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As they wander, Berthe begins to feel better.

There is no doubt the works are magnificent, and seen together like this, the riotous colors, the thick brushstrokes, the light and the light and the light…

so exciting, so awe-inspiring. They walk past Degas’s The Dance Class and After the Bath , Renoir’s La Loge , Cézanne’s A Modern Olympia , Monet’s Impression, Sunrise , and her own The Cradle . The future indeed.

The artists and their supporters have been heralding the upcoming show to the press and the public for months, and when it opens, it immediately attracts a crowd.

Some are just curious, and a few appear to be attentive, perhaps inclined toward open-mindedness, but the majority are horrified.

From lowly workers to women in the finest fashions to erudite reviewers, the response is virtually unanimous, summed up by a reporter for La Presse : “The debaucheries of this new school are nauseating and disgusting.”

Berthe is stunned by the viciousness of these attacks.

Yes, she was concerned about the response, but she never imagined this measure of derision, almost malice.

She scours the papers for a positive comment.

There are a small number, but even these are qualified.

“The work is neither tiresome nor banal,” Le Siècle reports.

A column called Art News acknowledges that there are a few paintings the Salon might have accepted, and then goes on to criticize all the rest. La Patrie , while acknowledging that artists have the right to hold a renegade exhibition, wonders if perhaps it’s all a joke, if a single prankster has been “dipping his brushes into paint, smearing it onto yards of canvas and signing it with different names.”

Day after day, the public fills Nadar’s rooms with ridicule, laughter, and hoots, all pointing to the perceived deficits in the artworks.

Sloppy. Incomplete. Unfinished. Trees that are blue instead of green.

Unacceptable. Lazy. Deplorable. Some visitors are so irate they demand their admission fee be refunded.

Except for the hours when she is responsible for selling tickets, Berthe does not return after the opening.

But she cannot hide from the condemnation.

Her mother is incensed, telling Berthe that her disgrace is akin to another death in the family.

“It must be obvious, even to you, that your entire group is mad. After all that work, you didn’t sell a single painting, and therefore there was no need to expose yourself to such mockery.

” Cornélie’s eyes fill with tears, as they are wont to do at any moment since her husband died.

“I beg you, Berthe, if you do not give up this nonsense even Gène Manet will not want to marry you.”

Cornélie points to the review in Le Charivari by Louis Leroy.

“Singling you out,” she says, “Leroy claims your painting is shoddy, that you have no interest in spending the time needed to produce a work of art. And I quote him when he says Morisot ‘makes exactly as many brushstrokes lengthwise as there are fingers, and the business is done.’”

Nor does Leroy limit himself to criticizing her.

He spreads his judgments across all the artists, particularly Monet.

He takes an unnatural hatred to his Impression, Sunrise , a magnificent painting of Le Havre harbor with a rising red sun reflected in the water that captures the fleeting quality of the light.

But to Leroy, it’s an abomination, and he scorns it as all impression and no sunrise, and derisively calls the entire exhibition “the work of untalented impressionists.”

“Bijou, there is no hope for you in this,” Cornélie tells her. “Promise me you will stop this useless pursuit and find the true meaning of a woman’s life, as a wife and mother. I don’t know how much more sorrow I can withstand.”

Berthe is too disheartened to defend herself. Without love and without art, there is no point, and she cannot replace either of these with her mother’s idea of the true meaning of a woman’s life. She places her hands in her lap and looks over Cornélie’s shoulder.

To make matters worse, Durand-Ruel is experiencing business difficulties and has stopped purchasing paintings while he attempts to return to solvency.

Although this is crushing for Berthe, it’s much more dire for some of the others who depended on his financial support to feed their families.

Monet, Pissarro, and Sisley are stricken.

When the exhibition ends and they count up the receipts, it becomes even clearer how badly they fared.

Sisley, Pissarro, and Monet sold a few paintings, but for meager sums, together totaling less than 1,500 francs.

Berthe and Degas sold nothing, as did most of the other artists.

They have a debt of 3,000 francs, and each member is assessed 190 francs in order to pay the bills.

