She is so close I can almost feel the moisture of her breath. Although I am not very tall, I stand a good head taller than she. My mother does not cower. She stares up at me demanding an answer.
“They are the f lowers delivered from Édouard Manet.”
Maman slaps me hard across the left side of my face. The blow smarts like a thousand nettles, but I will not let her see how much it hurt.
A wry smile pulls at the corners of my mouth, although I
am sure my eyes speak every sentiment I wish to convey. “Édouard Manet is calling today at four o’clock.”
I believe she might strike me again, but she wavers.
“Je ne comprends pas?”
The sun disappears behind a cloud. The breeze picks up, and I noticed the air has chilled.
“I invited him.”
Her gaze is a gauntlet thrown between us.
“You shall send him a note telling him he is not welcome.” “He thinks you are the one who sent the invitation. I wrote it on the back of the note he sent Friday, and I did not sign my name. If we rescind the invitation it shall ref lect poorly
on you.”
I will my voice not to shake. Much to my relief, it does not. Maman stares at me for a long moment. I can almost see the thoughts calculating in her head.
She prides herself on being a superior hostess. This stems back to Papa’s prefect days. She has refined entertaining to an art.
“Were you planning to tell me or were you just going to let him surprise me?”
“I was going to tell you, Maman. When the time was right.”
She laughs. The sound is bitter like lemon. I wonder where Edma is and how she has managed to disappear at just the right moment. I shall not blame her. I am equally at fault here. In some ways I feel as if the largest part of the onus lay upon me.
Maman does not speak to me again until Édouard arrives. Of course, Edma and I make ourselves scarce, after I find my sister hiding in the kitchen. She heard Maman yelling at me on the terrace and had hidden out with Amélie. I consider berating
her for being such a coward and letting me bear the brunt of our mother’s anger, but it will not change anything.
Edma and I sit quietly. Amélie has left the room to prepare for our guest.
Although it is hard knowing Maman is cross at us, I feel better knowing the secret is revealed. It is as if the curtains have been thrown open so that light may cleanse a haunted room.
We know our mother will graciously receive Édouard. She will brief ly hear what he has to say and will find a way to usher him out. He’ll be standing on the walk before he realizes he was never welcome in the first place.
“So he wants to paint you,” Edma says. “Is she afraid you will turn into Olympia right before her very eyes?”
Olympia, scandal’s own mistress. It is rumored that Victorine Meurent, the beautiful woman who posed for Olympia, was Édouard’s mistress. But she left him. For years now, he has had no regular model. I didn’t realize he was searching for one. Perhaps he’s not.
Still, I can’t help but picture myself as Olympia, wanton and mocking, sprawled in serene impudence, with a thin black ribbon around my neck and a small slipper on one foot. The other foot, brazenly bare, tucked beneath the sole of my shoe, toes teasing, hinting at hidden promises yet to be discovered. If Maman knew, she would lock me away for the rest of my life.
“Mademoiselle Berthe, your mother wishes you to join her in the drawing room.”
Amélie’s voice shocks me back into reality. Edma grabs my hand.
He is here.
I had not heard his knock.
Somehow, he has slipped in unnoticed. Edma rises to accompany me.
“Pardon, Mademoiselle. Madame wishes Mademoiselle Berthe to come alone.”
Edma’s mouth falls open, but she doesn’t make a vocal protest. As I walk alone like a doomed woman to the guillotine, the other Berthe chants with each step I take toward Édouard.
Olympia, who looks the world in its naked eye without a blink of shame.
Was that how I looked Thursday night as Stevens goaded Édouard to ask me to sit for him?
Olympia, the mistress odalisque.
Is that how I look hesitating in the drawing room doorway as Édouard stands to greet me?
There are certain places in Paris I go to seek refuge. I love to walk along the quai near the Louvre. There is something very soothing in the way the buildings rise up near the river Seine, like tall, stately sentries standing watch over the long, straight line of old houses with their irregular rooftops and stone balconies jutting like drooping eyelids off the melancholy faces. It is my sanctuary. I always feel as if no harm can come to me here.
Seeing Édouard in the drawing room, I want to grab Edma and run to my haven near the Louvre. Alas, it is impossible, so I try to think pretty thoughts that will calm me: the boats moored along the river dipping and nodding without a care; the rhythmic song of the water slapping the embankment; the fact that Suzanne has not accompanied her husband on this visit—
That is not a pretty thought, and I should not dwell on it.
Even if it is the truth.
I try to clear my mind, but Édouard looks stunning. I do not know if it is the way his navy frock coat turns his gray eyes a shade of deep blue or if it is just the pull of his presence that
attracts me so, but as he takes my hand and bows, I find myself at a loss for what to say or do.
“Mademoiselle. So nice to see you again.”
I look to Maman for direction. She motions for me to sit next to her on the divan. I am glad because despite her earlier anger, it feels safe, and I hope somehow it means she has forgiven me. Or at least that time has blunted the edge of her anger.
