Édouard appears, smiling. I am relieved because he can defend himself if Degas continues to persecute him. I will not be responsible for the task.
Degas talked on as if he had not heard Édouard approach. “You claim Manet is a gentleman? Since when? Did he finally decide to spin moral fiber?” He turns in mock surprise. “Ah, Manet, there you are.”
Degas is angry, and after the display of temper I witnessed in Édouard’s studio, I fear they will get into a brawl. “Monsieur, your timing is impeccable. We were indeed talking about you.”
“Were you?” Édouard takes my hand, raises it to his lips, and meets my gaze. “Mademoiselle, it is a pleasure. It has been far too long.”
“Monsieur.”
He lowers my hand and taps the fan. “This is lovely. A present from an admirer?”
“An ardent admirer,” Degas purrs. “Hand painted expressly with the demoiselle in mind.”
The tone of his voice sends a most unromantic shudder up my spine that makes me open my eyes wide and turn away from Degas.
“How have you been?” I ask Édouard.
His gray eyes seem a couple of shades darker, and he glares at Degas, who wears a most irksome little smirk.
“I have been very well,
merci.
Busy, but well.”
“I’m sure you have,” Degas says. “What, with the beautiful Mademoiselle Gonzalés in your studio every day. How goes the painting of her?”
Édouard tenses. “It progresses.” “A new commission?” I ask.
“No,” says Degas. “A new student. A lovely young creature at that.”
I go numb. “I thought you were too busy to take on students?”
Édouard shrugs. “Generally, that is true.”
“Unless they are young and vivacious and ethereally beautiful,” says Degas.
Édouard stutters. I have never seen him so unnerved. “This is the first time I have accepted a student in my
ate-
lier
. Her father is Emmanuel Gonzalés the novelist. He asked
me to give her lessons as a favor to him. She shows promise.”
Degas wheezes a dry, throaty laugh. “Not to mention she is twenty years old and stunning. She has huge—” Degas started to make a gesture at chest level, but gasps as if he had just realized a woman was present and moves his hands up to encircle his eyes, “— big, big brown eyes that have simply made Manet the fool. Oh and such a haughty will. But it comes naturally as the world seems to grovel at her feet. Right, Manet?”
Édouard does not smile. In fact, he looks as if he is exercis-ing great restraint to hold his tongue and not strike Degas.
Fat Suzanne is at the piano now. She is playing her Chopin, eyes closed, as if she does not have a care in the world. I cannot decide if she is blind or stupid or if she had gotten so comfortable in her cushy station that she has resigned herself to not give a damn about her husband’s antics.
I have grown tired of both Degas and Édouard. They may enjoy stabbing at each other, but each lance simply glances off the intended target and impales me. I am tired of playing the fool. Enough!
“Excusez-moi, Messieurs.”
I slip out the terrace door and head toward my studio. So
the ethereal Mademoiselle Gonzalés has been keeping Édouard
busy.
He has replaced me with someone new, someone young and beautiful and more exciting than I.
While I know I have no claim on Édouard, what was I supposed to believe when a few weeks earlier he had paid court to me with charm and devotion? But he did not follow through. Shouldn’t that be enough of an indication that he is simply a f latterer?
And I am a fool for believing there was something more in his eyes.
The full meaning behind Degas’ words—
Manet’s inherently fickle nature and he cannot be trusted
—dawn hard and fast.
I feel like an idiot, as if I have not been paying attention and have suddenly painted myself into a predicament that can only be resolved by starting anew.
Very well, then.
Mademoiselle Gonzalés can have Édouard. My best defense will be to keep my distance from him.
In my dark studio, the air is quiet and lighter. I do not light a lamp, but stand there alone in the darkness. The glow from the house shines bright, and I walked over to the window to look out at the night.
In that solitary moment it becomes ever so clear that I have failed at everything that matters. I failed Maman by my unwillingness to compromise—to get married and give up this
silly hobby,
as she called it, for the respectable life of a proper lady. I even failed myself for nurturing feelings for a man I cannot have. Worse yet, since meeting him, I cannot seem to finish a painting. I am f loundering, adrift on a vast sea of nothingness.
