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Now that édouard is reunited with his wife, he has less freedom to write, and Berthe is equally hobbled by the fear Suzanne might intercept their correspondence.

They haven’t seen each other in a year, since that long-ago day when he begged her to leave Paris.

So many months have passed, and they have both been through such difficult times, that she worries the love he declared in her studio has been quashed.

For if it has not, why is he with Suzanne rather than with her?

Gène and Antoinette are often in the Morisot house, but helpful as they have been, Gène’s mere presence irritates Berthe.

He’s a pale shadow of his brother in both face and spirit, his wispy blond hair a rebuke of édouard’s luxurious red locks, his timidity a reproach to his brother’s exuberance.

Yet his features do remind her of édouard, who should be here instead.

She tries to be polite, but Maman still chastises her, after they leave, for her coldness.

“He’s the Manet you should be setting your cap for,” Cornélie snaps. “He may not be as extravagant as his brother, but he is the one who doesn’t already have a wife.”

“You don’t want me to marry such a man,” Berthe counters. “Aren’t you the one who’s always complaining that Gène is lazy and has no interest in any type of work? How his mother pretends this isn’t the case and dotes on him?”

“That’s neither here nor there, Berthe. He’s from a fine family of means and high social standing. As a woman past thirty, you must make compromises if you are to have a successful life.”

“Painting is my life, and this is how I will achieve success. It may not be your definition of success, Maman, but it’s mine.”

“I don’t know how a daughter of mine can be such a fool.”

“If I’m a fool, then it is you who made me this way. You who encouraged my art. The tutors. The studio. What did you expect to happen?” Berthe is abashed at the bitterness of her words but does not take them back.

Cornélie looks off into the distance, thinking about the question. “I considered it a good skill for a young lady to have, but never a life’s work. That is for men. And frankly, I find it disrespectful for you to believe that you are as good an artist as the men you are associating with.”

“That is a terrible thing to say to me!” Berthe explodes. “To whom am I being disrespectful? Degas and édouard and the others all think I’m as good as they are. Some have told me I am better!”

“They are full of compliments because you are a woman. Talking like this just to flirt, to be sociable, no more and no less. I’m your mother, and it’s upon me to tell you the truth: You are a gifted amateur, but you don’t have the talent to compete in a man’s arena.”

Berthe glares defiantly and marches to her studio. She can be an unmarried woman and an artist, like the novelist George Sand or the sculptor Marcello. And she will be.

She doesn’t speak to Cornélie for days. Unfortunately, it appears that her mother, who has been silent and passive since their return, is reverting to her judgmental self.

PAUL DURAND-RUEL OWNS an art gallery on New Bond Street in London, and he has begun purchasing and showing French artists, particularly those in Manet’s bande.

In contrast to how their work has been received in their home country, the paintings are popular in England.

This is why Monet, Pissarro, and Degas are there, and Berthe wishes she could be also.

But she must stay in Paris with her mother and her ailing grandfather, who was recently diagnosed with angina and grows weaker by the day.

Degas writes that he has told Durand-Ruel about her work, and the gallerist promised to review it when he’s next in Paris.

This, as well as her desire to prove her mother wrong, spurs her into her studio with renewed vigor.

The 1872 Salon will soon be accepting submissions, and after her absence last year, she plans to have at least a few quality pieces to offer.

Yet she progresses slowly, unsatisfied with most of what she creates, much of which she destroys.

She must become more of her own artist, crystallize her unique style, but everything she paints still trumpets the influence of Camille Corot.

Berthe finds a new model, a girl of ten, and finally is working on a painting that she’s almost pleased with.

The child is seated with a parrot perched on the outside of a cage to her left, and Berthe is gratified by the way her various treatments of light capture the nuances of the shifting colors, which, while bright and contrasting, seem to work in harmony with each other.

The green of the parrot, the red of the girl’s hair, and the glittering gold of the cage’s bars should be jarring, yet they are not.

She is also feeling better about her brushstrokes.

The looseness she’s been striving for is coming more readily.

In the parrot painting, they increase the liveliness and spontaneity of the scene.

But, as always, she worries it’s not substantial enough for the critics, and she longs for her fellow artists to return, needing their company, their compliments and critiques.

In the fall, as the city cleans itself up and starts to reopen, they begin to trickle in.

Degas, Renoir, Sisley, Pissarro, Monet, and, at last, édouard.

His studio has been damaged, but he has let it be known that he expects the bande to be able to meet there in a few weeks.

Berthe hasn’t seen him yet, but his mother is having her first soiree of the season on Thursday, and everyone has been invited.

Even édouard would not miss this momentous event. Or so Berthe hopes.

ALTHOUGH IT’S LATE September, Thursday is as brutally hot as any day in August, and the Manet house is bursting beyond its capacity.

