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FORTY-SEVEN

When she was young, she used crayons, but now they both paint with pastels.

Maman has told her about doing the same when she was a girl, but Grand-Mère died young, and after that, Maman painted by herself.

It makes Colette melancholy to think of Aimée as a child, orphaned at thirteen, all alone in this room where her mother was, and still is, such a strong presence.

Colette would have thought she’d become bored copying the same scene so many times over, but that isn’t the case.

It’s a brilliant work, full of life and light, a flat canvas that pulls you into a complex three-dimensional world.

A boat gliding down the river, holding dozens of Parisians enjoying a sunny day, and yet it’s so much more.

Some are talking, some are eating, some are flirting.

Men in high fashion and men in shirts without sleeves.

Children, lovers, and among the crinolines and stylish hats of the wealthy are a few women wearing quite indecorous dresses that plunge deep at the neckline.

So many stories to wonder about, so many lives to imagine.

A lone woman, with curling dark hair and burning dark eyes, leans against the railing and gazes out over the water, boldly staring at the viewer with an impenetrable expression.

There is no story to wonder about here, as this is Grand-Mère Berthe, who was married to édouard Manet’s brother Gène, Colette’s grandfather.

All long dead before Colette was born. She wishes she could have known them, been a part of the expanding world her grandmother and great-uncle partially created.

She glances over at Aimée, grateful to have this.

It’s a soothing ritual, painting with Maman, which brings them closer to each other and to Grand-Mère Berthe, and these compatible moments have often led to their deepest conversations.

Now that Colette is a married woman with a newborn daughter of her own, she foresees a future in which they will someday do the same with Genevieve.

Three generations painting together. How lovely that will be.

Maman puts down her brush and wipes her hands on the towel hanging from her easel. “I hope you are planning to leave Party where she is when this house becomes yours.”

Colette is not fond of what she considers her mother’s morbid sensibilities. “That isn’t happening for a very long time, so, no, I haven’t given it much thought.”

Until they find a suitable residence for their own family, Colette and Samuel are temporarily at his parents’ grand home.

The Bernheims have already bequeathed most of their extensive art collection to Samuel, and Maman has promised Colette almost all of hers when they find the right place.

Which is why Colette has been having difficulty finding a house large enough to hold both of their collections.

The Bernheims are Jewish, although this is a small part of the family’s life, and Colette is now also Jewish. As far back as she knows, the Manets, Morisots, and Deniauses have been Catholic, similarly unobservant, and Colette’s conversion has changed little.

Despite their religion, the Bernheims’ art tends toward the Renaissance, a good portion of it Christian in nature, while Colette’s collection will be almost completely composed of works by the Impressionists, including many painted by Grand-Mère Berthe.

There are others, mostly gifted to Grand-Mère by artists with whom she was friends: two Degases, four Monets, a Renoir, and, of course, a number of Manets.

Party is the only painting Maman wishes to keep with her until she dies.

Colette prefers the verve and high color of the more current pieces to the dark tones and depressing subjects of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, which the Bernheims favor.

Yet there is no doubt that her husband’s collection is larger and more distinguished than her own.

His two van Eycks alone are more valuable than all of her Impressionist paintings will ever be.

Not to mention the small Rembrandt. Samuel comes from a long line of successful and philanthropic businessmen, all of whom had a tradition of supporting the arts.

“This is where Party belongs,” Maman is saying.

“She’s been hanging on this wall ever since Oncle édouard gave her to me almost twenty-five years ago, and she’s been watching over us ever since.

Such a comforting presence. Sometimes, seeing her up there, I imagine I catch a whiff of her perfume and almost feel as if your grandmother is still alive. ”

“Certainly, then, she’ll stay right where she is,” Colette assures her mother. Samuel has agreed that after Aimée’s death, they will move their family to 40 Rue de Villejust, an event neither anticipates will happen anytime soon.

