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“Thank you for understanding my position,” Berthe says to Antoinette.

She gives a quick nod to both Gène and édouard, then turns back to her mother-in-law.

“As I will be offering both new and older pieces at the auction, this will simplify things tremendously. I will always be a Manet, now and forever, irrespective of how I sign my paintings. And, yes, I am proud to be one. Very proud.”

She’s reassured when Antoinette reaches across the table and pats her arm.

édouard continues to champion her and her compatriots, despite his personal feelings about the auction.

He contacts numerous critics, including the newly omnipresent Albert Wolff of Le Figaro , praising the artists and requesting the journalists’ presence at the H?tel Drouot.

He tells them they will be so enthralled with the offerings that their only choice will be to extend favorable reviews.

Berthe writes him a discreet note of thanks but yearns to express her gratitude in a more demonstrable way, which is now lost to her.

Still, encouraged, she works as hard as she ever has, pushing the limits of what she’s done before, striving to finesse her quick brushstrokes into explosions of light.

While she achieves this in a few of her domestic paintings, she longs to capture the full world, the bursting cafés, the bustling streets of Paris, the lives of those not of her gender and class.

She stands at the parlor window, gazing out on the wintry boulevard.

The wide throughfare is still beautiful, even with the denuded linden branches reaching skeletal fingers to the gray sky.

And the park across the way is equally so, acres of grass surrounding a wide pond ringed by beech and horse chestnut trees.

There isn’t much liveliness there now, but on a summer day it is filled with men and women, those of her circle and those who are not, some young people touching more intimately than might be considered proper, some wearing less clothing than might be considered proper.

Families enjoying boisterous picnics, children squealing as they touch their toes into the pond, footraces, lawn bowling, couples walking hand in hand, horses on the bridle path, an older woman sitting against a large tree reading.

It would make a stupendous painting, and she longs to create it.

She wonders what would transpire if she attempted such a thing.

The condemnation would most likely exceed anything voiced during the exhibition, making those critiques mild in comparison.

And exceedingly personal. Her mother and mother-in-law might never forgive this transgression, and perhaps Gène wouldn’t either.

Despite his support of her work, which is clearly due to his promise when she agreed to marry him, he’s a strong traditionalist. Yet the thought lingers.

SHE PROFFERS TWELVE paintings to be sold at the auction, including Reading and Interior .

Each of the other artists offers between five and thirteen, and together they put up seventy paintings.

There’s a private viewing on March 22 and one for the public on March 23.

The actual event is scheduled for March 24, and all the painters grow increasingly agitated as the date of the auction approaches, although each has commandeered friends and family members who have promised to bid up the prices.

Some of their guests have even professed an interest in purchasing one or two of the paintings.

Berthe takes to pacing the house, climbing the five flights of stairs, reversing her steps, and walking through the grand rooms on the first floor.

Gène eyes her warily but says nothing. She avoids painting and, instead, designs a mosaic on the floor of the large entryway.

She orders tiles from Italy and has the coachman break them into small pieces.

She fashions a picture similar to The Harbor at Lorient , the narrow waterway opening to the sea, a woman in a white dress and parasol perched on a rocky wall in the lower right corner.

Then she hires stonemasons to put it down.

Neither she nor any of the others go to either the private or the public viewing.

Berthe because she knows the sight of her own paintings, hanging like meat for sale in a butcher’s shop, will further undermine her confidence.

Monet, Renoir, and Degas because they believe it will bring bad luck.

Pissarro and Sisley because they’re both living in the countryside, where it is less expensive, and can only afford to come into Paris for one day.

They will arrive the morning of the auction.

édouard and Durand-Ruel do attend the private viewing, and although they both claim there appears to be much interest, neither is specific about what kind of interest it is.

Their evasiveness drives her male counterparts to their favorite café to drink heavily.

Berthe has two glasses of claret at home, more wine than she has ever consumed in a single evening.

The following day, the day of the public viewing, Berthe is dizzy and nauseated from lack of food and sleep, and although her new cook’s ox-blood broth is better than Marie’s, it’s still repulsive.

Yet she knows she needs strength to carry her through tomorrow and tries to drink as much as she can.

Gène goes to his club to make himself scarce, and even Cornélie doesn’t come by.

It’s cold and rainy, and wind whips at the eaves, so Berthe buries herself under a pile of blankets, hoping to rest, but soon she’s back on her feet, walking the silent rooms.

