His insinuation makes me bite my bottom lip. We all ignore him as we would a naughty child who has spoken out of turn. If we do not acknowledge his gauche behavior, perhaps he will stop.
But he does not.
“Manet is a master, no doubt,” he says to me. “Do not let him monopolize your time. He will if you give him the opportunity.”
I glance at Édouard, who is frowning and staring at the canvas. “I have no idea what he is babbling on about. He is a cynic and a pessimist. Pay him no mind.”
“Ah, true, my friend. I may be guilty of all charges, but you are married. I do not know which of us bears the greater burden.”
With his f inger, Édouard smudges a line on the canvas.
Then picks up a piece of charcoal and begins to draw.
“Thanks to you, my dear friend, the rest of us have no burdens, since you do us all the favor of carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.” Édouard steps back to assess his work. “Although I have often wondered if mankind might not be better off if you were to relieve yourself of your worries, if even for a day, and enjoy the company of a good woman. We would certainly find you more agreeable.”
Degas snorts. “I have no time for fools of either sex. From what I gather, Mademoiselle Berthe, you are much like myself, a purist at heart. Take my word for it and watch yourself around this f latterer.”
Édouard laughs as if Degas has made a joke. He turns the canvas to the wall.
“
Ah,
but Monsieur Degas, I am not so naive to fall prey to
petite f latterie,
” I say. “In fact, I was wondering whether Madame Édouard Manet would honor us with her presence today. I should love to get to know her better.”
It is a lie, and I am sure Édouard knows it, but I do not care. I have no burning desire to know Suzanne, today or ever. But I must put Degas, that disagreeable little man, in his place. He has a lot of audacity insulting Édouard in his own studio and suggesting that I might be so weak that I cannot take care of myself.
Degas looks down his pointed little nose. “Will we see your lovely wife?”
Édouard has busied himself readying his supplies. “I do not know, Degas. Please feel free to call on her in Boulogne and inquire after her schedule if you wish
.”
Days turn into weeks. Weeks push close to a month and the sittings stretch on. Maman has grown tired of spending her days sitting in Édouard’s studio. After the first week, Madame Manet made excuses as to why she was otherwise detained. Edma, too, had other things to do. After strict discussion with Madame Manet and Madame Chevalier, Maman decides it is perfectly fine for me to go to the sittings alone, with the understanding that Madame Chevalier will be present.
After all, Fanny Claus and her chaperone will be ample su-pervision for a woman of my age. She does not say it that way, but the meaning is implied.
As is the meaning behind the sighs and cross demeanors of Fanny Claus and Monsieur Guillemet. Their restlessness grows more acute as each day drags on. The vague hints of displeasure blossom into bitter protests about the amount of time Édouard
is taking. But their complaints seem to roll off him as a carriage wheel spins over cobblestones.
I do not mind. Time with him in his studio is time well spent. Édouard and I talk and laugh and discover so much about each other.
We discuss Baudelaire—depravity and vice or the poet of modern civilization? He entertains me with stories of the times Baudelaire came to the Thursday night soirées.
“Ma
mère
did not know what to think of him at first,” he says. “Later she longed for his company.”
“How I wish I could have met him.”
Édouard tilts his head to the right and peers at me around the canvas. His gray eyes smoldered. “He would have been captivated by you.”
He is charming and absolutely proper—not a hint of impropriety, much to my dismay. After all this talk of Baudelaire and indecency, I long for just a hint of something more, but
non
, he is the perfect gentleman.
How utterly frustrating. Still, I would not mind if the sessions stretched on indefinitely. The minutes that stand between us when we are not together weigh heavy and endless. The days with him are far too short.
Madame Manet had taken a temporary respite from the Thursday soirées, since she, Suzanne, and Léon are still in Boulogne. It is probably for the best. I wonder at Édouard’s separation from her. I suppose an artist’s wife gets used to the models and the long hours her husband spends away. Suzanne has her spy. We are under the watchful eye of little Fanny Claus, who I’m sure provides Suzanne with detailed reports.
