He finishes. Thrusts the brush toward me, looking quite pleased with himself.
I reached out to reclaim it, but he does not let go. To my horror, he gives it a little tug, pulling my hand, brush and all, toward him. His eyes sparkle like two shiny gray pools.
“Yes, beautiful, indeed,” he mutters.
My mouth is dry. “Monsieur, you are bold to take such liberties. I am not your student.”
“Mademoiselle, I do not take students under my wing. I am far too busy with my own work to accept the responsibility of fostering another’s creative whims. Even if I did, you are much too accomplished and your reputation far too superior for me to make such base assumptions. Please forgive me if I have offended you.”
Still holding the brush, he takes my hand in his and bows. This time there is no playful tug. Just my small hand consumed by his, rugged and large.
His skin, touching my skin. Purely.
Honestly.
A strange sensation winds its way down my spine and blossoms in my belly. I draw my hand from his and placed it on my middle, trying hard to breathe. It is as if someone has cinched my corset so tightly it has stunted my breathing. A fever brews and spreads to my face and extremities, pooling in delicate places of which proper ladies should not take notice.
“Mademoiselle? You do not look well. Sit down, please.
Let me help.”
His hand is at my elbow now. I let him escort me to a wooden bench in the center of the gallery, where I sit.
“Berthe?” Rosalie kneels in front of me, the cool backs of her fingers pressed to my cheek. Her touch helps me focus and reminds me of all I have heard about the purported effect the
illustrious Monsieur Manet wreaks on the fairer gender. How his quick mind and clever wit captivate both men and women.
I am furious with myself for acting like such an
imbécile
.
Je ne suis pas une femme légère
. I am not a silly woman. I should be immune to such base nonsense, especially concerning a man who surely has as many mistresses as he has controversies swirling around him.
“I must have caught a chill.” Yes, that’s it. “Rosalie, we should call it a day. I have exhausted myself.”
“Certainly. I will gather our belongings.” I sit for another moment.
“Please allow Monsieur Fantin and myself to see you home safely.”
“That will not be necessary.” I stand, feeling stronger. “Mademoiselle, it is our duty,” says Fantin.
I shake my head and silence him with a wave. The last thing I need is to arrive home with two men in tow. That would make it impossible to salvage a shred of dignity.
“As you wish, Mademoiselle,” says Monsieur Manet.
He and Fantin exchange a glance. I walk to my easel to relieve dear Rosalie of packing my paints.
Manet lingers as I wipe the wet paint from my palette, taking care not to get the remnants on my hands. I wrap the wooden board in a cotton cloth.
“I fear I am leaving you with a most unfavorable impression,” he says.
“
Non
. I am simply exhausted. For that, you cannot blame yourself.”
“Then you will give me another chance to improve my standing?”
“I am afraid I do not understand, Monsieur.”
“I would like the opportunity to present myself in a better manner.”
“As you wish, Monsieur.”
I drop the brush into my bag, then slip out of the gray smock and smooth the bodice of my dress.
His gaze traces my motions. “Very well, then.” “Very well.”
He motions to Fantin.
“Au revoir, Mesdemoiselles.” “Au revoir, Messieurs,”
calls Rosalie.
The two men walked away. But as they reach the gallery door, Manet turns back to me and tips his cane. “To second chances, Mademoiselle
.
”
There are certain people whom one loves immediately and forever.
—Unknown
“
cannot
believe you met him,” my sister Edma laments as we paint side by side in our studio. “The one day I do not
go to copy and Fantin brings Manet around for introduction. I shall never forgive him.”
If she has expressed her displeasure over missing the introduction once, she has bemoaned it a million times since I met Manet not even twenty-four hours prior. Edma and Maman hang on every word, begging for details until they are satisfied they have drained me of all I might offer.
Usually, Maman accompanies my sister and me to our copying sessions, but yesterday Edma chose to forgo the Louvre in favor of receiving Adolphe Pontillon, who has been calling on her these days more often than I care to acknowledge.
