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TWELVE

B erthe’s displeasure with édouard’s behavior at the Salon is overshadowed by the news that Edma will soon be arriving from Lorient, and the even better news that her sister is with child and plans to stay with them in Paris until late June or early July, when she must return home for her confinement.

Cornélie throws herself into a frenzy of activity, planning elaborate meals and excursions.

She makes lengthy guest lists for Edma’s homecoming party that are filled with cross-outs and new additions, some of which are later excised and then reinserted.

Berthe only cares about having Edma return to her, her closest friend and confidante, her most beloved sister.

When Edma finally alights from the carriage in front of the house, she and Berthe throw themselves at each other and sob as if grieving a lost family member.

“Silly you,” Berthe says into Edma’s hair, which smells just like Edma.

Her sister is here, really here, back with her again. As it should be.

“And silly you, dearest dearest,” is her sister’s reply.

Maman wraps her arms around both of them.

“My babies, my babies, you are still such babies. Still crying all the time.” Her eyes well with tears as she says this.

Then she quickly takes herself in hand and adds briskly, “Enough, enough. Let us go inside. There is no reason for everyone in the city to see your foolishness.” But a smile cracks through her stern facade.

“Come now.” She tries to pull her daughters apart, which they reluctantly allow.

But as they follow her into the house, their arms once again join, their skirts overlapping as they run up the steps.

Lunch is a boisterous and happy affair, and although they are only four, there is more food than ten people could eat, and just as much wine.

Papa, who never leaves work midday, is home, his color high as he raises his glass to toast his grandchild-to-be and beams at Edma.

“Santé!” he cries. It’s as if the moribund house has come alive again. As if Berthe has come alive again.

The sisters aren’t alone until late that evening, when they settle into the room they shared for so many years. After they slip into their nightgowns, Edma presses her hand to her barely rounded belly. “Such a peculiar thing.”

“What does it feel like?”

“Not much, actually. Except for my breasts, which are sore all the time.” Edma places her hands under her breasts and lifts them. “And so big!” She starts to giggle. “Remember when we put handkerchiefs into the top of our dresses to pretend we were grown women?”

They fall into their oh-so-familiar laughter, tickled by the memory, elated to be together again. “Do you think Maman will come in and tell us to be quiet and go to bed, like she used to?” Berthe asks when they calm.

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Edma says dryly. “Maman is nothing if not reliably Maman.”

The door bursts open, and Cornélie stands there, also in her nightclothes, arms crossed over her chest. But before she can utter a word, her daughters hoot so loud she backs up.

“I do not care how old you are. You still need your sleep,” she mutters irritably.

“You, especially, Edma. The baby’s health must be foremost in your mind at all times. ”

Which, of course, sends them back into gales of hilarity. Edma manages to gain control of herself first. “Yes, Maman, we will do that.” But Berthe giggles, and Edma dissolves back into uncontrollable mirth.

“Tut-tut,” Cornélie grumbles and closes the door.

“She said ‘Tut-tut’!” Berthe slides from her bed to the floor, tears running down her cheeks. “I can’t believe she actually said ‘Tut-tut.’”

Exhausted from laughing, Edma drops down next to her sister and takes her hands. “I’ve missed you every day, and now I know I will miss you even more when I have to leave.”

Berthe presses her forehead to Edma’s, as they used to do when they were girls. “I have been so alone.”

“Tell me what you couldn’t put in a letter.”

Berthe sighs and leans against the bed. “It, it is not a pretty tale.”

“I did not think it would be.”

“Well…” Now that the moment has arrived, Berthe finds that she doesn’t want to talk about it. What if Edma turns against her when she hears? Even her loyal sister might be offended by what she’s done. It would have been so much easier to share this confidence in writing.

“We’ve never had secrets from each another,” Edma says. “And I believe you will be unburdened by telling me this one.”

“The burden will still be there.”

“But now I’ll be able to help you carry it.”

Berthe tells Edma everything. From édouard’s flirtations, to the modeling sessions, to the kisses and loving words, to his erratic and then rude behavior at the Salon. Of her growing attraction to him.