Finally about forty days into the painting, while we are taking a short rest to stretch our limbs, Fanny Claus walks over to the canvas, as bold as you please, and looks. Édouard has
turned it toward the wall and I watch her scoot the easel back as if he had invited her to do so.
Her face falls. “I am finished, Monsieur Manet.”
She yanks off her gloves and tosses them aside. “It is plain to see you have eyes for only one subject in this painting. You will do fine without me.”
Édouard had been making a pot of tea. He stops and gapes at her.
“Mademoiselle Claus, I am sorry if I have offended you. But I must confess, I do not understand why you are angry. Each of you is important to this composition. Perhaps I have detained you too long. For that I apologize. If you feel you must go, by all means, please go.”
She leaves.
But later, when I take a good look at the painting, Fanny Claus’s words ring true. The exquisite detail in which he has painted my image makes the vague sketches of the others look even plainer, as if they are merely marking space on the canvas. Surely he will go back and paint them in more detail later.
Looking at us for the past month, surely he has had enough time to commit our features to memory. But if the truth be known, I am secretly gratified to see the painstaking detail he has spent on me.
To think there was once a time when we were strangers; when Édouard Manet was just a name on a magnificent painting. Now I come to his studio as a friend. We discuss art and God and politics and the world in which we live. He considers my opinions and does not think less of my strong convictions.
Why did we not meet before he married Suzanne?
In studious awe the poets brood before my monumental pose aped from the proudest pedestal,
and to bind these docile lovers fast
I freeze the world in a perfect mirror: The timeless light of my wide eyes.
—Baudelaire, “Beauty”
arrive
at his studio the next morning, alone, as I have for the past two weeks, but a little later than usual. I am the first
r
to a rive.
“I feared you had deserted me, too.” Édouard looks anxious standing in the midst of his studio, but does not seem the least bit bothered by the fact that we are
alone
without the benefit of a chaperone.
I set down my handbag, unnerved and exhilarated by this realization. Fanny Claus was cross yesterday, but I did not think she would leave so abruptly.
“Of course I would not desert you.” My words sound far more certain than I feel. “Aren’t the others coming today? Did I not get a message that you canceled the session?”
“They are finished.” He shakes his head. “I still have much work to accomplish before I will deem this painting complete. Alas, I suppose I have imposed on everyone long enough. You may leave, too, if you choose.”
His words release me, but his eyes ask me to stay.
I know I should go, because if we are discovered alone together, it could be disastrous, even in its innocence.
I know this, but still I hear myself saying, “I did not come all this way to simply turn around and go home.”
We stand shyly for an awkward moment, and I fear I might come apart for how clumsy I feel.
Then he smiles. “I was hoping you would say that. Here, come and sit for a moment.” He pats the arm of the divan. “Let us have some tea before we get to work.”
He moves to the kitchen to start the water as he has done every morning since he began this painting. I perch on the edge of the sofa and glance around the studio, seeing it with new eyes—the dressing screen with my lone white dress draped over the top just as I had left it. Fanny Claus’s gown is gone.
Today, I am on my own.
My gaze trails from the easel pushed into one corner to the rumpled covers on the unmade bed on the opposite side of the room.
“Did you sleep here last night?”
“I did. I worked on the painting well into the evening and it made no sense to go home to an empty house, with Suzanne, Léon, and Maman still in Boulogne.”
It pains me to hear
her
name pass his lips. But something dangerous bubbles at the thought of her being so far away— that they have been apart for so long. The sensible Berthe warns,
Watch yourself. You should leave if you want what’s best.
I can scarcely hear the caveat over the memory of his whis-
pered promise that first day in the studio—vows of temptations more sinful and pleasurable than rich chocolate. What, in addition to tea, did he have in mind today?
More important, am I ready to discover the answer?
I stand with a start. “I suppose I shall change.” Cringing at the tiny squeak that masquerades as my voice, I retreat behind the dressing screen.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath and force myself to consider the consequences of staying with him today. I need only bid him
adieu
and walk out the door.
