But then I stop. Why should I feel guilty? She has a baby on the way—the thought takes me by surprise and sends little shivers down my spine.
Even if Edma did not wish to pick up a brush again, I hope she will at least consider adorning her walls with a few canvases.
I will paint her something new before I return to Paris. I consider leaving this one, but I want to hang onto it and submit it to the Salon next year. It was disappointing to not have an entry this year—it was one thing to be rejected, but it made me quite disgusted with myself to know I didn’t even try.
Inaction—the worst of diseases.
I glance at the painting as we walk up the dirt road. In a way it is symbolic—that everything that is meant to be always works out as it should. Edma has her baby. I have my painting.
“Who is that?” Edma says. “Who?”
I shade my eyes and follow Edma’s gaze up the road to the porch of her house and see the figure of a man sitting on the porch steps.
At first I cannot see clearly because the sun is in my eyes. At four o’clock, the sun is on its downward grade in the western sky. It shines brightly, silhouetting the visitor. Without trees, the unfiltered light plays havoc on my vision, and I think it might be Adolphe returned home early.
I squint into the light and for the span of a beat, my heart stops.
No, it can’t be—
“Édouard?” I whisper.
Surely not—a strange swirling sensation begins in my stomach, and my head swims. Surely the light is playing tricks on my eyes.
“I believe it is he,” says Edma. “Berthe, he has come to see you.”
I quicken my pace as well as I am able, lugging a large canvas and easel. Edma has my paint box. It is no challenge for her to pass me. As we draw closer, Édouard stands and removes his hat.
“
Bonjour, Madame Pontillon. Et mademoiselle . . .
I am so happy to see you. I feared I had missed you after coming all this way.”
He steps forward and relieves me of my easel. I am suddenly very conscious of the work that had so thrilled me only moments ago. I angle it away so he cannot readily see it.
“Bonjour, Monsieur,”
says Edma. She sets my paint box down on the step. “I hope you have not been waiting long. We have been out making the most of this beautiful day.”
He smiles. “You look well, Madame. I have just recently arrived. Mademoiselle, I am happy to see you have been working. Please, may I see what you’ve done?”
What is he doing here?
I hesitate, gripping the edges of the canvas with both hands, careful not to smear the wet paint. The breeze lifts the scent of the oil and it reminds me of the last time I was in his studio. I wonder why. It is the same pungent scent that surrounds me most every day of my life. But suddenly it personifies him.
He reaches out and with a gentle hand turns the canvas toward him. He’s quiet for a moment, then a slow smile spreads over his face.
“This is a masterpiece.”
I recall a time when Degas remarked at how Édouard admired the work of his friends, and once Maman warned me to beware of the difference between a man’s personal compliment and his professional evaluation. Yet, my heart lifts as a leaf soar-ing on the breeze.
“You possess such talent,” he says. “I stand in awe of you.
I would gladly have this in my personal collection. Name your price.”
Edma laughs. Claps her hands like a child.
I take a step backward, because it suddenly feels as if he is standing much too close. “Do not be ridiculous. I cannot sell it to you. The paint is not even dry.” I am stammering, and I hate myself for it.
“What brings you to Lorient, Monsieur?” Edma asks, as if sensing my agitation. Her bemused expression suggests a mere fraction of the feelings coursing through me.
“What brings me here? Why Mademoiselle Berthe, of course.”
My skin tingles.
Edma makes a sound like,
Oh!
“Well, if you will excuse me. I shall just go inside.”
The door clicks shut behind her, but opens again. Edma sticks out her head.
“I thought you might want to go for a walk, but please come in anytime you like.”
She disappears inside, leaving me alone with Édouard.
The stars and the rivers and the waves call you back.
—Pindar, Greek
ight
the color of amber glass ref lects off the lone tree in my sister’s yard. The hue deepens into a rich shade of burnt umber where the setting sun reaches through the leaves to caress the branches and trunk. Twilight usually leaves me feeling wistful—melancholy even—homesick for places I’ve never been, achy for some indefinable something I could never
put my finger on.
