With Violets (22 page)
the artillery. Renoir has been posted to Bordeaux. I do not believe you are aware of the gravity of this situation.”
“Papa has determined it is safe for us to stay. That is what we shall do until he advises otherwise.”
“I have hidden many of my unsold canvases in the cellar of my studio. Special canvases, such as
Le Balcon
and your painting of Edma in Lorient
,
I have given to Théodore Duret to store in his vault. I would not want anything to happen to them.”
“What is taking Amélie so long with the tea?” Maman stands. “If you will excuse me, Monsieur Manet, I shall go hurry her along. I know you do not have all day.”
She bustles out in a f lurry of copper-colored skirt, leaving the door open behind her.
“I have missed you
mon amour
,” he says.
I fear Maman is still within earshot, but I do not hear gasps of astonishment or footsteps hurrying back in regret of leaving us alone.
“How can you tell such falsehoods? If you missed me, you would not have stayed away.”
“I am sorry, but in case you have not noticed, France is at war.”
I glare at him.
“Your presence has been too scarce for you to notice, but since I saw you last, I feared I was carrying your child.”
The color drains from his face, and I take perverse pleasure in watching him struggle with the thought. I stand and walk to the window.
“Do not worry,” I say over my shoulder as I toy with the drape. “It is solved. You are free. We are not . . . I am not . . . The sign that proves I am not pregnant presented itself. There is nothing to bind us.”
“Berthe, how can you say that?” He is standing now. “The heart is what binds us.”
I laugh at him. A cold, humorless sound that makes me want to cry.
“We could not bring a bastard child into such an ugly world. And now I know it is all for the best.”
He stands behind me now. The words that he does not know how to deliver hang between us unspoken. He simply lays a hand on my belly. I think I see moisture in his eyes, but he blinks. I am sure it is just relief.
“I have contemplated the logistics of freeing myself from Suzanne, but do you realize the scandal that would mire our relationship, Berthe? I am not sure you are strong enough to endure it.”
“I am not strong enough? That is just an excuse—”
Footsteps sound in the garden. I hear the wheels of the tea cart. Édouard pulls away from me and walks back to the divan. I stay by the window wishing for rain and dark gray skies,
spouting emotion I cannot express.
Papa has a new fixation: our home is safe as long as the Forts of Issy and Vanves stay in French hands. He is so convinced that the worst will befall us, he is now preoccupied with what will become of our precious furniture in what he sees as the inevitable event that we are forced to move. Ever the doomsayer, he has already started making arrangements to have our possessions stored in a safe place in the center of Paris.
He is obsessed. When I mention it, we fight. So I avoid talking to him. What I find interesting is how he has not seemed to notice the lack of communication.
“How can you spend every spare moment fretting over possessions?” says Maman. “If the situation is as grave as Monsieur Manet declares, you should be more concerned over the safety of your family; do not worry over the furniture.”
He bristles.
“If you wish to leave, you and Berthe should go to Mirande with Yves and Edma. But I will go nowhere. I have worked too hard for the treasures that you enjoy in this home, and I will not see them destroyed.
“You are so busy nagging, you did not give me a chance to tell you that I have made arrangements with a friend, Monsieur Millet, for us to move into an apartment in the rue Argensen should the fighting worsen.”
“Both of you stop it,” I say. “Stop yelling this minute.”
But Maman, with that determined look in her eye, does not hear me.
“Manet has gotten you overly excited,” she says. “You should not listen to him and you know it. He is always prone to exaggerate.”
“You will thank me should the bombs fall on the rue Franklin.” With that, Papa storms out the door and Maman collapses in a fit of tears, pushing me away when I try to console her.
I used to dream of going abroad. I had formed quite an attachment to the idea of visiting New York City in the summer. Of venturing out into the countryside and setting up my easel alongside a stream shaded by tall sugar maples with the broad green leaves the size of a man’s hand. I imagined taking off my shoes and wading up to my knees into the cool water. It would be like a baptism for the start of a new life.