Given a choice between art and romance—well, to Maman there is no choice when romance is concerned. She and Edma stayed home to entertain Adolphe, and I went with Rosalie for the morning.
I do not know who is more distraught over missing the excitement. But at least my mother has dismissed her disappointment with a simple, “To think of all the hours I have sat in that wretched musée. I turn my head for a moment and
voilà!
”
Maman and Papa are good sports. While most parents insist
daughters of marriageable age not approach a hobby such as painting, as more than a f leeting fancy, mine indulge.
“The talent you and your sister possess brings your father and me great joy. Not as great as the day you shall marry, but in the meantime, it shall suffice.”
I know there would come a day when she and Papa expect me to lay down my brush and give my hand in marriage. For the time being, Edma’s blossoming relationship with Adolphe seems to def lect attention away from my utter lack of interest in the men who come courting.
In the studio, Edma lets loose yet another misery-laden sigh. I blend emerald into the leaf of the still life I’m painting. “I cannot help it if you had better things to do yesterday than attend to your copy studies.”
She rolls her eyes. For a moment we paint in silence. “How is Adolphe?” I ask.
“Fine. Is Manet very tall? You did not mention his height.” “Edma, this is becoming tiresome. You have spoken
of nothing else this morning. Tell me about your visit with Adolphe.”
“There is nothing to speak of where Adolphe is concerned,” Edma says. “It is all so very dull. My whole life is dull. You could at least humor me. When you tell me of the meeting, it makes me feel as if I shared the experience. I should think you would realize that, but
non,
you choose to hoard him all to yourself.”
I
am
hoarding a few details. One in particular: that despite
Rosalie’s presence, it seems he saw only me. And I am happy for it.
I cannot tell this to Edma or Maman
.
It would sound foolish. So I hold back this delicious detail. Something to savor. Like a child with a stolen sweet, I shall enjoy the private thought as I lie awake retracing the meeting in my head.
Second-guessing every gesture. Every smile. Every word. His hand on mine.
In my mind, I move toward him without hesitation. We stand so close I feel his breath on my cheek, my ear, my neck—
“Are you listening to me?” Edma huffs and scoots her chair away from her easel. The legs sound the impatient growl of wood raking over wood. But she does not stand up. Instead, she leans into the portrait and works with staccato jabs.
“Perhaps now you shall be more interested in your copy work at the musée?” I arch a brow at her in a way that usually makes her smile. She frowns, but then her scowl gives way to a wicked smirk.
“Oui,”
she says. “Perhaps we have gained a great eagerness for what the masters might teach us.”
We laughed together. I am happy to see her spirits rise.
“In fact,” she says, her eyes bright with a fresh scheme, “let’s visit the masters now. Come, Berthe, let’s go.”
This suggestion, or possibly her exuberance, makes me feel as if I am walking down a steep staircase unsure of my footing. I inhale deeply—the scent of paint and oil and hydrangeas. My stomach pitches.
“Lunch is almost ready. We shall go Friday.”
“But today is Wednesday. That is two days away. Why not today?”
“Edma, think. Do you believe he lives at the Louvre day
and night? We have no guarantee he shall be there. Besides, I do not wish to appear overly anxious. A few days absence shall suit us.”
“It shall not suit
us
. You are only thinking of yourself, and that is not fair.”
“
Non
, my dear, dear Edma, what is not fair is that you are having a tantrum over something so minuscule.”
She stamped her slippered foot, the thud punctuating her temper. Her dark, upswept hair emphasizes her f lushed cheeks. She looks so childlike with her pink dress peeking out from her open painting smock. Paintbrush in hand, her arms dangle along the sides her chair, and she pouts.
I chuckle. I cannot help myself.
Edma glares at me and f lings her brush onto the paint-splattered table that stands between our easels. It sounds like a carillon as it strikes the grouping of glass jars—some holding pigment and brushes, others half full of linseed oil—finally resting among the mélange of sullied palettes and stray paint tubes.
She stands.
I turn back to my still life and blend a perfect highlight on the f lower petal. She plops down onto the brown divan along the wall behind me. The old piece of furniture
poofs
and creaks under the stress.
