With Violets (6 page)
At the top of the steps, Maman grabs my sister’s arm. “Is this ink on your sleeve?”
I glance at the dark stain, blue-black, on Edma’s yellow dress. I close my dirty hand and hide it in the folds of my skirt.
The next thing I know, Maman throws Edma’s arm away from her as if it disgusts her. “Please go for a walk or go out into your studio for a bit. My nerves cannot tolerate the two of you. But change your dress first, Edma. You look like a filthy street urchin.”
Still muttering, she pushes past us and climbs the steps to the front door.
Edma and I stand on the walk staring at each other in be-
wilderment as she disappears inside.
My sister does not have to say a word for me to understand what she is thinking. We are not used to deceiving Maman. If impulse is the devil’s temptress, we are her pawn. Now we have four days to explain to our mother what we have done.
Nobody ought to look at paintings, who cannot find a greater meaning than the artist has actually expressed.
—Nathaniel Hawthorne
nticipating
Édouard’s arrival on Tuesday causes time to stand still. For four days, the hours linger like life in
a dream-spun impression that cannot live for being confined to the canvas. The days dawn and fade, sketching vignettes so similar that one falls into the next as colorful glass in a kaleidoscope shifts shape, but only travels around in a circle.
Tuesday, the stillness breaks. In a sense, the kaleidoscope smashes to the f loor and all the shards f ly free.
Edma and I have not yet told Maman about Édouard’s im-pending visit. We are still searching for the words that never seem to present themselves, when Maman finds the hyacinths hidden in our studio.
I am sitting on the terrace a bundle of nerves, knowing what the afternoon holds when I look up and see her clutching the withered f lowers like a ghost bride haunting the altar of her abandonment. I should take it for a harbinger of what’s to come, but I am stunned into a strange heightened aware-
ness that will not let me get past the moment—the jasmine is blooming on the terrace. The bush droops with the weight of the blossoms, as if its perfume is so heavy it causes the plant to pitch forward. I think I shall always associate the scent of jasmine with Maman’s rage. Strange it would not be the hyacinth, but they have started to fade. When she throws the wilted purple bundle at my feet, several dried petals lift on the breeze and roll like tiny tumbleweeds across the terrace.
“What are these?”
The vibrant purple has dulled to a stormy gray. The old, withered stalks look like the protruding veins on my mother’s wrinkled hands.
Maman is always in a nasty mood when Papa is away. He isn’t due back until the next day. Her expression warns she might slap me if I do not answer her
tout de suite.
“They are f lowers.”
She bares her teeth at me in a grimace that is equal parts disgust and impatience.
“I can see that, you stupid girl. Where did they come from?”
Stupid girl?
I am stunned into silence. My mother has never spoken to me in such a manner. Never called me such a horrid name. She steps toward me, hovering, fueled by burning resentment. I stand up to meet her.
She is so close I can almost feel the moisture of her breath. Although I am not very tall, I stand a good head taller than she. My mother does not cower. She stares up at me demanding an answer.
“They are the f lowers delivered from Édouard Manet.”
Maman slaps me hard across the left side of my face. The blow smarts like a thousand nettles, but I will not let her see how much it hurt.
A wry smile pulls at the corners of my mouth, although I
am sure my eyes speak every sentiment I wish to convey. “Édouard Manet is calling today at four o’clock.”
I believe she might strike me again, but she wavers.
“Je ne comprends pas?”
The sun disappears behind a cloud. The breeze picks up, and I noticed the air has chilled.
“I invited him.”
Her gaze is a gauntlet thrown between us.
“You shall send him a note telling him he is not welcome.” “He thinks you are the one who sent the invitation. I wrote it on the back of the note he sent Friday, and I did not sign my name. If we rescind the invitation it shall ref lect poorly
on you.”
I will my voice not to shake. Much to my relief, it does not. Maman stares at me for a long moment. I can almost see the thoughts calculating in her head.
She prides herself on being a superior hostess. This stems back to Papa’s prefect days. She has refined entertaining to an art.