If I am going to be unhappy, why not resign myself to an unhappiness that makes Maman happy? Why not go in and select the first man on whom my gaze lands and let him be
the one? Through the window, I gaze at the party happening amidst the golden glow of candlelight. People eating and drinking, laughing and talking.
A solitary figure standing off from the crowd catches my eye. Eugène Manet stands alone. The party seems to buzz around him, yet he stands a pillar of silence, keeping to himself.
Tears well in my eyes. I know I could no more go in there and choose a husband at random than I could escape my hopeless life by jumping the garden wall and making a clean get-away.
I will be better off telling Maman I have a headache and calling it a night. Although, she will be furious at me for leaving her to tend to the guests alone.
I pick up a new cotton rag Amélie has draped over my easel and wipe my eyes, glancing at Edma’s easel, standing empty and abandoned in its usual place, as if she will be back any minute. It makes my insides ache.
But just as Edma has chosen her path, I, too, have chosen mine. I never travel the easy route. I should know that about myself by now.
A faint knock on the door startles me out of my thoughts.
Édouard pushes open the door and steps inside. “Ah, so this is where you disappeared. I—” “Monsieur, please. There is no point.”
“Degas presented a most inappropriate picture of my arrangement with Mademoiselle Gonzalés. I felt I must—”
“It does not matter. It is your business to settle with your conscience and your wife.”
“She is nothing to me.”
“Who is nothing—Suzanne or Eva?”
When he does not answer, I whirl around to face him. He stands so close my shoulder brushes his chest as I turn. He does
not step back. The edge of the windowsill presses against my bottom. Golden light from the party casts his eyes the color of a stormy sea.
I do not know why I do it, out of desire or out of sheer anger for the way he has been trif ling with me. I lean in and pressed my mouth to his, fast and hard.
His hands slide around my waist, move up my back, raking into my hair, and he deepens the kiss.
His taste once so foreign has become familiar, a taste I crave that melts my determination and dissolves my defiance. This is expressly the reason I should not kiss him.
I push past him, without looking back and f lee into the garden, running headlong into Eugène Manet.
“Excusez-moi
, Mademoiselle.”
He grabs me to cushion the impact and for a moment we stand in an awkward embrace. Tucked into the fold of Eugène’s strong arms, I feel Édouard’s kiss fresh on my lips, the coarseness of his beard prickling my face. I jerk away from Eugène, half expecting Édouard to come barreling out of my studio.
Of course he does not.
He is much too suave to make such a grave mistake and give himself away.
Eugène steadies me with a hand on my shoulder. Even in the dim half-light of night I can see that he is f lushed from our contact.
“Are you all right, Mademoiselle?” he asks.
“Yes, Monsieur Manet, I am fine. Please forgive my clumsiness. I was not watching where I was going.”
“No, Mademoiselle, the fault is all mine.”
We stand in awkward silence. Until he says, “Such a lovely party. It is quite nice to see you. I have often thought of paying you a call, but . . .”
His voice trails off and he stares at the ground, not at me. I cannot help but compare his shy reserve to his brother’s brash boldness. My heart fills with such sadness, for a moment I believe I might dissolve into despair.
But I will not give Édouard the satisfaction.
Instead, I focus on the differences between the brothers. Eugène is taller than Édouard, gentler, and more sincere in manner. I suppose it would be a crowded house if two domi-nant personalities commanded the spotlight.
“Shall I escort you back to the party?”
He offers his arm. I remember the soirée at his mother’s home that night he escorted me to dinner. Oh, how different things were then. A pang of remorse grips me.
If I could go back and relive the weeks in between, would I change the outcome?
I shiver against the cool night air.
What was the use of pondering such nonsense? “I would like that very much, Monsieur.
Merci.
”
I take his arm, and we walk in heavy silence to the party.
