With Violets (9 page)

much the afternoon I return from Édouard’s studio. She pulls me out for a walk and we take the carriage down to the Quai du Louvre. At first I believe she has taken me here because she senses the tension between Maman and me—she knows how this stretch of the river Seine calms me. Yet, once we walk down the incline from the street to the waterfront—out of earshot of the driver—she bubbles over with excitement.

“Léon is Suzanne’s son,” she says. “I have been dying to tell you this all day.”

I blink. “No he’s not. Léon is her brother. Madam Manet—”

Edma shakes her head. “Wait until you hear this—Fantin and his sister stopped by today while you and Maman were out. One conversation led to another and he happened to mention Léon’s relationship to Suzanne. So that can only mean Manet is the father.”

“Edma, it makes no sense. The boy is in his teens. Édouard married Suzanne only a few years ago. If he married her for the child, why would he wait so many years to do so?”

Edma shrugs. “Fantin said the wedding was a big surprise to everyone. Not even his closest friends knew of his relationship with her. One day he went away, the next he came back married. Even Fantin does not understand. So you see the only explanation can be that Léon is
their
son. He married her out of obligation, not because he loved her.”

Suzanne and Édouard’s son? It does not make sense, but Edma seemed to have it all figured out.

“That’s quite scandalous, indeed, Edma. But, the fact remains that even if Léon is their son—which I do not believe— and even if Édouard married her a dozen years after the fact, they are married and even explaining away the marriage does not make Édouard more available to me.”

In fact, the realization accomplishes nothing but casting me in a foul mood, and I think it best to change the subject. “The way Maman carried on this afternoon about
gentleman callers
, one would think there was going to be a wedding in
our
fam-ily’s future.”

Edma blushes a pretty shade of pink as we stroll along the quai. She does not comment, but her silence—and dreamy smile—give me pause.

“Is there something you would like to tell me?” I ask. She shrugs. Noncommittal.

“Has Adolphe—”

“Oh, no no no. He has asked me nothing.”

Yet, something in her smile suggests more, something she is not telling me. It has been days since we’ve had a chance to talk. I feel distant and disconnected from her. As we walk in silence, I also feel secure that she will tell me in due time if there is something more. She does not keep secrets as I do. Everything about Edma is forthright.

“Maman made believe the gentleman caller was for you?” she asked.

I nod.

“And you said nothing to the contrary?”

“Of course not. She is already furious with me. If I had corrected her in the company of others, our mother’s anger would have opened heaven and earth. Do not look at me as if I took the coward’s way out.”

“But why? Why would she do that other than to thwart any
improper
intentions she fears might be f leeting through Édouard’s mind?”

That familiar sensation of tight spirals swirl in my stomach—the same as when he’d teased me earlier about temptations and making time. “
Fleeting
would be the word of emphasis, Edma. If the man has ever entertained a single thought about me, I’m sure it was just in passing.”

“You fancy him.”

I laugh as a slow burn simmers on my neck. I open my fan and start fanning. “I suppose Adolphe shall ask Papa for your hand all too soon. Possibly early fall? Perhaps even late summer?”

“Do not change the subject, Berthe. We are not talking about Adolphe. We were speaking of Édouard. From the looks of him at dinner Thursday night, I am confident Monsieur Manet fancies you, too. Surely he has entertained
several
intentions where you are concerned. But it is much too early to label his intent completely improper.”

My pulse races. I fan faster and take deep breaths to steady myself.

“See there?” She releases my arm.

I turn my head so she cannot see my expression and quicken my pace.

“Please do not hide your feelings from me.” She touches my sleeve. “Me of all people, Berthe. I will not judge you, because if not for Adolphe, I, too, would be drawn to the irresistible Manet charm. Although it would be for naught because it is evident he has eyes for only one lady. And that lady is you.”

I gasp—more out of relief than shock—and glance at my sister through the lace on my hat.

“Tell me your feelings. Tell me everything. I have never seen you this taken with a man.”

I do not know what to say, much less what to make of the jumbled emotions knotted inside me. But Edma waits. I suppose she would wait all day for me to speak.

