“I would never tell her. Do you accuse me of not being able to keep a secret?”
“Of course, I do not doubt you, Edma.” She alone is the one constant in this world of shifting light and shadows in which I find myself captive.
Yes, Edma I can trust. Myself, now that is another question.
I listen at the drawing room door as Edma approaches Maman about accompanying me to Édouard’s the next morning.
“It will free you to stay home with Tiburce and greet your guests.”
As I suspected, Maman is none too pleased. “I should think you would care to stay home and spend time with your brother, too.”
“Who will accompany Berthe?”
“Berthe is twenty-seven years old. She is not a child anymore. Since she seems to think she knows what she is doing, I resign myself to this situation. Let her go alone for all I care.”
“Maman, surely you do not mean it.”
No, she doesn’t. What she actually means is I should be the one to stay at home, too.
“Edma, I am at my wits end and I do not know what else to do with her. I have spoken to your father about your sister’s
headstrong ways. He feels I should just let her be. She seems to value her painting above all else. It is to the point where I have started to question her mental faculties, but your father will not hear of it. If you are so inclined to accompany your sister, so be it.”
With that, Maman washes her hands of the situation and redoubles her wall of stony silence toward me, grumbling to Edma about the hardship our absence will cause, since she will only have Amélie to rely on for service when her friends call. We usually serve the tea and cakes while she entertains, but she is relatively safe in her friends discovering exactly where Edma and I have gotten off to because her friends are from different circles than the
avant-garde
who populate Manet’s circles.
Maman seems to like Madame Manet,
mère,
well enough.
Her sanctions against the sitting are purely for my punishment. Because yesterday Maman knew when she bid everyone
adieu
that she would not see them tomorrow. She has certainly done this purposely to force me to choose.
Maman or art.
I will not be tested.
Later, as Edma dresses in preparation for Adolphe’s visit, I sit in the chair in our room captivated by Édouard’s book. It is the epitome of modernity. I read, spellbound, a poem entitled,
Le Balcon:
Mother of Memories, mistress of my dreams, To whom I am in love and duty bound, You will recall, as red the firelight gleams,
What fond embraces, what content we found, Mother of memories, mistress of my dreams . . .
I sat up straight in my chair not believing what I had just read. A poem called
The Balcony
in a book hand delivered by
a man who was painting my portrait in a work of the same name.
“Mother of Memories, mistress of my dreams . . .” “Should I take Madame Manet to visit Maman tomorrow
during her receiving time
?”
Edma holds up a pretty deep-blue gown, then one of white silk adorned with tiny pink f lowers.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say, glancing up from the page. “Maman will never forgive you if you leave me unattended.”
“I suppose you are right. She may say she no longer cares, but she does.”
She had settled on the blue dress and starts to change. “What shall I do the whole day? I will go mad if must I sit there talking to the chaperones. I’m sure I have nothing in common with them.”
“Sitting is what a chaperone does. And that is what you have agreed to do.
N’est-ce pas?
”
She gives me a brooding look.
“May I at least read the book he loaned you?”
I snap it shut and cover the slim volume with my hands as it lay in my lap.
“Do you really want to sit with Madame Manet and company and read
Les Fleurs du Mal
? I am sure Édouard has other books you may borrow.” My grip tightens on the book. “But not this one, Edma.”
Compare with me, ye women, if you can
I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold Or all the riches that the East doth hold.
My love is such that rivers cannot quench, Nor ought bet love from thee, give recompense.
—Anne Bradstreet
he
next morning, I awake feeling as if my youth has been restored. My refreshment is not merely the benefit of a good night’s rest, but culled from a deeper source. Something vital has awakened inside me—a newfound awareness roused
after living unconsciously for far too long.
I am full of clarity and new life and feel as if I could conquer the world. Or at least the indecision that has plagued my world since meeting Édouard Manet one week ago.
Still in her dressing gown after I have been ready for more than a half hour, Edma is maddeningly slow. I am fully set on going alone if she does not hurry. With white dress in hand, I double the skirt over my arm so it will not drag the f loor and tuck Édouard’s book into the folds.
