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THIRTY

T he accolades spur Berthe to work even harder, and over the next year she produces dozens of oils and pastels, along with many pencil drawings and even a few prints, a new format Degas has been experimenting with.

She cannot believe her good fortune. To have a beautiful, brilliant daughter and the respect of the art world, not to mention that she’s actually making money, is beyond imagination.

“Intoxicating” is the word that comes to mind.

Her life’s dream is moving forward to fruition.

The only thing that would make it even sweeter is if she were married to édouard rather than Gène.

Although in truth, Gène has become a ghost wandering in the background, overcome by headaches, often disappearing into his room for days.

Because of this and the newfound fame that necessitates she produce as many paintings as possible, she and édouard are able to steal more hours by themselves.

Which is a joy that turns into potential calamity when she realizes she’s pregnant again. This time, the child is not Gène’s.

THE EVENING FOLLOWING her discovery, Gène is well enough to join her for dinner, and afterward they sit together in the parlor, reading. Berthe pretends to be engrossed, and although her eyes follow the words down the page, she retains nothing. She and Gène have not had relations in almost a year.

She closes her book and presses it between her hands. “I’m so pleased to see that you’re feeling better. It has been a long time since a day has passed without a headache.”

“One of my rare, good ones,” he says from behind his paper. “For which I am grateful.”

“As am I. I wish for there to be more.”

“Thank you, my dear.”

She fidgets with the book cover. She has always been the one to “allow” Gène into her bedroom. She has never invited him. “Do you, do you have any idea why this is so?”

He lowers the paper. “Why what is so?”

“Well, why, why it was you had such a good day?” she says inelegantly.

“There’s no rhyme nor reason, as Dr. Aguillard has told us.” He glances at her curiously.

“I, uh, I was just hoping that maybe, that maybe you noticed something that was different today or even yesterday. Something you did or didn’t do. So then if there were, you would know what to do or not to do to keep the headaches at bay.”

“I only wish it were that simple.” He sighs and begins to raise his newspaper.

“Gène.”

Again, a questioning look. “Are you feeling quite well tonight?”

“Yes, yes, I am quite well, thank you. It was just that I was thinking that if you felt well and I felt well, well, maybe we could, we could enjoy this together.”

“Isn’t that what we are doing?”

Desperate, she has no choice but to sit on the edge of his chair and take his hand. Her face flaming, she says, “I meant together in my bedroom.”

Gène looks astounded, and for a moment Berthe fears he’s going to refuse her.

But he quickly collects himself and stands, and, hand in hand, they go to her room.

After he leaves her bed for his own, she ponders the problem of timing.

The child will be born in six or seven months, rather than nine, and this will be difficult to explain.

But perhaps her concern is for nothing, as it’s more than possible Gène will not notice.

His headaches come almost daily and often keep him up all night, after which he sleeps through to the afternoon.

Sometimes, he’s confused about whether it’s Monday or Tuesday.

This is even more important now that he’s become increasingly bothered by the amount of time she spends at édouard’s.

Gène has pointed out more than once that he built a studio for her so she wouldn’t need to venture from the house, adding that if she remained at home she would be able to spend more time with Isabeau. It’s a difficult argument to deflect.

WHEN NEXT SHE and édouard are alone, she tells him they need to talk. He looks worried as they settle in the two chairs where Cornélie and Antoinette used to sit. “Is something troubling you? Is anything amiss?” he asks.

Berthe isn’t at all certain what his reaction is going to be.

He appeared disappointed when he learned Gène was Isabeau’s father, but maybe she misread him.

And even though the thought of his child growing within her fills her with wonder, she’s terrified by the difficulties ahead.

And both of these will surely be true for him too.

But she has no idea which of the emotions will be stronger.

She clears her throat. “I am with child.”

He blinks at her, uncomprehending.

“And the baby is yours.”

“With child?” His eyes widen. “Mine?”

She nods, watching his face flash from uncertainty to shock to understanding to unbridled exultation. He leaps from his chair, picks her up out of hers, and dances her around the room. “We’re going to have a child! You and me, ours. Just ours. Are you sure this is really true?”

Her laughter is full-throated and her happiness vast as he waltzes her in wide circles through the studio. Then he leads her to their sofa and carefully lays her on the cushions as gently as she pictures him putting their baby down to sleep.

“It’s marvelous, but also perilous,” she murmurs as he takes her in his arms. “We’re going to have to be very careful. I worry about Gène. Everyone else too.”

“Only marvelous, my darling. Only marvelous.”

After they make love, she folds herself into him, pulls his arms around her, luxuriating in the wonder of what is to come.

A child they created, one who won’t just share blood with the Manet family but one who will belong only to them.

Then she sighs. “There will be problems. Possibly more than we can imagine.”

“I’ve always wanted to be a father,” he says, as if he hasn’t heard her words, and perhaps he hasn’t. “And I’ve regretted that I’d missed my chance. But now, now you, you wonderful, beautiful woman, you’ve opened up this new world to me. Given me the greatest gift there is to give.”

Berthe flinches, remembering that Gène had used almost the same words. “It’s not that simple.”

He kisses her softly. “It is and it isn’t, but now I want to savor the ‘is.’”

She runs her finger along his collarbone. “We’ll tell everyone the child is Gène’s and hope no one will question it.”

“Will Gène question it?”

“I did what I could to make him believe it’s possible.”

He winces. “He’s not a particularly observant sort.”

“Oh, édouard, I just feel terrible for doing this to him. And he’s more observant than you think. He’s noticed how much time I’ve been spending with you, and has made it clear that he’s unhappy about it.”

“I’m sorry too. My poor brother doesn’t deserve this.

