Page 29

NINETEEN

W hen Berthe returns to Paris in the fall, she finds a parcel waiting for her. There’s no doubt it’s a painting and that the address is written in édouard’s hand. She quickly covers it with the many notes and letters she received while they were on holiday and hurries toward her bedroom.

The ever-vigilant Cornélie stops her before she can reach the stairs. “What is it you have there?”

Berthe presses the bundle to her chest. “I have no idea. As you can see, I haven’t opened any of them yet.” She tries to squeeze by her mother, but Cornélie blocks her way.

“I meant the package.”

“I haven’t opened that either.”

“Marie!” Cornélie calls out. “Could you please bring us a pair of scissors?”

“It’s for me, not for you.”

“I’m only trying to help you open it.” Maman takes the scissors from Marie.

“Let’s see what it is.” She quickly snips the twine and rips the paper to reveal a small painting.

A bouquet of violets, reminiscent of the one Berthe brought to édouard, or perhaps the same.

Alongside the flowers is her red fan from The Balcony and a scrolled letter, which is difficult to read but clearly contains both édouard’s and her names.

A note on the back says: For Berthe, Guerlain’s Violette de Paine.

A reference to her perfume and the first time he told her he loved her.

“If this is a gift,” Cornélie snaps, “you may not accept it.”

“You had no objection to Degas’s gift last summer. Or the one before that.”

“Degas is not a married man.”

“But Monet and Renoir are, and you didn’t say a word about the pictures they gave me.

” Berthe gazes down at édouard’s painting, which is exquisite, and she marvels at how he captured the essence of the flowers.

She doesn’t tell Cornélie about the afternoon he showed her Madame de la Tour’s The Language of Flowers , in which the author suggests that violets refer to a secret love.

Nor does she mention that this is more than a gift; it’s an apology. Or more precisely, an attempt at one.

Tomorrow is a bande painting day, and she will make clear to him that a present, no matter how dazzling, will not atone for his cowardly absence over the summer.

She will accept no excuses, which are sure to be extended, and will inform him, in no uncertain terms, that the only way to redeem himself is to proclaim their love and their plans to be together, as he has promised so many times.

That evening, her father is suddenly stricken with crushing chest pains and shortness of breath.

Dr. Aguillard is called. After an examination, he informs them that Papa’s lungs and heart have been weakened by an attack of cardiac asthma, and that he is very ill.

He is to remain in bed, taking no exercise, and no one in the household is to upset him in any way.

The doctor gives Cornélie a packet of dried foxglove, which he instructs her to grind into a fine powder and brew as tea.

Papa must drink as much as he can, as this is the only remedy for his condition.

Berthe is terrified by the diagnosis, and she and Cornélie rush to make the tea. Then they sit by his bed, begging him to drink it. He manages a few sips, and his breathing does seem to come a bit easier. When he finally falls asleep, the women drag themselves to their own beds.

As Berthe tries to settle herself, to calm her jangling nerves, she realizes that her mother will have to stay by Papa’s side in order to nurse him, and therefore Cornélie won’t be able to accompany her to édouard’s tomorrow.

She wishes the state of affairs could have come about for another reason, but at least there is this.

WHEN SHE ARRIVES at the studio, Monet, Degas, Renoir, Sisley, and Pissarro are quarreling over the possibility of an independent show, something they have all been talking about more seriously of late. édouard isn’t there, apparently having just stalked off after belittling the idea as pure folly.

Degas, an exceptional mimic, places one hand out as if resting it on a walking stick, an édouard-like gesture, and cries in a voice that sounds exactly like his friend’s, “Why don’t you all stay with me at the Salon? Can’t you see I’m on a winning streak?”

The men break into hearty laughter, and Berthe smiles uncertainly. “He’s obviously wrong,” she says. “But don’t you think édouard believes this is what would be best for us? That he’s trying to help us, however misguided his methods may be.”

Degas frowns at her. “He believes this because he can’t think of anything or anyone beyond himself. He does not understand that his winning streak isn’t ours.”

“Was édouard’s behavior what prompted all that noise when I came in?” she asks.

Monet waves his hand dismissively. “Before we go into that, let me tell you about something incredible that has happened. Do you know the cartoonist and photographer Nadar?”