This evening, as we stand on Edma’s porch, Édouard offers his arm. “Shall we walk?”
“That would be lovely.” As I lace my arm through his, I feel akin to the light—I am all at once mellow and f luid and hot.
This evening I finally feel as if I have found that for which I have been longing my entire life.
We walk in silence for a long time before I ask him, “Why did you come?”
“Mademoiselle, you disappeared. I waited for you to write
to me. But I waited in vain. Finally, I had to send Fantin to your Maman to do a bit of detective work to discover your whereabouts. And here I am.”
He places his hand atop mine in the crook of his arm. I cannot believe he has gone to so much trouble to find me. If Maman’s letter was true, I wonder how he escaped the en-chanting Eva’s death grip.
“Maman wrote that you have been quite busy with Mademoiselle Gonzalés. I did not write because it sounded as if you did not have a moment for anything else.”
Édouard narrows his eyes. His brows knit into a bemused frown.
“That is not true. Would your sister mind if we were gone so long to take a turn around the harbor?”
I shake my head. “There is no one within four hundred kilometers who will mind.”
Again, we stroll in silence. I wonder what he had told Suzanne of his trip to Lorient.
If
he has told her. And how long he plans to stay. Did he intend to ask Edma for a room for the night?
All these questions swirl in my mind, but Maman’s comments about
the eternal Mademoiselle Gonzalés
surface high above them all, pushing the others to the side. I decide I will not let him sidestep the issue with the diversion of a walk.
“Relations are going well with Mademoiselle Gonzalés
?”
He shrugs. Then after a moment’s hesitation, shakes his head. “No. As I told you at the Salon, she is very young and demands constant attention.” He wrinkles his brow as if the mere thought causes him pain. “I do not have the time or patience for that.”
“Is that so? Maman wrote that—let’s see, how did she put it? That she found you in greater ecstasies than ever in the presence of the captivating mademoiselle.”
“I do not mean to dispute your mother’s good word, but
au contraire
. When she visited my studio, I was working furiously to finish the mademoiselle’s portrait.” He waves his hand in disgust. “I have done as much as I intend to do with it. Yesterday, I informed her papa that the arrangement is finished.”
I try not to smile. Try to stroll along as if we are discussing the weather and other banalities. But I find myself enraptured by the strange pleasure of standing so close to him—in public, without fear of happening upon an acquaintance who would delight in telling the world about what she has witnessed.
His hand is still on mine, tucked in the crook of his arm. Those we pass regard us as if we belong together—man and wife out for a stroll on this beautiful, warm spring evening. We do not see many people, but those we pass smile and tip hats in gracious greeting. Édouard holds himself in an erect manner that suggests he is proud to be seen with me.
I have the sensation of knowing what it is like to belong with him. Yes, it would be like this if we were married.
I stop wondering why he come to Lorient. Leaning in a little closer to breath in that familiar smell that is Édouard— the lingering scent of linseed oil, and wool and man. For a few beautiful, timeless moments we are one, and I lose myself in the blissful illusion as we walk together toward the harbor.
The air smells of a salty sweetness I had not realized before. Looking again at the cracks in the road, I recall the first day I set foot in Édouard’s studio, when the air smelled fresh and the world felt new and full of possibilities.
Before we reach the water, he veers off the parched road past a row of identical white plaster houses to a grassy knoll I did not notice yesterday when I arrived.
Finally we stop at the top of the hill beneath the shelter of a weeping willow tree.
Dust motes dance in the golden sunlight that filters through the f lowing branches, highlighting the new green that mingles with patches of the lingering winter brown.
He sits on the grass and tugs me down next to him. My stomach pitches because I think for an instant he might kiss me. Instead, he settles back on his elbows and simply gazes at me, through half-open eyes, his leg touching mine.
