With Violets (29 page)

Love does not consist in gazing at each other, but in looking outward in the same direction.

—Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

M
AY
1873

É

douard
is as bold as the blue violets he sends early the next morning. An unsigned note accompanies the f lowers. It

simply says:
I care.

The truth in Édouard’s voice last night steals my breath.

Blue violets. I try not to think about the symbolic meaning—love. I know it is not coincidence. What man but Édouard would be schooled on the significance of f lowers?

I take them to my chamber and set them on the dressing table, where I can see them as I attend to my toilette.

I take my low-cut black dress from the
armoire
—the pretty one with the lace around the neckline and the black ribbon that ties at the waist. I hang it on the door and sit down at my vanity to brush my hair.

It is by sheer luck that Maman is still sleeping. Papa has already gone to work. Amélie received them, brought them to me with a knowing sparkle in her eyes.

I pick up the small nosegay, twirl it in my fingers, and sniff it. The petals tickle my nose, but it’s his audacity that makes me smile.

I will go to him.

I can no more stay away than the Seine can keep from f lowing down stream.

Perhaps it is my destiny to be the
other woman
. It seems my lot. Should I have married Puvis, I would have been the respectable wife. Yet the Rumanian princess would always possess his heart.

Suzanne is Édouard’s wife. Yet she is most certainly not the woman of his heart. Either way, I am the other woman.

Is it such a terrible position?

He is not at all surprised to see me.

Édouard’s new studio takes up the entire second f loor of number four rue de Saint-Pétersbourg, two blocks from his home at number forty-nine. Suzanne could walk down if she dared. Or cared. Somehow, I find it hard to believe she would expend that much energy.

Édouard moved his studio after his
atelier
on the rue Guyot was destroyed during the Commune. A total loss.

My eye is drawn to
Le Balcon
. It is hung, not merely propped haphazardly against the wall. Next to it hangs my painting of Edma at the Lorient harbor. My hand f lutters to my lips, and I swallow against the emotion bubbling in my throat. Maybe I haven’t been so absent from his life for all that we have been apart.
Merci Dieu
he had the foresight to entrust his paintings to Théodore Duret, or all would be lost.

It’s a beautiful place. Spacious and elegant with high ceil-ings and walls of tall windows.

Rubbing the stem of the nosegay between my thumb and f ingers, I stand near the door and look around the cavernous space in wonder. Not quite as much natural light as the rue Guyot with its windowed roof, but the light here is quite nice. It will be cooler in the summer.

I walk to the center of the room, turn in a slow circle, memorizing every detail, picking out the old familiar pieces, learning their place in the new environment. The big red buttoned divan. His easel. The stool. The table with paint tubes and brushes. Jars of pigment in jeweled colors. The books. The props. The rolls of fabric and paper.

The dressing screen. The bed.

It’s all here, like old friends welcoming me home. But somehow everything is different.

The studio must be twice the size of the other. Everything has its place. Nothing is haphazardly tossed or strewn. Even the bed is made. Guyot had the air of a rogue artist’s
atelier.
But this place—this place has the feel of a master.

“It used to be an old fencing school,” he says.

The f loor trembles like the hand of God is shaking the building. I brace a hand against his easel and fear for a moment that the earth will open and swallow us whole.

“The Gare Saint-Lazare,” he says over the rumble. “The trains coming and going—makes the place shake all day long.” He smiles. “Keeps me awake.”

My gaze darts to the bed. The blanket is pulled taut. The pillows are f luffed. It looks as if it has never been slept in. A sharp contrast to the rumpled mess that stood in the corner of the
atelier
on rue Guyot. As often as I have been to his studio I have never been in that bed.

I release my grip on the easel, and only then does it dawn on me that it is empty of canvas. That his pallet is hanging on a hook and the brushes look almost dusty.

“The place is lovely, Édouard. Please show me what you have been working on.”

His face goes blank. He crosses his arms over his chest, tucking his fingers in his armpits.

“I have not yet begun to work.”

