With Violets

by Elizabeth Robards

  He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “My feelings for you remain unchanged.”

  He reaches for my hand. I pull away.

  “I don’t know what you want from me Édouard. When I try to forget you, you reappear. When we get close, you push me away. I refuse to play this charade.”

  I remember that first day in the Louvre and my mind skips back to an even earlier time when that unbidden attraction first lit the darkness. For a moment I long to go back to that time. But it is hopeless. I wish I did not know all I know now, that so much had not passed between us.

  “Édouard, we have been tormenting each other for three years. I cannot bear it another moment. Go away. Please let me be.”

  A raindrop falls onto my arm. I try to move away from him to save the rest of the linen from the coming storm, but he grabs my arm. The wind blows even stronger now, and I jerk out of his grasp. A gust pulls a corner of one sheet loose from the line and the soft cotton whips around my legs.

  “Please, Berthe. Come back to Paris with me.”

  I grab the sheet—a fistful—to keep it from falling to the ground.

  “Why, Édouard? What are you asking me?”

  My pulse races, and I tighten my grip on the fabric. “I want to . . .”

  His eyes are tender and frantic as he searches my face. I hold my breath against his unspoken words.

  “I want to paint you. I haven’t been able to work since you’ve been away.”

  “What?”

  So that’s it? That’s what it comes down to. I yank the other corner from the line and toss the sheet into the basket.

  “It is the aftermath of the war, Édouard. Find another model. Any beautiful tramp will do. You do not need me.”

  “Yes I do.”

  His voice cracks. I turn and face him, my hands on my hips.

  “I do need you.” I see his courage waver. He looks away. “Le Balcon was so well received. Not like Olympia; not like the others.”

  “The others.” I laugh. “There are the others and then there’s me. Is that all I am to you? Instant respectability? Is that the face you’re putting forth to the world now? Édouard Manet, painter of chaste decency?”

  He gapes at me as if he cannot comprehend what I am saying.

  “What happened to the rebel who would risk anything if it was true?”

  He does not answer me, and I find this weakness unattractive. “I do not have the time or patience to play this game of chase anymore.” I turn away and snatch down another sheet.

  He walks around and stands in front of me, blocking me from finishing my task.

  The rain falls harder. “Get out of my way.”

  I try to push past him, but he grabs me and pulls me to him, covering my mouth with his. There is nothing soft about his kiss. It’s hard and hungry and desperate. The sheet, our erratic screen, f lies up around us then back down again. All Edma and Eugène need do is look out the window, and they will see us. But I don’t care. I can’t help myself, I kiss him back as angrily and punishingly as he’s taking me. Leaning into him, I grab handfuls of his jacket, pulling him to me. Then my hands fist into his hair. I anchor myself to him, every centimeter of my body melting into his this one last time, because I know when I let go it will be the end of us.

  “Do not marry Puvis.”

  He pulls back just enough to let the desperate words take f light on his husky, breathless voice.

  “Don’t,” is all I can manage.

  “Do not marry him,” he says again, his forehead pressed to mine his lips a whisper away, “because I love you. I cannot bear to think of you with him.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

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  Is the day better than the night? Or is the night better than the day? How can I tell?

  But this I know is right: Both are worth nothing When my love’s away.

  —Amaru

  D

  ays later, Édouard’s words still reverberate in my heart. I have come to the conclusion that if he would have spit in

  my face, it would have been easier to accept than his mocking declaration of love. For uttering those sacred words of love only because he cannot bear to think of me with another is not love. He does not love me, but simply wants to place me on a shelf, safe and away from the hands of other men, taking me down at his whim, and storing me away when I become an inconvenience.

  He goes back to Fat Suzanne. I stay in Mirande with Edma. It is better this way.

  The relationship with Édouard is over. Why had I not realized it would come to this before my love for him slipped

  in through the cracks of my character, deepening them so that they will never fully close again? Now I am paying the exorbi-tant price for my lack of self-control.

  It’s sad how relationships end. One person inevitably finds the other lacking and love ceases. That’s why I will not prolong the inevitable.

  I hear Edma and Marie bustling around downstairs and feel guilty for holing up in my room for the past few days. Edma has been gentle with me, not asking too many questions.

  On that day, she knew what had happened without even asking. I’m sure it was perfectly obvious when Édouard returned alone with the clothes basket. That is, if they didn’t see our final good-bye through the window.

  I didn’t ask.

  She didn’t mention it when I returned that night, long after he and Eugène had gone. I’m grateful for her prudence.

  As I dress, I hear footsteps outside my bedroom door. Then comes a faint knock. It’s Edma, holding a breakfast tray.

  She looks very pretty standing there smiling in the dim hallway. Like a patch of sunshine lighting the darkness. I can’t help but smile, too.

  “Oh, Edma, you needn’t bother to bring food to me. I was just dressing to come downstairs and help you.”

  “Really, it was no trouble.” She sets it on the small writing desk and turns back to me positively beaming.

  “What?”

  “I received a letter from Adolphe this morning. He’s coming home in three days.”

