With Violets (28 page)
Only because he is a nice man, who has become a good friend since that terrible walk home during the Commune, have I decided to attend tonight’s dinner party that Maman is hosting under the guise of a welcome home soirée.
It is simply an excuse to throw Eugène and me together. He must be as confounded by the idea as I am. Tonight we will have a good laugh at the preposterous notion.
I sit at my dressing table and dab Parma Violet perfume on my neck. As I glance in the mirror, I think of how it will be good to see Degas. I’ve missed him and his wry humor.
Of course, Édouard will also be in attendance. That is a matter with which I am not entirely prepared to deal. I have not heard from him since that visit in Mirande. Alas, since Maman and Madame Manet have grown so close, I must learn to come to terms with this change in our relationship.
If he is angry, there is always the chance that he will be otherwise engaged this evening. I try to ignore the thud of disappointment that grips my chest at the thought and instead
count my blessings. We are all well and able to come together after such a horrendous year.
Smoothing the low-cut emerald
moiré
silk, I try to focus on the positive. The dress has always been one of my favorites. It is the f irst occasion I have had to wear it since the war, and it hangs on my frame quite a bit looser than I would like, but it still makes me feel good.
Yes, we are alive. Tonight I shall celebrate the fact that my family and friends have lived through hell to gather together again.
As my foot hits the last step, the door knocker sounds. Amélie bobs a curtsy as she whisks in front of me to greet the guests.
I hear Édouard’s voice among that of several others, and it annoys me the way my heart beats a little faster in my chest. As Amélie takes hats and wraps, I scoot into the empty drawing room and arrange myself on the divan, trying to look unconcerned.
His words in Mirande taunt me. They eat my confidence as gangrene devours a body. I know cutting him from my life, as a surgeon’s knife cuts away a rotting limb, is the only measure by which my heart will heal.
If only it were easy.
I hear the party moving toward the drawing room, and I wonder how it will look when they find me in here waiting.
Too anxious? Would it have been better to make an entrance? Too late for that. I move to the window, and that is where I am standing when I hear Édouard’s robust,
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle.”
I turn.
He smiles. Walks to me, takes my hand in his, and lifts it to his lips, raising his eyes to meet mine the moment before his breath whispers over my hand.
For all appearances, one would never dream that our last exchange had been so volatile. I am f looded by a sense of relief—he is here. It is as if I have fallen backward into the plush safety of a big cottony cloud, but I catch myself before I allow my good sense to slip through and seep away into the stratosphere of his eyes.
The reality touchstone is Suzanne, who glares at us from across the room. She is a contrast in size to the others, for it seems as if everyone else has wasted away during the war, but somehow she has managed to increase in girth. I am astounded that Fat Suzanne is fatter than ever.
Édouard straightens and follows my gaze to his wife. He lets loose my hand, and I step away from him to greet her, Madame Manet, and Eugène. Much to my relief, Maman f loats into the room and takes charge.
“
Bonjour!
Do come in. Make yourselves at home. I am so very happy you could come.”
I feel Édouard’s gaze on me, and I feel myself tempted to slip back into places I swore I would never find myself again.
“Come, Berthe.” Maman’s voice trills. “Sit next to Eugène.”
She motions him to sit on the dark blue f lowered chintz divan. He obeys. She motions me next to him.
So it begins. If I protest, I will only embarrass the poor gentleman. So I do as Maman bids, giving Eugène a smile of resignation. In return, he looks a bit sheepish, but not at all disagreeable to my proximity.
Maman directs Édouard and Suzanne to sit across from Eugène and me. As they walk over, Maman gasps and stares at Suzanne as if seeing her for the first time this evening. “Oh, my, Suzanne! Don’t you look . . .” Maman raises her quizzing glass and rakes her gaze down Suzanne’s rotund figure. “Well, from the looks of you, you’ve certainly come out of the siege
with the weight we have all shed. You’re quite healthy, aren’t you?”
Pink washes over Suzanne’s chubby face. Her lips bunch into a thin pucker, but she does not respond verbally.