” Then he brightens. “But if he never finds out, he’ll be spared any pain.

I’ve known him my entire life, and I’m certain he doesn’t believe we’ve been together.

I’d be aware if he thought I’d done such a thing.

He wouldn’t be able to keep it from me, as transparent as he is. ”

“That doesn’t mean he’s not suspicious.”

“He told me his migraines have grown so bad that he gets confused about night and day, so this isn’t going to be a problem for us.” He beams. “Or for our baby.”

“I hope…”

“This is going to be wonderful,” he gushes. “I’ll come by all the time, like I’ve been doing with Isabeau, but even more often. And I won’t be just the uncle any longer. I’ll be the Papa. A secret only you and I will share. Our own family, just the three of us.”

WHEN SHE TELLS Gène, his initial response is similar to the first time she told him she was pregnant: confusion followed by dazed acceptance.

But from there, his emotions take a different journey.

No awe, no joy, no thanks. And, she fears, a touch of skepticism in his eyes.

Mistrust. “I thought you were too old,” is the first thing he says.

“We believed that the last time,” she reminds him with as much cheer as she can muster. “And we were wrong then too.”

“Are you strong enough to go through this again?”

“I’ll have to be,” she says, avoiding his eyes. “It will likely be taxing, but now that we have our darling Isabeau, I know a child is a reward worth suffering for.”

“What about your health? With Isabeau you were so sick. And your recovery took longer than anyone expected.”

Does this mean he’s not suspicious of her, that he’s just worried about her?

She’s filled with both relief and guilt at the thought.

“I’ll be fine. Really I will. I know what to expect, and maybe it won’t be as difficult this time.

Both Yves and Edma had one problematic confinement, while the others were far easier. ”

He nods.

“Aren’t you happy about this?” she asks, hoping to stir him, convince him he’s going to be a father again. “Another child, a sister or brother for Isabeau?”

“Of course I am,” he says, and forces a smile.

But Berthe doesn’t believe this and worries édouard is wrong. That Gène knows far more than his brother imagines.

AS SHE’D HOPED, the second pregnancy is easier than the first. She’s not the least bit nauseous and hardly ever tired.

Actually, she’s oddly energetic. She feels so good that she defies Dr. Aguillard’s orders and continues to paint.

She also defies society’s orders and begins preliminary sketches for her forbidden picture.

She spends the early days of her pregnancy in the park across the street, where she worked on Parisian Summer , her focus once again on the people, their faces, their exchanges, their clothing.

She imagines their inner life, who they really are, ignoring the trees and the benches and the bowling green.

For this picture will not be set in the park.

It will be in a closer space, at a soiree perhaps, raucous and exuberant, bursting with intimacy, catching life as it takes place in a single, spontaneous moment.

When she moves from drawings to a canvas far larger than her usual, the painting spills from her brush, as Parisian Summer did, most likely because she’s exulting in the freedom to follow wherever her vision and brush want to go. To be neither a woman nor a man, solely an artist.

She works on it at édouard’s when no one else is there, and he hides it under a drop cloth when she leaves.

He’s extremely encouraging, admiring the wide scope of the painting, the lightness of her brushstrokes, the vibrance and depth of the facial expressions, the soft edges of the faces blending into the background.

“This is your masterpiece,” he tells her.

“I’m in awe of its ambition and range. How you’ve combined this grandness with such intimacy is miraculous.

Something neither I nor any other artist we know would be able to achieve.

” He takes her hands in his and smiles mischievously.

“If it were anyone’s but yours, my jealousy would know no bounds.

Who knows what I might be driven to do.” Then he kisses her.

Their time in the studio is cut short by a social convention Berthe cannot ignore.

When her oversized dresses are no longer able to hide her condition, she’s confined to the house until the child is born.

She cannot take her new painting home and has no choice but to leave it with édouard.

It’s only half complete, if that, and she yearns to return to it almost as much as she yearns to hold their newborn babe.

In contrast to his constant hovering the last time, Gène mostly ignores this pregnancy, which she finds concerning.

édouard, on the other hand, visits the apartment often.

And although she wishes she did not have to, she frequently shoos him away, afraid Gène’s misgivings will be heightened by his brother’s presence and the attention he lavishes on her.

IN DECEMBER , JUST a month after Isabeau turns three, Aimée Morisot Manet is born, a pretty baby with flaming red hair.

Antoinette Manet, who the family is convinced will live forever, holds a luncheon after the baptism for her second grandchild, and everyone remarks that Aimée’s hair is the same distinctive color édouard’s was when he was a child.

édouard and Berthe laugh this off as a family resemblance, but Berthe can see that Gène and Suzanne are displeased by the comments.

Her concerns grow when the baby is passed among the relatives and neither of their spouses takes an interest in holding her, appearing almost ostentatiously removed from the source of the celebration.

Berthe tries to remain as far from édouard as she can, but they’re both pulled to Aimée and often find themselves close to each other, besotted with their child.

This does nothing to lessen Gène and Suzanne’s hard expressions or their suspicions.

Isabeau mirrors her father’s and aunt’s feelings, as would be expected of a child whose primacy in the family is suddenly challenged.

“Leave baby Aimée here with Tante Suzanne and Oncle édouard,” she orders her mother, stomping her foot.

“I do not like her, and she is not allowed to come home with us!”

Berthe recognizes that none of this bodes well for her and édouard, for their marriages or for their baby girl.

But she and Aimée are in far greater danger than he.

If the truth were to be discovered, Berthe would be hailed as a harlot with a cuckolded and humiliated husband, while édouard would just be a philanderer whose wife has long tolerated his liaisons.

And poor, innocent little Aimée would be a bastard child, spurned by all.