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“I’m searching for artists who are willing to break from the traditional and move beyond the constraints of academic painting.

” He once again circles the easels. “Your work does this, particularly the domestic scenes, capturing the everyday with spontaneity and intimacy. Bringing us into your subjects’ world. ”

He gestures toward Two Sisters on a Couch . “And your use of these soft edges here, allowing the forms to blend into the surrounding environment, it’s, well, it’s exceptionally atmospheric, transient, and we are with the two young women while their moment lasts.”

She regains her composure and asks him to sit.

They discuss her pictures, the portraits and the landscapes, those of the others in Manet’s bande.

Durand-Ruel tells her that he’s most drawn to artists who share a group affinity.

Then he buys four of her paintings and asks her to send more to him in London.

“Manet, Monet, Renoir, Degas, and Pissarro have been selling briskly there,” he adds.

“And I am certain you will do the same.”

“I MUST GO right now to thank Manet,” Berthe tells her mother after Durand-Ruel leaves, and then she immediately regrets it.

She should have said she was visiting a friend and had Rémy take her to édouard’s.

She’s spinning from the purchase, thrilled with the five hundred francs he paid her.

It seems her work does have value. She doesn’t say any of this to her mother, who will surely point out the higher prices other artists have received, and add that the male gallerist is most likely only trying to flatter her.

“It is too late in the day for such nonsense,” Cornélie says.

“We planned to go in the morning for your sitting for the new painting, and that will be speedily enough.” Then she takes both of Berthe’s hands in hers.

“I cannot wait for your father to come home and hear of your success. He will be so gratified. As am I.”

Berthe watches Cornélie disappear into the kitchen to give Marie new orders for a more festive dinner, and she has to admit that sometimes she’s too critical of her mother, just as her mother is sometimes too critical of her.

She walks back into her studio and grins at the empty easels.

Then she composes a subdued note to édouard.

Dear édouard,

Paul Durand-Ruel purchased four of my paintings and took them to London with him.

I am, as you would expect, extremely pleased.

I am also forever in your debt for recommending me to him.

My mother and I plan to visit your studio tomorrow morning so I can express my gratitude in person.

I will wear the black dress with white lace you proposed for the new portrait.

With many thanks,

Berthe

She has Rémy deliver the note to Manet, and when Rémy returns he has a response in hand.

édouard, in an equally restrained manner, writes of how happy he is for her and asks if she could also wear her deep-crowned black hat for the sitting.

He adds that he is looking forward to seeing her, a euphemism they use to signal their passion.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Berthe takes care getting ready.

The dress édouard suggested isn’t one of her favorites, as she believes it doesn’t flatter her figure.

Her mother has put it much more plainly, commenting that the layers of cashmere flow too freely and make her look fat, the worst criticism Cornélie can level against anyone.

But édouard has said he finds the cinch at the waist particularly provocative and that the thought of this makes him yearn for her.

Which is far more important than Maman’s disparagement.

She does like the hat. It’s tall and sits regally on her head.

She plays with the silk ends of the bow at the back, allowing a piece to hang loosely along one side of her neck.

Then she pulls out tendrils of curls from the brim so they, too, hang loosely, but around her face.

She adds a pair of slightly naughty pink shoes.

She feels quite elegant, even a touch sassy.

On the way to the studio, she asks Rémy to stop at the florist so she can buy some violets, one of édouard’s favorite hues.

She hopes he’ll ask her to hold them or pin them to her dress to add a dash of color to the portrait.

Cornélie, who’s in a better mood than usual, agrees to this.

“For all his faults, Manet did you a service, and a gift such as this is appropriate. Let us go and find a pretty bouquet.”

When they arrive, édouard greets them cordially, telling Cornélie how lovely she looks and then adding, as if an afterthought, that Berthe does also.

When Berthe hands him the violets and voices her thanks, they dare not allow their eyes to meet.

édouard settles Cornélie in her usual place and promises that the maid will be by soon with tea and pastries.

Antoinette isn’t joining them, so Maman has brought a book, which she will hopefully tire of and return home before édouard is finished.

édouard finds the most comfortable chair in the studio and seats Berthe in front of a pale white wall.

He steps back and scrutinizes her intensely.

Berthe stares back at him, trying not to smile at her handsome, brilliant man.

But she must be failing, as he shakes his head slightly, glances over at Cornélie, and grabs the bouquet of violets.

“Hold these up high or pin them to your dress,” he says.

“Throw a splash of color into the composition.”

Now she can’t help but smile. “I was thinking the very thing.”

“This is because we are both artists.” His voice is indifferent, and he busies himself with his palette and brushes.

“Sit tall, please.” Then he begins painting in his feverish édouard way, slashing colors across the canvas, flinging brushes to the ground, crying out in frustration or elation, one exclamation directly following the other. So unlike the careful way she works.

Berthe looks at him straight on, which is what he requested.

As she watches him paint, she shifts between pleasure at being in his company, sorrow that they are unable to express their true feelings, and annoyance at his fear of Cornélie finding them out.

Would this be such a terrible circumstance?

Perhaps if her parents knew about their love for each other, they might force édouard to marry her, to save her social standing along with their own.

But as soon as the thought comes, she banishes it.

That is not the way. She will not play the role of the wronged maiden.

He will announce his love for her to the world, his desire to marry her, for her to have his child, and his intention to divorce the barren Suzanne to achieve this.

Despite the gossip and rumors, she will hold her head high.

But he has only given vague promises about when this will occur, and she worries how much time might pass before he’s ready to make his declaration.

édouard takes a brush out of his mouth. “Your face is sad, which is not the way I want this painting to be.” Then he adds in a whisper. “Or you to be.”

Berthe glances over at her mother. Cornélie’s book is resting open in her lap, and she’s snoring softly. “Perhaps a touch of the tragic might add nuance to it? A nod to the forces that thwart our wishes.”

His eyes soften, but all he says is, “Perhaps.”

Cornélie wakes an hour later and announces it is time to leave.

Berthe stands, not unhappy to be released from the difficult position she’s been holding.

She wants to raise her arms high and twist her hips to relieve the ache that posing has caused, but she cannot.

If Cornélie were not here, she would do these very things, and édouard would take her into his arms, kissing her until she’s dizzy and they fall onto their humpbacked red sofa.

Instead, she walks to édouard, who’s adding touches of purple to her hat and the background. “May I?” she asks, not wanting to intrude if he’s not ready for her to see it yet.

He looks at her with such longing that Berthe wonders if he’s read her last thoughts. “Of course,” he says with a slight bow.

Berthe is awed by what he has accomplished in a few short hours.

A study in cool tones, black against white, the many shades of purple bursting in unexpected places, startling yet perfect.

But it’s her own expression that dominates, the verisimilitude of her unwavering and intent look, eyes that reveal so much.

Too much. She turns her body to block it from Cornélie.

There is no doubt that édouard, once again, has made love to her with his brush, but this time there’s no subtlety, no doubt of his feelings.

He has made her far more beautiful than she actually is, stronger and more confident than she actually is, which must be how he sees her through the mists of his enchantment.

There’s also no doubt she’s looking out at the object of her love, not only with adoration, but with an unveiled yearning tarnished by melancholy.

He has indeed captured her shifting emotions as she sat before him. And she believes that anyone who stands in front of this painting, especially those who know them well, will immediately see what they are trying to hide.