“We were in the good fortune to have plenty during the war,” says Édouard, wearily. He looks thin, drawn. Half the size of his wife. “If we had been near, we would have shared with you.”
It’s a pathetic attempt to justify her overindulgence during a time of crisis. I wonder if she ate his share of the food. I have this absurd image of Suzanne being Édouard’s overstuffed pet, sitting up and begging as he feeds her prime morsels from his plate. I certainly don’t understand what she possesses that holds him captive. They are so opposite. She is so contrary to everything he stands for.
Since I learned the truth about Léon’s paternity, I’ve often wondered what tale their lack of conceiving a child tells of the intimacy of their relationship. But how could he desire such a body? Even as seldom as Adolphe is at home, he and Edma have managed to conceive twice. I realize not every woman is quite so fertile as Edma. But after being married for as many years as Suzanne and Édouard . . .
“Superb weather we are having tonight,” says Eugène. He has angled his body toward me expectantly—one leg crossed over the other, his hands stiff ly laced over his kneecap. Although, he is not sitting inappropriately close, I have the urge to scoot away from him.
“It’s cooling off nicely,” he adds.
I nod, not really in the mood to discuss the weather. Suzanne and Édouard look on in awkward silence.
Finally, Édouard says, “Mademoiselle, pray tell me what you are working on. Your mother says you have redoubled your efforts to make a name for yourself as a painter.”
I feel a pang for Eugène, who is so obviously outmatched by his older brother. So I direct my words to Eugène hoping to draw him into the conversation.
“In Mirande, I completed several small landscapes of Edma and Jeanne. I’m talking to several dealers about representing me.”
“Would an introduction to my representatives be in order?”
Reflexively, may gaze shifts to Édouard.
“If that would help you?” Because of his smile, I wonder if he is sincere or if it is a power play to get my attention.
“If you are sincere, an introduction would be very much appreciated.”
“Well then, I shall set it up.”
Degas arrives and the party shifts into higher gear. I can tell he is in rare form the minute he walks into the room and wedges himself squarely in between Eugène and me.
“I’m sure you don’t mind, do you, Manet? It’s just that I have not had the pleasure of this fine woman’s company for far too long and we have much to catch up on.”
If Eugène minds, he does not voice his opinion. I smile at the sheer gall of Degas, the way he slides right into the space he desires for himself. For a moment I let my imagination take f light and consider how it would be as his wife— until he opens his mouth, and I realize the two of us could be great friends, but as lovers we would certainly tear each other apart.
Lovers . . .
Édouard’s presence tugs at me. My gaze drifts to him. Maman has perched herself on the other side of him and he intently listens to one of her tirades. Before I look away, his eyes snare mine and the faintest smile tugs at the corners of his lips. He has grown so thin over this hard year. He looks utterly
human sitting there all gaunt and hollow. An angel fallen to earth.
“So what is this I hear about Puvis courting you?” Degas’ words pull me back. His arched brows and curled upper lip leave no margin to ponder his opinion of the matter. “What exactly is the nature of your relationship?”
He drums his fingers on the back of the divan while I try to formulate words for that which I cannot explain. Finally I shrug and throw up my hands. “He has been a good friend to me during a very difficult time. Unlike others whom I shall not name.”
I pointedly avoid looking at Édouard.
Degas strokes his thin mustache and makes a satisfied grunt. “Yes, and didn’t I warn you that you could not count on Manet when it mattered? You didn’t believe me. Perhaps you will listen to me now when I warn you away from Puvis.”
I roll my eyes. “I beg you watch what you say. He’s my good friend—”
“No, Mademoiselle, I beg you listen to me. It is my duty to make you aware of the rather scandalous relationship your
good friend,
Puvis, has been carrying on with Princess Marie Can-tacuzène. Are you aware of his relations with her? It has been going on for the past fifteen years.”
The pit of my stomach feels as if it has dropped to my knees, and I shift in my seat to glance around to see who might have heard his rubbish. But everyone, including Eugène, who still sits next to Degas, seems to be engrossed in anecdotes all their own.
