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The Impressionists, fully relishing their name, welcome her back into their fold.

As does édouard, his welcome both public and private.

He still insists he’s not an Impressionist, although the art world consistently refers to him as such.

The press call him their leader, even as he continues to solely submit to the Salon and refuses to join their exhibitions.

He claims less interest in light than in satire, which he used to great effect in Luncheon on the Grass , by placing two nude women with clothed men.

One morning, Berthe catches sight of the wet nurse feeding Isabeau on the sofa in the nursery, sunlight falling on them from a high angle.

“Stay exactly as you are, Zelia,” she says.

“I’ll be right back.” She rushes into her studio for her easel and pastels, then sets them off to the right side of this exquisite tableau.

Her sticks fly over the canvas as she tries to capture the fleeting light, the fleeting moment, before they disappear.

Initially, Zelia stiffens and Isabeau cries out, but then the nurse resettles the baby to her breast and they both quiet.

Berthe has painted many children before, but never in such an intimate pose, never so quickly, and never without preliminary sketches.

By the time Zelia shifts the baby to her other breast, Berthe has enough to use as preparation for an oil painting.

She gazes at her work in wonder. Is this how édouard does it?

Without premeditation and careful study?

It is not her way, but there is no denying its power.

Isabeau becomes her favorite model, and Berthe follows this first effort with paintings that depict the little girl in her cradle or in her pram or staring up in fascination at a bowl of flowers sitting on a table.

One of Berthe’s favorites is a portrait of the blond, blue-eyed child sitting in an oversized chair, propped up by pillows.

Her smile is wide, her cheeks round and rosy, as she looks directly out of the picture, preternaturally wise and definitely no longer homely.

Her features are clearly Gène’s, but they have been rearranged in the most magnificent way.

Berthe is ashamed she ever thought her daughter anything but radiantly beautiful, and wishes she’d never written to Edma that she believed otherwise.

Gène is horrified by The Wet Nurse and pleads with her not to exhibit it, but he doesn’t threaten to destroy it.

He’s now as head over heels for Isabeau as Berthe is, and she knows he would never be able to do harm to a painting of his little girl.

However, his time with the child is limited, as his headaches have grown more frequent and more intense.

He’s in his bedroom so often that Berthe, completely absorbed with her work and her daughter, frequently forgets he’s in the house.

She tries to paint with the bande at least twice a week.

The many distractions at home keep her from diving as deeply inside her work there as she’s able to do when she’s at the studio.

And, of course, édouard is there. They try to be discreet, but the pull between them feels so strong, so alive, that she often wonders how the others cannot notice, especially Degas. And perhaps they do.

One afternoon, Degas stands, stretches, and then ambles over to her easel.

She’s putting the finishing touches on a painting of Isabeau and some flowers.

“I believe your work has changed for the better since you’ve become a mother,” he says.

“There’s a sense of abandon, of lightness and spontaneity here.

An unposed moment of childhood, so intimate and gentle. ”

“Too intimate and gentle?” she asks. “You know I worry about those adjectives.”

“Does that matter when you’re producing remarkable work?”

She doesn’t answer. Despite her earlier decision to accept the restrictions of her gender and to use them to her advantage, she often imagines the painting she discussed with édouard, sees it in its full glory, yearns to bring it to life.

But then her thoughts turn to Isabeau. Now that she has a daughter, how can she take the risk of bringing scandal to her child?

Her work is coming along nicely, and even she’s pleased as she prepares for their next exhibition.

She didn’t participate in the previous one, due to Isabeau’s birth, and she’s determined her return will be triumphant.

She needs to display as many pieces as possible, ones that call attention to her unique style, the looseness of her strokes capturing the play of light, particularly her new insights into the color white.

Degas finds an old and rather decrepit building on Rue des Pyramides for the upcoming exhibition, and the members of the bande immediately take exception with his choice.

After listening to their grousing, he says, “Do any of you have anything to offer aside from criticism? If not, I beg you to go out and find a building that better meets your specifications. If you discover a space that’s large, on a street of distinction that we can afford to rent, I will be more than pleased to consider it with an open mind. ”

“Would be the first time,” Monet mumbles to Renoir, then stands in front of Degas. “I will do exactly as you suggest, and if I’m unsuccessful, I might consider submitting to the Salon.” When he walks out the door, Renoir and Sisley follow him.

édouard turns from the painting he’s been working on during the discussion. “The man has a point,” he says mildly.

“Mind your own damn business,” Degas snaps.

When a more suitable location isn’t found, it falls to Berthe to reconcile the quarrels.

This is not an easy task with these men, but after two weeks of arguments, the bande grudgingly agrees to hold the show on Rue des Pyramides.

But the bickering doesn’t end there. Battles erupt over lighting and noise, even how the posters are designed.

Berthe is amazed when consensus is somehow achieved without anyone coming to blows.

She tenders ten oils, four watercolors, and a painted fan, one of a dozen she made during her confinement.

The critical response to the exhibition is even more positive than for their last show, and her work receives much attention.

Her notice exceeds most of that given to the other artists, and, to her secret delight, it’s much greater than the notice given to Mary Cassatt.

Fairly or unfairly, Berthe considers Cassatt her rival, as the American is now the second woman to be labeled an Impressionist. Berthe has been involved with the group for over ten years, and Mary just waltzes in and claims an equal position.

Berthe recognizes that she’s being small, but she can’t help a bit of gloating.

Despite a sprinkling of the usual comments about her messy brushstrokes and unfinished edges, she quickly switches to basking:

“Berthe Morisot handles the palette and brush with a truly astonishing delicacy.”

“A true luministe, directly rendering the sensation of color and light.”

“No one ever made such a fine use of white.”

“I have been seduced and charmed by Morisot’s talents.”

Even more amazing, Albert Wolff offers no criticism of her work.

By the end of the exhibition, over sixteen thousand people have attended and, for the first time, each of the artists makes a profit.

Berthe’s sales are among the highest, and almost all of her paintings are purchased.

To ice the cake, Durand-Ruel buys another fifteen.