Page 5

FOUR

A few days after Berthe and Edma met édouard Manet at the Louvre, the Morisots receive an invitation to his mother’s Thursday evening musical soiree.

The families travel in the same social circles, both wealthy and cultured, and Madame Manet’s salons are frequented by the most prominent musicians, artists, and writers in Paris.

Berthe’s good friend, Edgar Degas, declares Mme Manet’s gatherings to be hot and cramped, with lukewarm drinks and inedible food. Nonetheless, he’s a frequent visitor.

And indeed, Degas is correct. Although the house is sizable by any standard, pieces of massive furniture overwhelm the space, which is undeniably hot, overcrowded, and visually burdened by far too many artworks and knickknacks.

Still, Berthe’s mother, Cornélie, is delighted to once again be asked here.

Cornélie also holds weekly soirees, on Tuesday evenings in season, often with similar attendees, although leaning more toward art than music. She and édouard’s mother, Antoinette, are congenial acquaintances, a relationship Cornélie is keen to expand into an intimate friendship.

Berthe is also pleased to be at the Manets’, free to mingle with her fellow artists and friends, but she has to admit a touch of disappointment that édouard Manet isn’t present, which unfortunately has been the case the few times she has been invited before.

His absences are even more strange as he and his wife live here and many of his paintings hang on the walls: Music in the Tuileries Garden , The Absinthe Drinker , and a relatively new one she hasn’t seen before, The Guitar Player .

When she walks over to it, she recognizes the model, the notorious Victorine Meurent.

She’s the woman édouard depicted in Luncheon to scandalous response, for in that painting Victorine is nude and staring boldly at the viewer while sitting comfortably among the fully clothed men.

There are rumors the two are lovers, as so many of Manet’s models are said to be, and Berthe is surprised to find herself annoyed by this.

It’s not as if Monet, Renoir, and so many other painters don’t do the same.

But this doesn’t interfere with her admiration for the new painting, which is elegant in its simplicity.

It’s large, and Victorine wears a flowing white dress, in stark contrast to the flat, dark background.

Berthe takes a step closer, scrutinizes the strokes, tighter than her own.

His rich deep colors breathe life into the inert wooden instrument, imbuing it with depth and texture.

How does he do such a thing? It is far beyond her meager talents.

There’s no doubt this man is a master, with perhaps more to teach her than even the great Reubens.

“Ah, my lovely,” Degas says, taking her arm in his. “You are even more ravishing tonight than usual. Although I do wish you would wear a color other than black.”

She pats his hand. “And how are you this evening, Edgar?” They have known each other for years, as Degas is also of their social circle.

This is not true of many of their struggling compatriots, such as the more impoverished painters Monet and Renoir, who are standing together uneasily in a far corner, humbled by the grandeur.

“I fear from the odor of overcooked meat that yet another disastrous dinner will be served soon,” Degas grouses in his usual dry tone.

“You don’t come for the food.”

“No, I come to partake in your dazzling beauty. Those voluptuous black curls, those dark, intense eyes against your pale skin…”

Berthe shakes her head. Degas is a shameless flirt, eloquent and manipulative in equal measure, rendered harmless to an unmarried woman by his confirmed bachelorhood and seeming lack of romantic interest in the opposite sex. “You didn’t know I would be here.”

“And now that you are, I beg you to stay by my side all evening,” he continues. “Especially when that dreadful, fat Suzanne begins to play her piano.”

“Must you be so unkind?” Berthe detaches her arm from his and adds primly, “She’s an excellent musician and is also one of our hostesses.

” But she can’t suppress a smile. Suzanne, édouard Manet’s wife, is large and not particularly attractive, quiet and meek.

His sudden marriage to her continues to be a matter of extensive and unflattering gossip five years after the wedding.

Degas’s eyes sparkle. “I had no idea you were so fond of her.”

“It has nothing to do with fondness. Everyone acknowledges Suzanne is a talented pianist, and you can’t deny she and édouard live here,” Berthe insists. “Everything I said is true.”

“That may be so, my dear, but it’s the spirt behind your words I question.”