I have imagined being alone with Édouard, even longed for
it in my most private fantasies, but never, no, no,
never
have I dreamed I would arrive at this situation.
Emotion and longing merge and crest like a wave propelled by wind. A strange funnel swirls in my belly and my eyes f ly open. I have no more control over these feelings than I have over the sea f lowing onto the shore.
I reach back with both hands and began unfastening the tiny buttons on my dress. As I worked the first one free, Édouard rattles the teakettle. With the next, he draws the water. With the third, he sets the kettle to the fire.
Button by tiny button, I work myself free, hitching up the fabric to conquer the hard-to-reach places, until the dress falls to the f loor.
Édouard coughs and drags the easel to the middle of the room. I hug myself, closing my eyes and running my hands down my bare arms to quell a shiver.
Oh, how scandalously free I feel standing here like this. Terrified and liberated, undressed and alone with this man. I touch the partition’s cloth. The shield that hides my nakedness from Édouard’s eyes wavers beneath my trembling hand. And the knot in the pit of my stomach slowly unfurls.
I lift the white dress off the rail. Édouard seems to stop moving. The room is suspended in a reverent silence as I bury my face in the silky white. It has picked up the scent of Édouard’s studio. I breathe in the aphrodisiac for a moment before slipping it over my head.
The organdy f lounces fall over my body like a lover’s hands urging me out from behind the screen.
“Would you help me with the buttons, please?”
Édouard sets down his palette and wipes his hands on a rag. He does not say a word, but watches me as he tidies himself, as if he knows precisely what I am asking of him.
As he moves toward me, I feel it—an almost indiscernible click as the magnet of him pulls at the pin of my heart and everything snaps into place.
I grip the edge of the partition, but he places his hands on my shoulders and turns me so he can get to the buttons.
He brushes aside a wisp of my hair that has fallen from its place. His fingers trail across the nape of my neck. I inhale quickly, a short, sudden little gasp, and a shiver shadows the trail of his fingers. My head tilts in the direction of his hand, and my sleeve slips from one shoulder.
For the span of a breath he does not touch me, and I do not move. I let the fabric stay as it has fallen, exposing the top curve of my breast that lay like an overripe fruit, atop the edge of my stiff corset.
His hands settle on my shoulders light as a whisper. One hand perfectly still, the thumb of his other traces the exposed skin—a soft, barely-there caress that gives me permission to pull away . . . or not . . .
I lower my cheek and dust his hand with the murmur of a kiss. He strokes my jawline, my cheek, my bottom lip—gently tracing it with the pad of his thumb.
His other hand, just inside the back of my dress, traces the vee of bare skin to my waist, then around to my belly. His hand splays the expanse of my stomach, to the underside of my breasts, and he pulls me firmly against him.
His body responds.
He slides a finger down my collarbone to the f leshy fullness at the top of my breast and presses his lips to my neck. My breath quickens to short, silent gasps. As I arch back, his finger brushes my nipple. I nearly cry out.
He turns me to face him, weaving his hands in my hair, exploring the hollow of my neck, trailing his tongue over my earlobe. I fear I will explode from desire, but he lowers his mouth to mine—I start at the feel of his beard, surprisingly coarse against my sensitive lips, a sharp contrast to the smooth wetness of his lips and tongue.
Fully, deeply, ardently, he kisses me, moans a deep, throaty sound of satisfaction that is unexpectedly animal, and I melt deeper into his kiss allowing myself to sink into his body. I savor his taste—coffee and a hint of peppermint—the hard feel of him and how safe I feel in his arms as the rest of the world melts away.
How I had longed for this kiss.
How many nights had I dreamed of being in his arms? Feeling his body pressed to mine, yearning for the lingering seconds he would look into my eyes just before his lips touched mine for the first time.
He pushes down my other sleeve and steps back allowing just enough space between us, so the dress slides down my body and pools at my feet like a white cloud.