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“Think about it, Edgar,” Manet interrupts.

“We’ve already begun developing our own style.

The three of us, along with some of the others, have been working together, sharing ideas, and have become quite a like-minded coterie.

” He turns to Berthe. “A painter of your skill and vision, not to mention diplomacy, would be a brilliant addition to our group. You will make us better, and we will endeavor to do the same for you. Would you consider joining our bande? Becoming one of us?”

A burst of pure pleasure shoots through her, an emotion she hasn’t experienced since the announcement of Edma’s engagement. “If this request includes my mother,” she says to quell the alarm on Cornélie’s face, “I would very much like to accept your kind offer.”

“WHAT HAS BECOME of your manners?” Cornélie demands as soon as they climb into the carriage. “You may not make a commitment, especially to a married man, without my approval.”

Berthe is so elated by the afternoon, by the thrill of being in the company of artists and being included in a group whose ambitions parallel her own, that it takes a moment for her to understand what her mother is saying.

A commitment to a married man? She made no such thing.

When she realizes Cornélie’s concern, her elation deflates.

“There is your reputation to consider. And that of the entire Morisot family!”

“But, Maman, I didn’t do anything improper,” she says, and is further distressed when she sees from Cornélie’s expression that her mother completely disagrees.

How can she become a true artist if the strictures of society will not allow her to flourish?

Seeing the flush rising on Cornélie’s cheeks, she adds, “But I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. ”

“Uncomfortable? I am not uncomfortable. I am outraged and humiliated! What will people think? édouard’s mother, Antoinette, and I have become close over the months of your illness, even speaking of our families spending next summer in the countryside together, and now, if she catches word of your behavior, I see no future for our friendship.

” She dabs her eyes with a handkerchief, although there are no signs of tears.

“She is the goddaughter of the king of Sweden, after all.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t ask your permission, but I did include you as a condition for my consent. And I don’t see why there would be a reason for any of them to repeat such a banal exchange to others.”

“As they live in the same house, édouard will surely tell his mother you agreed to come to his studio, and she will just as surely inquire about my reaction. Open your eyes, Berthe. You aren’t a child, and I despair that you behave as if you still are.”

Berthe wonders how she can be expected to act as an adult when she’s treated like a child, but knows better than to ask.

Although Cornélie may be concerned about her own relationship with Manet’s mother, Berthe knows her true worry is that if her daughter works in Manet’s studio it will tarnish her chances of finding a proper husband.

Between Manet’s infamous paintings and his unrepentant philandering, he’s viewed by many in Paris as a disreputable sort, and she would be, by association, considered the same.

She also fears her hawk-eyed mother is aware of her growing interest in him. “I need to paint,” she says.

“I understand this, and I’m pleased that your recovery is far enough along for you to have the stamina to return to your canvases,” Cornélie says in a more conciliatory tone.

“You know I’ve always nurtured your painting.

But you have a studio right in your own home.

Why would you need to go elsewhere, especially to Manet’s? ”

“Because it’s best for my work,” Berthe retorts, knowing her mother might take her response as impertinence.

But now that she’s experienced Manet’s studio, all that it could mean, she’s unable to control herself.

“And it isn’t as if I’ll be alone with him.

Degas, Renoir, and possibly Monet or Sisley will be there also.

Pissarro too. And you will be with me at all times. ”

Cornélie’s eyes flash. “That is irrelevant to the issue at hand, which is your standing in society. As your mother, I will not allow you to destroy your reputation. You are not to go to his studio, with or without me.”

Berthe stares out the window, takes a few shallow breaths, tries to tamp down her growing fury.

She should have been more appeasing, as Edma would have been.

If her sister were here, she would have put her hand on Berthe’s, silently reminding her to think before she speaks.

Yet another reason to mourn her absence.

“Bijou,” Cornélie pleads. “You must think of your future.”

“I am,” she says stubbornly, foolishly.

“This is my fault. I was the one who ignored the warnings, who allowed you to pursue this folly.”

“Which I’m very appreciative of.”

“But now I see that you have misinterpreted my enthusiasm. Painting is not a future for you, or for any woman. It’s a pastime. You will never paint as well as a man.”

Berthe turns and glares at her mother. This tactless comment is inflaming, and not without precedent. “Well, Manet obviously disagrees with you, and so do I,” she snaps. “He wouldn’t have asked me to join them if he didn’t believe I was as good as the other artists in the group, including himself.”

“I saw the look that passed between you and édouard Manet. That man is a danger to you.”

“Not painting is a danger to me.”

WHEN THEY ARRIVE home, a letter from Edma is waiting.

The beautiful weather has improved my spirits, and I unpacked my paints for the first time since I arrived in Lorient.

The day’s work was very bad, but I was outside and pleased to be painting again.

Then, to my despair, Adolphe returned and found me in the meadow.

He was as angry as I have ever seen him, and I was both astonished and frightened by his wrath.

He said it was not proper for a woman to sit alone in a field, and now that I am Madame Pontillon, I am not to paint; I am to be the mistress of his estate.

My dearest sister, I despair of my choices.

In my thoughts, I follow you about in the studio and wish that I could escape and breathe in the air in which we lived for many long years.

Berthe takes to her bed, refusing dinner, as well as the ox-blood broth Cornélie brings to her room, another of Dr. Aguillard’s vile remedies. She can’t allow her mother to do to her what she did to Edma, but right now she’s too shattered to fathom how to prevent such a thing.