“Were you planning to tell me or were you just going to let him surprise me?”
“I was going to tell you, Maman. When the time was right.”
She laughs. The sound is bitter like lemon. I wonder where Edma is and how she has managed to disappear at just the right moment. I shall not blame her. I am equally at fault here. In some ways I feel as if the largest part of the onus lay upon me.
Maman does not speak to me again until Édouard arrives. Of course, Edma and I make ourselves scarce, after I find my sister hiding in the kitchen. She heard Maman yelling at me on the terrace and had hidden out with Amélie. I consider berating
her for being such a coward and letting me bear the brunt of our mother’s anger, but it will not change anything.
Edma and I sit quietly. Amélie has left the room to prepare for our guest.
Although it is hard knowing Maman is cross at us, I feel better knowing the secret is revealed. It is as if the curtains have been thrown open so that light may cleanse a haunted room.
We know our mother will graciously receive Édouard. She will brief ly hear what he has to say and will find a way to usher him out. He’ll be standing on the walk before he realizes he was never welcome in the first place.
“So he wants to paint you,” Edma says. “Is she afraid you will turn into Olympia right before her very eyes?”
Olympia, scandal’s own mistress. It is rumored that Victorine Meurent, the beautiful woman who posed for
Olympia,
was Édouard’s mistress. But she left him. For years now, he has had no regular model. I didn’t realize he was searching for one. Perhaps he’s not.
Still, I can’t help but picture myself as Olympia, wanton and mocking, sprawled in serene impudence, with a thin black ribbon around my neck and a small slipper on one foot. The other foot, brazenly bare, tucked beneath the sole of my shoe, toes teasing, hinting at hidden promises yet to be discovered. If Maman knew, she would lock me away for the rest of my life.
“Mademoiselle Berthe, your mother wishes you to join her in the drawing room.”
Amélie’s voice shocks me back into reality. Edma grabs my hand.
He is here.
I had not heard his knock.
Somehow, he has slipped in unnoticed. Edma rises to accompany me.
“
Pardon, Mademoiselle.
Madame wishes Mademoiselle Berthe to come alone.”
Edma’s mouth falls open, but she doesn’t make a vocal protest. As I walk alone like a doomed woman to the guillotine, the other Berthe chants with each step I take toward Édouard
.
Olympia, who looks the world in its naked eye without a blink of shame.
Was that how I looked Thursday night as Stevens goaded Édouard to ask me to sit for him?
Olympia, the mistress odalisque.
Is that how I look hesitating in the drawing room doorway as Édouard stands to greet me
?
There are certain places in Paris I go to seek refuge. I love to walk along the
quai
near the Louvre. There is something very soothing in the way the buildings rise up near the river Seine, like tall, stately sentries standing watch over the long, straight line of old houses with their irregular rooftops and stone balconies jutting like drooping eyelids off the melancholy faces. It is my sanctuary. I always feel as if no harm can come to me here.
Seeing Édouard in the drawing room, I want to grab Edma and run to my haven near the Louvre. Alas, it is impossible, so I try to think pretty thoughts that will calm me: the boats moored along the river dipping and nodding without a care; the rhythmic song of the water slapping the embankment; the fact that Suzanne has not accompanied her husband on this visit—
That is not a pretty thought, and I should not dwell on it.
Even if it is the truth.
I try to clear my mind, but Édouard looks stunning. I do not know if it is the way his navy frock coat turns his gray eyes a shade of deep blue or if it is just the pull of his presence that
attracts me so, but as he takes my hand and bows, I find myself at a loss for what to say or do.
“Mademoiselle. So nice to see you again.”
I look to Maman for direction. She motions for me to sit next to her on the divan. I am glad because despite her earlier anger, it feels safe, and I hope somehow it means she has forgiven me. Or at least that time has blunted the edge of her anger.
“Maman sends her regards,” says Édouard after taking a seat across from us. His silver-tipped walking stick lay on the f loor next to him. His elbows are propped on the arms of the chair. He steeples his long, slender f ingers as he speaks. “She wanted to come, but I told her it would be best if I came alone.”