I know your heart which overf lows With outworn loves long cast aside Still like a furnace f lames and glows, And you within your breast enclose A dammed soul’s unbending pride;
—Baudelaire
A
PR I L
1869
My Dear Edma,
I see from your letter that you are enjoying the sunshine as we are, and that you know how to benefit from it. Spring is a lovely thing; it makes itself felt charmingly, even in a little restricted corner of the earth like the garden. The lilacs are in bloom. The chestnut trees are almost so. I was admiring them a little while ago. Papa listened to me, then put an end to my enthusiasm by immediately forecasting the end of all these splendors.
I am wondering what I should do with my summer. I should be glad to come to you on condition, first, that it will not inconvenience you, and second that I shall find opportunity to work. My inaction is beginning to weigh upon me. I am eager to do something at least fairly good.
I understand that one does not readily accustom oneself to life in the country and to domesticity. For that, you must have something to look forward to. I know Adolphe would not appreciate my talking in this way. Men are inclined to believe that they fill one’s life, but as for me, I think no matter how much affection a woman has for her husband, it is not easy for her to break with a life of work. Affection is a very fine thing on condition that there is something besides with which to fill one’s days. This is something I see for you in motherhood. Do not grieve about painting. It is not worth a single regret. There is one worry you are rid of. For the past month I have not seen a single painter.
The Salon opens soon. I considered writing Manet a note to ask him for an admission card. Alas, I hesitate to do so.
I often imagine myself in your little home and wonder whether you are happy or sad. I suspect you are both. Am I wrong?
Affectionately, Your sister Berthe
Édouard dropped by today, but I was not at home to receive him. I believe the fates have made it perfectly clear there is no hope for us. We cannot pretend to be merely friends, yet I cannot put him out of my mind. Even in light of Eva Gonzalés.
The friendship Maman and Madame Manet have developed makes it increasingly difficult to avoid him.
I suppose I cannot evade him indefinitely. Maman already believes there is something wrong with me and has tried to persuade me to see a doctor to treat my malaise.
One bit of news that did brighten my spirits was when Degas dropped by with word that Édouard’s painting of Mademoiselle Gonzalés is not progressing well. Degas says he cannot seem to get the girl’s face right. After more than a month’s work, he grows quite frustrated.
I suppose this means Édouard and Degas have mended their rift over the altered family portrait. I did not ask for fear it would reopen the wound.
A
PR I L
1869
You are right, my dear Berthe, in all you say to me. It is disheartening one cannot depend on artists. You may call me crazy if you like, but when I think of any of these artists, I tell myself that a quarter hour of their conversation is worth as much as many sterling qualities.
Continue to write me your gossip as you call it. I have nothing better to do than decipher it.
Affectionately yours, Edma
M
AY
1869
For the first time in six years I did not submit work to the Salon. You can imagine my trepidation about attending. At one point, I even contemplated forgoing the event altogether. But Édouard—in a devious plan—sent Maman a note inviting us to the Salon opening to view my likeness in
Le Balcon. Celebration to follow at the Manet home immediately afterward.
Maman was as excited about the unveiling as if it were her portrait.
“After all the time I spent waiting while he created it, a piece of me is attached to it.”
She has miraculously developed a case of amnesia about the turmoil surrounding it. Given Maman’s disposition, it is much better to have her embrace the occasion than not.
It had been nearly two months since I have seen Édouard. He called several times. But I managed to avoid seeing him, with hopes that time would eventually quell my feelings for him.
Although I do not know if I am ready to face him, I have decided to accompany Maman to the opening, as an obedient daughter should.
At the Salon, on our way to room
M,
a painting at the top of the grand staircase snares my attention; a piece by my friend Pierre Puvis de Chavannes. I stop to admire it.
“Berthe, Monsieur Puvis de Chavannes is such a charming fellow. I have no idea why you do not encourage that relationship.”
Maman lifts her quizzing glass and looks at the painting. “No talent for art, but he is handsome and wealthy. A decidedly good match for you.”
I do not answer her. Puvis may be wealthy and handsome as she calls him, but he is too old. It must be his aristocratic air that makes him seem as old as the throne. But come to think