make them true.
Oh, Edma, Edma, Edma. You wicked girl!
It serves Édouard right. And to think Edma does not even know the half of it.
Édouard’s upper lip curls back. “What, you and Puvis?
How? When? When did this happen?”
I want to say, “It happened while you were away, Édouard.” Instead, I cover my tracks. “Monsieur, nothing has happened. Edma should not have said what she did, since there has not been a proposal.”
There is dead silence in the room.
“Berthe, dear, may I prevail upon you for a favor?” Edma turns back to me from the window. “I know you wish to visit with our guests, but would you be so good as to go outside and take the wash off the line. It is starting to cloud, and I am afraid we will get a shower. If you will be so kind, I shall make arrangements with Marie to start preparing dinner. Messieurs, you will stay to dinner with us, will you not? We shall not hear of sending you back to Paris with empty stomachs.”
Édouard does not answer. As I pass him on my way to the door, I notice he looks positively green as he stares at the wooden f loor. I wonder if he has even heard Edma’s invitation. “
Merci,
we would love to say,” Eugène finally says. “In fact,
I shall help Mademoiselle Berthe gather the wash.”
My hand on the knob, I glance back at him.
“No, Eugène.” Édouard’s voice is a growl. “I shall help the Mademoiselle outside. You stay here and assist Madame Pontillon.”
Eugène does not protest. Why does he not stand up to his brother? I stif le the reminder that I do not like weak men who cannot stand up for themselves. But it should not apply to Eugène. In the same vein that my soft spot for strong men who tirelessly pursue me should not apply to Édouard.
They are the exceptions to those rules.
I do not wait for Édouard. I go outside and retrieve the basket on the grass near the clothesline and start yanking down the fresh linens.
“Your sister is right.” He is standing behind me now. I do not turn to him. “See those clouds? It looks as if a storm is brewing.”
A warm wind, a few degrees cooler than when Edma and I were sitting outside, catches the sheet. It billows up around me. A strong arm reaches over my head. I look up and see his arm
silhouetted against the stormy sky. His hand toys with the pin that holds the sheet to the line, but he does not pluck it loose. “Are you going to marry Puvis?”
My shoulders sag, and I want to turn around and scream at him. It is not Puvis whom I love.
Is Édouard so blind that he cannot see it? But then again he has not been around for the past year to gauge my feelings for Pierre.
How can this be happening? How can I be so misguided and lacking in self-respect that I allow my walls to crumble with a single question?
As much as I hate myself for it, at that moment I know all it would take was for Édouard to say the word and I would leave with him, never look back. But I won’t suggest it. I did once and it did not come to fruition. He did not even bother to contact me.
No, I shall never suggest it again.
How can I be so weak as to even contemplate it?
I yank a pin from the line, grab the corner of the sheet, and move down the line and repeat the yanking and tugging process.
I toss the sheet in the basket.
Discontent is a curse. I feel nothing for Puvis, the good man who tries in vain to woo me. Yet I suffer as if my soul will die without Édouard, the one man I cannot have.
“Do you love Puvis?” He voice is a coarse, rumbling growl, a low shout that bores into me, but I do not answer him.
With one strong tug, he turns me to face him. I stumble and fall f lat against him. We stand chest to chest as the breeze carries the scent of rain and the white linens billow around us.
His arms slide around me, and I can feel his hot breath on my cheek.
Reflexively, I lay my head on his chest. “You deserted me,” I whisper.
He kisses the top of my head. “Berthe, there was a war between us. I could not very well have gone off with you.”
His words mock me. I push away from him. Stumble back a few steps. I need room, because standing so close to him clouds my senses. Now I want to curse Edma for starting this. Why did she do it? If not, we most likely would have had a polite visit, he would have gone back to Fat Suzanne and I would have carried on with my new life. But now too many words have been spoken, too many wounds reopened. What was one more—“Then you had no intention of going away with me that day?”
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “My feelings for you remain unchanged.”
He reaches for my hand. I pull away.
