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And you must know there is nothing you could ever do to make me think badly of you.

I reach out to you with all my sympathy and love.

My greatest wish is to be your confidante, as we always have been to each other, to soothe your worries and cares.

I shall do everything I can to arrange a trip to Paris, but Adolphe is not fond of travel and will surely not allow me to travel alone.

Still, I am coming to you as soon as I am able.

édouard’s The Balcony is accepted by the Salon, three months hence, along with a number of paintings by Degas, Renoir, and Monet.

Berthe is pleased for them, but she’s concerned about the critics’ reaction to The Balcony , fearing the slightly less representational style and flattened perspective will be derided as unfinished and an indication of shoddiness.

Shoddy and unfinished it decidedly is not, as she and the other models who sat for endless days know all too well.

And with the exception of her own portrayal, Berthe finds it quite fine.

Excellent, even. édouard’s use of color, the scattering of deep greens in the shutters, in the railing, in Fanny’s umbrella, and in the ribbon around her own neck, is masterful.

As is his subtle repetition of triangles, from the composition of the three front-facing figures to the angle created by the slant of the umbrella with the closed fan Berthe holds in her hands.

Cornélie’s concerns are different. She’s worried that, as this is the first work Manet has shown since the scandalous naked paintings of Victorine, that Berthe, the central female, will be presumed either a prostitute or his mistress, as Victorine was.

Berthe has not been identified as the model, but she is a familiar figure in Paris and will surely be recognized by many.

She tells her mother that few will conclude there is anything between them, especially those who know her, but she keeps to herself the fear that he has “made love to her with his brush,” and that this might be discernible to an observant viewer.

Over time, she returns to édouard’s studio, finding herself unable to work without the company of others.

She’s begun two paintings, one a commission of a friend’s son who is two years old, and although she recognizes that a child of that age cannot be expected to sit still, it’s taking longer than she’d hoped to complete it.

The second is a pot of colorful dahlias riotously bursting from a delicately painted porcelain vase, set against a neutral background.

She’s proud of the way the bright petals are accentuated by the pale wall behind them, but frets once again that her work is too simple, too “pretty,” without meaning or symbolism.

Degas is adamant that this is not true. “You are very wrong. Look how nature glows under your brush. Here, the purple to green to yellow to red and blue. Astounding. I can almost smell them.”

Even édouard has kind words, which is surprising, as lately he’s been praising the infernal Mlle Gonzalez for her perseverance and growing skills, while criticizing Berthe for not submitting to the Salon.

“It’s almost as if the leaves are waving,” he says after leaning in to study the painting, his cheek inches from her own.

“Your use of light to create movement where there is none is dazzling. Well beyond the efforts of those of us who struggle here.”

She’s thrilled with both his words and the softness in his eyes as he smiles at her. She meets them and feels her face flushing. Fighting back her feelings, she says stiffly, “Thank you very much, édouard. I do not believe you for a moment, but I do appreciate the encouragement.”

Noting the falseness in her daughter’s voice and how close édouard is to her, Cornélie throws Berthe a warning glance.

“I, too, think it is coming well,” she calls across the room.

“Portraying nature is as important as portraying people. Maybe more so, as it is more picturesque and brings more pleasure to the heart.”

THE SALON OPENS on a sunny day in May, and as masses of people ascend the staircase of the Palais de l’Industrie, it seems to Berthe as if every Parisian is in attendance, including, she has been told, the emperor himself.

All the patrons are in their high finery.

Men with their newly fashionable tall collars, wearing either top or bowler hats, gold watches swinging across their waists.

Women in brightly colored bell-shaped spring gowns, parasols or painted fans in hand.

But Berthe, who usually has a keen eye for fashion, is more interested in finding The Balcony and, of course, édouard.

There are over four thousand works of art on display, with paintings filling the entirety of the walls, so tightly aligned their frames press against one another.

The pieces are ordered alphabetically by artist across thirty rooms.

“Should we first find room M?” she asks Cornélie as they enter the magnificent lobby.