“I have never seen such an expressive face as his I

think he has a decidedly charming temperament, which pleases me immensely.”

We walk on in silence for a moment until I finally blurt, “I suppose if he were not married I would find him attractive. Alas, it is hopeless. Suzanne has claimed him and that is the end of that.”

“When has unavailability ever precluded desire? Berthe, have you ever seen a more unsuitable pair in your entire life? No wonder the poor man vibrates with discontent and, I daresay,
longing
when he gazes at you.”

I stop. Squeeze my eyes shut against the warmth spreading

through my body. A slow thaw melts the icy wall covering my heart.

“It is hopeless, Edma. If this is how I am perceived in his

company, I am ruined. It could have negative repercussions for you, too.”

“Do not worry about me. What is to be will be. For both of us.”

How I envy my sister’s confidence. I feel as if I am standing on a rooftop contemplating a leap. I can no more choose my feelings than I can choose to stay on the roof if a tile slips and sends me sailing.

“What do you plan to do about this?” she asked. “It is not as if I have a choice in this matter.”

“
Au contraire,
sister dear. You are in complete control. For that, I envy you.”

Her words f loor me. I stop and gape at her. “I do not know what you mean.”

She laughs. “You know perfectly well what I am saying, and you of all people should not feign shock. False astonishment does not become you. You have said yourself it is not fair men are afforded all of the pleasures and women carry all the burden. If a married man may take a mistress, what is wrong with an unmarried lady taking a
monsieur
? Have you never thought of taking a lover?”

Her words transcend the clatter of the carriages rattling by. I glance around, hoping no one heard her. “Edma, do keep your voice down. You know perfectly well I cannot do as you have suggested.”

“What? Why can you not take a lover? Will you not even say the word?
Lover.
Say it, Berthe.”

“Shhhhh!”

I quicken my steps, but my sister keeps pace.

“Come now, Berthe. Do you never have
certain
. . . feelings?”

“Of course I have feelings, Edma. Do not be ridiculous.” “Berthe, I am speaking of feelings that can only be satis-

f ied by a man’s touch. You know what I am saying. . . . Your soul is much too passionate to pretend you feel nothing. It would be a crime for you to live not exploring those passions because you thought it improper. That, my dear, would not be living.”

What she says holds so many preposterous grains of truth, but my dear sister could direct, from high upon her comfortable prematrimonial perch. She is in love and I am sure from her perspective, my taking a lover looks lovely and romantic and sinfully exciting.

I do not respond, but merely stare straight ahead hoping I am not as transparent as I feel. Knowing fully that by not responding I am giving away the answer that resides in my heart.

“Berthe, your strength is nothing to be ashamed of. I admire you for not giving up on your art to bend to convention—God knows it is not the easy path. If I were stronger, I might be so inclined to devote my future to art and—”

“And what? Lovers? Rather than taking a husband?” She nods and we laugh.

I am at once happy and terrified and buoyant and hopelessly, hopefully overwhelmed by the new possibilities blossoming inside me. I have not felt so alive since—since the day I first laid eyes on Édouard.

Edma threads her arm through mine and gives me a little squeeze. We stroll along the Seine in silence.

A lover . . .
Hmmm.

The sun shines on Paris—its wide boulevards and shiny new construction glint in the afternoon light as if she has shed her dingy gray cocoon and donned a brilliant new coat. Every place I look reveals something glittering and new. Yet I know very well nothing has changed since the last time I walked this bank.

It’s the same cobblestone embankment, the same plane trees with their deep green leaves and peeling bark, the same Pont des Arts connecting the Right Bank to the Left.

Only this time, my eyes are fully open.

I tilt my head to take in the tall buildings rising over the water, standing watch over us. The breeze tickles my face and the river laps against the boats moored along the embankment, as if all things natural and manmade have joined together to welcome me to this beautiful new world. I cannot help but smile as I breathe in the sweet scent of Edma’s perfume mingled with the acrid smell of the waterfront.

For the first time in ages, I breathe easily.