“I can hardly bear to think of any of Samuel’s gloomy paintings in this house.” Aimée gives an exaggerated shiver. “Promise me you’ll hide them in dark corners and put none of them in this room. Especially not Federico Barocci’s horrid Madonna .”

“It’s an important piece,” Colette counters halfheartedly.

Her mother shoots her an amused look. “You dislike it as much as I do.”

Mother and daughter smile fondly at each other and return to their painting.

A FEW MONTHS later, much sooner than Colette had imagined, the question of where Party will hang becomes more imminent.

She holds Maman’s frigid and blue-veined hand, tears running down her cheeks as she listens to the shallow breaths rattling her mother’s chest. It will not be long, and Colette feels as if her insides are being wrenched out.

What they’d assumed was only a head cold turned into pneumonia, and now it appears to have become lethal.

It was the pneumonia that took Grand-Mère Berthe.

It is beyond sad that Genevieve will grow up without the kindness and love Maman would have showered on her.

There will be no three generations painting together, and the little girl will remember nothing of her grandmother.

Colette vows to do everything she can to keep Aimée alive for the child. And for herself.

Maman’s eyes suddenly fly open, all vestiges of passing vanquished in her direct stare. “You must never sell Party .” Her words are distinct and brook no argument.

“Never,” Colette assures her, hope rising that despite the doctor’s certitude her mother is taking a turn for the better. “But it won’t be my decision for a long time. It’s your painting, and you’re going to recover and enjoy it for many more years to come.”

“It must remain in the family,” Aimée continues in the same strident tone. “It’s your legacy. Genevieve’s too.”

Colette sits on the edge of the bed and grips both her mother’s hands in hers. “I know, Oncle’s work and Grand-Mère’s likeness. I promise I’ll protect it, along with the others, when it’s my turn to do so.”

Maman shakes her head furiously, and Colette is both startled and encouraged by the energy behind the gesture.

“You misunderstand. It’s your legacy in more ways than you know.

” Her voice becomes labored, clearly exhausted by her efforts.

“More, more than any of the others, because…” She struggles for breath and then adds in a whisper, “Because it, it holds your grandmother’s spirit along with a secret that can never be revealed.

” Aimée’s eyelids drop as abruptly as they opened.

Her face is ghostly pale, and her hands seem even colder than they were before. The rattling resumes.

“What secret?” Colette begs, although all she wants is to keep her mother with her. “What can’t be revealed?”

But there is no more to be said.

IT IS CHRISTMAS Eve, and Colette sits with Genevieve in her lap, Samuel in the armchair next to her.

They have moved into 40 Rue de Villejust, and as her mother asked, Colette has done her best to distribute the Bernheim paintings to lesser locations in the house.

The family is now in the parlor, where almost all the artwork is by the Impressionists, although Party hangs downstairs in Grand-Mère’s studio, as it had when Aimée was alive.

Colette and Samuel have been looking forward to Genevieve’s first Christmas, to the gleam in their child’s eyes as she gazes up at the sparkling tree.

The fire roars and, as they hoped, the baby is completely entranced.

Except it’s the fire that fascinates Genevieve, rather than the tree.

She hasn’t even noticed it or the many colorful ornaments clinging to its wide branches. This amuses both of them.

They touch their small Pontarlier goblets together. The absinthe in the reservoir of her glass is a milky white, while his retains its green tone. The more water added, the cloudier absinthe becomes. She isn’t particularly fond of the drink, but it’s Samuel’s favorite.

Samuel chuckles at Genevieve’s lack of interest in the tree they spent such care trimming.

“The first of many times our girl will surprise us,” Samuel says with an affectionate smile for both his wife and his daughter.

He is smitten with Genevieve, and it’s clear to anyone who sees them together that he is equally smitten with Colette.

Colette blows a kiss at her husband. She’s so fortunate in both of them.

And she looks forward to their many years together in this magnificent house, now home to the third generation of Morisot women, enjoying their magnificent art collection and many more magnificent children.

“I believe you are correct, my dear,” she tells him. “It shall be a grand adventure.”