At least the navy is well fortified. I wish I could say as
much for the army. My brother, Tiburce, enlisted rather than waiting for the government to commit him. His youthful, fighting spirit landed him assignment in the Rhine.
Despite the army’s weakened state, Maman is quite pleased. “This is my idea of how men should behave in a time of peril.” Is forgetting everyone not connected to the war the way a man should behave? I realize it is a time of national crisis, and I should not be selfish. But I should think Édouard would care enough to inform me of his plans or at least inquire about my
well-being.
I am growing anxious with concern over my condition. I don’t know the signs of pregnancy, but I certainly have not been feeling well. I contemplate taking the carriage to his studio, but with all the talk of fighting, Maman will not let me out of her sight. If I set foot outdoors she insists on accompanying me. I cannot talk to Édouard with her in tow.
So I wait, going mad with each moment that passes.
Maman and I try so hard to keep up our spirits. But it is difficult to be jovial when just after a few weeks into the fighting we learn that Tiburce’s brigade, under the command of Marshal Bazine, was hemmed in at Metz. With this news, we cannot convince ourselves that this nightmare will soon end, that the sound of cannon fire in the distance is not as grave as it sounds. That the rain that falls from the sky is not Paris crying for its own.
SEPTEM BE R 3, 1870
The Prussians have taken the emperor prisoner. We realize just how fast the situation is escalating toward crisis. Papa must stay in Paris because of his position with the new regime.
He implores Maman and me to go to Edma in Cherbourg, but Maman will not hear of it. “Where my husband is, I shall stay beside him. How can I leave when I have no idea what fates befall my son? He will not know where to find me when he is set free.”
The look on Papa’s face is such that I believe he wants us to go without him. All I can do is reassure my mother that everything will be fine.
I wish I truly believed it. Dear Edma,
I received your letter yesterday. I have made up my mind to stay in Paris, because neither father nor mother told me firmly to leave; they want me to leave in the way anyone here wants anything—weakly and by fits and starts. For my own part, I would much rather not leave them, not because I truly believe there is any real danger, but because my place is with them, and if by ill luck anything did happen, I should have eternal remorse. I will not presume to say that they take great pleasure in my presence; I feel very sad, and am completely silent. I have heard so much about the perils ahead that I have had nightmares for several nights in which I have lived through all the horrors of war. To tell the truth, I do not believe all these things. I feel perfectly calm, and I have the firm conviction that everything will come out better than expected. The house is dreary, empty, stripped bare; and as a finishing touch, father makes inexplicable and interminable removals. He seems to be very much occupied with the preservation of some old pieces of furniture of the First Empire. On the other hand he smiles pityingly when
I tell him that the cabinet, the mirror and the console in the studio are not absolutely worthless. To avoid argument, I refrain from interfering in anything, and to tell the truth all this interests me very little. Since it is possible to work where you are, why don’t you do so? I do not read the newspapers much anymore. The Prussian atrocities upset me, and I want to retain my composure.
I am stupefied by this silence. I certainly wish I had news of you—though I dare not hope for an answer to this letter—and of poor Tiburce, from whom we have not heard. Maybe you will hear from him before we do; there are moments when I think of him with a terrible tightening of my heart. I embrace you, my dear Edma . . . If you are cut off from Paris, do not worry on our account. Mother is better, and father is in as good health as can be expected.
Adieu.
SEPTEM BE R 4, 1870
The rain has passed, giving way to heat and sunshine. It is much too bright outside for the state of our country. It seems at odds with national morale. We have received word that hoardes have stormed the Hôtel de Ville in support of a new republic. Looking out the window, I see mass chaos in the streets. The usually quiet boulevards of our beloved Passy are awash in a sea of red and blue uniforms, men rushing about. I do not know what will become of us in the face of such bedlam.
Papa maintains that this war is wrong. He fears for the safety of his children, Tiburce, Edma, baby Jeanne, and Yves.
Yet, I seem to irritate him by being constantly underfoot. He seems disgusted when I cannot eat. “Soon there may be no food, and I shall remind you of how you turned up your nose at the offerings today.”
“Would you be happier, Papa, if I went to stay with Edma?”
“Of course not. Then I would have you to worry about, too.”
Staying is the choice I have made. I will do my best to stay out of his way.
SEPTEM BE R 6, 1870
Edma has finally agreed to take baby Jeanne and stay with Yves in Mirande.
In a letter informing us of her plans, she begs me to come, too. I wish she would come to the rue Franklin, but since Yves will not leave her home to be ransacked, as she puts it, there is no alternative but for Edma to go to Mirande to be with her.
I wander into the studio. Pick up a paintbrush and try to work. Instead, I end up staring at the canvases on the walls. The ones I had intended to send to Edma when it seemed we had all the time in the world.
I console myself that it is a good thing I did not send the paintings to her in Lorient. She cares nothing for her house, especially now that she has a bébé on whom to shower all her affections. The paintings would have only made it difficult to pack up and leave for Yves’.