“Tomorrow is Maman’s receiving day,” Edma says. “I shall go with you to Édouard’s to allow her to stay home. Perhaps that will quell her peevishness. With her absent, you might be able to relax. Would be a pity if he painted you like this.”

Edma grimaces. We laugh.

“Would be a pity for Maman and you to be sparring with each other during Tiburce’s homecoming,” she adds. “If I go with you tomorrow, the two of you will be less likely to quar-rel. Just leave it to me. I shall arrange everything for you.”

At home, an anxious-looking Amélie meets us at the front door. “I have a most urgent message for you, Mademoiselle Berthe.”

“What is it?” I ask.

“Pardon moi, Mademoiselle.”
She look over her shoulder as if to assure no one else is near. “But could we step outside into your studio? For privacy.”

Edma shoots me an urgent look and the three of us walk across the garden to the studio.

“Come in,” I say.

Amélie opens the door and quickly closes it behind her

once we were all inside. She reaches in her pocket and withdraws a small leather-bound book.

“You had a caller, Mademoiselle.”

“Who?” Edma asks. “I am not expecting Adolphe for another hour. Tell me I did not miss him.”

Amélie shakes her head. “Monsieur Manet left this for you.”

My blood runs cold at the mention of his name and even colder when I see the book is the volume
Flowers of Evil
I had perused in his studio.

“Is he still here?” I ask, hopeful in spite of myself.

“He could not wait. He just handed me the book and asked me to be sure to give it to you. There is a note tucked inside the cover. He told me to alert you to the fact.”

I open the book and see the crisp crème-colored linen paper sealed with red wax bearing the initial
M.

“Does Maman know of his call?”

“No, Mademoiselle. Please forgive me for not informing Madame, but—”

“No apology necessary, Amélie. You made the right decision.”

Relief spreads over the girl’s face. She nods. “If there is nothing else, I shall return to my duties in the kitchen.”

“
Merci
, Amélie.”

I tear open the note and read it aloud.

“Dear Mademoiselle, you left in such haste you forgot the book. I took the liberty of delivering it to you. Keep it as long as you like. Yours faithfully, E. Manet.”

“Why would he bring it to you if he is going to see you tomorrow at the studio?”

I can tell by the look on her face she is not asking a question, so much as proving a point. Still, I shrug.

Edma laughs. “Unless he was hoping to intrude on your

‘gentleman caller.’ Persistent. Obviously a man who knows what he wants. But his timing is bad.”

She shakes her head and
tsk-tsk-tsks
as she walks over to the window. “Oh poor, poor Édouard. To be cursed with such a bad sense of timing. ’Tis the undoing of many a great lover.”

Lover.
The word upends my belly, causing my hand to f ly to my stomach in self-defense.

“Edma, stop it. If Maman hears you she will have a fit.”

My sister toys with an arrangement of yellow mums sitting on the window table. “You must admit persistence is a very attractive quality.”

I cannot deny it, but it does not mean I must admit it. I have confessed enough today. Instead, I stare at his book in my hands.

“What is the book?”

When I do not answer, she crosses the room and plucks it from my hands. She gasps and her eyes f ly wide. “It is banned, is it not? Where did he get it?”

She pages through it quickly, pausing now and again to read snatches of verse.

“How you would please me, night without your stars, Which speak a foreign dialect, that jars

On one who seeks the void the black the bare . . . A dream, a form, a creature, late,

Fallen from azure realms, and sped Into some Styx of mud and lead

No eye from heaven can penetrate . . . ”

“Oh Edma, who cares if it is banned? It is innocuous. Just a collection of poetry. I do not need some moralizing windbag saving me from myself by dictating what is right and what is wrong.”

“You should give it back to him. Take it back tomorrow and tell him it does not interest you.”

“I do not want to give it back.” Edma arches a brow.

“If you are worried about giving Maman reason to have a fit, this will surely set her off if she discovers it.”

“Then she must not discover it. And she will not if no one makes her the wiser.”

Edma’s mouth falls open and she hands me the book.