  “That’s wonderful. I know how much you’ve missed him.”

  She perches on the edge of the bed, and I can tell by the look on her face she has more to say.

  “I’m sure you remember what I said to the Messieurs Manet about there likely being an addition to the family?”

  I groan inwardly because I am not at all prepared to discuss the events of that day.

  “What I said was true,” she continues. “I can’t believe I’m telling you even before Adolphe gets home—again—but the doctor just confirmed it, and if I don’t tell you, I think I will simply burst—”

  “You mean?”

  Edma nods. “We are going to have another baby. A gift from Adolphe’s last leave.”

  I hug my sister, enjoying the rush of joy surging through me. “So then, you did not lie to the Manet brothers.”

  She shrugs and shakes her head. “Moi, lie? Never!”

  “Well that’s good. I was beginning to worry at how convincing you are in your falsehoods.”

  I wink at her, and we laugh together.

  “Speaking of that, there is a letter on your tray from Puvis.” She walks over to the desk, retrieves the letter, and hands it to me.

  I open it.

  My Dear Mademoiselle,

  Today I went to your home in Passy with the purpose of conveying a certain intention to your parents. A challenging feat, no doubt, given their feelings for me.

  Alas, my future with you, my dear, is much too important to allow the matter of their feelings for me to inhibit me. Make no mistake, I shall win them over in due time.

  I would have pursued this quest at once had I found them at home when I called. Alas, your brother,

  Tiburce, was the only one in residence. He assured me they would be gone for the better part of the day.

  Upon hearing that news, I set out walking—all the way to the Bois de Boulogne. Where I stayed until the sky turned gray, finally
opening and raining down upon me. I took the bad weather as a sign that the time was not right to speak to your parents. As I certainly could not prevail upon them to receive me soaking wet. I went home, since I was right there, instead of walking back. Another day, my love. Another day.

  Until then, I remain yours faithfully, Pierre Puvis de Chavannes.

  Coward.

  It is as if a strong wind has blown out a sputtering f lame. He is nothing but a frightened little boy, and this confirms my instincts that a life with Pierre Puvis de Chavannes, even if he is my only viable marriage prospect, would be a huge mistake.

  I want to laugh the kind of humorless laugh one can’t help emit when something they’ve known all along is proven a fact, but I feel Edma’s hand on my shoulder, and it stif les the urge like a cork in a bottle.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes. It’s f ine. Everything is absolutely f ine.” I fold the letter and stare at it for a moment, not sure what to do with it. After Edma leaves, I tear it to shreds and throw it in the garbage.

  Edma does not want me to leave Mirande, but I can’t stay with Adolphe coming home. They need their privacy, their time

  together after all this time apart. So much good to celebrate, what with France finally settling back into peace, and a new baby on the way for them. No, I will just be in the way. As much as I love Cherbourg, I am quite homesick for Paris.

  I am ready to go home.

  Maman is up to her old tricks again. Only this time she has recruited an accomplice in Madame Manet. It seems the two of them have put their heads together and decided that Eugène and I are like the remainders of two pair of socks, each with a missing mate.

  Alone we serve no purpose, but together this mismatched pair can function nicely—even if we aren’t a perfect complement. With that in mind, they have set their sights on bringing the two of us together.

  Only because he is a nice man, who has become a good friend since that terrible walk home during the Commune, have I decided to attend tonight’s dinner party that Maman is hosting under the guise of a welcome home soirée.

  It is simply an excuse to throw Eugène and me together. He must be as confounded by the idea as I am. Tonight we will have a good laugh at the preposterous notion.

  I sit at my dressing table and dab Parma Violet perfume on my neck. As I glance in the mirror, I think of how it will be good to see Degas. I’ve missed him and his wry humor.

  Of course, Édouard will also be in attendance. That is a matter with which I am not entirely prepared to deal. I have not heard from him since that visit in Mirande. Alas, since Maman and Madame Manet have grown so close, I must learn to come to terms with this change in our relationship.

  If he is angry, there is always the chance that he will be otherwise engaged this evening. I try to ignore the thud of disappointment that grips my chest at the thought and instead

  count my blessings. We are all well and able to come together after such a horrendous year.

  Smoothing the low-cut emerald moiré silk, I try to focus on the positive. The dress has always been one of my favorites. It is the f irst occasion I have had to wear it since the war, and it hangs on my frame quite a bit looser than I would like, but it still makes me feel good.

  Yes, we are alive. Tonight I shall celebrate the fact that my family and friends have lived through hell to gather together again.

  As my foot hits the last step, the door knocker sounds. Amélie bobs a curtsy as she whisks in front of me to greet the guests.

  I hear Édouard’s voice among that of several others, and it annoys me the way my heart beats a little faster in my chest. As Amélie takes hats and wraps, I scoot into the empty drawing room and arrange myself on the divan, trying to look unconcerned.

  His words in Mirande taunt me. They eat my confidence as gangrene devours a body. I know cutting him from my life, as a surgeon’s knife cuts away a rotting limb, is the only measure by which my heart will heal.

  If only it were easy.

