With Violets (16 page)

of it, he is nearly twenty years my senior—
ack!
—he’s Maman’s age. No wonder she finds him so attractive.

I am not in the mood to debate tonight, so I do not answer her. Thank heavens Carlos Duran and his wife approach, and divert her attention.

Soon we make our way to room
M
and are standing before Édouard’s
Balcon.
He is nowhere to be found.

Maman stands much too close viewing the painting through the narrow lenses of her quizzing glass. “Well, it looks much the same as the last time I saw it. One would think he would have gone back to finish it.”

“Maman!” I glance around in horror, hoping no one has heard her. “If this is how he chose to submit it, then it is finished.”

“I am entitled to an opinion, and mine is that I do not think it looks finished.”

I stare at the work in amazement. It looks larger than life hanging on the wall, in a prime location. He has painted me in splendorous detail. Fanny looks dowdy. Monsieur Guillemet looks stiff, and . . . Édouard has added a new figure, barely visible amidst the blackness of the open terrace doorway. A boy with a serving tray. Merely a ghost of an image, scarcely perceptible in the background.

“Bonjour, Madame, Mademoiselle.”
Degas sidles up next to me. “
Bonjour Monsieur Degas,
Berthe and I were just commenting on Manet’s painting. Rather unfinished, do you not agree—oh, there is Madame Arneau, I must speak to her. Ba-

bette! Yoo-hoo, Babette.” The woman waves.

“May I entrust Berthe to your good keeping, Monsieur?” “Of course.”

“
Merci,
please excuse me.” She hurries off, soon swallowed by the crowd.

Arms crossed, Degas contemplates
Le Balcon
. “I would certainly say it is f inished. So much so it seems the epithet
femme fatale
has been circulating among the inquisitive,” he murmurs.

“Pardon?”

Degas regards me with his bored, intolerant expression that always makes me fear his next word will be,
“Imbécile!”

“People have branded you a
femme fatale,
Mademoiselle
.”

I do not know how to respond. I snap my gaze from his face back to the painting.

“An alluring woman.” Degas spits the words as if they leave a bad taste in his mouth.

“I know the meaning of
femme fatale,
Monsieur. It is just, I am more strange-looking than . . . alluring.”

Degas’ demeanor softens. “One could never brand your beauty strange. You are quite lovely. Léon, now he looks strange.”

I glance around, expecting to see Suzanne’s son nearby. Yet I cannot pick him out in the crowd. Degas’ attention remains fixed on the canvas, a distasteful scowl now wrinkling his brow. Then I realize —

“Is that Léon in the background of the painting?” Degas arches a brow at me. “Who else?”

I squint at the image. “Oh, I see.” Actually, I do not see, but I will not admit so much to Degas. “It is interesting how Monsieur Manet painted him. He is barely there.”

“Barely there.” Degas smirks. “That is a very good way to put it. I suppose that is how the Manet household would like him to be. If not absent altogether.”

His words make me uncomfortable, and I recall Edma’s revelation that Léon is Édouard’s son. Although Degas could probably shed some insight, I do not want to appear to per-petuate gossip. I will have to be subtle.

“Monsieur Manet does not care for his own godson?” “Godson?
Ha!
Who told you that?”

“Madame Manet.”

He snorts. “Yes, I am sure that is what she would have you believe.” He wheezes a dry, humorless laugh. Léon is no more Manet’s godson than Edma is your goddaughter.”

What? What on earth is he carrying on about? The way he baits me, as if I know nothing, grows so tiresome.

“I am well aware that Léon is Manet’s son, Monsieur. But the boy is what—about fourteen years of age? Why did Manet wait so long after Suzanne gave birth to marry her?”

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,

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

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.