Oh, let them talk. Let them speculate.
I walk over to the wall where I notice a lone canvas on an easel turned toward the wall. It was not here yesterday. Gently, I scoot it back. It’s a woman and a child against a backdrop of a
wrought-iron fence. Steam seems to billow in the background. It must be the train yard—the Gare Saint-Lazare. The child, captured from the back, is smartly dressed with a big blue sash tied into a bow at the back of her crisp white dress. The woman sits with a sleeping puppy in her lap, reading a book. It is kind to say she looks slightly bedraggled in her unfashionable bonnet and plain blue dress.
Her face is familiar, yet out of context. I cannot place her, although I’m certain I know this woman, with her penetrating stare and long red hair hanging loosely around her shoulders.
“Édouard, who is this?”
He throws a distracted glance over his shoulder. I see him tense as he turns around to face me.
“Be careful. The paint’s not yet dry.”
Irritation burns in the pit of my stomach. “I can see that.
Who is she? She looks familiar.”
He stands there for a moment staring first at the canvas, then at me. He turns back to his easel.
“It’s Victorine Meurent.”
Victorine? Victorine Meur— I gasp.
Mon Dieu.
My heart squeezes with terror. Olympia.
“She is back?”
“Ummm-hmmm . . .”
I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all, especially when I notice the red fan nestled in her lap behind the puppy. The fan I have held in so many of the portraits Édouard has painted of me. My fan. Tears sting my eyes. I get my cloak and walk toward the door.
I am out in the hall when Édouard throws open the door and calls after me.
“Berthe, where are you going?”
“Home.” My foot hits the first landing, and I do not even look back. Édouard married Suzanne after Victorine left. I do
not have to be a scholar to understand what his Olympia meant to him. Now she is back, and he is painting her with my fan—
“Stop, will you? What is the matter? One minute I am painting, and the next minute you are storming out. Come back inside and talk to me.”
His voice is more irritated than tender. I have to hold my breath to keep from sobbing. But I let him take my hand and lead me back upstairs, all the while I hear Propriety’s voice in my head:
Do you know what this will do to your father?
My heart squeezes at the thought. For if I have one regret,
one reason for not pushing Édouard into action, it is Papa.
His health has been steadily declining over the past year. I fear he will not live to see the new year.
But with this, with Victorine back in Paris, Édouard and I cannot go on like this indefinitely.
He closes the door and picks up a rag to wipe his hands. Victorine’s haggard face stares out at me. Propriety’s voice screams in my head.
He has no intention of marrying you. I must insist you distance yourself from Édouard Manet once and for all. For your own good.
He follows my gaze to Victorine’s portrait. “Is that what’s upset you so?”
“She’s holding my fan.”
“What?” He seems genuinely surprised. I feel foolish. “Never mind. Édouard, I have thought long and hard
about our situation. It is time. You must either move out with me now or this is the end. We will stay in Paris, for you know as well as I do I cannot leave right now with Papa’s condition as it is.”
“Do you believe staying here and dragging both of our good names through the Parisian mud will heal him?”
“This is where we belong. This is who we are.”
He opens his mouth to speak, but no sound comes out.
Then he continues to wipe his fingers with the rag. He knows as well as I know that we cannot go another day living like this.
A train rumbles by. I think of the cloud of smoke in the portrait of Victorine. My heart squeezes. She has been here.
Olympia who lay bare for the love of a man. We are not so dissimilar, she and I.
The train passes and the room is so still Édouard’s sigh seems to echo.
“I shall tell Suzanne tonight.”
Love is strong as death Jealousy is cruel as the grave
—Song of Solomon 8:6
J
ANUARY
1874
love
to paint in the garden beneath the chestnut tree. I awake early and drag my easel out of the studio so that I might distract myself while I wait for Édouard to call. We did not make definite arrangements, but I am sure he will come after he tells Suzanne.
Oui,
he will come so we might tell
Maman together.