“Come, we must leave now. What is taking you so long?”
“Berthe, it is not even half past eight. We do not have to be there until ten o’clock. What is your hurry?”
“I want to arrive before the others.”
I stand in the foyer for another ten minutes before my sister finally graces me with her presence. She looks fresh, if not a little harried as I help her with her bonnet. We call good-bye to Maman and are on the steps when our mother appears at the door. “It is only half past eight, why on earth are you leaving so
early?”
“We wanted to get an early start so Monsieur Manet can set to work faster,” I say.
“You have not had breakfast.”
“No we have not,” Edma grumbles.
In fear that Maman will detain us—or worse yet f ind some reason to keep us from going—I grab my sister by the elbow and start walking. “No sense in troubling Amélie. She has enough work this morning preparing for your guests today. Manet will give us tea or coffee when we arrive.”
By the time I f inish, we are outside the gate. I can no longer see Maman
.
I do not let go of Edma’s arm until we were safely settled inside the carriage.
Once we are on our way, the cool morning air calms me, and I set my white dress, with the book tucked securely inside, beside me, settled back and relax a bit.
Edma’s mood seems to have not suffered from my pushing her to hurry. “I daresay, Maman must not be too concerned about us going,” she says. “If not, do you think she would have been so agreeable?”
Agreeable? Hardly. Yet, I guess she was more agreeable this morning than she was yesterday when she scarcely said three words to me. But I could tell she was still none too pleased with me. “The source of her good mood, no doubt, was Adolphe paying you a call.”
Again.
Edma blushes a pretty shade of pink at the mention of her beloved’s name and chatters on about him as the carriage rolls us closer to Édouard. I am happy to let my sister carry on about Adolphe’s gestures and expressions, his small tokens of affection, how he talks in future tense when he speaks of life and the exciting possibilities that await them.
She leans in and lowers her voice. “Yesterday, you asked if I was anticipating a proposal. Don’t be surprised if he asks Papa for my hand before fall sets in.”
I knew it was coming, yet I couldn’t fully bring myself to face the possibility of Edma leaving.
It is unspeakably selfish to wish my sister to stay with me—two old maids happily painting side by side in our studio. Alas, knowing she would move off with Adolphe wherever his career might beckon them—he was a military man, after all— knowing I will no longer have the privilege to see her every day makes me want to weep.
I swallow the pang.
What would I do without Edma? We have never been apart. We were happy for our elder sister, Yves, when she married. It suited her. She does not paint and worked toward matrimony as determinedly as Edma and I work at perfecting a painting for the Salon.
When Yves left, marriage was a dim light on the horizon for Edma and me. Now it glared as menacingly as a comet aligned to hit the earth. She is not only my sister, but my best friend. The thought of living without her is almost unbearable. Her eyes shine. “Tell me, what you think of him, Berthe?
Would you find him a suitable brother-in-law?”
Tears sting my eyes, and I look out the window until I am sure I have them under control.
She sounds so happy.
“Edma, anyone who makes you happy, makes me happy.”
She smiles, serene and confident, a woman content in love’s glow. We ride along in silence until she finally asks, “Have you thought anymore about what we talked about yesterday?”
Her question makes me f linch. I shake my head hoping not to seem startled.
“Are you nervous?”
“Nervous? Why on earth would I be nervous?”
Edma shrugs. “I just supposed . . . Well, I just thought—”
I hold a finger to my lips. “Edma, be practical. You are caught up in the thrill of love, but Adolphe is a single man Édouard is not. Do not encourage me to long for that which I cannot have.”
I slide my hand between the dress’s silk layers to the book.
Its solid form reassures me.
Edma smiles, but her eyes hold a sweet sadness—as if she grieves for all the unrequited lovers haunting mankind. For a quick moment, I hope I am not seeing my own emotions mirrored in her eyes. I look away and sit back with the echo of my words ringing to the rhythm of the horse’s hooves on the cobblestone streets. Suddenly, I do not feel quite as sure of myself as I did when I awoke.