When Berthe indicates she does not, he continues. “No matter. He told me he’s giving up his big studio on Boulevard des Capucines, and to my astonishment, he offered the space to us for our exhibition at no cost!”

“He feels sorry for us,” Sisley gripes. “We aren’t charity cases.”

“What does that matter?” Degas retorts. “It’s Boulevard des Capucines! A busy spot, with enough room to hold many dozens of paintings. And it’s filled with light! Must you find fault with everything, Alfred?”

“That’s wonderful, Claude,” Berthe interjects in the hope of cooling the antagonisms. Consensus is going to be difficult to come by in this group of iron-willed men, but as she believes this show will be in all their best interests, it’s going to be upon her to help find it. “Excellent. Do we have a date?”

This leads to a more conciliatory discussion, during which it’s agreed that their exhibition will be held the following spring.

Then there’s a lengthy argument about the exact day: before the Salon’s, to overshadow it, or afterward, to make the point that they are having the final word?

This is followed by an even more raucous row over whether they should become a cooperative business, paying dues, sharing profits, and holding an exhibition every year until they achieve the acceptance and sales they deserve.

Monet and Degas are in favor of this, but the others have concerns. How much will the dues be? Who will decide who is to be included? How will the paintings be chosen? How will the profits be shared? What if there are no profits? How will the best display space be allocated? Will there be prizes?

When Monet suggests that one of the rules for inclusion be a written denunciation of the Salon and the promise not to submit there while a member of the cooperative, the shouting becomes loud enough that Berthe is sure it can be heard from the street. In the midst of this, édouard returns.

He walks up to Berthe. “You must not ally yourself with this group of madmen! Theirs is a radical endeavor, which will end in disgrace. You cannot draw attention to yourself in this way.”

Berthe stands and pulls herself to her full height. “You have no right to address me in this manner. Or to tell me what I may and may not do. I will choose with whom I associate and with whom I ally myself.”

The studio falls silent.

“I’m only interested in what’s best for you,” édouard says, clearly taken aback by her forceful response.

Berthe doesn’t understand why he’s so shocked.

It’s not as if he were unaware of her plans to join with the others.

Or that she doesn’t take well to commands.

Then she realizes he’s acting this way because he thinks of her as his and as such believes it’s not only his right but his obligation to protect her.

For a moment, she softens, but then she reminds herself that he has no claim to her, and her anger flares.

Until they are engaged or married, she has no allegiance to him nor any need of his protection.

SHE’S FURIOUS AT édouard’s presumptions and lack of consideration, his desire to have everything while giving up nothing, yet none of this quells her longing for him.

She’s glad she stood up to him today, although frustrated she didn’t have the opportunity to reproach him for his spinelessness in Biarritz.

Nonetheless, she finds herself reliving their most intimate moments together, feels his body against hers, and then these recollections are shattered by the fact that he turned his back on the opportunity to be with her this summer.

How can she love him this much when he’s been so thoughtless and unkind?

My dearest Edma,

I work hard without respite or rest, and still I do not succeed.

Monet, Degas, Renoir, Sisley, Pissarro, and I have agreed on a charter for our new enterprise, but the arguments have been fierce, and I have no certainty that any of this will ever come to pass.

édouard has refused to join us, and sometimes I believe he has made the right choice.

He is such a difficult man, such a brilliant man, a man so certain of himself and his destiny, and yet sometimes so faint of heart. I am sad, sad as one can be, and I wonder if there will ever be an end to this. What I see most clearly is that my situation is impossible from every point of view.

Once she sends the letter to Edma, she decides she must go to édouard, that she needs an answer, no matter how painful it might be.

It takes her days to gather her courage, and when she finally does, she stands before her wardrobe and searches for a demure outfit with a high neckline, possibly something too big for her.

It’s important to convey that she’s serious, that she is not coming to him for love, but for resolution.

Instead, she chooses her new low-cut black gown and wraps a velvet band around her neck, a nod to édouard’s appreciation of the contrast between her pale skin and a dark fabric. Again, she wears the pink shoes, annoyed with her weakness and invigorated by her daring.