  I hear the party moving toward the drawing room, and I wonder how it will look when they find me in here waiting.

  Too anxious? Would it have been better to make an entrance? Too late for that. I move to the window, and that is where I am standing when I hear Édouard’s robust, “Bonjour, Mademoiselle.”

  I turn.

  He smiles. Walks to me, takes my hand in his, and lifts it to his lips, raising his eyes to meet mine the moment before his breath whispers over my hand.

  For all appearances, one would never dream that our last exchange had been so volatile. I am f looded by a sense of relief—he is here. It is as if I have fallen backward into the plush safety of a big cottony cloud, but I catch myself before I allow my good sense to slip through and seep away into the stratosphere of his eyes.

  The reality touchstone is Suzanne, who glares at us from across the room. She is a contrast in size to the others, for it seems as if everyone else has wasted away during the war, but somehow she has managed to increase in girth. I am astounded that Fat Suzanne is fatter than ever.

  Édouard straightens and follows my gaze to his wife. He lets loose my hand, and I step away from him to greet her, Madame Manet, and Eugène. Much to my relief, Maman f loats into the room and takes charge.

  “Bonjour! Do come in. Make yourselves at home. I am so very happy you could come.”

  I feel Édouard’s gaze on me, and I feel myself tempted to slip back into places I swore I would never find myself again.

  “Come, Berthe.” Maman’s voice trills. “Sit next to Eugène.”

  She motions him to sit on the dark blue f lowered chintz divan. He obeys. She motions me next to him.

  So it begins. If I protest, I will only embarrass the poor gentleman. So I do as Maman bids, giving Eugène a smile of resignation. In return, he looks a bit sheepish, but not at all disagreeable to my proximity.

  Maman directs Édouard and Suzanne to sit across from Eugène and me. As they walk over, Maman gasps and stares at Suzanne as if seeing her for the first time this evening. “Oh, my, Suzanne! Don’t you look . . .” Maman raises her quizzing glass and rakes her gaze down Suzanne’s rotund figure. “Well, from the looks of you, you’ve certainly come out of the siege

  with the weight we have all shed. You’re quite healthy, aren’t you?”

  Pink washes over Suzanne’s chubby face. Her lips bunch into a thin pucker, but she does not respond verbally.

  “We were in the good fortune to have plenty during the war,” says Édouard, wearily. He looks thin, drawn. Half the size of his wife. “If we had been near, we would have shared with you.”

  It’s a pathetic attempt to justify her overindulgence during a time of crisis. I wonder if she ate his share of the food. I have this absurd image of Suzanne being Édouard’s overstuffed pet, sitting up and begging as he feeds her prime morsels from his plate. I certainly don’t understand what she possesses that holds him captive. They are so opposite. She is so contrary to everything he stands for.

  Since I learned the truth about Léon’s paternity, I’ve often wondered what tale their lack of conceiving a child tells of the intimacy of their relationship. But how could he desire such a body? Even as seldom as Adolphe is at home, he and Edma have managed to conceive twice. I realize not every woman is quite so fertile as Edma. But after being married for as many years as Suzanne and Édouard . . .

  “Superb weather we are having tonight,” says Eugène. He has angled his body toward me expectantly—one leg crossed over the other, his hands stiff ly laced over his kneecap. Although, he is not sitting inappropriately close, I have the urge to scoot away from him.

  “It’s cooling off nicely,” he adds.

  I nod, not really in the mood to discuss the weather. Suzanne and Édouard look on in awkward silence.

  Finally, Édouard says, “Mademoiselle, pray tell me what you are working on. Your mother says you have redoubled your efforts to make a name for yourself as a painter.”

&
nbsp; I feel a pang for Eugène, who is so obviously outmatched by his older brother. So I direct my words to Eugène hoping to draw him into the conversation.

  “In Mirande, I completed several small landscapes of Edma and Jeanne. I’m talking to several dealers about representing me.”

  “Would an introduction to my representatives be in order?”

  Reflexively, may gaze shifts to Édouard.

  “If that would help you?” Because of his smile, I wonder if he is sincere or if it is a power play to get my attention.

  “If you are sincere, an introduction would be very much appreciated.”

  “Well then, I shall set it up.”

  Degas arrives and the party shifts into higher gear. I can tell he is in rare form the minute he walks into the room and wedges himself squarely in between Eugène and me.

  “I’m sure you don’t mind, do you, Manet? It’s just that I have not had the pleasure of this fine woman’s company for far too long and we have much to catch up on.”

  If Eugène minds, he does not voice his opinion. I smile at the sheer gall of Degas, the way he slides right into the space he desires for himself. For a moment I let my imagination take f light and consider how it would be as his wife— until he opens his mouth, and I realize the two of us could be great friends, but as lovers we would certainly tear each other apart.

  Lovers . . .

  Édouard’s presence tugs at me. My gaze drifts to him. Maman has perched herself on the other side of him and he intently listens to one of her tirades. Before I look away, his eyes snare mine and the faintest smile tugs at the corners of his lips. He has grown so thin over this hard year. He looks utterly