With Violets

by Elizabeth Robards

  Degas’ mouth twists into a perverse little smile.

  “That, Mademoiselle, is what everyone wonders. Especially since he did not give the child the Manet name.”

  One arm wrapped around his middle, he strokes his chin with his free hand. “Of course there is the question of which Manet is the father. To keep things simple the family prefers to refer to Léon as Édouard’s godson. It cuts down on the nasty gossip, you see?”

  No, I do not see. He is talking in riddles again. When he does this, I’ve learned I’m usually in for a wild ride before I discover where his dramatic innuendos lead.

  Degas studies me with a look of sadistic amusement. “Can you not figure it out, Mademoiselle? Think about it.”

  “Monsieur Degas, s’il vous plaît. What are you saying? Just tell me.” I let my exasperation bleed through into my words. For all his good qualities, the man can be quite enigmatic, and I am in no mood for games.

  But before Degas can respond, Édouard appears like an apparition materializing out of the crowd with his mother, Léon, and a young woman I do not recognize tagging along behind.

  Degas leans in. “Although I still do not understand what compelled him to marry his father’s mistress. He could have

  acted as the boy’s godfather without going to the extreme of tying himself to a woman he does not love.”

  His father’s mistress? Unfathomable. Had they shared her?

  Passed her about as they would a communal f lask?

  When Édouard sees me, he bypasses several well-wishers and comes immediately to my side. “It this the demoiselle of the hour!” He bows and kisses my hand. “Ah, it is good to see you. You have kept yourself hidden away from me far too long.”

  My mind races back to that night in my studio, and heat spreads across my chest and up my neck. I utter a silent prayer that no one will notice, and much to my relief, Édouard is busy greeting Degas.

  “Madame Manet. Léon.” I nod to his mother and the boy. Léon returns the greeting and wanders over to examine a wall of paintings. As I watch him, Degas’ words are fresh in my mind. Léon is no more Manet’s godson than Edma is your goddaughter.

  What on earth does that mean?

  “Berthe, my dear, you look lovely,” says Madame Manet. “Everyone has given positively glowing reviews of Le Balcon. You do Édouard proud.” She offers the compliment, but seems distracted by the hordes buzzing around us.

  It feels strange receiving praise for a painting of which I had no part in other than to sit and stare into space. I don’t much care for the passive role.

  “She is my good luck charm,” Édouard chimes. “I have already had an offer for the painting, although it pains me to think of parting with it.”

  “I’m sure you will heal quickly if the price is right,” says the young woman. She is quite beautiful and something in the way she looks at him makes me a little shaky.

  Édouard smiles and nods an appreciative touché. “Mademoiselle Berthe Morisot, may I present Mademoiselle Eva Gonzalés.

  Oh.

  “Enchanté,” she says. “You are as lovely in person as you appear in the painting.”

  So this is the infamous Eva Gonzalés. She is quite poised for one so young. Even at my age, I do not possess half the confidence she radiates. I cannot suppress a pang of envy at her arrival at Édouard’s side. How has Suzanne taken to Édouard’s little ingénue?

  “Merci,” I say. “I understand you are the subject of his work in progress?”

  Her brilliant smile falters, but reappears in the blink of an eye. She glances at Édouard. “I believe he has put me on hold for the moment.”

  “Oh, Monsieur Manet, why?” I exaggerate my concern, and I think Édouard is well aware.

  “Let me say it is not progressing as I had hoped.”

  Eva’s eyes darken a shade. She pointedly turns her charm on Degas.

  I am just as happy because Édouard offers his arm and we stroll past a few paintings.

  “Have you just arrived?” I ask.

  “No we have been here since the opening. We were searching for you.”

  My breath catches. And I steel myself against the charm that always manages to weave its way into my defenses. I for-tify my wall of self-preservation by reminding myself that I am merely a fresh dalliance. Obviously, the bright, shiny Eva Gonzalés’s company seems a bit tarnished these days. Oh, the wonders a brief absence seems to work on the heart.

  “How are the master and pupil getting on?” He groans.

  “I am about to go out of my head. She is a very demanding girl. Chatters incessantly. I went to Boulogne last week simply to escape her.”

  “Then why do you not turn her out? Tell her you have too much work to do. I seem to remember you telling me that was your reasoning for not taking students in the first place.”

  “If it were only that simple. The good news is that her papa returns next week, and we shall discuss the situation. Anyhow, the change will be mutually beneficial. I believe she grows tired of this old man’s company.”

  I turn and glance at my likeness from across the room. The intensity of it startles me, and I pause to let the pins-and- needles feeling subside.

  “I noticed you painted a figure into the background of Le Balcon.”

  He turns, follows my gaze, and holds himself a bit straighter.

  “Yes, do you like it?”

  I nod. “Very subtle. It’s Léon, non? ”

  “Oui, I thought the background needed a touch.” “He is a fine looking boy. He’s Suzanne’s brother?”

  Édouard nods absently. He has turned his back to the painting to look at a landscape.

  “Why does the boy not live with his parents?”

  “His father is no longer living, and it is best for him to stay with Suzanne. Did you see Fantin’s etching?”

  I shake my head no.