Many of the critics who are now at the hotel for the viewing are the same men who skewered the exhibition and are likely to do so again.

And what if, as happened last time, no one buys any of her paintings?

A second such humiliation would be difficult to bear.

Why did she ever agree to this? But, no, it’s been a year since the last show, and it’s possible some will change their minds.

Gène returns in the late afternoon paler and more nervous than usual.

He acknowledges her with a nod but doesn’t look directly at her.

This isn’t his usual demeanor when he arrives home for dinner.

He’s always so visibly pleased to see her that she feels terribly guilty she’s unable to reciprocate his feelings.

“Is something wrong?” she asks, standing. “Do you have another migraine?”

“No headache.” His gaze bounces around the parlor. Then he places his newspaper on a table.

“Then what?” She notices the newspaper is Le Figaro and catches her breath. It’s too early for that. No reviews will be released until tomorrow, after the auction is completed. What would be the point before the sales have taken place? She raises her eyes to Gène.

“I am sorry,” he says.

“Albert Wolff?” she asks, but it’s not really a question.

Wolff’s reviews are widely read and are almost always negative, one possible reason for their popularity.

But édouard spoke with him last month, asked him to keep his mind open and reminded him that early acceptance of a new idea often turns into prescience, a highly prized quality in an art critic.

Gène hands her the newspaper.

“How bad?” she manages to ask, but he does not answer.

Berthe takes a seat on the couch and opens to Wolff’s column.

It’s a good thing she’s sitting, because his words are even more devastating than she expected: “The impression produced by these so-called Impressionists is that of a cat walking on the keys of a piano, or of a monkey that has got hold of a box of paints.” She quickly scans the rest of the page. It gets even worse.

Gène comes to sit next to her, takes her hand. “It’s only one critic.”

“A very prominent one,” she says, staggered by the harshness of Wolff’s observations. “One who most likely just decimated attendance at the auction. And of those who do come, how many will bid on paintings that have been described like this?”

THE NEXT MORNING dawns even grayer and wetter than the day before.

Berthe drags herself to her wardrobe to choose a discreet outfit that will hopefully render her unremarkable.

The majority of her dresses are black, but almost all of them are fitted and adorned with velvet ribbons and lace.

Not exactly inconspicuous. She decides on the simplest one, two seasons out of date.

The auction is held in one of the hotel’s smaller ballrooms. A substantial stage dominates, with at least a hundred chairs lined up in front of it.

When she and Gène arrive, almost all the seats are taken, and she’s relieved to see that the Manets and a large number of her social circle are there to champion them, although Cornélie said she could not bear to attend.

Berthe nods and tries to smile at those she knows, but her mouth doesn’t want to form into anything other than a straight line.

She and Gène join the other five artists in the back row, all wondering how much damage Wolff has done, but none voice their concerns.

Even Degas is quiet. The sizable throng could be seen as a good omen, but it’s noisy and somewhat raucous, edgy and excitable, which to Berthe seems to indicate the opposite.

Gène takes one of her gloved hands in his.

Degas takes the other. They each give her fingers a squeeze, but all she can do is stare straight ahead and try to breathe.

The auctioneer begins, and assistants bring a single picture forward at a time, placing it on the large easel next to his podium.

Some of their paintings are set upside down, and others on their sides.

It’s impossible to know if this is accidental or purposeful.

Berthe supposes the motive makes little difference, as the attendees laugh and jeer even when the pictures are properly placed.

The response is similar to what they received at the exhibition, but because this is contained to a single room and a single moment, it is even more difficult to endure.

There is some bidding, mostly by the artists’ friends and family, and some purchases, but too little of either to offer consolation to anyone.

None of Berthe’s paintings have been brought up yet, and when the first one, Reading , is announced along with her name, the heckling grows even louder. Berthe lowers her head.

“Where’s the foreground? Where’s the background?”

“It’s all just blobs of color!”

“Who allowed that woman to wield a paintbrush? Banish her from the canvas, and from the city!”

Then a man in a fine suit and top hat, who had been leaning against the back wall, strides into the aisle and yells, “Harlot!”

Gène and all the artists jump to their feet, but Pissarro reaches the fellow first. He pulls his arm back and smashes his fist into the man’s face.

Blood spurts from the man’s nose, and his hat falls to the floor.

The crowd roars encouragement, although it’s unclear for whom they are cheering.

More people rise, as does the noise level.

The auctioneer calls the police, and both Pissarro and his victim are escorted from the ballroom.