“You know nothing of the kind, do you?” His nostrils f lare as if he smells something foul. “
Um-hmm.
I f igured as much. Allow me to enlighten you. She’s the estranged wife of the Rumanian prince, but they are still very married. What makes it even more interesting is that she is your mother’s age if she’s a
day old.” Degas examines his nails in that bored manner he has perfected, and I want to slap him.
“Do not look at me like that,” he says. “I haven’t manufactured this for my own entertainment.”
I run a hand over the dark blue f lowered-chintz upholstery, knowing full well he hasn’t made it up. That makes it worse. Suddenly everything makes perfect sense. Puvis’s hesitation to talk to Maman and Papa. Their irrational distaste for him. They
knew
. Yet they didn’t bother to tell me. I wonder what might have transpired had Puvis found them at home when he called? Were they at home and thought it best to not receive him? Oh, how ridiculous. I could speculate for days and it wouldn’t change a thing.
The air in the room is stale and close with so many chattering people. It is hard to breathe. If I sit here for another moment, I think I shall scream. “Please excuse me for a moment.”
Degas nods.
“Naturellement.”
My shoes sound too loud on the parquet f loor; I can hear the tread over the din of conversation as I walk to the window at the other end of the large room.
I twist the knob until my knuckles turn white and wonder if there is anything in this world that is real, that turns out as it seems.
My hand slips off the knob and smacks against the wooden casement. My ref lection stares back at me and I try to process the odd emotions brewing inside. The ache that pulses inside me in the chasm that should contain my heart; the melancholy discontent bubbling up from the depths of me. The calm final-ity that it is over with Puvis.
Click.
Just like that.
It is almost a relief and that in itself worries me more than the discovery of his unattainable lady love.
I lean my forehead against the cool glass. A white moth performs loops outside the window. I hear the hopeless
thud
as it futilely throws itself against the pane. The little creature does not know that it is not always better on the other side.
If I loved Puvis, I should ask him for the truth. I would if it mattered.
I reach up and give the knob one last grinding crank. It turns. The bar latch gives. I stumble backward, into someone standing behind me.
It is Édouard. His hands fall to my waist. I pull away.
“I came to assist you with the window. You were struggling.”
It is not much what he says, but how he looks at me as he speaks. He so thin, so intense, a shadow of the carefree dandy who used to own the city. My heart aches because the man I loved is still very much intact.
“Thank you, but I have managed quite well on my own.”
“Oui
, I can see that.”
I turn back to the window. The cool night air washes over me. The moth has f lown in and rests on the windowsill. Now that it is in, I wonder if it is damaged from banging so fiercely against the glass.
“I couldn’t help but overhear what Degas was saying to you. He has no manners. I’m sorry he revealed Puvis’s secret to you in that manner.”
I wonder who else might have overheard.
“I suppose I’m a bad judge of character,” I say, not quite sure why. Not quite sure how I expect him to respond. I can’t see his face because he stands squarely behind me, but I can imagine his expression, see him crossing his arms and stroking his beard as he frowns.
“
Au contraire, Mademoiselle.
You’re quite astute. Save for the misconception that you believe I do not care for you.”
He shifts behind me. I can see his face ref lected in the angled glass. It’s a gentle face, and my heart softens.
“Do you care, Édouard?” I whisper.
“I love you. I wish you would stop punishing me long enough to believe me.”
A chestnut dances in the breeze and a slip of pale moon-light peeks through. Édouard steps closer. Runs a finger along my arm. I cannot speak as each caress stitches closed the chasm around my heart.
“Berthe,” he whispers. “I have not been able to eat or sleep or paint without you. I need you. Come to me tomorrow.”
A bell rings in the background. As if from another dimen-sion, Maman’s voice announces dinner is served.
Édouard joins the others on their pilgrimage to the dining room. I linger a moment, as solitary as
Victorie de Samothrace,
and stare at the sliver of moon that lights the black abyss of night.
High above the Aegean Sea,
Victorie
unfurls her wings in celebration. Zephyr’s warm wind blows in from the west, and the white moth takes f light.