The world on the other side of the Atlantic was magical to me, like the secret life on the opposite side of a mirror. You could see it and press your hand up against it. When I was a child, I used to believe if you wished hard enough you would awaken one glorious day to find yourself there.
New York is where I dreamed Édouard and I would start over. There, we could be anyone we chose to be—newlyweds,
the happy young couple embarking on a life together—pioneers exploring a brave new world. There would be no scandal—no Suzanne. No disapproving looks. No wagging tongues sharp with criticism.
Just Édouard and I and the life we painted—falling asleep in each other’s arms and making love every morning as the sun rose. There we would be successful in conceiving a child.
As all able-bodied men defend Paris and I shut myself away from the outside world, I cling to that dream to keep myself alive. Édouard vowed to call again within the next week and that is when I would tell him. We could make plans, and he would see I am not so weak as to forfeit our life together.
The more I think about it, the more perfect it seems. The war is the perfect cover. Suzanne is away. My presence seems to irritate Maman and Papa more and more each day—so much so that I have come to believe they will be better off without me. I can tell them I am going to stay with Edma. Édouard and I would simply take a train to the coast, board a ship, and sail away.
S
EPTEM BE R
19, 1870
True to his word, Édouard calls at the rue Franklin with his brother, Eugène.
Maman and I entertain them in my studio, since it is the only place in the house with enough furniture to offer our guests a place to sit.
“The Prussians are so brutal. The atrocities they perpetrate defy logic.” Édouard shakes his head, leans in, and lowers his voice. “Word is they desecrated a convent and raped a young novice. Mademoiselle, promise me you will not venture out alone.”
I have no stomach for horror stories. Eugène must read as much in my expression. He scoots forward on his chair. His teacup clatters against his saucer.
“Édouard, stop such morbid talk.” I have never heard Eugène speak so boldly. “Can’t you see how you are scaring the poor woman?”
“I am f ine, Monsieur. Thank you for your concern. Even so, I shall not venture out of doors. I do not think I could bear to see my beloved city in such turmoil. I have been distracting myself by reading and working. In fact, that reminds me. Édouard, could you assist me with something? There is a book on the shelves in the sitting room that is on a ledge much too high for my reach. Could I trouble you to get it for me?”
“Certainly, Mademoiselle.”
As we stand, I hold my breath waiting for Maman to question my request or Eugène to offer his assistance, but the two commence talking about the strength of the National Guard.
Édouard and I walk to the sitting room, listening to the faint murmur of conversation streaming from the studio. I hear Eugène say, “With the speed in which the Prussian army advances, sometimes I fear I will not survive this terrible ordeal.”
Once inside, he follows me to the bookcases. I turn to him. “I am so happy to see you today. I wanted to believe you
would come, yet the last time it had been almost—”
“
Shhhh.”
He slips his arms around me and covers my mouth with his. “Do not waste our time together on unhappiness,” he says, pulling me closer.
“I was thinking about what you said. We would not have to endure scandal if we were not here to face it.”
“Hmmmm. . .,”
he answers, his lips on my neck. My head tilts in automatic response, allowing him room to possess me.
“Édouard, listen to me.” I plant my hands on his shoulders and make room between us, but he tries to close the gap, tries to reclaim my body. “I want us to go away. Tomorrow. I have it all planned.”
He looks at me through hooded eyes, and I cannot tell what he is thinking. So I continue before he has the chance to stop me or before I changed my mind.
“Meet me at the Gare Saint-Lazare at ten o’clock. We can catch the eleven o’clock train for the coast. By the day after, we can be on a boat sailing for America.”
Édouard blinks. He runs his hand through his beard. Sighs. “Berthe, we are at war. I—”
“
We
are not. We can be together if you will only give me your word.”
He does not answer me. He only looks at me with sorrow-ful eyes that send a mournful shudder through me.
“Édouard, please—”
“Berthe? Monsieur Manet?” Maman’s voice grew closer. “While you’re in there will you please fetch me a book, too?”
“Tomorrow at ten?”