“This painting of Édouard’s—who else is posing with you?” I tell her of the stoic Fanny Claus and how she is a friend of Suzanne’s, and of tall, funny Monsieur Guillemet, and how the
idea for the painting swept Édouard off his feet.
It seems that the idea does not only intrigue Édouard, Degas is at Édouard’s studio when we arrive. I am none too happy to see him, as I hoped to have a few moments alone with Édouard before the others arrived to discuss the book.
You can’t bring it up in front of the others
, says Propriety.
But why care what the others think?
urges Olympia.
Just talk to him about it.
Impossible,
says Propriety.
Not in front of the others.
Édouard greets us warmly.
“Bonjour, Mesdemoiselles,”
says Degas. “I have come to see what all the fuss is about. To judge for myself if all the commotion Manet has created over his new masterpiece is worthy of the ruckus.”
“Ruckus?” I smile at Édouard. “What is he talking about?”
Degas smirks and studies me—a lazy, appraisal raked from my face, down to the hem of my skirt.
“May I take the dress from you?” asks Édouard.
I tightened my grip on the book hidden beneath the fabric. “Just tell me where to put it.”
Édouard motions for me to follow. Heels clicking on the marred wooden f loor, I follow him behind the dressing screen. “You may leave it here.” He stands just inside the panel, his
body blocking the opening, standing much too close to me.
I pull the book from the folds of the dress.
He smiles. “Did you have a chance to read it?”
I nod. Nerves make my arm twitch and my elbow knocks into the screen. It sways, but does not fall—
merci Dieu
. It reminds me that although we are tucked away out of sight, Edma and Degas can most assuredly hear every word we exchange.
I press the book into his hand, glancing up at him a moment before I drape my dress over the top of the screen.
My mind skitters back to yesterday, to his playful teasing, and my blood rushes with temptation that beckons me to lean into him again. The silence in the outer room is so obvious it roars.
Now, do you understand why it is frowned upon for ladies to go out without a chaperone?
quips Propriety.
Especially in the company of a handsome man who has a habit of invading one’s personal space.
He smiles at me, tenderly—as if he knows Baudelaire has
said everything we might say to one another—a look that pierces my defenses. He slips the book into his pocket and rejoins the others.
I linger behind the screen and close my eyes to the sound of his voice talking to Edma and Degas. I do not hear what they are saying, so much as the melody of their voices f loating up and out on the air as I gather myself.
When I walk out from behind my cover, Edma is saying, “On the way over this morning, Berthe told me about the painting. That it is modeled after Goya’s
Balcony
?”
Édouard tells about coming upon the scene on his walk.
“It was beautiful.” He looks at me and I wonder if no one else feels the energy bounding between us.
“It was an omen,” he continued. “I was immediately overcome by the sensation that I must re-create it. That I must make it my own.”
Degas’ laugh—a dry, brittle
hrumph—
startles me. Arched brows frame the f lat planes of his face, which stretch down to a diminutive bowed mouth set in a permanent scowl. His small round eyes dart here and there, questioning and watchful, seeing everything.
“Show us the canvas, Manet,” says Degas, his voice colored shades of gray.
“Oh, yes, may we see it?” Edma urges.
Édouard strokes his beard. “I can hardly say it is suitable for viewing. I have only invested a half day’s work in it. I still have a long road ahead.”
Degas does not relent. Finally, Édouard drags out the easel. He angles the canvas so we can view the bare-bones sketch of yesterday’s scene.
I am surprised and very pleased to see my form is the most detailed of the three.
Degas draws closer, stroking his clean-shaven chin, making
interested noises such as,
“Hmmmmm,”
and
“Umm-hmmm.”
I thought his brows could not possibly arc any higher, but they do, like tiny umbrellas opening over his small eyes.
“
Oui,
Manet.
Très bien.
I am sure you plan to work very hard on this one.” He looks at me. “For she will surely prove a challenge. But that is what you live for, is it not?”