My sisters are alone. Their husbands are off fighting. It makes sense for them to be together. I serve my duty here looking after Maman and Papa. I set down the brush without
as much as having touched it to the paint. It rolls off the table onto the f loor. I do not have the energy to bend down to retrieve it.
SEPTEM BE R 8, 1870
Nearly two months have passed and still no word from Édouard. I do not know where he is or what has become of him. I scarcely know what to think, except that I am devastated. I do not know of his plans or if he is even alive. I shift between hopeless grief, sure of his death, to icy anger, certain he has forgotten me in the face of this national tragedy.
To add to my anguish, after two cycles’ absence, Monday I received the sign that confirms I am not with child. Having learned the truth, I shut myself in my room and cried.
After weeks of being so sure, it feels as if our child has been taken away.
Not knowing Édouard’s fate, the thought of having his child held vast importance. For if the worst were to befall us, at least I would have had a piece of him to carry forward once the tragedy of war is behind us.
Although I continue to pray for his safety, I cannot help but lose faith that Édouard is alive after so long an absence.
SEPTEM BE R 12 , 1870
Like a ghost standing in the foyer, Édouard has finally come to call, dressed in the smart red and navy blue uniform of the National Guard. He cuts a striking figure.
Emotion clouds my logic. Common sense should have me ecstatic to find Édouard alive, safe, calling on me. For an in-
stant, I want to run to him and throw my arms around him and rejoice in his safety, but the sight of him standing there so nonchalantly, as if he has not abandoned me for the past two months, angers me, and I have to swallow against the urge to shout at him.
I do not want his reasons or his excuses or even to know how he has spent his time while I have been sitting here like a captive, missing him terribly, fearing I was carrying his child. As the edges of my vision start to crumble around me, I turn away and walk out of the room. I want to be as far away from him as possible.
I shut myself inside the studio and sit down in f
ront of my easel, although I really do not feel like working. A few moments later the door swings open. Maman pauses, arms crossed on the threshold.
“Berthe? What is the matter with you?”
“Nothing, Maman.” I pick up a brush and pin my eyes on my canvas, a painting of Edma at baby Jeanne’s cradle.
“Come out and be civil to our guest. Manet has taken precious time away from his duty to call on us. The least you can do is receive him graciously.”
“I do not feel like company right now. I want to work. The light is right, and I must take advantage of it.”
She stands silent in the doorway for a moment—just long enough to make me hopeful that she will leave me alone. “Very well then, I shall invite him here. I should think he would like to see what you are accomplishing while he is out fighting for you.”
Fighting for me? Édouard is not exerting himself in anyway for me. I suppress a snort, but by that time Maman is gone.
I hear her voice in the garden, “Berthe would love for you to come to her studio to see what she is working on.”
Oh, Maman. No! I stand too fast and knock over my chair.
Hearing their footfalls, I quickly right my seat and sit down. Best to look calm and busy.
In my peripheral vision I see Maman usher him in. I squeeze a tube of azure onto my palette and realize I did not really need the color. Too late. They linger in the threshold.
“Come in,” says Maman. “Look around. Please make yourself at home.”
“Let me see what keeps you so busy,” Édouard says, and moves behind me. “Eugène sends his regards to both of you.”
“How is the dear boy adjusting to war?”
“Not very well, I fear,” says Édouard. “He is not political by nature and even less of a fighter.”
Maman clucks at this comment. Édouard shrugs and smiles at me.
“Four days ago, I sent Suzanne and the family to the safety of Oloron-Sainte-Marie in the Basses-Pyrenees.”
So that is what has been keeping him. Worry over Suzanne. I do not want to know the nice things he does for her, the ways he demonstrates he cares. A reminder that she is his wife.
I cannot stand his hovering behind me—his not comment-ing on the painting. I stand up and walk to the divan leaving him at the chair.
“You are very quiet, Mademoiselle,” he says.
“I am simply thinking about how relieved you must be to know that your loved ones are safe.”
He perches coolly on the edge of the chair.
“I should like to see every person who is dear to me safe, Mademoiselle. Do you plan to evacuate?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course not.”
He strokes his beard and closes his eyes. “Please get out while it is still possible. Pissarro, Sisley, and Monet have escaped to London. Degas has transferred from the infantry to
the artillery. Renoir has been posted to Bordeaux. I do not believe you are aware of the gravity of this situation.”
“Papa has determined it is safe for us to stay. That is what we shall do until he advises otherwise.”
“I have hidden many of my unsold canvases in the cellar of my studio. Special canvases, such as Le Balcon and your painting of Edma in Lorient, I have given to Théodore Duret to store in his vault. I would not want anything to happen to them.”
“What is taking Amélie so long with the tea?” Maman stands. “If you will excuse me, Monsieur Manet, I shall go hurry her along. I know you do not have all day.”
She bustles out in a f lurry of copper-colored skirt, leaving the door open behind her.