“I don’t know what you want from me Édouard. When I try to forget you, you reappear. When we get close, you push me away. I refuse to play this charade.”
I remember that first day in the Louvre and my mind skips back to an even earlier time when that unbidden attraction first lit the darkness. For a moment I long to go back to that time. But it is hopeless. I wish I did not know all I know now, that so much had not passed between us.
“Édouard, we have been tormenting each other for three years. I cannot bear it another moment. Go away. Please let me be.”
A raindrop falls onto my arm. I try to move away from him to save the rest of the linen from the coming storm, but he grabs my arm. The wind blows even stronger now, and I jerk out of his grasp. A gust pulls a corner of one sheet loose from the line and the soft cotton whips around my legs.
“Please, Berthe. Come back to Paris with me.”
I grab the sheet—a fistful—to keep it from falling to the ground.
“Why, Édouard? What are you asking me?”
My pulse races, and I tighten my grip on the fabric. “I want to . . .”
His eyes are tender and frantic as he searches my face. I hold my breath against his unspoken words.
“I want to paint you. I haven’t been able to work since you’ve been away.”
“What?”
So that’s it? That’s what it comes down to. I yank the other corner from the line and toss the sheet into the basket.
“It is the aftermath of the war, Édouard. Find another model. Any beautiful tramp will do. You do not need me.”
“Yes I do.”
His voice cracks. I turn and face him, my hands on my hips.
“I do need you.” I see his courage waver. He looks away. “
Le Balcon
was so well received. Not like
Olympia;
not like the others.”
“The others.” I laugh. “There are the others and then there’s me. Is that all I am to you? Instant respectability? Is that the face you’re putting forth to the world now? Édouard Manet, painter of chaste decency?”
He gapes at me as if he cannot comprehend what I am saying.
“What happened to the rebel who would risk anything if it was true?”
He does not answer me, and I find this weakness unattractive. “I do not have the time or patience to play this game of chase anymore.” I turn away and snatch down another sheet.
He walks around and stands in front of me, blocking me from finishing my task.
The rain falls harder. “Get out of my way.”
I try to push past him, but he grabs me and pulls me to him, covering my mouth with his. There is nothing soft about his kiss. It’s hard and hungry and desperate. The sheet, our erratic screen, f lies up around us then back down again. All Edma and Eugène need do is look out the window, and they will see us. But I don’t care. I can’t help myself, I kiss him back as angrily and punishingly as he’s taking me. Leaning into him, I grab handfuls of his jacket, pulling him to me. Then my hands fist into his hair. I anchor myself to him, every centimeter of my body melting into his this one last time, because I know when I let go it will be the end of us.
“Do not marry Puvis.”
He pulls back just enough to let the desperate words take f light on his husky, breathless voice.
“Don’t,” is all I can manage.
“Do not marry him,” he says again, his forehead pressed to mine his lips a whisper away, “because I love you. I cannot bear to think of you with him.”
Is the day better than the night? Or is the night better than the day? How can I tell?
But this I know is right: Both are worth nothing When my love’s away.
—Amaru
ays
later, Édouard’s words still reverberate in my heart. I have come to the conclusion that if he would have spit in
my face, it would have been easier to accept than his mocking declaration of love. For uttering those sacred words of love only because he
cannot bear to think of me with another
is not love. He does not love me, but simply wants to place me on a shelf, safe and away from the hands of other men, taking me down at his whim, and storing me away when I become an inconvenience.
He goes back to Fat Suzanne. I stay in Mirande with Edma. It is better this way.
The relationship with Édouard is over. Why had I not realized it would come to this before my love for him slipped
in through the cracks of my character, deepening them so that they will never fully close again? Now I am paying the exorbi-tant price for my lack of self-control.
It’s sad how relationships end. One person inevitably finds the other lacking and love ceases. That’s why I will not prolong the inevitable.
I hear Edma and Marie bustling around downstairs and feel guilty for holing up in my room for the past few days. Edma has been gentle with me, not asking too many questions.
