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“Because none of us is willing to pose for this painting unless you treat us with more respect.”

“We are not your usual models,” Guillemet declares. “We are fellow artists, and each of us is doing this as a favor to you, as your friend, not as a hired worker.”

Manet looks to Léon, who is his wife’s younger brother. The boy lives with the Manets and has since their marriage. “I agree,” Léon says simply.

For once, Fanny opens her mouth. “As do I.”

To Manet’s credit, he listens carefully, acknowledges their complaints as legitimate, apologizes, and promises to do better. Everyone is gratified, although Berthe, remembering his sham remorse for his bad language, is skeptical.

But Manet is good to his word. He is not just civil.

He’s polite and courteous, encouraging them to take breaks, asking about their comfort during the tedious sittings.

As is the case when Cornélie and Antoinette chaperone Berthe when she works in his studio, the mothers come and go throughout the sessions, growing laxer as time passes.

Although it’s difficult to hold a pose for hours on end, Berthe is enthralled by watching him paint, and this, at least for her, makes it more bearable.

She’s painted alongside him before, but she’s never had the opportunity to observe him this closely.

His energy, his passion, and his powers of concentration defy comparison.

As a student, as a copyist at the Louvre, and as a painter, Berthe has been in the company of many artists while they work, and she has never seen anyone attack a canvas as Manet does.

At times, his expression is wild, bordering on madness.

His eyes blaze with an intensity that seems capable of igniting his canvas into flames.

She begins to notice that these eyes are on her far more than on the others.

She is the main figure in the composition, but it’s more than that.

He’s not just painting what she looks like from the outside, but unpeeling her soul.

Which is disconcerting and, admittedly, exhilarating, as if she’s teetering on the edge of an abyss.

She writes about this to Edma, who warns her that men like Manet are not to be trusted, that Berthe is na?ve about their motivations and doings.

After a series of sessions, Manet begins to focus on each individual sitter and asks them to come to the studio separately.

The process is taking forever, and Berthe wonders if Manet’s spontaneity is acting against him, if he’s reworking images that with more care, he would have already finished.

Even the mothers are fidgety, and there have been a number of days when Antoinette doesn’t appear at all, increasing Cornélie’s boredom and impatience with the process.

Which is how Berthe ends up alone with édouard one afternoon.

She’s seated in her usual place, wearing the silk organza gown he’s chosen and holding a fan, one arm resting on the ledge of the easel.

The Manets’ dog, Tama, runs excitedly in circles around the bottom of her billowing white dress.

Her mother is home overseeing the preparations for her soiree that evening, and Antoinette had a luncheon to attend.

Berthe feels his eyes burning through her and tries to maintain her position, gazing down at the street scene below her.

But this is impossible, and she looks up.

édouard puts down his brush, wipes his hands with a rag, and comes to her. “Berthe,” he says, taking her hand and pressing it between both of his own. “You cannot imagine the power you hold over me.” He pulls her to a stand. “You are in need of a break. Come sit with me on the sofa.”

In a daze, she looks into his handsome face, at his full lips, and although she has never kissed a man before, a true kiss, that is all she now wants to do.

But this is wrong, dangerous, the end of everything her mother hopes for her.

Still, she allows him to lead her behind the curtain to the red sofa in the alcove.

He releases her hand when they sit. “What are we to do, my dearest one?”

She shakes her head, unable to think or even breathe.

He runs a finger along her collarbone. “My impossible love.”

It’s as if every part of her is liquefying under his touch.

She’s flowing toward him, unable to resist him, unwilling to resist him.

She raises her chin. He wraps her in his arms and kisses her.

It is unlike anything she has experienced before, falling into the wetness, the sweetness.

Into a velvety chasm and never wanting to climb out.

Then he pulls away abruptly and stands. “I want you more than I have ever wanted any woman,” he says, his voice catching. “But I cannot have you now. I need to think about what may happen, how it might affect you. We both need to think.”

Berthe stands too. “I, I, yes,” she stutters, her breath coming quickly. “You are right. I must think too.” She grabs her cloak and rushes out into the cold afternoon, where Rémy is waiting to take her home.

That evening, she writes to Edma: I do not know who I am. I do not know what I do. I believe I am drowning.