“I think I’ll go join Edma,” she says before Degas can provoke her to continue in this vein. “You go find someone else to be the object of your sweet talk. Perhaps you’ll have better luck with her than you’re having with me.”

He bows deeply. “As you wish.” When he stands, he grins at her.

As she moves toward her sister, her mother intercepts her.

“As fond as I am of Monsieur Degas, he is not to whom you should be speaking. You remember Pierre St. Gelais, I’m sure.

We met him last summer in Cherbourg? The very day Edma was first introduced to Monsieur Adolphe Pontillon.

Let’s go talk with Monsieur St. Gelais instead. ”

Before Cornélie can draw her across the room to that tiresome man who can barely raise his eyes from the floor, let alone converse, Berthe says, “I see dinner is being served. I’ll collect Edma, and you find Papa so we can eat together.

” Then she turns and slips into the crowd, frowning at the thought of Adolphe Pontillon.

She’s concerned Maman is going to talk Edma into marrying him, something neither sister wants.

éDOUARD MANET DOESN’T arrive until after dessert has been served.

He sweeps into the room, flings off his handsome cape, and kisses his mother on both cheeks.

“I am so sorry, Maman,” he declares loudly.

“Work has yet again kept me from one of your wonderful evenings.” His eyes take in the assemblage, and he bows.

“My regrets to all of you also. I’ll now have to catch up on the titillating conversation I’ve surely missed. ”

It is as if the entire house has been rekindled by a roaring fire.

Shouts of welcome, glasses raised, broad smiles, flushed cheeks.

Berthe notices there is no paint under Manet’s fingernails nor any on his elegant clothes.

Has he been with Victorine? Or has he thrown her over for another, as she’s heard is often his way?

Berthe glances at Suzanne, who appears pleased by her husband’s appearance, even though he hasn’t acknowledged her.

As he more closely surveys the gathering, his eyes find Berthe’s.

Emile Zola once told her that Manet’s eyes were the blue of the Mediterranean in full sunlight, which is an apt description.

Now, as when they first met, she holds his gaze, unsmiling, chin tilted upward.

Her father has just left to smoke a cigar, and the seat beside her is empty.

Manet gestures toward it. “May I join you, Madame Morisot?” he asks Cornélie.

Cornélie has no choice but to acquiesce, and Berthe can tell from her pursed lips that she would rather he did not. Her mother is both sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued, so Berthe has no doubt she caught the look that passed between herself and Manet.

“Madame Morisot,” he says as soon as he sits, ignoring Berthe. “It is a pleasure to meet you again.” He nods to Edma. “As it is to once again be in the company of your very lovely and talented daughters.”

Cornélie frowns at him. “I was not aware you had met my daughters.” She shoots Berthe her well-known evil eye.

“While we were copying at the Louvre,” Edma interjects quickly. “Just last week. We were introduced by Henri Fantin-Latour.”

Although Edma says this to placate their mother, it has the opposite effect, and Cornélie’s jaw clenches. Cornélie would much prefer for Berthe to be using her time to woo Fantin-Latour, who does not have a wife.

Manet easily relieves the tension by asking Cornélie about Tiburce, who is in America investigating business opportunities.

Cornélie loves her three daughters, Yves, Edma, and Berthe, but Tiburce, five years Berthe’s junior, the son and heir she’d feared she would never be able to give her husband, is her heart.

After ten minutes of answering Manet’s questions with more detail than necessary, due to his unwavering and possibly contrived interest, she’s smiling at him.

At one point, she even touches his sleeve affectionately.

“I compliment you on Tiburce’s many successes,” he says, tactfully turning the subject. “But I would be remiss if I didn’t also note your daughters’ many gifts and accomplishments. You must be very proud, Madame Morisot, with the acceptance of so many of their paintings at the Salon.”

Cornélie beams at Edma and Berthe. “I am very proud indeed.” And this is true.

Cornélie encouraged both girls to paint at a young age, procuring excellent tutors, most recently Camille Corot, who has been teaching them as seriously as he would any man.

While other mothers might have feared their daughter’s growing talent, Cornélie celebrates it.

“If not for Maman, there would be no Morisot paintings at the Salon,” Berthe says. “She is, and always has been, our champion.”