“Surely, you’re joking? It’s been several months now. You should see the canvases I have completed. I should have taken you out to the studio last night . . .” As I speak, I am looking for hints of new work and realize the only canvases I see are old ones.

White-hot sparks of concern pop in my belly and I look at him askance. He shakes his head. Shifts from one foot to the other. Extracts a hand to rub his eyes, and mutters, “I told you, I have done nothing since we returned to Paris.”

“Édouard?”

He is looking at me, his eyes dark and forlorn. A helpless child of a man.

I don’t know who moved first, him or me, but we stand together now, inches apart. He cups my face in his hands and holds me like that, rubbing a thumb over my lips, then two over my cheekbones. He slides his hands back and laces his fingers in my hair. A pin falls to the f loor and the back of my hair falls free. He runs his fingers through the curls, slides them down my shoulders, over my breasts.

He pulls me to him, and I can feel his hardness as we stand together, like two parched travelers preparing to drink from the well of life.

I lean into him, aching for the feel of his body against mine, and kiss him. Softly. Tentatively. Reminding myself this

is the fork in the road. If I embark in the direction my body burns to travel, there is no turning back.

I know where I must go. It has been a long journey to this point, but every step I have taken has led me to this very spot.

“I will make what is between us right.” His whispered promise is rough as gravel. “I will make you happy. You’ll see—”

“Shhhhh.”
I drown his words with a deep kiss. At that moment, I love him so much it is painful.

There is only one way to ease my ache. I take his hand and lead him to the bed.

“Let’s go away.” He punctuates the words with a kiss on the top of my head.

I snuggle into his chest, molding my body to his side. He pulls me closer.

“I want to stay here. With you. Just like this.” I snuggle into him, relishing the scent of our union.
Mon Dieu
, I love the smell of him. I duck my head under the blanket and plant a kiss on his belly.

He sighs. “This is nice, but I want to go somewhere we can be like this every day, every night.” With one finger, he tilts my chin up to him. His eyes are bright. I am glad to see the energy shining in him again.

“Let’s go,” he urges. “Right now. I’m serious.”

He pushes himself up. The blanket slides down my naked back.

I run my fingers through the hair on his chest. “Édouard we can’t. Not right now. Not like this.”

“Of course not. We’ll put our clothes on first.”

He arches a brow at me, grins, and pushes himself to a sitting position.

He is serious.

I fall onto my back.

A funnel swirls in my stomach as I contemplate the logistics of what he suggests. All the work I have started, the dealers I have interested . . . I rest my arm across my forehead. My other hand grasps the covers to my breast. If we leave we must start over professionally, too.

You’re afraid to go because he hasn’t exactly proved to be reliable in the past, has he?
says Propriety.
What do you expect, falling in love with a married man? If you run away with him, he will only end up leaving you for someone else.

Be reasonable,
says Olympia.
It’s not as if the relationship has had a chance to grow under normal circumstances. You’ve been through a war. Give the man a chance to prove his worth.

“Papa has not been well. I can’t go off and leave him now.” I hear him rustling around and sit up to watch him dress.

Wrapped in the blanket, I draw my knees to my chest. “I thought it was what you wanted?” he says.

“I did. I do. But everything is so different now.”

He finishes buckling his trousers and stands there— shirtless, his hair rumpled and his eyes looking deeply into me. I desire him all over again. I want to cry for the astonishing depth of my love for him.

“Édouard.” I motion for him to sit on the bed. He does, and I lace my f ingers through his, and bring his hand to my lips and kiss them. “There is nothing I want more than this. But we can’t go now. We need to be here. For Papa. For our futures. Together. We must both draw on the resources we have built in Paris to build a new life for ourselves. A life together.”

He shakes his head. “It will never work here, Berthe.” He draws his hand away and braces stiff arms on the bed. “We will both be ruined.”

“Since when have you been concerned about that?” I caress his bare back. “Édouard, I am not afraid to face the music here. You can withstand it, too. You have before, and you’ve come out stronger on the other side. Stand tall. Let us be who we are in the place where we belong.”

