” I opened up the book to a blank page. “Charles was ill and Monsieur Boldini had just begun your portrait.”
She smiled. “Exactly right.”
I couldn’t help but turn my head and gaze at the large portrait of her over the mantel that had captured my attention since our very first meeting together. Now, I could visually re-create every line, every brushstroke from its original conception.
“So where do I begin today?” She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, her tiny nostrils quivering slightly. “I suppose we should begin with Charles...”
I rubbed my forefinger against my pen and waited for her to start. But she was looking out at the window, the light illuminating her face as her memory traveled back in time.
“November 1898. He had come back from Switzerland with Émilienne.”
As she uttered the date, I was struck by the coincidence. It was now November 1939, and here she was forty-one years later, still able to recall those events as though they were yesterday. Her memory was extraordinary.
She looked at me, and her eyes were moist with tears.
“It’s never easy to remember a person’s last time with you,” she said wistfully. “We always want the chance to press those final moments into our mind. To remember every detail.”
She stopped for a minute, and I suspected she was trying to catch herself before her voice broke.
“I was so excited because my portrait was being delivered that day. You know I barely looked at Charles. And I should have been savoring every last moment between us.”
25.
Marthe
Paris 1898
The painting, wrapped in a protective layer of cotton sheets and a second covering of brown paper, was delivered to Marthe’s apartment by two very large men in smocks.
“Feels more like marble than a portrait,” one of the men complained as he settled the portrait down in the hallway. The weight of the painting seemed to surprise him. “Must be the frame...”
Two weeks before, Charles had agreed to the added expense of the gold frame that Boldini insisted would best offset the portrait.
“I’m sparing no expense,” he had informed Marthe. Charles’s face was pale and gaunt. “And I’m determined to live until I see it delivered to the apartment and hanging over that very mantel.” He pointed to the fireplace in the parlor. “I want to be able to see the two of you whenever I’m here.” He let out a small laugh. “I’ve been conserving my strength just for that moment.”
Marthe took his hand in hers and brought his fingers to her lips.So much had changed in how they interacted physically. Charles was now so thin, so fragile, he appeared almost translucent. When she touched him, she felt she had to be as careful with him as though he were as fragile as glass.
“I am curious to see if he’s truly captured you. In our correspondence, he said you had inspired him to push himself even further than with his other portraits... that you were more than just a beautiful young woman. That your intelligence and taste set you apart.”
Marthe felt warm at the thought of Boldini praising her.
“I had no idea he was writing to you about the portrait.”
“Of course, my dove. It was a considerable financial investment on my part...” He stopped for a moment. “And it was the first time I’ve let myself share you with anyone.”
“Share me?” Marthe’s voice sounded surprised.