On that day, she knew what had happened without even asking. I’m sure it was perfectly obvious when Édouard returned alone with the clothes basket. That is, if they didn’t see our final good-bye through the window.
I didn’t ask.
She didn’t mention it when I returned that night, long after he and Eugène had gone. I’m grateful for her prudence.
As I dress, I hear footsteps outside my bedroom door. Then comes a faint knock. It’s Edma, holding a breakfast tray.
She looks very pretty standing there smiling in the dim hallway. Like a patch of sunshine lighting the darkness. I can’t help but smile, too.
“Oh, Edma, you needn’t bother to bring food to me. I was just dressing to come downstairs and help you.”
“Really, it was no trouble.” She sets it on the small writing desk and turns back to me positively beaming.
“What?”
“I received a letter from Adolphe this morning. He’s coming home in three days.”
“That’s wonderful. I know how much you’ve missed him.”
She perches on the edge of the bed, and I can tell by the look on her face she has more to say.
“I’m sure you remember what I said to the Messieurs Manet about there likely being an addition to the family?”
I groan inwardly because I am not at all prepared to discuss the events of that day.
“What I said was true,” she continues. “I can’t believe I’m telling you even before Adolphe gets home—again—but the doctor just confirmed it, and if I don’t tell you, I think I will simply burst—”
“You mean?”
Edma nods. “We are going to have another baby. A gift from Adolphe’s last leave.”
I hug my sister, enjoying the rush of joy surging through me. “So then, you did not lie to the Manet brothers.”
She shrugs and shakes her head. “
Moi,
lie? Never!”
“Well that’s good. I was beginning to worry at how convincing you are in your falsehoods.”
I wink at her, and we laugh together.
“Speaking of that, there is a letter on your tray from Puvis.” She walks over to the desk, retrieves the letter, and hands it to me.
I open it.
My Dear Mademoiselle,
Today I went to your home in Passy with the purpose of conveying a certain intention to your parents. A challenging feat, no doubt, given their feelings for me.
Alas, my future with you, my dear, is much too important to allow the matter of their feelings for me to inhibit me. Make no mistake, I shall win them over in due time.
I would have pursued this quest at once had I found them at home when I called. Alas, your brother,
Tiburce, was the only one in residence. He assured me they would be gone for the better part of the day.
Upon hearing that news, I set out walking—all the way to the Bois de Boulogne. Where I stayed until the sky turned gray, finally opening and raining down upon me. I took the bad weather as a sign that the time was not right to speak to your parents. As I certainly could not prevail upon them to receive me soaking wet. I went home, since I was right there, instead of walking back. Another day, my love. Another day.
Until then, I remain yours faithfully, Pierre Puvis de Chavannes.
Coward.
It is as if a strong wind has blown out a sputtering f lame. He is nothing but a frightened little boy, and this confirms my instincts that a life with Pierre Puvis de Chavannes, even if he is my only viable marriage prospect, would be a huge mistake.
I want to laugh the kind of humorless laugh one can’t help emit when something they’ve known all along is proven a fact, but I feel Edma’s hand on my shoulder, and it stif les the urge like a cork in a bottle.
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes. It’s f ine. Everything is absolutely f ine.” I fold the letter and stare at it for a moment, not sure what to do with it. After Edma leaves, I tear it to shreds and throw it in the garbage.
Edma does not want me to leave Mirande, but I can’t stay with Adolphe coming home. They need their privacy, their time
together after all this time apart. So much good to celebrate, what with France finally settling back into peace, and a new baby on the way for them. No, I will just be in the way. As much as I love Cherbourg, I am quite homesick for Paris.
I am ready to go home.
Maman is up to her old tricks again. Only this time she has recruited an accomplice in Madame Manet. It seems the two of them have put their heads together and decided that Eugène and I are like the remainders of two pair of socks, each with a missing mate.
Alone we serve no purpose, but together this mismatched pair can function nicely—even if we aren’t a perfect complement. With that in mind, they have set their sights on bringing the two of us together.