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This time, Berthe’s work isn’t singled out for attention because she’s a woman.

Instead, her paintings are lauded for the nuances of her color shifts and the “symphony” of her compositions.

One reviewer declares that she’s the only true Impressionist in the group, who should be “praised and praised again.” And a well-known journalist and art critic observes that Morisot and her fellow Impressionists are now being “talked about in cafés, clubs and drawing rooms.” These are heady words.

She’s overjoyed at the recognition, although Gène interprets this as verification that his insistence that she not stray beyond her limits is correct.

Her interpretation is quite different. She believes that now that she’s on more solid footing, her new standing might open up the prospect of growth.

If Gène hadn’t burned Parisian Summer , she would have completed it now, perhaps exhibited it.

As this isn’t possible, she will begin anew.

She says nothing to Gène, of course, but she needs to discuss the idea of expanding her range with another painter.

Her first thought is Degas, who’s always searching for a limit to break, but he can’t be trusted not to gossip, even after he’s promised utter secrecy.

édouard, as she well knows, is quite good at keeping secrets.

She hasn’t told him anything about Parisian Summer or Gène’s wrath, concerned the revelation might destroy his relationship with his brother, or, worse, that he might agree with Gène.

But she’s haunted by a powerful image of the picture she wants to paint, and édouard has shown an indulgence for Gène’s shortcomings in the past.

It’s a bande day, but just she, édouard, and Renoir are in attendance, and Renoir departs after only an hour.

A month has passed since they’ve been alone, and, as édouard will be going to Italy for the summer, they rush into each other’s arms, laughing at their mutual desperation.

He locks the door, and they quickly retire to their red sofa.

Their lovemaking, as always, devours her, separating her from anything as mundane as time or place, and when they finally collapse into each other, she’s sorry for the world to return.

Their breathing begins to slow, and they lie, silently and companionably, wrapped around each other.

Although Berthe is still overcome by guilt over their deception, like the Impressionists’ paintings, the more they continue and the more time that passes, God help her, the less awful it seems.

She throws the light blanket over them. “I need your advice.”

édouard aligns his body with hers, and she rests against his chest. “What can I help you with, my love?”

“It’s a long story, and maybe you don’t really want to hear it…”

“If it means we can stay here like this, make it as long as you want.” He kisses her lightly. “Tell me.”

She does, watching him closely to gauge his reaction so she can backpedal if necessary. Although his face hardens when she describes the events surrounding Gène and Parisian Summer , he doesn’t appear as angry with his brother as she would have thought.

“Poor Gène,” he says when she finishes. “You’re too much for him.

Every wonderful thing you are is in direct conflict with his quiet disposition.

He has no idea what to do with you, so he jumps to foolish conclusions, and then feels he must see them through in order to appear strong in your eyes.

” His expression clouds. “Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed for the marriage.

You two are as incompatible as Suzanne and I are.

” He barks a laugh without humor. “Gène and Suzanne make the better couple.”

She’s had the same thought, of course, but it’s too late to change what has been done. She burrows closer and says nothing.

He wraps a curl dangling onto her forehead around his finger. “Have you been able to forgive him?”

“Some. It’s been over a year, and, as you said, it’s not his fault I’m a bad match for him.”

“So is the advice you need related to Gène?”

“No, it’s about another painting.” She tells him of her newfound confidence that, given the reaction to their latest show, the Paris art world is becoming more responsive to change.

“It’s been said that ‘Convention is the most subtle of dictators,’” édouard remarks.

But then he counsels her to be cautious, suggesting that if she decides to pursue this course that she work on the picture in his studio when no one else is present and promises to hide it among his own paintings.

He also proposes that she wait before exhibiting it, as its subject matter is certain to cause an uproar.

He believes she has the right to paint what she wants, but that she should bide her time until it’s clear it will be appreciated for what it is, rather than discarded for who she is.

She’s pleased he’s rallied behind her, yet there’s a lack of enthusiasm underlying his words.

As if he isn’t sure this is worthwhile or viable, that he, too, believes she should stay within the lines.

He’s probably as worried about the family name as Gène is.

She had always longed to be a Manet, but the darker side of her choice is becoming clear.

When she returns home, all these concerns disappear. Gène is waiting for her, his face pale and anxious. Her mother has taken ill and is in the hospital. They rush to her bedside, but there are doctors and nurses attending to her, and they are told to wait in the corridor.

Berthe cannot remain still, and paces past wards that reek of bedpans, dead fish, and bleach.

She chokes on the combined odors and her fear.

Maman has always been strong, both in body and temperament, and Berthe is certain this will continue to hold true.

But why does she need so many doctors and nurses?

Gène comes to find her and says the doctor wishes to talk to them. Although Cornélie is Berthe’s mother, the doctor speaks to Gène. “Madame Morisot is resting. We—”

“May I go to her?” Berthe asks.

“—have done what can be done for the moment.” He continues talking to Gène, as if Berthe hadn’t spoken. “Although I must inform you, Monsieur Manet, that she is not well.”

Gène takes Berthe’s hand. “But she will get better?”

The doctor shakes his head.

The remainder of the year is consumed by watching Maman grow frailer and trying to ease the pain that’s overwhelming her from the disease no one will name.

In late December, Cornélie dies at the age of fifty-six, and even with all their disagreements and her complaints about her mother, Berthe is heartbroken.

As they did after Papa died, her sisters and brother arrive.

At that time, Berthe was completely focused on her mother’s grief, so busy attending to Cornélie that her father’s death felt almost ancillary.

Now there is no such diversion, and she falls into a sadness so deep that Edma and Yves must manage both the influx of mourners and the funeral details.

Gène is overly attentive, which Berthe finds maddening.

She’s drowning in a sorrow he cannot begin to fathom, yet he pretends he does.

édouard is in England, but he sends Berthe an ingenious new easel he discovered in London.

He includes a note expressing his condolences and explaining that this latest design is particularly useful for pastels, and that it is a New Year’s present.

Gène exclaims over its unique construction, yet she can tell he is not pleased his brother sent it to her.

But even a gift from édouard cannot pull Berthe from her grief, which only begins to ease with the return of the springtime sun.