Amélie slides a tea try on the table between us. Silently, Maman indicates for me to pour the tea. The room is so quiet, I pray my hand does not shake and cause the cup and saucer to rattle.
I manage to complete the task without disgracing myself and hand him the first cup.
As he takes hold of
la soucoupe
, he says, “Mademoiselle, I deeply regret what happened Thursday night. It was a disaster. A disgrace. Monsieur Stevens and I meant no harm to your good name.”
Édouard looks me square in the eyes. His words resonate in earnest, an agitated swirl, as if a swarm of bees has taken formation in my belly. A few seconds pass before I realize I am still holding onto the saucer.
I let go. A small wave of tea splashes over the top of the cup.
Édouard has the good grace to pretend not to notice and turns his attention to Maman
.
“If necessary, Stevens will call to apologize himself.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Maman says and changes the subject. “Monsieur Manet, before Berthe joined us you mentioned you have just returned from Boulogne.”
Édouard sips his tea. He lowers the cup to the saucer resting it on this knee. “I have, indeed. In fact, Maman
,
Suzanne, and Léon are still there.”
So that explains it. It was simply not practical for her to come. I was not sure if finding justification for her absence made me feel better or worse. But, there it was . . .
“They will stay for the rest of the month, but I will travel back and forth between Paris and Boulogne. I must work, and it is impossible to paint with the family in such proximity. Besides, Boulogne will not work for my next project.” His gaze f licks to me, then back to Maman
,
who watches him, sizing him up as a judge decides the fate of a criminal.
“What is this next project, Monsieur?” she asks coolly.
“In Boulogne, one morning I was out for a stroll and happened upon the most interesting sight. It was a vision. A woman sitting high upon a balcony fanning herself. It reminded me of Goya’s balcony painting. Breathtaking. I saw it in Spain in sixty-five. Are you familiar with the work?”
I nod. “I once admired an engraving of it in a book.”
“It is a masterpiece.” His eyes are full of wonder. He opens his mouth to speak again, falters, then blurts, “What Stevens says is true. I have longed to paint your daughter’s portrait, Madame. I would be most humbled and most appreciative if you would allow her to join Mademoiselle Claus and Monsieur Guillemet in my own re-creation of Goya’s balcony composition.”
He strings the words together in one breath, as if pausing he might be robbed of the opportunity to finish. Then the three of us sit in thick silence staring into our teacups. The grandfather clock ticks a full fifteen beats before my mother
says, “Berthe has quite a mind of her own. The decision is hers.”
Maman will not look at me. She sips her tea and stares at a spot over Édouard’s right shoulder.
“Mademoiselle, you would come into my studio first as a colleague, second as a
model.
” He turns back to Maman
.
“I use that term with all due respect, Madame.”
Overwhelmed by the sick feeling that Maman was pushing me into my own trap, making me pay for my defiance, I cannot answer.
Inside me two Berthes war: one is the picture of Propriety. The obedient daughter. The proper lady, quiet and contemplative; the other is an impulsive woman I scarcely recognize—an ugly creature prone to being swept away, she is not so compli-ant, discreet, or pensive—an Olympia of sorts.
Lost in impulse’s shadow, Propriety cannot find her voice. This delights Olympia. So does the thought of my being Édouard’s model
.
Yes, the prospect delights and arouses her.
Impulse pushed me along the knife’s edge and delivered
Édouard to me this afternoon. It is impulse that makes me say, “Of course, I will be your model.”
There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the proportion.
—Francis Bacon
o
sooner has Édouard invited us to his studio on Thursday to begin the session and taken his leave, when Maman’s anger sweeps through like a mistral menacing all in
its path.
“You are a disgrace to yourself and your family.”
I should have expected her anger. On a deeper level, I knew it was coming, yet I was too afraid to face it to even brace myself for the inevitable: that she would f ly to pieces after I had betrayed her twice in one day.
She had seen him to the door, leaving me in the drawing room alone. Once the front door clicks shut, I rise from my seat on the divan and make for the sanctuary of my studio.