I arrange my skirt around me, more for the sake of diversion than anything else. When I glance up, it is obvious that he likes what he sees, but the intensity with which he studies me makes me uneasy, as if he is comparing me to every woman he has ever beheld.
I do not mind holding myself up to comparison when the competition pertains to something within my control, but I have always shied away from contests of a personal nature because the rejection that follows hits too close; it’s too private. I can always fix a canvas or paint with different colors or in different venues, but I cannot change the person I am. And that is fine, for I have never desired to be anyone else—especially right now.
It is much easier to turn away before a suitor’s interest fades. That way I never have to watch the interest dim. It never becomes personal. They never come back. Never pursue or try harder. They crumble and fall. And I know it is for the best. For the relationship would have fallen eventually.
A f lock of birds screech as they f ly by in formation.
But here is Édouard. Steadfast and persistent. He keep following. No matter how fast I walk away, I turn around, and there he is.
“I enjoy looking at you.” His voice is a husky timbre, and his leg shifts closer to me. “I enjoy being with you.”
I am exhilarated and frightened all at once.
What would he do if I reached out and took what I wanted, like a common whore? That is how Suzanne captured him— although it is hard to imagine her being so bold.
Édouard and I share the same madness, the same visions, and disgust for the impostors who claim to paint the truth. That is how we come together—in truth and beauty. Not by one snagging the other. Trapped into a life together by virtue of a child.
“Why do you call Léon your godson when he is your son?”
Édouard sits up but does not quite meet my eyes. “He is not my son.”
Annoyance bubbles up inside me, threatening to burst into a full-blown distaste.
“You do not have to pretend with me, Édouard. I know that is why you married Suzanne. No?”
I reach up and turn his chin so he must look me in the eyes. He seems to pale a shade.
“No, that is not why I married Suzanne.” “Why then?”
“It is complicated, and I do not want to spoil our time together by talking about it.”
“Does it mean you love her?”
He covers his face with his hands and rubs it as if he can scrub my question away.
If he can’t answer the question are you really going to sit here with him like this?
says Propriety.
You shouldn’t be alone with him in the first place.
I get to my feet and start to walk away. “Wait. Please, do not go.”
I stop but don’t turn around. “I do not wish to compromise myself. Especially with a man who loves another.”
I take a few more steps.
“That is not it. Please stay and I shall tell you.”
I return to my seat beside him, leaving more distance than before. Once I am settled, Édouard sighs and looks at me as if he might shed a tear.
“I have never shared this with anyone outside my family.” He plucks a blade of grass and smoothes it between his fingers. “Léon is my brother.”
I gasp, recalling Degas’ words that I did not fully believe. “I do not understand.”
He swallows, and his throat works through the emotion. “When I was in the navy, my father fell in love with a
young woman . . .” He hesitates and picks at the grass again. “That woman was Suzanne.”
He meets my gaze and holds it.
“He was married to my mother, and she had given him three sons, so he could not very well leave her. So he brought Suzanne into our home under the guise of teaching my brothers and me piano. My mother did not like it, but she would not go against her husband’s decision. About eight years before my father died, Suzanne gave birth to a son. It was all very hush-hush. She went back to Holland before she started to become heavy with the child, and returned with her
baby brother.
My mother was livid. She did not want Suzanne to return, but my father was heartsick without her.
He even contemplated leaving to be with her until my mother relented and agreed to Suzanne’s return. It would have been a scandal if he had divorced my mother for Suzanne or given the boy his name, so everyone played along that Léon was her brother.”
He paused and drew in a ragged breath.
“Then my father died. That was six years ago. My mother had absolutely no use for Suzanne and was ready to throw her and the boy out into the street.
“I could not talk any sense into her. It was as if all the anger pent up over all the years that my father had loved this woman in my mother’s house had broken loose.
“She and the boy had no place to go—no money, no friends. She was a good person, Berthe. Even if I had given her money, what kind of existence would she have been able to provide for her child?
“So I married her.”