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When she steps through édouard’s door, he’s alone, as she suspected he might be at this hour. He rushes toward her, arms outstretched. “My darling,” he cries. “It has been too long.”

She keeps her own arms pressed to her side and shakes her head vigorously. “I am not here for that, édouard.”

It’s as if he doesn’t hear her. He grabs her by the waist and twirls her around, as he did at the Salon when she praised The Balcony . “My Berthe, my Berthe. I’ve missed you so.”

“Put me down!”

“Never, never ever,” he sings as he dances across the room, swinging her in step with his own, her shoes flying above the floor. “Never, never ever.”

Berthe tries to pry his fingers open. “I mean it, édouard! Put me down this instant or I’m going to tell Suzanne what you have done.”

This catches his attention, and he stops abruptly, releasing her.

She stumbles backward, dizzy and wobbly on her feet. “This cannot go on any longer.”

He takes her arm to steady her, and she shakes him off. “Come sit,” he says, trying to lead her to the sofa. “Tell me what’s troubling you.”

“We can stay right here.” Berthe is not about to sit with him. She’s not strong enough to withstand being that close. “Why didn’t you come to the coast with your family?”

“I was with Claude. You know that. I was riding a wave of prodigious painting that was so remarkable I was unable to stop. Couldn’t stop. It would have been unfair to me, to my art.”

“How about what’s fair to me?”

“It had nothing to do with you.”

“And that is exactly my point,” she cries. “It never has to do with me. It always has to do with you. Just as Edgar says.”

“What does Degas have to do with this?” édouard’s eyes slip away, and she can see he understands everything she wants from him. But as she anticipated, he’s going to do whatever he can to sidestep.

“Are we ever to marry?” she demands.

“Of course we are.” He reaches out for her, but she retreats. “You know how much I love you. How much I want to be with you.”

“No. As a matter of fact, I know nothing of the sort. You say these things, but I haven’t seen anything that convinces me you actually mean them.”

Those incredible blue eyes lock on to hers. “After all we’ve been to each other,” he says softly. “How can you believe anything else?”

She looks away so he won’t see the longing on her face or the tears gathering in her eyes. “You must tell Suzanne, everyone. If you do not do this without delay, we will be nothing to each other.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“How dare you assume you know what I mean and what I don’t mean,” Berthe explodes. “Until I’m your wife, you will not touch me!” Her voice catches on the words, and she rushes toward the door.

“Don’t go,” he pleads. “Stay, please. We’ll talk, figure how, how to, what’s the best way to ensure we are together.”

She turns to him. “Talking is easy, édouard. We’ve done that before. You’ve made promises before. All empty. It’s been almost two years since I committed myself to you, and you’re still married to Suzanne.”

His expression is both sad and sheepish. “I’m sorry, Berthe. I’m a selfish man, a thoughtless one who tends to avoid facing thorny problems. But I promise you, this is going to change. We will find a way.”

Berthe is astonished that édouard admitted to a failing, one that is indeed true, and she’s moved by his confession.

But recognition of weakness doesn’t extinguish it.

“It’s not ‘we’ who must find a way,” she tells him, trying to keep her voice from trembling, to stay true to her conviction. “It is you who must do this.”

“I will.” He has the look of a small boy who has been caught in mischief and desperately wants to avoid punishment. “This time I promise I will.”

She shakes her head but can’t stop her tears. After the Salon’s rejection, if she gives édouard up, she will have nothing.

He pulls her to him, and she doesn’t resist. She’s drained, the fight gone out of her. Her arms encircle him, and her tears fall on his shirt. “Hush, hush, my sweet,” he murmurs. “Please don’t cry. I want to make you happy, never to make you cry.”

Then he kisses her tears, her mouth, and there is nothing to do but slip into the wonder of loving him. He carries her to their sofa, and she does what she promised herself she would not. She gives in to him, gives into herself.

As they lie together, wrapped in each other’s arms, legs entangled amidst the folds of her dress, Berthe runs a finger languidly through the curls of red hair on his chest. “I love you,” she whispers, sliding toward a contented doze.

“And I you.” édouard tightens his arms around her, and she can feel his heart pounding when it should be slowing down. “There, there might,” he stammers, then clears his throat. “I feel, I mean, I think I have an idea for a path that would keep us together. One that will be much easier…”

Berthe is now fully awake, alert and distrustful of the hesitation in his voice. “What path?”

“It will better for everyone,” he continues in the same halting manner.

“Who’s everyone?” she demands.

“You, me, our families.” He swallows hard. “I think you should marry my brother Gène.”