  His father is dead? Oh, well. Someone is not telling the truth. I wonder who?

  “I am not surprised,” he says. “The painting is hung so high I think people will strain their necks trying to view it. Poor man; not very good placement.”

  “Where is your wife tonight, Édouard?”

  “She stayed at home. She does not care for large crowds. I suppose she will view the Salon after the first rush fades away.” We linger a bit in front of paintings we like and mutter

  comments such as “ghastly” and “quelle horreur” under our breath about those we dislike. Yet, my mind is only half on the critique.

  His father is dead, hmmm. “When did you meet Suzanne?” “Oh, many years ago. It was right after I returned home

  from Rio de Janeiro, while I was in the navy. She taught my brothers and me to play the piano in exchange for room and board.”

  “Hmmm, I thought your mother said she came to France at the urging of Franz Liszt?”

  “She did, but soon fell upon hard times.” He stops walking and gives me a knowing look. “Mademoiselle, affairs do not always go according to plan.”

  I wish more than ever I could hear his thoughts.

  “Then she met my father who took pity on her and took her in.”

  “And when did you marry?” I am more determined than ever to fish a confession out of him. For once I want him to be honest with me and take responsibility for the people in his life.

  Édouard narrows his eyes, gives me a quizzical look. “October, five years ago. Why the inquisition?”

  I shrug. “It just . . . ” I quickly perform the mathematics. So Léon would have been eight years old when Édouard and Suzanne married. Why did he wait so long?

  “Do you love her?”

  Édouard blinks. A muscle in his jaw works. “Mademoiselle, she is my wife.”

  “I know she is your wife, but do you love her, Édouard?”

  I am well aware that I am speaking in Degas-like riddles, and I wonder if Édouard can decipher the core of what I am asking.

  He runs a hand through his hair. “Love takes many forms,
<
br />   dons many guises. In fact, there is much speculation about the lovely dark woman in Le Balcon. Just stand back and you will hear them wondering. Several have speculated that this beauty is Manet’s love. ‘Does he love her,’ they ask?”

  My breath catches as I await his answer. But I feel a hand on my shoulder. No! Not now, I want to yell.

  “Berthe?” When I turn, Maman’s brow is stern and heavy. “You monopolize Monsieur Manet’s time. I am sure many eagerly await his attention. Why don’t we take a turn about the Salon and view the rest of the show?”

  Édouard bows to her slightly. “Madame Morisot, what a wonderful idea.” He offers his arms to both of us. “Shall we?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‌

  Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove, O, no! It is an ever-fixed mark,

  That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

  —William Shakespeare

  M

  aman excuses us from the Manets’ after-Salon soirée claiming a headache. In the carriage afterward, her anger

  pours out like spilled red paint.

  “I see what is going on, Berthe.” Maman frowns. “I am no idiot. Neither are the revelers spouting ‘ femme fatale’ and ‘lovers.’ Lovers, Berthe? Is that what you wanted people to think as you paraded around the Salon with him?”

  You don’t care what people think, spouts Olympia.

  Don’t you dare admit that to your Maman, says Propriety. You should be ashamed.

  Propriety wins. I remain silent.

  “I encourage you to go to Edma in Lorient until this nonsense blows over. The change of scenery will suit you, and I do

  hope time away will quash any notions you might harbor about encouraging Monsieur Manet’s attention.”

  It is no use arguing with her. Besides, I miss my sister terribly and want to see her. Adolphe is away. It will suit Edma and me to have some time together. The fresh air and sunshine will clear my head. I am ready to paint, to be productive. Rather than feeling sorry for myself over my lack of showing in the Salon, I am more determined than ever to produce something worthwhile.

  Lorient is a wisp of a town. One might easily overlook it if not for the harbor. Compared to Paris, it seems a lifeless place. Adolphe’s naval duties have brought him there. The giddy newlywed, Edma followed without a second thought.

  I step off the train—the lone passenger to disembark—and sense the monster driving Edma’s torment. All browns and grays, it is a pitiful place. Few trees and even fewer f lowers. As I stand alone on the platform inhaling the sharp, briny air, I wonder for a moment if I am the only person awake—or even breathing—in this awful place.

  Finally, Edma bounds around the corner of the depot, a blur of yellow dress and dark hair, her skirts kicking up in her haste.

  “Berthe, you’re here! Oh, you’re here!” Breathless, she embraces me as if the harder she holds me, the more she’ll regain of the life force that has drained from her over the two months she has languished here. “Your train is early. I wanted to be here when you arrived.”

  “I have only just turned up.” I pull back to look at her. “Oh, how I have missed you.”

  “And I you.”

  My eyes well. I blink fast to keep tears from spilling onto my cheeks. As the train chugs away, it seemed to blow a tedious sigh at the sheer dullness of the place.

  It is unseasonably dry and warm for April. The sun has baked the dirt street into a pattern of desiccated cracks. The carriage rattles along the naked, dusty path through the center of town. The harbor’s gray water sits as f lat as a sheet of glass, languidly ref lecting the Lorient’s dull palette of noncolors from the anchored boats and the short, sandstone wall that snakes along the waterfront like a dead serpent. In the distance, the sea roars low and discontent.

