Though she was relieved her artistic companion had left London, where she knew there had been a series of air raids, he hadn’t returned to Paris since her last salon, and Marthe felt his absence profoundly. She missed their conversations about art and collecting. She missed the gossip he loved to share. So, the handwritten card she received one morning from Major d’Angelis couldn’t have come at a more opportune time for her.
Dearest Madame,
It has been three weeks since your elegant salon, and still the memory of you lingers like a rich and complex perfume. I must confess that it has been some time since I was able to converse so deeply with someone about art and painting. The career of a military officer is rather black and white, with little room for nuance. While I take pride in my service to our country, there is still a part of me, nurtured by my late mother, that relishes the opportunity to discuss life’s most beautiful treasures. So I thank you for allowing me to speak freely with you.
I will be returning to Paris for a short reprieve next week, and wonder if I might have the opportunity to take you to dinner for I miss your intelligence and the beautiful shell that encases it. Please say yes.
Cordially yours,
Antoine
Marthe read the major’s letter several times before folding it and placing it in her desk drawer. A well-written letter, particularly one with an undercurrent of flirtation, was one of her great pleasures in life. How many times she had reread those first letters from Charles during their early courtship, or even the ones Boldini showered her with shortly after Charles’s death. It was too many to count. The major’s letter now sent a frisson through her entire body, and she couldn’t help but be flattered by the attention.
Time was a woman’s mortal enemy, and Marthe knew that each day that passed would make it more difficult to resist its ravages.
Her monthly cycle had nearly ended, and she dreaded what all women her age feared: that the dewiness that had made her so desirable would soon evaporate. It was only a matter of time before her face would begin to resemble one of those old master paintings wherethe once creamy white complexion on the subject’s face was cracked with a fine web of lines.
Her body was still lithe, soft in the places that it should be, though her neck was no longer taut, and that saddened her. But that was the beauty of a high collar or a strand of pearls. Like a clever chameleon, a smart woman could camouflage nearly any physical fault.
In the same way Boldini had first served to bolster her spirits when Charles was ill, allowing her a safe arena in which to flirt and talk with someone who shared her love of the arts, the major’s invitation provided Marthe the same boost. She could hardly contain her excitement to go out to dinner with him.
She went to her desk and pulled out a sheet of her heavy bonded stationery with the gold butterfly embossed on the top.
My dear major, she wrote in her perfectly scrolled hand.How lovely to hear from such a busy man...
***
She was giddy at the prospect of seeing him again. It was a far better tonic then any rosewater bath or expensive face cream. The adrenaline of their anticipated meeting had restored her youth. The day before they were to meet, a second letter arrived, shorter than the first, simply stating:Meet me at eight p.m. at Maxim’s. And wear your very best dress.
When the evening arrived, she chose her wardrobe as carefully as a soldier prepares for battle. She knew what parts of her body could still be exposed, and what was now in need of a shield. Hardly anyone still wore the tight-fitting corsets of the Belle Époque, and she was probably one of the rare few who missed the cinched waist. The pain had always been connected to pleasure for her. The untying of the laces, the ability to finally breathe freely as you slipped into your lover’s arms. Now the fashions were more diaphanous, the waistline higher. No longer was there a need to bind oneself to create the most exaggerated hourglass figure.
Still, she would not forgo a beautiful undergarment. A woman must have a secret she kept to herself. Beneath the first layers of wool or silk chiffon, the lingerie she chose was the second layer of the flower. The skin beneath, the sacred petal, only a chosen few would ever get to touch.
She chose a corset that slimmed her hips and elevated her ample breasts, one in deep navy satin and pale blue flossing. Over the years she had never tired of her colorful collection of corsets, even though the styles had changed to accompany the latest fashion. While virtuous women wore only white to bind them, a woman well versed in the cultivation of pleasure knew how to communicate through the language of color. Marthe smiled, remembering how when she wanted to be demure with Charles, she chose a corset in tea rose edged in ecru-colored lace. When she wanted to accentuate her passionate side, she chose one that was strawberry red.
Now, as she prepared for her evening with the major, she stroked the satin panels of deep midnight blue. She reached for a black chemise edged in lace before putting on her corset. After Giselle tied the laces in back, only then did she begin to apply her perfume.
***
The dress she selected to meet Major d’Angelis was peacock blue. The collar was high and trimmed in silk satin. The décolleté was of a matching blue chiffon, showing off her breasts, like a beautiful face beneath a veil. The shoulders, too, were capped in sheer fabric, thus highlighting the softness of their shape without the glare of bare skin.
Marthe believed only a few women understood how important the right clothes were in the art of seduction. She considered herself an expert.
The fashionably high waistline of her dress was gathered at the center and marked with a circle of glass beading. The skirt, made of hammered silk, fell in soft, fluid folds as she walked.
She had always loved how fabric changed when one moved within it. The ripple of shadows, the shimmer of light, as the female contour shifted beneath the silk.
Marthe walked over to the long mirror to admire her silhouette.
The color of the dress offset her red hair and slate blue eyes. Her eyes sparkled. And having rested with ice-cold compresses on her face since early morning, her skin was as taut and white as an artist’s canvas. On her vanity table she arranged her makeup brushes, then slowly and carefully, she began to add color to her face.
In the oval frame of her mirror, Marthe appraised herself. The only thing missing was a comb for her hair and her strand of pearls.
***
Marthe took a cab to Maxim’s, where the velvet capes were lined in ermine and every woman’s wrist sparkled with diamonds except hers. Still, she felt beautiful. A young woman in her twenties wearing a gray silk-georgette gown with feathers at the sleeves, stopped to marvel at the color of Marthe’s dress.
“Major,” she beckoned, as she approached his table. The light was soft and flattering.