But it isn’t just the heat and close quarters that are a drag on the party.

There’s a listlessness among the guests who are still burdened by the horrific events of the past year.

The men talk of their war experiences and lost comrades, the women try to be cheerful, but there’s a falseness to their merriment and chatter.

No one shows off their new fashionable outfits, as befits the opening of the season, because there are no new fashions to be had.

Nor are there any operas or symphonies or stage productions in the offing. Even Suzanne’s piano playing is somber.

Cornélie is almost gleeful about the amount of weight Suzanne has gained.

“When édouard returned from the war, he must have experienced a great shock at the sight of this bucolic blooming,” she whispers to Berthe.

“Suzanne is even fatter than she was before. How could she have done this to herself? Has she no pride?”

“Must you, Maman?” Berthe responds, and slips away in search of édouard. Cornélie has indeed reverted to her old self, or perhaps she’s become even more officious and critical of those around her than she was before the war.

Berthe looks toward the terrace. The French doors where she posed for The Balcony are thrown open as wide as they can be, and she finds édouard in front of them, holding court.

A dozen laughing people are clustered around him as he flings out witty bits of conversation.

How he finds things to make light of is a marvel to Berthe, yet clearly a release to those devouring his every word.

She watches him from a distance, allowing the sight and the sound of him to fill her.

A half-deaf colleague of her father’s begins to pontificate about politics, drowning édouard out, and the group around him disperses. She closes the gap between them. “Hello, édouard,” she says, trying to still the smile in her words and on her lips. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

He does not bother to hide his delight. “The beautiful Berthe Morisot,” he declares, with a grin so wide it seems to split his face. “I couldn’t be happier to see anyone.” Then he takes her arm and leads her through the open doors.

The balcony, which easily held the four models when they were sitting for édouard, feels as cramped and airless as the rooms inside.

They find a spot along the railing, which due to the throng, forces them close together.

Berthe presses herself as tight to him as she can.

He does the same, and they look at each other.

“You’re here,” he says.

“We’re here.” Berthe has been living this moment in her dreams, and now that it’s arrived, it’s even more breathtaking than she imagined. To feel him against her, to see the love in his eyes, to know they are meant to be. Will be.

“But we must go somewhere else, away from all these people,” he whispers.

“I should be able to come to your studio either tomorrow or the next day, in the afternoon,” Berthe whispers back, well aware of the danger here.

She hears Edma’s voice in her head: You are unfamiliar with the ways of men, and édouard is all too familiar with the ways of women. But she doesn’t care.

Before édouard can respond, Degas arrives at his elbow.

He frowns at Berthe and says pointedly to édouard, “You must go to your wife and soothe her. Her music has become so melancholy it’s making everyone feel worse than they already do.

” When édouard doesn’t move, he adds, “Go. Tell her to play something cheerful. A polka maybe? I cannot abide all this suffocating narcissistic misery. It’s too damn hot.

” He bows to Berthe, shaking his head to indicate his disapproval.

“Excuse my language, but it is too damn hot.”

RéMY DRIVES BERTHE to édouard’s studio the next day.

Maman believes he’s taking her to walk with her friend Thomasine and her two children.

Knowing édouard’s preference for her in black and white, Berthe dons a full-skirted white dress with a flutter of black lace at the edge of its scooped neckline and a black sash cinching her waist. She also allows more of her ringlets than usual to fall onto her forehead and around her face.

édouard likes the contrast between her light skin and dark hair.

As soon as the door closes behind her, they are kissing deeply, frantically.

It’s as if no time has passed. They are as they were, completely lost in each other.

He is hers. She is his. When his kisses descend from her lips to the skin at the neckline of her dress, her head falls back.

He lifts her as a husband would carry his bride, pushes aside the curtain, and places her down on the red sofa.

He gently touches her cheek and says, “Is this all right?”

She doesn’t answer, just pulls his face to hers.

She’s overtaken by a wave of love and warmth and wet and everything that is édouard.

She hears a soft moan and realizes it’s coming from her.

But she isn’t embarrassed. She only wants more.

More of whatever he has to give her. He aligns his body with hers, and this time when he is against her, all she wants is to be closer. She raises her hips to him.

He lowers himself and presses his mouth to the spot on her dress where it covers her undergarments, and the warmth of his breath sends a ripple through her, both pleasurable and greedy.

His hands are under her dress, on her thighs, then higher.

The ripple explodes into a sensation so remarkable and giddy and overpowering that she convulses under it.

Whatever this is, she needs to experience it again and again.

There’s a pressure between her legs, and suddenly, she’s not sure how, he’s inside her.

For a moment, she freezes, shocked and terrified at what he’s doing, what she’s doing.

But as he moves, her fear recedes and she wants to keep him there, move with him, their bodies linked just as are their souls.