“Hmmph.”
I see the action so clearly in my mind’s eye, a most unre-fined expression of displeasure reserved strictly for the rare occasion when my sister and I disagree. Three hundred and sixty days of the year we get on famously.
When we do not, even the smallest issue seems catastrophic.
It hurts me to know she is angry. But it nearly paralyzes me to think of facing
him
again today.
Too soon.
Too eager to see how he plans to paint himself in a better light.
The odd swirling sensation returns to my belly. It curls my toes inside my slippers. I squeeze them hard to counter-act the wooziness. At least this time the feeling does not take me by surprise. I can best just about anything that does not surprise me.
I turn in my chair to my face my sister, sitting on the divan with her elbows resting on her knees, her chin on her palms, a scowl firmly fixed on her pretty face.
“Do not pout, Edma. If you must go to the Louvre, see if Maman will accompany you. If he is there, you may
hoard
him all to yourself.”
“Qu’est-ce que c’est?”
Maman’s voice, as crisp as a primed white canvas, calls from the doorway. She breezes into the room, clutching a letter. Her rosy cheeks and the pale blue of her dress in harmony with her silver hair. She looks from Edma to me. “Is everything alright?”
Edma snares me with her eyes. Her glance is a warning.
Her eyes are two poison darts.
I say to Maman, “We were just discussing technique.”
“Oui,”
murmurs Edma, still glowering. “I was telling Berthe her
perspective
is all wrong. The f lower—” she frowns at me, “it is
much
too big for its vase.”
Maman walks over to my painting. She studies it for a moment, then turns back to my sister.
“I think it is charming. I see nothing wrong.” She frowns. “Sit like a lady, Edma. I have brought you up better than this. You are peevish today.”
Edma scoots to the edge of the divan and sits rod-straight, but she does not try to hide her displeasure.
“Perhaps this will cheer you up.” Maman waves a crème-
colored note. “Madame Auguste Manet has invited us to supper tomorrow evening.”
The name
Manet
crashes like cymbals in my head. I feel a light-headedness that seems to lift me up and render my body numb. I watch Edma spring to life and hurry to Maman’s side.
It takes a moment for the implication to register: The note may have been sent by
Madame
Auguste Manet, his mother, but the invitation has
Monsieur
Édouard Manet written all over it. So this is how he plans to impress me. On his own terms, his own turf.
I should have guessed as much.
“One day’s notice?” Maman looks pointedly at me, and I feel myself settle back into my body
.
“Does he think we are so unpopular we have no other engagements?”
I open my mouth to speak, but Edma cut me off.
“We do not have plans. If we did, I should think we would cancel them. It is not every day we receive such an invitation.”
Maman holds out the letter to me. A briar rose. If I do not handle it carefully it will prick me. With my forefinger and thumb, I take it from her outstretched hand. Edma appears at my side, grinning, a sheepish gesture of reconciliation. Her shoulder presses against mine as she leans in for a better look. I hold it so we may both read.
The note, dainty black script on steadfast crème card stock, simply says, “Please come for dinner, forty-nine rue de Saint-Pétersbourg, Thursday evening, seven o’clock. Regrets only.”
Regrets.
Is that what I fear? Regret that I will discover him a mere mortal? That the champion of all that is shocking and real will be a fraud? Proven to be just a man?
“We will go?” I ask Maman
.
“I suppose. Since your father is away, it shall give us something to tell him when he returns. And I shall have the chance
to judge for myself if your Édouard Manet is as charming as you claim.”
My stomach feels like a rock dropped into deep water.
Edma grabs my hands and pulls me up from my chair. She turns us about in circles, crushing the note in her grasp. The corner of the stiff paper cuts into my palm.
Why should I worry?
I have always been immune to the wiles of courting men, why should this be different? Most men are all charm and very little substance. Each with expectations for me to favor him above my painting. Each one demanding a compromise. Sadly, I have never met a man who outshone the promise of the next image that would court me. Tease me. Seduce me. Until I lay it down on my canvas and have my way with it.