“Yes. That is where we shall go.”

This is not an easy task. The crowds are thick, the rooms stifling and poorly lit.

In addition she and Maman must greet their many friends and acquaintances, the artists, writers, poets, musicians, and the others of their circle, which makes forward motion difficult.

These encounters are part of the festival atmosphere Berthe usually enjoys, but today she’s impatient with the interruptions.

Finally, they make their way to room M, and to her delight édouard is there. However, he is not himself, or, more correctly, he is himself, but even more so.

“Berthe, Berthe,” he cries, taking her hands despite Cornélie’s presence.

“You must come see the picture. Tell me how it is. I cannot go in there. A gentleman who I don’t know has made an inquiry into its price, but I have also heard many unflattering responses from others.

” His palms are sweaty, his eyes glazed.

He drops her hands. “I think people are avoiding me. No one wants to face me in my disgrace.”

“No one is avoiding you,” Berthe assures him, although she suspects this might be true. “And of course I will go see it. That’s why we’ve come.”

“There’s no reason to be this dismayed, my boy,” Cornélie says.

“I know this painting very well, and I believe it will be a huge success.” Berthe is startled by her mother’s comment, aware of her many apprehensions about both The Balcony and édouard.

But Cornélie, for all her sharpness, has a soft spot for those she believes have been mistreated.

Apropos of nothing Berthe can detect, édouard bursts into loud laughter. “Yes, yes, Madame Morisot, you are correct. Thank you. Thank you. I have nothing to fear! It’s good. More than good. Especially with your most magnificent daughter at its heart!”

At this Cornélie frowns. “I daresay.”

His face falls at her comment. “It is dreadful. I know it is. I’m certain the only reason that man requested a price was to make fun of me and my painting.

” Then, just as unexpectedly, he swings back to optimism.

“The problem is that I am before my time. Our entire bande is. We are looking forward into the future and being savaged for our impertinence. If our time is not now, it will come!”

Berthe is stirred by his turmoil, his fears of being snubbed by the critics, his desire to cover this up with boasts and false cheer, his need to be respected.

Poor man. She wants to comfort him, to hold him, to tell him it all will be well.

Instead, she says, “You stay here, and my mother and I will go to the painting. When we return, we’ll give you our honest appraisal.

Which, as we’ve both told you before, and despite what some of the unschooled might say, is that it is a triumph. ”

Seeing the clamor of emotions roiling his face, Berthe can’t stop herself, and touches his upper arm. “The only thing that would make it better is if you had chosen a more attractive model.”

“There is no other model more attractive than the one I chose.”

Cornélie loops her arm through Berthe’s and gives it a tug. “Let us go. There are many more pictures to be seen and we cannot dawdle here.”

Berthe slowly approaches The Balcony . It’s the first time she’s seen it finished and framed, and she’s assaulted by conflicting impressions: awe, envy, pride, and fear.

Awe at the majesty of édouard’s skill, envy at the preciseness with which he captured the scene, pride that the man she loves created such a thing, and fear that the critics will be merciless to both him and to her.

“Why didn’t he finish it?” someone asks behind her.

“Maybe he got tired or he’s just lazy,” is the response. “The better question is why the Salon accepted it.”

Berthe wants to turn around and tell them they are wrong, that they are fools to say and think such things, but she does not.

She remains where she is, looking up at the strange woman she knows is herself yet isn’t herself.

She has to admit that in contrast with Fanny, whose vacant, round face and oversized white flower of a hat make her appear more lapdog than woman, she, Berthe, is by far the more interesting.

At least her expression contains some mystery, indicating some depth of character.

But her face is too pale, her hair too dark, and her nose too thin.

“I am more strange than ugly,” she says to Cornélie.

“Oh, dear Bijou, you are more strange than ugly if that is what you believe. édouard has painted you as a beautiful young woman.” Then she adds, “As I fear is how he views you.”

Berthe swallows a sigh. Couldn’t her mother have just said something nice? Or at least neutral? Why did she have to imply that Berthe isn’t beautiful while also making a point of expressing her distrust of édouard, and, by implication, of Berthe.

