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FORTY-THREE

I went into the nursery to take Colette from her nurse.

I held my precious little one in my arms and looked into her tiny face, already ringed with black curls.

Just like Maman’s. I kept the baby with me until the nurse came for her feeding.

Empty-handed, I stared out at the park where Maman and I used to paint, now barren and desolate, waiting for spring.

Pierre was very kind at breakfast before leaving for his office.

He took my hand and told me he understood why I was unhappy, and that it was a gift to have had a mother as wonderful as mine, even for only a short time.

This made my eyes fill with tears. He joked that if I was going to cry because he understood, then he did not understand why I was unhappy.

I tried to smile at my thoughtful husband, but instead more tears spilled.

He offered to accompany me to the cemetery when he returns home this evening, but I thanked him and turned him down. I find no solace there, just distress. Maman lies under the ground, cold and lonely, without a paintbrush in her hand.

Afternoon, 2 March

The most amazing thing just happened. Oncle came by to visit, which I expected, as this date is almost as difficult for him as it is for me.

What I did not expect was the large canvas he carried.

It was covered with paper, and when he unwrapped it, I saw it was “Party on the Seine.” I was confused, as I thought the painting was at Durand-Ruel’s gallery as part of a monthlong exhibition of Impressionist works.

He propped it up against the parlor wall and told me he had retrieved it from there just this morning.

It is magnificent, simultaneously intimate and universal.

As I told you before, I believe it is his greatest work.

Colors burst, light flings itself over the people, sparkling the river, accenting the tree branches, bringing it all to vibrant life.

Different from many of his more representational paintings.

And Maman, oh, Maman. How beautiful and young she is, leaning against the railing, looking out to the far bank, her expression complex and in some ways unknowable, yet masterfully compelling.

My eyes filled again, and Oncle’s did also.

I thanked him for bringing it here on this day, and told him that seeing Maman like this was both wondrous and heartrending.

He agreed, and we sat together on the sofa, silently looking.

I do not know for how long, as it seemed as if I slipped inside the picture.

I was standing next to Maman, watching the opposite shoreline as the water rushed by under our feet, and I imagined she placed her arm around my shoulders and kissed me on my forehead, as she so often did.

I almost believed I smelled Violette de Paine, her favorite perfume.

Oncle cleared his throat and brought me from my reverie. “It is a gift,” he said.

“Yes, a miraculous gift you have given to us, to the world.”

“You misunderstand, dearest Aimée. It is a gift for you.”

I could not believe what he was saying, as it was too immense a thought. Impossible. I was rendered speechless.

“You are the child of my heart, and your mother is the woman of my heart.” He took my hands in his. “It is time for Party to be yours. Care for her well.”

7 March

I cannot tell you, dear diary, how much Oncle’s gift means to me. The gift of his words as much as the gift of his painting: You are the child of my heart, and your mother is the woman of my heart.

To have “Party on the Seine” hanging in my own house, in Maman’s studio, to be able to be with her whenever I wish, is a marvel beyond all expectations.

Every time I look, I see more. And the more I see, the more astounded I become.

How did he make the light dance like that?

How did he give every person on the boat such individuality?

How did he make me want to know all their secrets though I have no idea who they are?

And, of course, Maman. What was she thinking?

Wishing? He has painted her many times, and yet here she is more fully fleshed than in any of the others, as if he were able to see into her soul.

1 April

It did not take long for the news of Oncle’s gift to spread throughout our circle and the Parisian art world.

It was met with amazement by all, save M.

Degas, who came by yesterday to see where I had hung it.

When I showed him, he said it was wonderful that we live at 40 Rue de Villejust, as Maman’s studio is the perfect setting for the painting.

Then that familiar smirk filled his face, and he told me that many people were speculating about why Oncle had chosen to part with his most famous painting and why he had given it to me.

I was not about to tell him what Oncle had said.

Even Pierre was dumbfounded, and he worried that it might be unwise to keep a painting of such value in our house.

I pointed out that we already had many costly paintings, those of M.

Degas, M. Monet, M. Renoir, and many others, including Maman.

