Madame Manet had taken a temporary respite from the Thursday soirées, since she, Suzanne, and Léon are still in Boulogne. It is probably for the best. I wonder at Édouard’s separation from her. I suppose an artist’s wife gets used to the models and the long hours her husband spends away. Suzanne has her spy. We are under the watchful eye of little Fanny Claus, who I’m sure provides Suzanne with detailed reports.
Finally about forty days into the painting, while we are taking a short rest to stretch our limbs, Fanny Claus walks over to the canvas, as bold as you please, and looks. Édouard has
turned it toward the wall and I watch her scoot the easel back as if he had invited her to do so.
Her face falls. “I am finished, Monsieur Manet.”
She yanks off her gloves and tosses them aside. “It is plain to see you have eyes for only one subject in this painting. You will do fine without me.”
Édouard had been making a pot of tea. He stops and gapes at her.
“Mademoiselle Claus, I am sorry if I have offended you. But I must confess, I do not understand why you are angry. Each of you is important to this composition. Perhaps I have detained you too long. For that I apologize. If you feel you must go, by all means, please go.”
She leaves.
But later, when I take a good look at the painting, Fanny Claus’s words ring true. The exquisite detail in which he has painted my image makes the vague sketches of the others look even plainer, as if they are merely marking space on the canvas. Surely he will go back and paint them in more detail later.
Looking at us for the past month, surely he has had enough time to commit our features to memory. But if the truth be known, I am secretly gratified to see the painstaking detail he has spent on me.
To think there was once a time when we were strangers; when Édouard Manet was just a name on a magnificent painting. Now I come to his studio as a friend. We discuss art and God and politics and the world in which we live. He considers my opinions and does not think less of my strong convictions.
Why did we not meet before he married Suzanne?
Chapter Nine
In studious awe the poets brood before my monumental pose aped from the proudest pedestal,
and to bind these docile lovers fast
I freeze the world in a perfect mirror: The timeless light of my wide eyes.
—Baudelaire, “Beauty”
I
arrive at his studio the next morning, alone, as I have for the past two weeks, but a little later than usual. I am the first
r
to a rive.
“I feared you had deserted me, too.” Édouard looks anxious standing in the midst of his studio, but does not seem the least bit bothered by the fact that we are alone without the benefit of a chaperone.
I set down my handbag, unnerved and exhilarated by this realization. Fanny Claus was cross yesterday, but I did not think she would leave so abruptly.
“Of course I would not desert you.” My words sound far more certain than I feel. “Aren’t the others coming today? Did I not get a message that you canceled the session?”
“They are finished.” He shakes his head. “I still have much work to accomplish before I will deem this painting complete. Alas, I suppose I have imposed on everyone long enough. You may leave, too, if you choose.”
His words release me, but his eyes ask me to stay.
I know I should go, because if we are discovered alone together, it could be disastrous, even in its innocence.
I know this, but still I hear myself saying, “I did not come all this way to simply turn around and go home.”
We stand shyly for an awkward moment, and I fear I might come apart for how clumsy I feel.
Then he smiles. “I was hoping you would say that. Here, come and sit for a moment.” He pats the arm of the divan. “Let us have some tea before we get to work.”
He moves to the kitchen to start the water as he has done every morning since he began this painting. I perch on the edge of the sofa and glance around the studio, seeing it with new eyes—the dressing screen with my lone white dress draped over the top just as I had left it. Fanny Claus’s gown is gone.
Today, I am on my own.
My gaze trails from the easel pushed into one corner to the rumpled covers on the unmade bed on the opposite side of the room.
“Did you sleep here last night?”
“I did. I worked on the painting well into the evening and it made no sense to go home to an empty house, with Suzanne, Léon, and Maman still in Boulogne.”
It pains me to hear her name pass his lips. But something dangerous bubbles at the thought of her being so far away— that they have been apart for so long. The sensible Berthe warns, Watch yourself. You should leave if you want what’s best.
I can scarcely hear the caveat over the memory of his whis-
pered promise that first day in the studio—vows of temptations more sinful and pleasurable than rich chocolate. What, in addition to tea, did he have in mind today?
More important, am I ready to discover the answer?
I stand with a start. “I suppose I shall change.” Cringing at the tiny squeak that masquerades as my voice, I retreat behind the dressing screen.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath and force myself to consider the consequences of staying with him today. I need only bid him adieu and walk out the door.
I have imagined being alone with Édouard, even longed for
it in my most private fantasies, but never, no, no, never have I dreamed I would arrive at this situation.
Emotion and longing merge and crest like a wave propelled by wind. A strange funnel swirls in my belly and my eyes f ly open. I have no more control over these feelings than I have over the sea f lowing onto the shore.
I reach back with both hands and began unfastening the tiny buttons on my dress. As I worked the first one free, Édouard rattles the teakettle. With the next, he draws the water. With the third, he sets the kettle to the fire.
Button by tiny button, I work myself free, hitching up the fabric to conquer the hard-to-reach places, until the dress falls to the f loor.