A train rumbles past and shakes the room. I get out of bed, aware of his eyes on me, quiet, contemplative. I pull my black dress over my head. Not bothering with my corset, I tie the black ribbon at the waist, then pin my hair away from my face, leaving the back to fall free about my shoulders.

I sit down next to him on the bed again, leaning back on my elbows.

“You look like an angel sitting there like that,” he says.

He goes to the chest of drawers and pulls out a slip of black velvet ribbon and ties it around my neck, forming a little bow, then picks up the bouquet of violets and tucks it in the bodice of my dress. He backs away until he reaches his easel, where he touches his brush to the paint, touches paint to canvas.

With each brushstroke, we talk, and a picture of our new life together emerges.

La Figaro—by Ansel Racine—May 25, 1873

Manet’s New Olympia?

Speculation on the exact nature of the relationship between Mademoiselle Berthe Morisot and Monsieur Édouard Manet is the talk of Paris. Given his Salon entry,
Repose,
his sensual portrait of her sprawled, seductively and inviting, on the red divan, one cannot help but wonder. The black shoe is a sharp contrast peeking out from beneath the virginal white froth of dress. Alas, it is the way she holds her red fan in her right hand, while her elegant left hand is placed so boldly on the seat next to her. That

coupled with that come-hither expression, she seems to beckon the viewer to sit next to her for an intimate tête-à-tête.

Given Monsieur Manet’s well-known propensity to paint what he sees, one cannot help but speculate that Mademoiselle Morisot’s smoldering glance is meant for him and him alone. I wonder what his wife has to say about that.

I suggested to Édouard it might not be prudent to enter
Repose
in the Salon. Not until he was ready to reveal our relationship. But he would not hear of it. He insisted it would show in good contrast to his painting
Le Bon Bock
. He painted that portrait of me before the war, and while I am quite fond of it, it’s an extremely intimate portrait, so telling. He certainly captured everything I was feeling that day, as Racine pointed out.

Édouard borrowed it back from Durand Ruel, who bought it just after the war for twenty-five hundred francs. Édouard didn’t want to part with it, but after living through such a grave year, one does what one must to survive.

I don’t mind the furor, but we’ve been seeing each other steadily for more than six months now. Frankly, I am surprised no one has caught on.

I almost wish they had. Édouard is still reticent about starting a new life in Paris. I will not leave. We have come to a standoff, and do not talk about it. I shall not push him, but I won’t leave.

“You should have seen Maman this morning,” I say to Édouard as he paints. “She was furious over the
La Figaro
article.”

He makes a soft sound of amusement.

“She said, ‘I hope you’re happy! It seems you are intent on ruining not only yourself, but your entire family as well.’ She slammed her quizzing glass onto the table on top of the newspaper. I am surprised the glass did not shatter.”

I glance over Édouard’s shoulder at the canvas. It is the portrait of me in the black dress reclining on the bed. I remember the tender way he tucked the blue violets into the bodice of my gown, and it makes me desire him all over again.

“I wonder what Racine will make of this one?” I ask. “This is far more seductive than
Repose,
don’t you think?”

Édouard grunts, and I get the feeling he is not completely

present.

“It’s been awhile since I’ve seen Maman in such a temper, but this will seem a picnic once we announce our plans.”

This time he says nothing. “Édouard?”

“Yes, my love. Your mother was upset?”

He is lost in his own world, and I know better than to expect much from him when he gets like this. It will just end in an argument.

I walk to the window and look out. Really, I should go home to my own work. God knows I have plenty to do. I am not happy with my showing in the Salon. Quite disappointed, in fact.

Once it was a thrill merely to be selected. Alas, with only one small painting in the show, the one of Edma and Jeanne in the f ield, no, it was not a good showing, as it has garnered no attention. It hangs on the wall unnoticed, like rainwater collected in an abandoned pot. I think it is worse to go unnoticed than receive a negative review.

I envy Édouard the attention, and try not to begrudge the fact that once again it is my image that is the subject of speculation.