Still, he seemed uncomfortable with the idea.

But he would never deny me this pleasure and has said no more about it.

10 April

Oncle visited today and was twirling around the rooms with Colette in his arms, doting on her.

He told her he had done this with me when I was a baby, and that doing the same with my child was a true delight.

Then he flashed me a proud grin. More like a grandfather than an uncle.

This is a scandalous thought that would bring terrible shame on Maman and the Manet name, and I will not think it again.

15 April

I brought Colette to introduce her to Grand-Mère Antoinette.

Grand-Mère is not well, but she has been unwell many times and recovered.

Everyone in the family seems to be confident that she will live forever, but she appeared frail to me.

Oncle had arranged this visit at a time Tante Suzanne was with family in Germany, and he nervously hovered around Grand-Mère’s bedroom until she told him to go to his studio and leave us alone.

She has always been a bossy woman, but now that she is in her eighties, it is a much more appealing trait.

“Plucky” is a better word to describe her now.

I placed Colette in her lap, and the little girl gazed up at her great-grandmother.

Grand-Mère smiled down at her, and Colette, who has just begun to smile, did so too, which delighted Grand-Mère immensely.

As Isabeau has no children yet, and neither Oncle nor his brother Gustave had any, Colette is the first great-grandchild, and Grand-Mère fussed over her, eliciting more toothless grins.

Watching them together, I said, “It must be amazing to hold a child who is the grandchild of your child.”

She gave me a sharp glance. Then her face softened, and she patted my hand. “It is indeed a wonder, no matter which child’s line this beautiful little girl comes from.”

16 April

The ramblings of an old woman or a secret the Manets have long known?

It would explain many things. Tante Suzanne’s animosity toward Maman and myself.

The feeling I’ve always had that there was a skeleton in the cupboard no one would speak of.

Father’s distance. My red hair, an unusual color that no one on either side of the family shares except for Oncle.

I have also heard whispers over the years, whispers that often stopped when I walked into a room. “Party on the Seine.”

It is as if an earthquake has occurred and the ground under my feet cannot hold me anymore, my very soul equally shaken.

Who am I if not who I’ve always believed myself to be?

And if I’m not, then Maman lied to me my whole life.

Oncle too. How could they? The duplicity of it, the mortification of trusting them and their falsehoods.

And yet if this is true, I now have a father who I am certain loves me.

I could ask Oncle, but if he hasn’t spoken of this for almost a quarter of a century, why would he speak of it now?

Most likely, he would maintain his story to protect Maman and me, which is what he has done for all those years.

Yet I need affirmation or disavowal from someone.

Someone whom I believe knows the truth. Someone who will be willing to share it.

I send M. Degas a note inviting him to luncheon tomorrow.

17 April

He arrived at noon looking dapper. Cook prepared a simple lunch, as I requested: consommé, ratatouille, and fresh baguettes.

The house was quiet, as Colette and her nurse were at the park enjoying the sunny spring day.

M. Degas, who has known me since I was born, immediately sensed there was something here beyond a friendly sharing of food.

He did not mention this during our meal, but his eyes were bright with curiosity and mischief.

When coffee and tarte tatin were served, he stretched out his legs and smiled at me in his oh-so-knowing way. “Is there something you would like to discuss with me, my dear Aimée?”

I flushed, and when he laughed delightedly at my discomfort, I could feel the flush deepen. After a bit of prodding, I blurted out my question. He immediately sobered, took a sip of coffee, and then silently stared at the tablecloth.

Finally, he raised his eyes and asked if this was something I was sure I wanted to hear.

When I told him it was, he heaved a deep sigh.

I could barely breathe and pressed my damp hands to my napkin.

He looked at me steadily, choosing his words carefully.

“I may be the only one who knows for certain,” he told me.

“Although, as I am sure you are aware, there has been much speculation on the subject.”

I nodded and waited, although I could see the truth in his eyes.

“I am sure your mother would have told you once you entered adulthood, and that is why I will tell you now. Yes, my dear, édouard is your father.”