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ELEVEN

R émy has become Berthe’s abettor, driving her places Cornélie would not approve of, speaking nothing of it to anyone, not even to his daughter Marie, the Morisots’ maid.

Berthe tells Maman she’s shopping or visiting with female friends, and Rémy whisks her wherever she wants to go, which is almost always édouard’s studio.

Rémy has been with the family since her father was a young man, and he’s always doted on Berthe, slipping her candies as a child, taking her out for aimless carriage rides when she was older and didn’t want to go home to her mother’s intrusive meddling.

He makes no judgments, just wants her to have some freedom from Cornélie.

He says she needs to breathe the fresh air.

For the past two months, édouard’s moods have been akin to the tides of the ocean, swelling toward her with verve, then retreating cautiously, although without the predictable rhythm of the sea.

Whether she’s at his studio to pose for him or to paint with the other artists, she never knows what to expect when she walks through his door.

He’s fickle and thoughtless, flinging her into flights of joy or plunging her into despondency. Yet she cannot stay away from him.

Today, she has no reason to go there, as it is not a bande day, but the freezing rain and constant clouds of the past week have imprisoned her inside the house, suffocated by Cornélie. It is impossible to remain at home any longer, no matter the weather.

It’s cold and gusty, but there are a few slices of sun, so Berthe bundles herself in her warmest fur coat, hat, and muff.

Rémy leaves her at édouard’s, promising to return in two hours.

Even with the hot water bottle Marie gave her, after riding in the frigid coach and walking from street to building with the wind searing her exposed skin, she’s shivering when she gets inside.

édouard strides forward, his arms open wide, then abruptly stops before he reaches her. His arms drop, and his eyes grow glazed, fixed on her face. “Sit down right there.” He points to a worn chair that has to be one of Antoinette’s castoffs. “Leave your coat on,” he orders.

Berthe sits, his intense gaze warming her more rapidly than she would have thought possible a minute ago. “And what shall I do next, Your Majesty?” she asks. édouard usually appreciates a touch of the acerbic.

But he remains frozen in place, most likely unhearing. “I must paint you just as you are.”

“Now? Here?”

“Don’t move.” He rushes into the main studio, grabs an easel along with a blank canvas. “Keep your collar up,” he says as he dashes back for his palette and paints. “Don’t take off the muff.”

She holds the pose. édouard’s fixated attention fills her with hope that she is as special to him as he is to her. As do his fanatical brushstrokes and the look of wonder as he begins to paint her.

“Turn your head slightly toward me.”

She does as he asks.

“No, that is too much!” he cries. “Slightly, I said! Didn’t you hear me? I need a partial profile. Two eyes looking directly at me. Chin a tad sideways. Just a tad! Do you not understand this?”

Berthe pulls her hands from the muff, presses her collar down, and turns her full face toward him. She says nothing.

He’s perplexed for a moment, and then he begins to laugh. “Yes, my dearest, you are correct. I should not speak to you in this manner. I am truly sorry. It’s just that you’re so stunning today.” He bows slightly. “I’m afraid I gave in to my desire to make love to you with my brush.”

Make love to you with my brush. He wants to make love to her in the only way open to them for now. “And this is what I wish you to do also,” she whispers.

He kneels by her chair, touches the top button of her coat. “May I?”

She nods.

He gently drops the coat from her shoulders, and it falls to the chair with a soft whoosh. Without a word, he stands and pulls her up with him.

Once again, they are kissing, but this time Berthe presses her body into his, and he pulls her even tighter, closer. His whole self against her whole self, her softness against his taut muscles. Her knees begin to wobble, and she fears her legs will collapse.

édouard sets her against the wall to steady her. “Oh, my love,” he murmurs with a soft groan. “My exquisite love.”

This is what she wants. To be with him like this, to fuse with him, their two souls entwined. A hardness pushes against her dress, aligns with her lower belly, the top of her legs. And a warmth, deep and almost liquid within her, strains toward him.

Sudden terror consumes her. She knows little of lovemaking, even less about this manner of passion, but if what’s happening between them is what she believes it to be, she must stop it. She pushes him away, her breath coming short and ragged, and staggers back to the chair.