“I have missed you mon amour,” he says.
I fear Maman is still within earshot, but I do not hear gasps of astonishment or footsteps hurrying back in regret of leaving us alone.
“How can you tell such falsehoods? If you missed me, you would not have stayed away.”
“I am sorry, but in case you have not noticed, France is at war.”
I glare at him.
“Your presence has been too scarce for you to notice, but since I saw you last, I feared I was carrying your child.”
The color drains from his face, and I take perverse pleasure in watching him struggle with the thought. I stand and walk to the window.
“Do not worry,” I say over my shoulder as I toy with the drape. “It is solved. You are free. We are not . . . I am not . . . The sign that proves I am not pregnant presented itself. There is nothing to bind us.”
“Berthe, how can you say that?” He is standing now. “The heart is what binds us.”
I laugh at him. A cold, humorless sound that makes me want to cry.
“We could not bring a bastard child into such an ugly world. And now I know it is all for the best.”
He stands behind me now. The words that he does not know how to deliver hang between us unspoken. He simply lays a hand on my belly. I think I see moisture in his eyes, but he blinks. I am sure it is just relief.
“I have contemplated the logistics of freeing myself from Suzanne, but do you realize the scandal that would mire our relationship, Berthe? I am not sure you are strong enough to endure it.”
“I am not strong enough? That is just an excuse—”
Footsteps sound in the garden. I hear the wheels of the tea cart. Édouard pulls away from me and walks back to the divan. I stay by the window wishing for rain and dark gray skies,
spouting emotion I cannot express.
Papa has a new fixation: our home is safe as long as the Forts of Issy and Vanves stay in French hands. He is so convinced that the worst will befall us, he is now preoccupied with what will become of our precious furniture in what he sees as the inevitable event that we are forced to move. Ever the doomsayer, he has already started making arrangements to have our possessions stored in a safe place in the center of Paris.
He is obsessed. When I mention it, we fight. So I avoid talking to him. What I find interesting is how he has not seemed to notice the lack of communication.
“How can you spend every spare moment fretting over possessions?” says Maman. “If the situation is as grave as Monsieur Manet declares, you should be more concerned over the safety of your family; do not worry over the furniture.”
He bristles.
“If you wish to leave, you and Berthe should go to Mirande with Yves and Edma. But I will go nowhere. I have worked too hard for the treasures that you enjoy in this home, and I will not see them destroyed.
“You are so busy nagging, you did not give me a chance to tell you that I have made arrangements with a friend, Monsieur Millet, for us to move into an apartment in the rue Argensen should the fighting worsen.”
“Both of you stop it,” I say. “Stop yelling this minute.”
But Maman, with that determined look in her eye, does not hear me.
“Manet has gotten you overly excited,” she says. “You should not listen to him and you know it. He is always prone to exaggerate.”
“You will thank me should the bombs fall on the rue Franklin.” With that, Papa storms out the door and Maman collapses in a fit of tears, pushing me away when I try to console her.
I used to dream of going abroad. I had formed quite an attachment to the idea of visiting New York City in the summer. Of venturing out into the countryside and setting up my easel alongside a stream shaded by tall sugar maples with the broad green leaves the size of a man’s hand. I imagined taking off my shoes and wading up to my knees into the cool water. It would be like a baptism for the start of a new life.
The world on the other side of the Atlantic was magical to me, like the secret life on the opposite side of a mirror. You could see it and press your hand up against it. When I was a child, I used to believe if you wished hard enough you would awaken one glorious day to find yourself there.
New York is where I dreamed Édouard and I would start over. There, we could be anyone we chose to be—newlyweds,
the happy young couple embarking on a life together—pioneers explo
ring a brave new world. There would be no scandal—no Suzanne. No disapproving looks. No wagging tongues sharp with criticism.
Just Édouard and I and the life we painted—falling asleep in each other’s arms and making love every morning as the sun rose. There we would be successful in conceiving a child.
As all able-bodied men defend Paris and I shut myself away from the outside world, I cling to that dream to keep myself alive. Édouard vowed to call again within the next week and that is when I would tell him. We could make plans, and he would see I am not so weak as to forfeit our life together.
The more I think about it, the more perfect it seems. The war is the perfect cover. Suzanne is away. My presence seems to irritate Maman and Papa more and more each day—so much so that I have come to believe they will be better off without me. I can tell them I am going to stay with Edma. Édouard and I would simply take a train to the coast, board a ship, and sail away.
SEPTEM BE R 19, 1870
True to his word, Édouard calls at the rue Franklin with his brother, Eugène.
Maman and I entertain them in my studio, since it is the only place in the house with enough furniture to offer our guests a place to sit.
“The Prussians are so brutal. The atrocities they perpetrate defy logic.” Édouard shakes his head, leans in, and lowers his voice. “Word is they desecrated a convent and raped a young novice. Mademoiselle, promise me you will not venture out alone.”
With Violets Page 17