December 1939
Charles’s death was a turning point in my life, Solange.” Her voice sounded sadder, more reflective than it had in previous visits.
“At some point, each and every one of us will pass from this earth, but still it’s so difficult to comprehend...”
What I didn’t say to her was how hard my mother’s death had been for me. We hardly spoke of my mother when I was in Marthe’s company, and I didn’t think I could forgive her if she showed any disinterest in her or possibly even said something unkind.
“I realized a lot about myself after Charles died.” She took a deep breath. “I learned how to be resourceful. I learned that I was lucky I had people who still looked out for me, even though when he died, I thought myself to be completely alone at first.” She looked away for a moment, her eyes gazing past me and toward the direction of the tall living room windows.
“That’s the thing about death or illness. It reveals who your true friends are. The ones who remain after everything else slips away.”
***
She rose unexpectedly, and I saw her grip the side of the armchair as if to balance herself.
“I want to show you something, Solange.” She lifted her other hand and gestured a small wave for me to follow her. “I’m sure you’re tired of sitting in that chair. Come.”
I stood up and followed her. I watched as she straightened herself like an egret, pushing her shoulders back, lengthening her neck, and lifting her chin. Her slender arms fell against the pale gray of her dress. And when she floated down the hallway, I understood why Charles had always affectionately called her his dove.
At the end of the hall, to the left, was another set of white French doors. She placed her two hands on the doors and pushed them open. As she walked inside, the hem of her dress fluttered behind her, lifting like wings.
***
The bed was enormous with a carved Louis XV headboard in walnut wood. Its central panel was upholstered in a silver-colored silk that was embroidered with butterflies of almost every color—red, blue, gold, and malachite green.
I had never seen such a magnificent bed. It seemed to rise from the ground, and swell with its sensual curves.
But Marthe did not look at the bed, nor the mirrors placed around the room. She went directly to her vanity table and pulled the handle of one of the small drawers.
Inside were what appeared to be several stacks of letters, each tied with a different colored ribbon.
She pulled one out that was wrapped in a pink satin ribbon.“These are the ones from Charles.” She sat down on the velvet stool, her slender finger touching the corner of one of the faded envelopes.
“And these are the ones from Giovanni.”
“Giovanni?”
“Yes,” she said, and closed her eyes. “Giovanni Boldini. Even though I refused his physical advances, he still wrote me several love letters hoping to change my mind.” She took a deep breath.
“You are too young to understand, Solange, but there are many different types of love in this world. There are lovers of the flesh, lovers of the mind, and love sustained by family.” Her eyes softened.
“Until recently, I have only known two of those loves.”
She brought the letters over to the bed. Each of the piles was still firmly tied with its ribbon. Pink for Charles. Pale yellow for Boldini.
I stood over her, seeing our reflection in the mirror of the vanity. Her expression was softer than I had ever seen it before. Her slate-blue eyes looked to meet mine in our reflection in the glass.
“Does your father ever ask about your visits with me?”
A feeling of unease washed over me. I wasn’t sure how to respond.
She reached her hand into a second drawer and pulled out two additional stacks of envelopes. Each one of them was tied in pale blue ribbon, the color of the sky.
“These letters are from Louise Franeau.” She placed her hands on both stacks of envelopes.
“Do you know who she is, Solange?”
“Yes,” I answered her softly. I would never forget the name. She was the woman who had raised my father after Marthe gave birth to him.
