With Violets (20 page)

I wander into the drawing room and find Maman reading. She glances up from her book. “
Bonjour
, my dear, Bijou.”

It has been ages since she has called me Bijou. “
Bonjour
,

Maman.
You seem happy today.”

She lowers her embroidery into her lap. “It is nice to have you at home. Until you left, I did not realize how quiet this house would become without my children.”

It is a strange remark because I am not so talkative that my absence would make a noticeable change in our home’s atmo-sphere. I sit down at the desk and pull out a sheet of stationery.

Maman watches my every move. “To whom are you writing?” “To Edma.”

“You miss your sister. I guess that is to be expected. I am glad you had such a good visit that you cannot wait to correspond with her. After you are satiated with work, you should go stay with her again.”

I nod and pull a pen from the desk drawer.

“I do quite like the painting of Edma at the harbor. That alone was worth your trip. If you refuse to concentrate on finding a husband, I am glad you are at least painting again.”

I wish Maman would stop chattering. I have no desire to venture into the volatile terrain of potential mates. It turns my mind back to all the plans Édouard and I have yet to make. How long will it take Maman to recover after Édouard and I announce our plans?

Maman and Papa are getting old, and I do not relish disappointing her. But I cling to the hope that she will eventually embrace Édouard as her son-in-law and view our union as happily as if Édouard had not made the mistake of marrying Suzanne.

I set pen to paper hoping Maman will realize I cannot chat whilst I compose.

My Dearest Edma,

Please do not be angry with me. I am sick over the manner in which we parted. Please find it in your heart to forgive me and to understand. I have never felt this way for anyone before.

Much love, Berthe

Committing the words to paper releases some of my anxi-ety. I should write Édouard a note to tell him I have returned. I slip another sheet of paper from the desk.

“I learned a valuable lesson while you were gone, Bijou.” I glance up to find Maman looking at me over the top of her glasses.

“What is that, Maman?”

“I underestimated you, my dear. It is not your fault that the public misread the meaning of Monsieur Manet’s
Le Balcon
. After observing him with Mademoiselle Gonzalés, I have no doubt you are perfectly innocent. He is a philanderer and a f lirt who needs no encouragement when it comes to attractive, vulnerable young women. You did nothing to entice him. I was wrong to blame you.”

A funnel of angst swirls in my belly. The sound of her voice grates on my nerves as she sits there so smug and sure that her assessment is the only correct answer.

I want to scream that she is wrong. That she knows noting of Édouard’s intentions. Nor of the situation. He is not a philanderer! He is not a f lirt!

He loves me. And I love him.

“I think your departure to Lorient has f irmly set him in his place. I believe after seeing him that day in his studio— the way he fawned on that young girl right in front of his wife—he realizes his f lattery will get him nowhere with you. Suzanne was visibly shaken by his actions. Madame Manet had me touch Suzanne’s hands, saying she was feverish. The source of her fever was obvious.”

Fear as intense as a living thing dances through me, and I believe for a moment I will succumb to my anguish right before her. I cannot bear to be in the same room with Maman and her incessant prattle. I rise from the desk, Edma’s letter

and the clean sheet of paper in hand, and walk toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To prepare this letter to send.”

“Leave it here, and I shall see that Amélie takes it for you.” If I do, she will read it.

But I manage to murmur, “I am not quite finished with it.

I shall give it to Amélie when I am done.”

“Save the letter for after lunch. It is nearly noon. We can dine together.”

“I am not hungry, Maman. I still have not fully recovered from my journey.” The truth is I have no appetite for food. Meats and cheeses and breads will not satisfy the hunger that gnaws at me.

“Suit yourself.”

I shut myself away in the studio and stare at the blank sheet of paper for a long while. If I send a letter, there is the risk of it falling into hands other than his own. I cannot chance that risk. Besides, it will only delay matters.

After lunch, Maman will lie down for her afternoon nap. I will go to Édouard then. He will be at his studio, and we shall talk. Everything will be fine.

It is not a small canvas, and it is quite cumbersome to transport it in the carriage. But I must bring it to him. Until we can be together permanently, Édouard must have the painting to remind him of how much we need each other. How good we are together.