He drops down next to her again, but this time he puts his head in her lap, wraps his arms around her waist. “I know, my precious one. I know.”

The warmth of his cheek against her skirt makes her yearn to kiss him again, to forget all that is proper and virtuous. To allow him to take her, for her to take him. But she is her mother’s daughter, raised to be a lady, and it is not possible. Slowly, she lifts his head. “I must go.”

That night, she composes a letter to Edma.

My dearest sister,

I have behaved in a ruinous way. Done what I should not have done. More than once. And I tell you in the strictest confidence that I long to do it again. Please do not think badly of me, although this is what I deserve, but I must share my anguish with you. As well as my joy.

I will write to you of what has occurred, but I beg your assurance that my letter will not fall into your husband’s hands. This communication must remain only between us and is to be destroyed after reading. Please send a reply posthaste.

AFTER THAT, BERTHE goes to édouard’s studio only if Cornélie is with her.

This is not what she desires, nor what she supposes édouard desires, but it’s the only course open to her until they find an opportunity to discuss what must come next.

The difficulty is that this conversation can only take place in a crowded spot, allowing them to speak quietly but privately amidst a noisy throng.

For until he agrees to marry her, they cannot be alone.

As much as she longs to be in his arms, she will not bring shame upon herself or her family.

She invites him to her mother’s Tuesday soirees, but he hasn’t come thus far, and although she’s been attending his mother’s Thursday events religiously, he hasn’t been there either. She fears he’s with another woman, and she’s suspicious of his new protégée, Eva Gonzalez.

A few weeks ago, Maman went to édouard’s to return a book and found him there with Eva, who he introduced as his student.

Cornélie was surprised, as he had never taken on a student before and always claimed he never would.

When she returned home, she went directly to Berthe’s studio, rushing, breathless, through the door, oblivious to the fact that she was interfering with her daughter’s work.

She reported the events to Berthe in detail, describing Eva as a stunningly beautiful young woman with high spirits and impressive talent, noting that she is also the daughter of Emmanuel Gonzalez, the acclaimed novelist. “Manet seemed quite enamored of the young thing,” her mother continued.

“I daresay she must be at least six or seven years your junior. As I was leaving, édouard did finally after ask after you and Edma, but he seemed more polite than interested.” Then she added almost gleefully, “I fear he has all but forgotten you now that he has fallen under the blazing light of Mademoiselle Gonzalez.”

Cornélie had watched her daughter carefully as she imparted this news, hoping, Berthe knew, to put a wedge between herself and édouard.

Berthe had picked up her brush, affecting disinterest, although she was seething with a jealousy so green it matched the tone she was using to depict the leaves of a tree.

Who was this woman? This girl? And how had she cajoled édouard into becoming her teacher?

Berthe was not fond of the most likely answers.

At the next Tuesday soiree, Degas tells her that édouard has begun a portrait of Eva, who he, Degas, is not particularly fond of.

Unlike Cornélie, he takes no joy in this news, even though he also prefers a wedge to be solidly entrenched.

“She’s not as good a painter as either of them seems to believe,” he says with a twitch of his nose.

“In addition, she’s a poor model, like a child.

Unable to restrain herself from squirming and complaining, which, as you are well aware, Manet has no patience for.

And from what I’ve seen, the work is not coming well. ”

This is small consolation to Berthe, who has been sulking for days.

She hasn’t been to édouard’s studio since hearing about Eva, fearing he will be working on the painting or, worse, that Eva might be present.

Everyone there is busy with preparations for the Salon, but Berthe has decided not to enter this year.

Nothing she’s created in the past months is worthy of submission, and she’s tired of her staid domestic scenes.

The bande isn’t happy with her decision, especially édouard and Degas, who are hounding her to submit Two Sisters on a Couch , but she refuses.

That evening, she receives a letter from Edma that further lowers her spirits.

Alas, my dearest sister, I beg you not to write to me of your concerns, as it is not safe to do so. I am not certain my mail is being read, but I fear from things Adolphe has said to me that he is privy to knowledge I have not shared with him.