“The dark-haired woman is quite arresting,” a man on their left declares.

“Arresting?” his companion says. “I’d call her a femme fatale. From what I’ve heard of these artists, most likely his mistress.”

When the men turn to another picture, Berthe looks at her mother in invented distress. “Oh, Maman, how horrible,” she says. But she’s secretly pleased. This is how édouard sees her. As a femme fatale.

“I fear I have a headache coming on.” Cornélie points to a sofa at the end of the room, far from the painting and beyond hearing distance of the spectators. “I think I shall sit. You find someone to accompany you and wander for a while. When you’re finished, come get me.”

Berthe walks back to édouard, who is now with Suzanne and Antoinette. “Tell me!” he demands of Berthe, cutting off Suzanne, who is speaking to him.

“If there is any criticism of that painting,” she tells him, “it will come from those with small minds, no imagination, and a foolish attachment to the past.”

Even with his wife and mother standing next to him, édouard grabs her, lifts her off her feet, and twirls her around.

“The gentleman returned and has agreed to buy it. You are my good luck charm, Berthe Morisot!” He puts her down with a flourish.

“Do come with us to look at the other pictures. We were just about to go next door.”

Berthe steadies herself and attempts to appear annoyed at his presumptuousness, although she’s too thrilled by his abandon and the pressure of his hands on her waist to do a credible job.

He must love her, or at least care about her deeply, to do such a thing in front of Suzanne.

Perhaps if she strolls with them, she and édouard will have the chance to talk amidst the commotion. It is time.

The four of them go to many rooms and view many paintings, along with statues in the glassed sculpture garden, which is full of men with cigars gawking at nude women made of stone.

Berthe and édouard chuckle over their prurient attentions, while Suzanne pretends not to notice her husband’s preoccupation with Berthe.

Antoinette watches them closely, although with far less displeasure than Cornélie would have in her shoes.

Hoping the two women will move on and she and édouard can speak, she maneuvers him to a small painting of Degas’s, which, despite the fact that its subject is a rather homely woman in black, is surprisingly pretty.

She steps to one side and then the other, pondering how he managed such a thing.

Perhaps it’s the corner of the mantelpiece in half tones behind the woman or maybe the gentle swell of the cashmere shawl falling off one shoulder.

Either way, it’s delightful. When she turns to ask édouard for his thoughts, he’s disappeared, along with Suzanne and Antoinette.

She must have taken longer studying the painting than she thought. This is something she does often, sinking into another artist’s work as she sinks into her own. They can’t have gone far. She goes into the next room, but there is no sign of them there either.

It isn’t acceptable for her to walk without being escorted, and she sees no one who would be suitable for this task.

How could édouard, possibly her future husband, have abandoned her this way?

He, so seemingly interested in her virtue, is obviously not.

She’s aware he can be heedless, but this is far beyond that.

Mortified, she begins to wend her way back to Maman, smiling slightly and nodding to acquaintances as if she’s unbothered by being alone.

Unfortunately, she strayed far into the Palais, and her mother is on the other side of the building.

Halfway there, she finds édouard in front of one of Antoine Guillemet’s entries and walks quickly to him.

“You should not have left me alone in this crowd,” she says in a voice louder and bolder than intended.

A few people turn and look at them, their expressions full of curiosity.

Antoinette, who is across the room, marches over. “Berthe is correct,” she reproaches her son. “I raised you to be a gentleman, and I’m disappointed that you weren’t aware of her predicament. I assumed you had left her with a proper companion.”

édouard bows to Berthe, but his face is as stony as those of the statues in the sculpture garden. “Please accept my deepest apologies, Mademoiselle Morisot. You can count on my timeless devotion, but I nonetheless will not play the role of a child’s nurse.”

Berthe raises a hand to her cheek, his words like a slap in the face.

“édouard!” Antoinette cries. “That is not a proper apology.”

But before he can say anything more, Berthe has already started toward the room where her mother waits.