“Maman sends her regards,” says Édouard after taking a seat across from us. His silver-tipped walking stick lay on the f loor next to him. His elbows are propped on the arms of the chair. He steeples his long, slender f ingers as he speaks. “She wanted to come, but I told her it would be best if I came alone.”
Amélie slides a tea try on the table between us. Silently, Maman indicates for me to pour the tea. The room is so quiet, I pray my hand does not shake and cause the cup and saucer to rattle.
I manage to complete the task without disgracing myself and hand him the first cup.
As he takes hold of la soucoupe, he says, “Mademoiselle, I deeply regret what happened Thursday night. It was a disaster. A disgrace. Monsieur Stevens and I meant no harm to your good name.”
Édouard looks me square in the eyes. His words resonate in earnest, an agitated swirl, as if a swarm of bees has taken formation in my belly. A few seconds pass before I realize I am still holding onto the saucer.
I let go. A small wave of tea splashes over the top of the cup.
Édouard has the good grace to pretend not to notice and turns his attention to Maman. “If necessary, Stevens will call to apologize himself.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Maman says and changes the subject. “Monsieur Manet, before Berthe joined us you mentioned you have just returned from Boulogne.”
Édouard sips his tea. He lowers the cup to the saucer resting it on this knee. “I have, indeed. In fact, Maman, Suzanne, and Léon are still there.”
So that explains it. It was simply not practical for her to come. I was not sure if finding justification for her absence made me feel better or worse. But, there it was . . .
“They will stay for the rest of the month, but I will travel back and forth between Paris and Boulogne. I must work, and it is impossible to paint with the family in such proximity. Besides, Boulogne will not work for my next project.” His gaze f licks to me, then back to Maman, who watches him, sizing him up as a judge decides the fate of a criminal.
“What is this next project, Monsieur?” she asks coolly.
“In Boulogne, one morning I was out for a stroll and happened upon the most interesting sight. It was a vision. A woman sitting high upon a balcony fa
nning herself. It reminded me of Goya’s balcony painting. Breathtaking. I saw it in Spain in sixty-five. Are you familiar with the work?”
I nod. “I once admired an engraving of it in a book.”
“It is a masterpiece.” His eyes are full of wonder. He opens his mouth to speak again, falters, then blurts, “What Stevens says is true. I have longed to paint your daughter’s portrait, Madame. I would be most humbled and most appreciative if you would allow her to join Mademoiselle Claus and Monsieur Guillemet in my own re-creation of Goya’s balcony composition.”
He strings the words together in one breath, as if pausing he might be robbed of the opportunity to finish. Then the three of us sit in thick silence staring into our teacups. The grandfather clock ticks a full fifteen beats before my mother
says, “Berthe has quite a mind of her own. The decision is hers.”
Maman will not look at me. She sips her tea and stares at a spot over Édouard’s right shoulder.
“Mademoiselle, you would come into my studio first as a colleague, second as a model.” He turns back to Maman. “I use that term with all due respect, Madame.”
Overwhelmed by the sick feeling that Maman was pushing me into my own trap, making me pay for my defiance, I cannot answer.
Inside me two Berthes war: one is the picture of Propriety. The obedient daughter. The proper lady, quiet and contemplative; the other is an impulsive woman I scarcely recognize—an ugly creature prone to being swept away, she is not so compli-ant, discreet, or pensive—an Olympia of sorts.
Lost in impulse’s shadow, Propriety cannot find her voice. This delights Olympia. So does the thought of my being Édouard’s model. Yes, the prospect delights and arouses her.
Impulse pushed me along the knife’s edge and delivered
Édouard to me this afternoon. It is impulse that makes me say, “Of course, I will be your model.”
Chapter Six
There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the proportion.
—Francis Bacon
N
o sooner has Édouard invited us to his studio on Thursday to begin the session and taken his leave, when Maman’s anger sweeps through like a mistral menacing all in
its path.
“You are a disgrace to yourself and your family.”
I should have expected her anger. On a deeper level, I knew it was coming, yet I was too afraid to face it to even brace myself for the inevitable: that she would f ly to pieces after I had betrayed her twice in one day.
She had seen him to the door, leaving me in the drawing room alone. Once the front door clicks shut, I rise from my seat on the divan and make for the sanctuary of my studio.
But I am too late.
Maman corners me. “You sit right there and listen to me.” She thrusts her finger in my face and backs me to my place on the divan. “You will not humiliate this family.”
The force of her anger seems to vibrate the house, but soon
I realize it is only her voice that shakes. I could more easily weather another slap across the face. I would have even pre-ferred she drag me by the ear and throw me out into the street at Édouard’s feet rather than face the bald realization of how much I had hurt her.
It is not what I intended, but feeding on itself, the circumstance has taken on a course of its own. The reality is a physical ache that manifests itself in the pit of my stomach, a by-product of the lump lodged in my throat that will not allow me to speak.
She gave me the choice and I took it.
Probably for the best I cannot say this, as this will only worsen the situation.
“I suppose you think you know what is best?” She is screaming at me. “You know what you are doing? How are you going to explain this to your father?”