I want to tell Maman first to give her a chance to get used to the notion before we tell Papa. She will take it hard at first, but she is strong. She will get used to the idea once she sees she has no choice.
“
Madame, non! S’il vous plaît,
you may not go into the garden unannounced!” Amélie’s cries shatter the quiet a spilt second before the gate slams open, banging against the stone wall.
I turn and see Suzanne Manet standing with her hands on
her considerable hips. She is dressed in a plain gray frock with a black hat that looks too small for her considerable head. Amélie skids to a stop alongside of her.
“Mademoiselle, I beg your pardon, I tried to tell her to wait—”
“It is all right, Amélie. That will be all.”
Suzanne at least has the good grace to wait until the girl disappears inside before she tears into me.
“I will not give up Édouard without a fight. He is the only thing Léon and I have. If we lose him, we are destitute.”
I twirl my paintbrush in my fingers, notice the way the yellow paint contrasts with the dark brown bristles.
“Léon is Édouard’s brother. We will see that you and the boy are well provided for.”
She takes a step toward me. I set down my brush, put my hands on my hips to match her stance.
“You don’t seem to understand, Mademoiselle. I love him.
He loves me.”
Her voice is a low growl, and it’s incongruent with the mealy-mouthed blind wife I’ve come to know as her. I liked her better when she was silent because it made me think she knew her place.
“He married you out of pity, not love. He told me so.” “Did he tell you he enjoys making love to me? Did he tell
you about the others? There are others, you understand. Don’t think you are special. Victorine Meurent is back. She was special to him.” She laughs a dry, brittle sound.
“Get out of my garden.”
She closes the distance between us. At this close range, I can see her gelatinous chin quiver with anger. Her eyes are narrow slits and she shakes a f inger in my face. I push it aside and I fear for an instant she will strike me.
“I will leave, but only after I say what I have come to say.”
She is screaming at me, and I wonder if Maman will come out to see what all the commotion is about. “If you do not leave my husband alone, I will ruin you. If you think Racine’s insidious article in
La Figaro
was bad—”
“I do not think it bad at all.” I match her pitch, but then
lower my tone. “All those things he said about the painting are true. Édouard painted it after he made love to me.”
Suzanne bristles like a cat arching her back. “Leave him alone!” She grits her yellow teeth. “Leave him alone or I shall make you so miserable you will wish you never met me.”
She shoves over my easel. I sidestep it so it does not hit me.
I shake my head and give her a pitying smile.
“Your threats do not scare me, Suzanne. You cannot ruin me. You are nothing and even less without Édouard.”
“Heed my warning, Mademoiselle.”
She turns and walks out, leaving the gate open behind her.
I set out on foot for Édouard’s studio. I am shaking uncon-trollably. Halfway there the wind blows my hat off my head. I scarcely remember going inside to get it and my coat. Now a man hops off a carriage, catches it, and presents it to me with a f lourish.
“Are you all right, Mademoiselle?” he asks. “You’re crying.
May I assist you?”
“Merci, non, Monsieur.”
I take my hat and hurry on my way. I have no idea how long it takes me to walk the distance from Passy to Édouard’s studio. Time seems to stand still.
When I arrive, the sun is high in the October sky, so I know it is midday. Hours have passed.
I do not knock, but throw open the door, half expecting, half dreading I will find him with Victorine or Suzanne. Or both.
Édouard is alone. He turns to me wide-eyed.
“Berthe, what’s—”
“Do you still make love to her, Édouard?”
He rubs his hand over his beard in a gesture that covers his mouth.
“Answer me! Do you still make love to her? Do you do all the things to her that you do to me?”
My screams scald my throat, and my body is shaking so hard I feel as if I have no control over myself.
“What are you talking about? You’re not making sense.” “Suzanne! I am talking about Suzanne. She came to me
this morning and said—”
He takes me in his arms, and I melt into him, sobbing against his chest.
“Of course she would say that.” He kisses the top of my head. “She is upset. I told her I was leaving her. It stands to reason she’d brandish anything to hurt you.”