Edma touches Berthe’s knee sympathetically at the most difficult admissions, but makes no comment during the recitation.

When her sister finishes, she says, “There is nothing here that you should be ashamed of. You are unfamiliar with the ways of men, and édouard is all too familiar with the ways of women.”

Berthe takes a deep breath. Although Edma has remained empathetic so far, what Berthe has to tell her next could very well change her sister’s mind. “This may be so, but my feelings for him remain. And, and I fear what I may do if we are alone together again.”

Rather than looking shocked, as Berthe expected, Edma looks sad, almost brooding. “It’s not worth it. And I don’t just mean your reputation or, God forbid, you become with child. I am speaking of the act.”

Berthe is caught off guard, as much by her sister’s odd reaction as by her words. “The act?”

“I would not tell you this under other circumstances, but now that you have described your situation to me, I feel it’s important for you to know the truth.

” Edma looks down at her hands, up at Berthe, then back at her hands.

Her cheeks flush, and she clears her throat, but no words are forthcoming.

“What truth do you need to tell me?”

“It, I mean the act, it’s humiliating, even degrading.

And painful, very much so. There is no pleasure or joy, or even love.

” Edma meets Berthe’s eyes. “I think George Sand said something about it being ‘a furious breaking ground for male dominance.’ And this is so. As a wife, I must succumb, but there is no reason for you to suffer this indignity. It does not matter how you felt when you kissed him. You will not like this. I promise you that.”

Berthe listens to Edma, nodding her head as if she’s in agreement. But she’s not at all convinced by her sister’s account, as heartfelt as it may be. In truth, she feels sympathy for Edma, who hasn’t experienced what she, Berthe, has experienced and, as Adolphe’s wife, most likely never will.

BERTHE DECIDES TO paint a double portrait of Edma and Maman now that they are all together.

A quite salacious idea, as it’s considered improper to portray a woman when she’s in Edma’s delicate condition.

But who decided this is salacious? Berthe supposes the same people who deemed she cannot paint a man to whom she is not related or enjoy the company of her fellow artists at Café de Bade.

And while she isn’t comfortable breaching the last two conventions, she is willing to disregard the first. Particularly as Edma’s pregnancy isn’t apparent under her dresses, and it’s a secret not known to anyone but the family.

Cornélie claims she’s overwhelmed by preparations for the homecoming party, but Edma convinces her to sit for an hour each day, which she grudgingly does.

Berthe dresses her mother in a black gown with lace at the neck and sleeves, her sister in white, with a blue bow holding back her hair.

They sit close on the couch in the parlor, Cornélie reading to Edma, who’s bathed in light and looking downward.

There are purple flowers on the table to her right, and although the rendition of Edma is accurate, it isn’t obvious to the viewer that she’s with child.

Berthe is in heaven to be painting her sister again, to have her in the house every day.

Maman isn’t a good model, too anxious and fidgety, so Berthe sketches her quickly and allows her to go.

Edma is a far more patient sitter, and without Cornélie present, they have plenty of time to chat, although Berthe doesn’t mention édouard again.

It isn’t that she doesn’t wish to speak of him, which she would dearly love to do, but because her sister knows her too well.

She fears Edma will recognize that she, Berthe, is in deeper than is wise and that she’s unlikely to follow any sisterly advice.

Even worse, it’s possible Edma might go to Maman, believing she will be sparing Berthe terrible heartbreak and folly.

And then she will never be permitted to be in édouard’s company again.

TO BERTHE AND Edma’s relief, the day of the party is finally upon them.

Cornélie is bustling everywhere, too busy with last-minute details to direct her nervous energy toward her daughters, but Marie , their maid, suffers greatly.

Papa left early for his office and doesn’t plan to return until the party is well underway.

The sisters hide in the studio until it’s time for them to dress.

The party is a great success. It’s a lovely June evening, and the windows and doors are thrown wide, the house filled with the best people in their finery.

Lively conversation and laughter ricochet off the walls, despite the undercurrent of a possible looming war with Germany.

Food and drinks flow freely, and people keep arriving in what seems an endless stream.

Berthe wonders if Maman ultimately decided to invite everyone on her list.