  Edma’s house is but a short walk from the station, but she has hired a hack to collect my trunks and valise. When I left Paris, I was not sure how long I would stay, so I packed for the long term. The length of my visit will depend on how long Adolphe is away and how much work I can accomplish. But the sight of my dear sister pleases me so, once the carriage arrives at the modest white two-story house Edma calls home, leaving is the farthest thing from my mind.

  “Here we are.” A hint of humility whitewashes her words. She hesitates at the front door and plucks a dead bloom off a riot of red geraniums planted in the window boxes and lets the withering petals fall to the ground.

  “I hope you will be comfortable here.”

  “Edma, with you, I could be comfortable in the wild. Anywhere, as long as we are together.”

  Her mouth curves, but the smile does not extend to her eyes. She opens the front door, and we step inside.

  Pausing in the entryway, I blink, coaxing my eyes to adjust to the darkness, eager for a f irst glimpse of my sister’s new life—the faded light blue paint adorning the vestibule; the scuffed wooden f loor; and most curious of all, “Edma, there is not a single painting on your walls. Why not?”

  She frowns and looks about as if noticing the discrepancy for the first time.

  “I will send for some of my canvases in due time, but I

  need to figure out what will best suit this place.” She takes my hat and gloves and sets them on the wooden table in the entryway. “You might say the house and I are still getting acquainted.”

  She looks down as she speaks. Not only has she quit painting, it seems she has divorced herself from art altogether.

  The driver stands behind us with one of my trunks hoisted up on his shoulder.

  “Where shall I deposit this, Madame?”

  “Please take it upstairs,” Edma says. “The first bedroom on the right.”

  “Edma, why didn’t you tell me? I could have brought your canvases.”

  She throws her arms around my shoulders and sobs. “Oh, Berthe, I am so unhappy. Adolphe is always away. If this is married life, I—”

  She buries her face in my shoulder and weeps.

  I pat her back, “Hush now,” take her by the shoulders and hold her out so I can see her. “I am here now. You suffer from too much solitude, that’s all. Everything will be f ine now.”

  She wipes her eyes, but the tears still well and spill. “I don’t know what is wrong with me. I’m sorry. You are here, and all I can do is cry like a baby.”

  “I do not want to hear another word of it.”

  I put an arm around my sister’s shoulder and walk her into the sitting room. The driver’s footsteps descend the stairs and stop at the front door. He clears his throat before calling a hearty, “Bonjour, Madame, Mademoiselle.”

  Edma holds both hands to her face and swipes at her eyes. I

  grab my handbag and settle with the man while she pulls herself together.

  By the time I finish, Edma has recovered.

  “I suppose you are hungry,” she says. “I’ll ask Dominique to fix you some lunch.”

  “No, Edma. You know how travel always upsets my system. I’ll just take a cup of tea and that will be fine.”

  She smiles, seems relieved. “I have had no appetite. The sight of food nauseates me. So if you are hungry, do not hesitate to ask Dominique to prepare you something.”

  “Edma, do not make a fuss. I will be all right now that I am here with you. Everything will be all right. What I would like more than anything is for us to sit down and catch up.”

  The waterfront is the only place remotely interesting enough to even think about painting. I arrange Edma on the short sandstone wall. Her pink scarf and blue-green umbrella add color and soften the hard lines of the harbor, bringing a spark of life to the dreary scene.

  “Put your right hand on the wall,” I say. She complies, even smiles. In the past twenty-four hours, her mood has lightened considerably. Although she still refuses to pick up a paintbrush.

  “That is no longer my life. There is no sense
in adding to my frustrations,” she says.

  I start to argue with her, but Edma cuts me off.

  “All too soon I will have much more to keep me busy.” “I thought Adolphe was not returning for three months?”

  “That is right, and he will ship out again less than a fortnight later. My future occupation is a bit farther coming. Still, I have much to prepare.”

  She pats her belly and a weary smile tugs at the corners of her mouth.

  “Do you mean—” She nods.

  I drop my charcoal and run to her. No wonder she was so melancholy about being alone.

  “You’re pregnant?”

  I hug her again and again.

  “I am not certain, but all indications point that way.” “Why did you not tell me last night?”

  “I had made up my mind not to say anything until I was absolutely sure. I have not even told Adolphe or Maman, for that matter. I should probably not have told you until I know for sure.” She puts a hand on her belly. “But I know in my heart I am.”

  “And I should have been furious if you had not told me.” We laugh. “Please do not speak of it until after I have told

  Maman. You know how she gets. It would be a disaster.” I hug her again.

  “I am going to be an aunt. Oh, I cannot believe it. Tante Berthe. I love the sound of it.”

  I pick up my charcoal and Edma resumes her pose. As I watch her sitting there, a beautiful pink rose amidst the lifeless gray backdrop of still water and empty boats, a bittersweet pang pulls at me. I glance at Edma’s belly. A child is growing inside my sister, just as Édouard’s son had grown inside Suzanne.

  A seed planted by love.

  Tangled in the myriad of emotions that have surfaced since I met Édouard, part of me aches for the child I never knew I wanted until he came into my life.