He nods and sweeps a kiss on my lips with his finger. “The Gare Saint-Lazare.”
If all the world were mine to plunder I’d be content with just one town, And in that town, one house alone, And in that house one single room, And in that room, one cot only,
For there, asleep, is the one I love.
—ancient Sanskrit poem
fter
Édouard and Eugène leave, I have much to do before the morning without making Maman the wiser.
I’ve not even thought about how I will get out of the house alone without her noticing. I am contemplating how I will get to the station when Amélie brings me a letter from Puvis.
Dear Mademoiselle,
I am not able to pay you a call in person. So I write with high hopes that this letter finds you and your family well during this very sad time for our glorious country.
I am serving in the National Guard, in and around Versailles. Leaders assure us the fight will worsen before it gets better. For many, we will soon see our last hours.
At times like this, dear Mademoiselle, one is inclined to take stock of one’s life and what is important. I decided if I were to die today, I shall pass in peace only if you know how fond I am of you. Your friendship has always been a bright spot in my life, and my only regret is that I did not pursue you more diligently in more carefree days.
As I fight, I want you to know I am defending you. Please do not hesitate to call on me if I may serve you in anyway.
Your devoted servant, Pierre Puvis de Chavannes
I am quite astounded by Puvis’s letter. Flattered.
Touched by such a tender declaration. Quite frankly, I had no idea of the depth of his feelings. He has been a friend, appearing now and again in my life, but never has he given me any indication that his feelings run so deep. I am relieved he chose to express his feelings in a letter rather than conveying them in person. When one is so candid, so forthright they do not deserve to have their hopes dashed with the tender words still hanging in the air.
Oh, Puvis. Such a dear, sweet man. My heart is heavy as I utter a silent prayer that he will see the end of this terrible war. I take the letter to my bedroom, tuck it beneath the mattress, and remove my valise from the closet to start packing for
my new life.
*
The only way I am able to leave unnoticed is to time my departure between Papa’s leaving for work and Maman’s coming down for breakfast.
It is good that I am getting an early start because I must walk to the train station—a good five kilometers.
I wait for ten minutes after Papa closes the front door, then I quietly let myself out, hoping that Amélie will not hear the creaking f loorboards and come out to investigate. Or that my heartbeat is not echoing as loudly in the foyer as it is thumping in my ears.
I do not want to explain—or lie about where I am going— as I stand here in my travel clothes with my valise in hand.
My heart weighs heavy as I pull the door closed for what I realize will be the last time. It clicks shut, and I step onto the sun-dappled walk bathed in early morning’s gentle light. I shall miss my Passy. Although it is not my birthplace, it is where my heart will always reside.
Doubt seeps in around the edges of my tightly constructed plan. But Édouard will be there. There is no other option.
He will be there. We will board the train and be at the coast by midafternoon.
This is the only possible scenario.
The streets of Passy proper are a quiet contrast to the sound of cannon fire in the distance. A few people pass—businessmen in carriages on their way to work; mounted national guards-men patrolling the area; a boy delivering newspapers. Strolling along the cobblestone street, I keep my head down for fear I might happen upon a neighbor or a friend of my parents.
I have packed only a change of clothes, as I knew it would be a long walk. Already the valise grows heavy. I switch the case to my left hand and adjust the strings of my handbag to assure it is closed securely. I am carrying only enough francs
to pay for our train fare. Since Édouard and I did not have the time to discuss logistics, I have brought enough to pay for both of us. With his duties, I don’t know if he will have the opportunity to get money. The rest of my francs are tucked away in a pouch I have sewn inside the bodice of my dress.
The breeze blows the faint smell of smoke from a faraway fire, but it smells like freedom to me. I focus on the fact that by this time tomorrow, Édouard and I will be on a ship sailing for New York.
All is going well until I travel about one kilometer down the Avenue Kléber and hit a roadblock.
“Mademoiselle, where are you going?” The armed soldier is young but talks as if he is a father reprimanding a child. “Why are you out this morning by yourself ?”