It makes perfect sense.

From the street below, I see his studio windows are open. It is a good sign. He is there. Although, never once did I doubt he would be anywhere else.

The air smells of springtime, of greenery and the faint scent

of f lowers from an open-air market down the street. I relish the aroma of brioche baking in the patisserie across the boulevard. No wonder Édouard’s windows are open on such a fine day.

The horses whiney and the driver steadies them before offering to carry the painting upstairs, but I refuse his help opting to climb the four f lights to his
atelier
alone. I have to go slowly, to take care not to lose my balance as I traverse the steep incline.

I pause outside his door in the dim, quiet hallway to catch my breath before I knock. I do not hear a sound coming from his studio. If I did not have such a strong belief in us, I might be concerned at how he would receive me, or worried about whether he was alone.

I draw in a deep, steadying breath before I rap lightly on the door. I stand there, my heart pounds beneath my bodice, and I fear I’ve knocked too softly and he did not hear me. I am about to knock again when the door f lings open.

Never have I witnessed such a look of surprise on his expressive face. I think he will hug me, but instead, he places a hand on my shoulder and leans across me to look out into the hallway. “Are you alone?”

I nod, unable to speak for the sheer joy of seeing him. Pulling me inside, he shuts the door, and takes the canvas from me, placing it haphazardly against the wall. He draws me into a tight embrace and smothers my mouth with his, hard and urgent.

Oh, how I have craved his touch.

There is nothing gentle about his kiss, as when we were together beneath the willow tree in Lorient. But I encourage him to drink deeper. This kiss is fueled by pure, burning need—the rough desire of a parched man who is finally able to drink his fill. He holds me so tight, I feel him grow hard against me. An ache throbs in the vulnerable places he claimed when we were last together.

Any harbored doubts melt away with each caress, each muff led moan of satisfaction.

Finally, reluctantly, he pulls away slightly, still holding me against him. “Hello, my love. When did you get back? I thought you would be with your sister for some time.”

“I returned two days ago. I could not stay in Lorient knowing you were here.”

He pushes a piece of errant hair behind my ear, setting my hat slightly askew. He plucks it from my head, and the hatpin falls to the f loor with a tiny
ping-ping
. We both bend to retrieve it and laugh at how we bump into each other. In our stooped position, he kisses me again, lighter this time; a peck of delight that welcomes me home. And I know I am right where I belong.

As he scoops the pin off the wooden f loor, I am renewed— by the sound of his laughter, the bristle of his beard on my cheeks, the touch of his hands on my body.

It feels wonderful to be alive and I regret not coming to him the moment I arrived back in Paris.

There is something intimate in the way he sticks the pin in my hat—a task I had performed almost unconsciously hundreds of times before—yet something in the sight of his large hands performing such a mundane task thrills me.

“What did you bring?” He sets the hat on a stool and reaches for my painting. I realize it is facing the wall.

“A gift for you.”

He looks at the canvas and his eyes brighten. “
Ahhhh, oui.
The masterpiece. But you should not give this to me. You should save it for the Salon.”

“That is a long time off. I shall borrow it back when the time comes. But in the meantime, I want you to have it.”

He inspects it at eye level and shakes his head, a look of appreciation washing over his handsome fame.

“It is much too good to be hidden away here. I shall take it home and hang it in a place of honor.”

I like that. It feels satisfying, as if he is bringing me into his home.

As I glance around the familiar space of his studio, warmth fills me. Everything rests in its usual place—the books; the props; the collection of pigments and brushes stored in jars; the paint tubes—some covered in pigment powder and nearly spent; others brand-new; the dressing screen along the wall; the unmade bed in the far corner. It seems ages since I have been here. Is something different?

Of course it is. I am different

The last time I was here, Édouard and I were not lovers. I am seeing everything with new eyes, even his easel in the middle of the room.

“What are you working on?”

He gestures with his head. “Have a look.”

I pull off my gloves, tugging one finger at a time and walk around to view the canvas.