Édouard coughs and drags the easel to the middle of the room. I hug myself, closing my eyes and running my hands down my bare arms to quell a shiver.
Oh, how scandalously free I feel standing here like this. Terrified and liberated, undressed and alone with this man. I touch the partition’s cloth. The shield that hides my nakedness from Édouard’s eyes wavers beneath my trembling hand. And the knot in the pit of my stomach slowly unfurls.
I lift the white dress off the rail. Édouard seems to stop moving. The room is suspended in a reverent silence as I bury my face in the silky white. It has picked up the scent of Édouard’s studio. I breathe in the aphrodisiac for a moment before slipping it over my head.
The organdy f lounces fall over my body like a lover’s hands urging me out from behind the screen.
“Would you help me with the buttons, please?”
Édouard sets down his palette and wipes his hands on a rag. He does not say a word, but watches me as he tidies himself, as if he knows precisely what I am asking of him.
As he moves toward me, I feel it—an almost indiscernible click as the magnet of him pulls at the pin of my heart and everything snaps into place.
I grip the edge of the partition, but he places his hands on my shoulders and turns me so he can get to the buttons.
He brushes aside a wisp of my hair that has fallen from its place. His fingers trail across the nape of my neck. I inhale quickly, a short, sudden little gasp, and a shiver shadows the trail of his fingers. My head tilts in the direction of his hand, and my sleeve slips from one shoulder.
For the span of a breath he does not touch me, and I do not move. I let the fabric stay as it has fallen, exposing the top curve of my breast that lay like an overripe fruit, atop the edge of my stiff corset.
His hands settle on my shoulders ligh
t as a whisper. One hand perfectly still, the thumb of his other traces the exposed skin—a soft, barely-there caress that gives me permission to pull away . . . or not . . .
I lower my cheek and dust his hand with the murmur of a kiss. He strokes my jawline, my cheek, my bottom lip—gently tracing it with the pad of his thumb.
His other hand, just inside the back of my dress, traces the vee of bare skin to my waist, then around to my belly. His hand splays the expanse of my stomach, to the underside of my breasts, and he pulls me firmly against him.
His body responds.
He slides a finger down my collarbone to the f leshy fullness at the top of my breast and presses his lips to my neck. My breath quickens to short, silent gasps. As I arch back, his finger brushes my nipple. I nearly cry out.
He turns me to face him, weaving his hands in my hair, exploring the hollow of my neck, trailing his tongue over my earlobe. I fear I will explode from desire, but he lowers his mouth to mine—I start at the feel of his beard, surprisingly coarse against my sensitive lips, a sharp contrast to the smooth wetness of his lips and tongue.
Fully, deeply, ardently, he kisses me, moans a deep, throaty sound of satisfaction that is unexpectedly animal, and I melt deeper into his kiss allowing myself to sink into his body. I savor his taste—coffee and a hint of peppermint—the hard feel of him and how safe I feel in his arms as the rest of the world melts away.
How I had longed for this kiss.
How many nights had I dreamed of being in his arms? Feeling his body pressed to mine, yearning for the lingering seconds he would look into my eyes just before his lips touched mine for the first time.
He pushes down my other sleeve and steps back allowing just enough space between us, so the dress slides down my body and pools at my feet like a white cloud.
He eases me down onto the dress, behind the screen. His mouth never leaves mine as he explores delicate places never before touched by a man.
I think I hear a woman’s voice in the far reaches of my consciousness.
He tears away from me, and gets to his feet in what seems like a single, f luid motion.
“Bonjour, Édouard! Are you here?” Suzanne calls out mere seconds before her footfalls announce her presence inside the studio.
Chapter Ten
What’s the earth
With all its art, verse, music worth Compared with love, found, gained and kept?
—Robert Browning
I
stand trembling behind the screen afraid to move, afraid to breathe. All I can think is how symbolic this is of my life— wanting that which I cannot have. Craving that which is forbidden me. Yet I ignore common sense in search of the illusive
to fill the void that seems to grow larger every day.
I am ashamed to think I believed I might find it in a married man.
On the other side of the screen, Édouard mutters something about taking a walk. “Perfect timing that you should arrive now. I was preparing to go out. Won’t you join me?”
I hope his face does not ref lect the tightness in his voice, and I wonder if Suzanne is suspicious.
“Édouard, I have only just arrived. Might we sit awhile so that I might rest from my journey?”
“Haven’t you been sitting since you left Boulogne? I would think more sitting should only tire you further.”
The dress I wore here is hanging over the screen. If I attempt to pull it down, she would surely see it. That won’t work.
The hem of my white dress is sticking out beyond the confines of the acceptably patrician. Do I dare pull it back and attempt to dress, or do I stand here in my underwear banking on the possibility that Édouard will be able to get her out and away from the building so that I might make my escape.
There is only one exit. Right now, Édouard’s wife stands squarely between me and my freedom. My heart pounds so furiously that it is almost uncomfortable.