Which many of them do not have. Their charter is dissolved, and the Independents are no more.

MAMAN ENLISTS EDMA and Yves to convince Berthe to marry.

Her sisters write letters describing all the advantages of being a wife, none of which Berthe believes, as she has been the recipient of their tales of marital woe.

They also tell her what a suitable husband Gène Manet will make, how unassuming and mild he is, presumably a comfortable companion, and from such a good family.

But “unassuming,” “mild,” and “comfortable” do nothing to tempt her.

In fact, heralding these qualities does the opposite.

Her mother invites Gène to dinner frequently, sometimes with Antoinette and sometimes without.

Gène earnestly takes up the role of courting Berthe, bringing flowers, complimenting her beauty, requesting her company on walks and painting outings.

He’s very polite, although he does fidget so, and seems to be constantly suffering from headaches.

Berthe goes through the motions to avoid her mother’s cutting comments, numb to his bland charms.

Finally, Cornélie is so desperate she asks édouard to speak with Berthe, going as far as sending her daughter to his studio without accompanying her. In earlier days, Berthe would have been ecstatic, but she is numb to this also.

édouard is cautious and deferential when she arrives, leading her to a chair rather than to the sofa, pouring her tea, and offering a tart.

Berthe ignores the pastry and accepts the tea, but she doesn’t drink it.

She has no wish to hear him extol Gène’s virtues, but as with so many things lately, she hasn’t the strength to resist.

“I’m sorry about the exhibition,” he says self-consciously. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ve also been the recipient of the scorn so wrongfully heaped on all of you.”

“It does not,” she says. Although he’s sitting a respectable distance away, she can feel the power of him, of his presence. He has destroyed her, and yet her anger is as deadened as her spirits. If only her desire for him was equally so.

He forces a chuckle. “It seems that the fact that I wasn’t participating did nothing to stop the chattering hordes from attacking me too.”

She shrugs, although she does find it curious that everyone appears to assume he’s their leader, however loudly he protests that his tight brushstrokes and realism differentiate his work from theirs. And perhaps he is, Manet’s bande and all. But he is gone to her, she to him.

He’s silent for a moment, then says, “He’s not a bad man, my brother. In truth, quite a good one.”

“A far better one than you, of that I am certain.”

édouard hangs his head. “I love you and—”

Berthe stands. “That is a lie, and I have no interest in listening to your fabrications.”

“Please, Berthe, please sit.” His eyes are full of pleading, and if she didn’t know better, she’d think they were also full of love. “I don’t deserve it, but can you please hear me out?”

She sits. After all this, how can he still bring her to her knees?

“I’m, I’m not as strong as I believed I was, and I’m as distraught over this failing as you must be.”

She doubts this but says nothing.

“There isn’t anything I want more than for us to be together,” he continues. “But I can’t bring the shame of divorce on my family. At the same time, I cannot live a life without you in it.”

“I see,” she says, amazed that her voice remains firm while every other part of her is curdling into pulpy mush.

“And this is why marrying Gène could work for us.”

“I do not see it that way.”

“Think about it, Berthe. If we become family, we can kiss each other’s cheeks on meeting, spend holidays and vacations together, find opportunities to go off on our own.”

She’s horrified, speechless. Has he actually convinced himself this will “work” for them? Does he not understand that if she agrees to marry Gène they will never be lovers again?

“My love, my darling, don’t you see?” He kneels next to her chair. “So sadly wondrous, our love. A miracle and a catastrophe entangled together. But this way, we will be linked forever, even if it’s not the way we long for it to be.”

She stands, and he does too. When she slaps him, he presses his hand to his face with a look of complete bewilderment. Further indication, if she needed any, that he has no comprehension of what he is asking. Or what the consequences will be.

As Berthe climbs into the carriage, she keeps her face averted from Rémy.

She will not marry Gène. She will never be alone with édouard again.

She will submit no more paintings to exhibitions.

She stares out the window at the newly constructed avenues branching outward, bursting with people and conveyances.

No new avenues for her. Her days stretch before her, empty and hollow, filled with loneliness.