I stop, stunned, to find Suzanne’s likeness staring back at me. Clad in a delicate white dress and seated on a white divan set in front of frilly, sheer white draperies she looks almost . . . beautiful.

Shock knots into a dull ache in the pit of my stomach. I glance at Édouard for an explanation. He is busy cleaning his brushes, as if there is nothing extraordinary about him glamor-izing his fat, homely . . . wife.

For a moment, I believe the smell of linseed oil will over-power me. Only then do I realize I have wadded my gloves into a tight little ball. I smooth them out—anything to divert my gaze from Suzanne’s triumphant visage.

“What do you think?”

Édouard smiles—colleague conferring with colleague.

Why is he painting her?
Olympia demands.
Why now?

Because she is his wife,
Propriety chides.
It is about time he painted her.

But it doesn’t even resemble her,
says Olympia.
This is some ide-alized imposter.

Perhaps this is how he sees her.
Propriety reigns victorious. “It’s quite—white,” is all I can muster.

He squints at the canvas, shrugs. “I began this painting years ago, but I never finished it. I guess I felt I owed it to her after the monstrosity Degas presented. It offended her . . .”

That’s what was missing. My eyes dart to the vacant spot where Édouard had hung Degas’ painting after he washed over Suzanne’s image. It was gone. Now he was trying to make it up to her by portraying her in a falsely f lattering manner.

“But Édouard, Degas’ painting of Suzanne was
true.
It resembles her much more than this does.” I can’t believe I said it.

His eyes darken, and for a moment I fear he might defend her. I cannot bear it. I will not hear it.

“Édouard you have always painted what you see. Is this how you see her? Is this how you feel about her? If it is, then we have no business . . .
You
have no business—”

“Berthe, I care for you, but she is my wife.”

His words bounce off my ears as a frantic tumult consumes me, blurring my vision and stripping away all semblance of steady ground.

“But in Lorient you said you loved me.” I turn to leave so he will not see my vulnerability. Tears stream, and I dash the back of my hand across my face, but they fall too fast for me to conceal.

I manage but a few steps toward the door, and he is there. “Please don’t go.”

“Why did you come to Lorient?” I murmur.

“Because—” He looks anguished, as if he is searching for

the right words and reaches out and pulls me to him. He holds me, and I cry into his chest as if by expelling all my angst I can vanquish the demons that keep us apart.

But I know it will change nothing. Not if he loves her.

I pull away from him, reach for the door handle. “Just let me go. You should have never come to Lorient.”

He holds the door shut.

“Please, Berthe, do not leave. Lorient was not a mistake.

We shall work this out. Somehow, we shall find a way.” Dearest Berthe,

Of course I forgive you. I only hope you can f ind it in your heart to excuse my outburst that drove you away. I am so frequently out of sorts, I scarcely recognize myself.

I try to remind myself of the miracle growing inside me—that is the reason my body feels swollen and tender. Sometimes it seems nothing consoles me.

I am ashamed of myself for misleading you during our walk along the quay. What I spouted was a romantic notion, and I believe I was caught up in the fantasy. Alas, as I have discovered, marriage is a sacred institution with which one should not trif le. I know you understand, my dear. Please forgive my foolishness.

I should be decidedly cheered if you would agree to come for another visit soon. Please, my dear, do.

Affectionately, Your Sister Edma

Chapter Eighteen
‌

Blow wind to where my loved one is, Touch him and come and touch me soon, I’ll feel his gentle touch though you, And meet his beauty in the moon.

—Ramayana

J
ULY
1870

am
grateful for evening’s darkness. It hides everything but the moon and stars that burn as if they are all that matter. At night, when I am alone, I look up and see the sliver of silver moon hanging crooked in the sky or pick out a pattern of diamond stars and know it is possible that Édouard is gazing at the same spectacle. It is as if I can draw a line directly from myself to the stars and down to him, wherever he may be. It connects us, and the night erases everything else in the world that does not matter. I was naive to believe life would fall into place once we were lovers, that the extraneous would simply fall away to what mattered—our love. It is not so simple. If anything, life has become more complicated over the months since that day