“Answer my question.” My words f loat out between sobs. “Do you still make love to her?”
“
Shhhh . . .
What kind of question is that?”
“An important question, Édouard. She said there were others, too. Is it true?”
I can hear his heart beat through his white shirt as I lay my head upon his chest.
“Berthe, don’t do this.”
I push away from him so I can see his face. “Answer me!”
The way he looks at me, I do not need a reply. I know.
I clench my fists and start f lailing, hitting him. My vision is blurred by tears. I knock into his paint table. It crashes to the f loor. His palette skids. Paint tubes and brushes scatter at my feet.
Finally, he grabs me with both hands and holds me tight against him, until I collapse, crying hysterically.
He holds me until I have calmed down, then he walks me to the red divan, helps settle me down. He hands me his hand-kerchief and sits next to me, one arm draped over my shoulder.
I dab my eyes. “You might have at least warned me she was coming.”
He shrugs. “I did not know. She locked herself in her room after we talked.”
“Have you told your mother yet?” I ask. He shakes his head.
“Suzanne will ruin us.”
“She can only cause damage if we afford her that power. I do not care what she does or who she tells.”
“We are courting scandal. We will face dire social consequences. I cannot do this to you. I will not be the cause of your ruin.”
“I do not care.”
“You will. You will grow to hate me—”
“Édouard, this is the same speech you have given me over and over again. I am tired of it. I should have called your bluff and gone with you that day you wanted me to go away. Either we make a new start, here in Paris, today, or it is over. For good.”
His elbows are propped on his knees and he bows his head so his face falls into his hands.
“Berthe, be kind.” His voice is muffled, but I can still hear the choke of emotion. “Consider my position. I have a responsibility to protect my family name.”
“Is that more important to you than I am? Than us being together?”
“It is equally important.”
My breath escapes in a heavy gasp. I start to stand up, but he holds my arm, and I fall back onto the divan.
“Please listen to me. I have something very important for you to consider.”
His throat works and a muscle in his jaw twitches. I can tell by his expression that I will not like what he has to say. A knot of dread tightens in my stomach.
I want to stay there, silent, just as we are, because somehow I know after his next words nothing will be the same.
My stomach seizes, and I fear I will vomit, but I cannot move. I cannot breathe. I wish at that moment Hermes, the god of people who live by their wits, would swoop down in his golden, winged sandals, and carry me off . . . somewhere, anywhere but here.
“Please, Berthe, please understand. The only reason I would ask this of you is because I love you too much to lose you. If we open Pandora’s box, it will be the end of us. You will never show at the Salon again—”
“I do not wish to show at the Salon.”
I don’t know where the voice comes from. It does not even sound like my own.
“My love . . .” He reaches out, traces a finger down my cheek. “We have been clinging to fantasies. You will grow discontent with me all too soon and end up hating me for ruining your life.”
“It is Victorine, isn’t it?”
He groans. “
Mon Dieu, non
. There is no one else.” “You are just looking for a way out.”
I am shaking again. I stand. Tears stream from my eyes, blur my vision. An hysterical scream creeps up the back of my throat. I clasp my hand over my mouth, and walk out the door.
This time he does not stop me.
*
The seasons have changed since I last saw him. It grows cold outside. Today, I go strictly for professional purposes. On a quest far more important than the personal worries or reserva-tions I harbor about seeing him.
I sent a note to advise him of my intent to call. As I did not want to surprise him. He answered the note quite hast-ily, saying he would be happy to receive me. I will go alone. I thought about asking Maman to accompany me. Yet I decided against it, realizing if she went, Madame Manet would feel obliged to greet her and possibly Eugène and Suzanne would be in attendance. Suzanne would gloat, no doubt. I can’t bear to see Eugène after Édouard’s suggestion. We wouldn’t be able to talk business. There would be far too much commotion with everyone chatting, catching up.
We have had no soirées. Nor have the Manets. A cooling-off period, as Maman calls it. Distance designed to quell the speculation over the debut of
Repose
.