“Aren’t you expecting Mademoiselle Claus and the others? I should quite like to see her. That’s one of the reasons I came today.”
“In that case your timing is quite bad. Yesterday, your friend, Mademoiselle Claus quit the painting. Leaving me quite in a lurch. Without her, there was no need to detain the others. So I am left to my own devices.”
Quite convincing.
I wonder for a moment if Fanny Claus might have told Suzanne that she and her chaperone would no longer be in attendance. Did Suzanne think it in her best interest to appear in person to check on matters? But the logistics are nearly impossible. It is highly unlikely that Fanny Claus would have had time to send a note to Boulogne in time for Suzanne to receive it and travel.
No, it was merely coincidence. Or perhaps something even more unsettling—a wife’s intuition.
All I can do is wait and hope that intuition does not alert her to question the blue gown thrown haphazardly over the screen or hang up the white dress that has fallen to the f loor.
*
“Amélie promised I would find you here.”
“Édouard—” His voice seems to echo in the Louvre gallery. It sends a jolt up my spine that makes me sit straighter. I f linch, ashamed at having uttered his given name. Too familiar. I am losing myself again.
Edma peeks out from behind her easel and smiles. “Monsieur Manet. What a pleasant surprise.”
“Bonjour Mademoiselle, I did not realize it was you hiding behind the canvas. How lovely to see you.” A pregnant pause. “Both of you.” The musée feels tremendously vast and cold despite being crowded for a Thursday. In addition to Edma and me, one other painter copies the Rubens. In the short time he has been here, a handful of onlookers have strolled by pausing to scruti-nize our work. Looking from our easels to the masterpieces on the walls, they utter inane comments as if we are deaf or too
dumb to comprehend their criticism.
It will be hard to speak to him after yesterday, but I desperately need to talk to him. He knew, and he found me, sought me out, rather than leave me in fits and knots over the outcome of Suzanne’s surprise visit.
Edma is watching us. Her eyes dart from Édouard to me. I have not told her of yesterday’s events. I have not told her because it will not happen again. I am ashamed. Ashamed at having narrowly escaped and at the perverse thrill I get now thinking about his hands on me.
It is wrong.
I shall not put myself in that position again. I thought Suzanne would never agree to go with him, but finally after a bit of persistence she did.
Édouard is quite a persistent man.
“What brings you to the Louvre today, monsieur?” she asks. “Business or pleasure?” She giggles. I cringe. It’s so out of character for her to act like a silly, smitten girl.
I grip my paintbrush so hard my knuckles go white. “My business is personal in nature actually.”
He speaks to her, but his gaze is fixed on me.
Edma sets down her pallet. “I see. In that case, I shall get back to work and leave you to your personal business.” She stands. “In fact, I f ind I need a closer look at the folds in Marie de’Medici’s dress for this study. If you will excuse me.”
“Certainly.” He sounds as relieved as I am at having the chance to talk alone.
Behind Édouard’s back Edma makes a face at me, then covers her eyes with her hands before wandering over to a painting hung on the far wall, different from the one from which we are working.
“I had to see you,” Édouard says. “Are you all right?”
I shrug still unable to process the myriad of emotions coursing through me. I am at war with myself: You are so foolish for longing for him as he stands right in front of you,” says Propriety. Even after you spent the past hours fretting, feeling dirty and used, over nearly being found out.
Yes, but underneath it all, says Olympia, despite everything that has happened, you hoped he would come today. And he did.
That alone eases my melancholy as a piece of bread can save a starving man from dying o
f hunger.
I glance at Maman, sitting on a bench across the gallery.
She has dozed off reading her book.
Yesterday morning after f leeing Édouard’s studio, I apologized to her. I walked in, found her, and said, “This standoff has gone on far too long. I have behaved foolishly. I want things to be as they always have been.”
She forgave me.
But only after I told her my days of sitting for Édouard Manet were over.
She agreed this war between us had gotten out of hand and seemed relieved to call a truce. She said she holds no grudge against Édouard. She was angry with me over my choices. The way I have chosen to live my life.
I shudder to think what damage our relationship would suffer if she only knew the choices I had really made.
“It will never happen again.” I murmur the words, a little cooler than my initial reception of him, and resume painting— same Rubens I was working on that day I first met him.
Sure, taunts Olympia. You will not let him walk away. You desire him too much.
But Propriety scolds, After foolishly giving yourself over to him for his balcony painting, you have sorely neglected your own work. If you are to be a painter, you must paint. If you long to give into the temptation to flirt, you should choose a more appropriate man.
You have renewed your focus on painting. Sadly, as it stands, you will not have work ready in time to enter the Salon. Perhaps next time you will not behave so stupidly, squandering my time.
“Berthe . . .” He steps closer, holding his hat. “You f led in such haste yesterday. I wish you had stayed. I came right back after Suzanne left.”
My hands shake as I paint. “Stay? Do you know how close we came to being discovered? How could I have behaved so foolishly?”
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