I try to answer, but my attempt to speak against her barrage of questions is as useless as trying to walk against the winds of the mistral. I let her blow.
After a long while she winds down with, “What are you trying to prove?” I do not answer immediately. She must think I am mocking her with sullen silence.
“Answer me when I speak to you! I asked you what you are trying to prove?”
I cleared my throat. “I am not trying to prove anything, Maman.”
Heat f lames my neck and ears. I hope my mother will not
notice. She shakes her head, disgust skewing her small features. “He is a married man, Berthe. You are a single woman. Have you become so blinded by selfishness you have forgotten it is not merely your own reputation at stake here?”
I knew it was not my future over which she fretted. It was Edma’s relationship with Adolphe. The one bright spot she had
pinned her dreams upon. Certainly more hope than I had given her.
“Maman, I do not know what you mean. Married or not, I have no ill intentions. I simply want to learn from Monsieur Manet.”
“Learn? Learn what? You do not need another painting teacher.”
“I am not looking for a teacher as much as I am looking for the inspiration I might receive by just watching him work.”
“Ridiculous. Your father and I have invested far too much money in your lessons with Messieurs Guichard and Oudinot. If you must seek inspiration elsewhere, we are not getting our due from them.”
She throws her hands in the air and talks as if someone else is in the room. “We spoil her. That is precisely the problem. I should not be surprised that she turned out this way. But I am surprised.” She turns back to me. “Surprised and shocked and saddened. Because with all we have given you, all the leeway and latitude, you have become a person I do not even know anymore. A person I do not wish to know.”
“How can you claim you do not know me, Maman? I am your daughter. I am an artist just as you and Papa have encouraged me.”
Maman f linches, almost imperceptibly but I see her react to the sting. Then she refocuses her glare on me, even more pierc-ing this time.
“Your father and I have encouraged you to be a proper lady.”
I should let it go. I know better, but my ire is like a door forced open under pressure. No matter how I try to bar it shut, bile manufactured by the talk of my place in this world grows until it oozes out between the facade’s cracks and crevices, until the door swings open and everything spills out.
“Proper? As if that were my life’s purpose? It is not my fault I was born a woman.”
My mother stares at me for a moment, cold and disbelieving. When she speaks, her voice is low and uneven, as if I have wrung from her all the energy she possesses.
“Berthe, we have afforded you advantages many a young woman would be delighted to have. Luxuries. The best cloth-ing, the best upbringing, the best possible position to meet a man who will ensure your future. Many respectable young men call, yet you push them aside, when all you would have to do is —”
“What? What should I do, Maman? Sit upon the sofa waiting for a proper man to give me permission to live? If that is so, it is a dull existence. If that is all you want for me, then why, Maman, did you raise me to think? Why did you and Papa encourage me to have an opinion?”
She closes her eyes against my words. I know I have delivered the fatal blow in our verbal jousting match. Although all the bile has drained from me, I only feel worse. It is as if something, some bond or branch between us that once seemed immovable, has splintered. Panicking, my mind reels, searching for a way to mend the fracture.
“I am sorry, Maman. I never meant to . . . I never meant to disappointment you.”
I am sincere. But she does not answer me. She simply turns, leaving me alone in the room with my words reverberating in the air.
Two days later, Maman accompanies me to Édouard’s rue Guyot atelier. Would she have gone if Papa had not returned home? He did not mention the incident with Édouard to me, but I know she told him. How else would she have explained why she was not speaking to me after our argument in the drawing room?
I am sorry to give
Papa such a stressful homecoming. I have missed him. Our house is not the same without him, and my mother has grown so tense.
But I do believe it is he who is to thank for Maman’s accompanying me to Édouard’s studio. He is a strong man. A practical man. He looks beyond the silly superficial dictations of society to the matter-of-fact. The fact that I can learn something from Édouard.
Ah, Papa, I really do not know what I would do without him.
Maman and I arrive late, or at least later than Fanny Claus and Monsieur Guillemet, the other models Édouard has engaged for the painting.
“Bon jour, bon jour!” Édouard greets us warmly. Maman is cordial, but aloof—for my benefit, I’m sure—as he takes our wraps and makes introductions.
Tall and distinguished, Monsieur Guillemet bows with a f lourish and works a bit too hard, I must say, to charm us. I’m glad because his agreeable demeanor might melt Maman’s icy formality.
Édouard presents Fanny Claus, a young violinist and friend of his wife, Suzanne. Apparently, she and Suzanne often play duets at the Thursday night parties at his mother’s house.
Fanny Claus nods demurely. I am a bit disappointed when I realized both she and I have worn white dresses for the occasion. They are of vastly different styles, still I worry that the monochromatic sameness will not work for Édouard’s painting and he will require one of us to change. But he will be the one to make that decision, I think eying, the short, puffy Mademoiselle Claus.
I would not go so far as to call her fat, but she is an unre-deemingly plain girl. She has no neck to speak of and a long, pallid face with close-set black eyes that gave the appearance of
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