Berthe smiled at Carmela. “She means Edouard Manet. You are familiar with his work?”
“Of course,” Carmela lied. She was mortified for being so out of touch, and felt her latest untruth as a hot blush. She must concentrate and focus and contribute something to this conversation. She would not be written off, not yet.
Berthe continued. “Victorine poses for him all the time. As for me, Edouard’s a friend, and I posed for him a few times-not nude of course-I am too much of a bourgeoisie for that. I modeled for him a few times only because he asked me to.”
“How can you defend him?” Victorine asked. “He refused to submit a painting for your exhibit. He’s saying his works are too good for you. And as for posing for him, you didn’t have to, you know. You could have said no when he asked. After all, Elena refused.” Victorine paused. “I am not at all like Berthe. I’ll take my clothes off if the price is right.”
Berthe spoke up. “Elena is an aristocrat who doesn’t need money and doesn’t care what other people think of her. More to the point, she doesn’t know what she wants. Here today, gone tomorrow. She runs hot and cold and truth to tell, she’s no one’s muse.”
Victorine adjusted her choker. “I beg to differ. She knows exactly what she wants, accolades from an adoring multitude. She’d model at the drop of a hat, preferably in the nude and in the most undignified pose she could imagine if she thought it would garner attention.”
Berthe shook her head. “Lately, she’s becoming more and more… outre. Drops her lovers in a flash. The other day I saw her in the Place St. Sulpice, a crowd gathered round. She was sitting on the stones having a tantrum. I hugged my cape and looked the other way, I tell you. She’s an embarrassment.”
Carmela said nothing, willing the muscles in her face to remain still.
“But in the end, who am I to judge? She’s not so bad, really. Harmless, a cipher,” Victorine said. “Except that her latest whim is painting. She wants to be a part of your movement and fancies herself as talented, although sometimes I think talent is beside the point.”
“I suppose you condone the way she treats her husband?” Berthe asked.
“What does it matter?”
Berthe wiped her hands on her apron. “He’s a wonderful man. I’d go for him in a heartbeat.”
“That’s because you’re looking for a husband.”
“That’s preposterous. Marriage would be the death of my career.” Berthe paused for a moment. “Elena uses her husband. He’s the one with the title. But that has nothing to do with me. I think he’s a gentleman, kind and gracious, a bit shy and although he dresses well, he recedes into oblivion in the face of her outrageous behavior. Her most recent escapade? She flaunts her condition, boasting that she is with child and is not at all sure who the father is. Believe it, she made that remark in front of her latest beau, a scholar twice her age and renowned for his conventional thinking.”
There was a momentary pause.
“Oh, my, well then she does use her husband. The marriage is childless, you know,” Carmela said, hoping that her remark would keep the conversation going. She’d never forgive Loffredo or her mother for their affair, flaunting it in front of the hungry eyes of Oltramari’s gossips, behaving almost as badly as Elena and at the expense of all her children. If she should run out of favor with the commissioner, she’d never work again.
“And did you see him, this scholar, the man she was with Thursday evening?” Berthe asked.
Victorine nodded. “I did, and I don’t know what she sees in him. He makes my skin crawl. Rumor has it he’s the bastard son of a famous abbot, but the Academy will have none of it. They love him.”
“That’s precisely what she sees in him,” Berthe said. “Someone bound hand and foot to the establishment. With him, she’s breaking the rules. She doesn’t care that she’s broken him. Don’t you see? Shock, that’s what she wants. And a new lover each month.”
“She’d better watch out. She’s flirting with ruin.”
Carmela blew a stray curl from her forehead.
“Did you see his face when he looked at the paintings?” Victorine asked. “Went around the exhibit in less than five minutes. It made me sick.”
Berthe Morisot crossed her arms. “Even worse was the way he regarded her. It was as if he were bound to Elena in hate. And yet I pitied him, even though he repulsed me.”
“Well, my dear. You don’t know the half of it. But I will say this in her favor. The frock she wore was a marvel. I would have asked Elena for the name of her dressmaker if I could afford to use her.”
There was another lull. Carmela had to stoke the fires. “I love talk of wardrobes and dresses. Parisian style is so unique. Do describe her frock.”
“A pale green watered silk. I’d never seen quite the color. But it was the jacket that was so clever. A darker green, quilted, gold thread running through it. And the buttons, exquisite with a tight-fitting waist, riding over the bustle and forming a train. It was meant to be tight-fitting, but it ill-suited her.”
“I think she wanted it that way. She wants everyone to know her condition. She flaunts convention,” Victorine said.
“Now that you mention it, I must agree,” Berthe said.
Carmela’s ears perked.
Victorine turned to Carmela. “But enough of this talk. You are a guest in our country and a friend of Elena.”
“Please, you misunderstand me. My family is acquainted with hers, that’s all, but we are not friends. Quite the contrary.”
“Well then.” Victorine moved closer. “I heard that her latest is in fact the father of the child she carries and he’s not at all happy about it. It’s the end of the affair, she told a good friend of mine.”
“Poor man, she’s ruined him.”
Victorine nodded. “Well, she should make another appearance soon, and it will be interesting to see the deterioration.”
“Fancies herself a painter,” Berthe said.
“No!”
They were silent. The subject, it seemed, was at an end.
“And you, Victorine, what do you think of the work in this exhibit?”
“Brilliant question. I must say most of the work here breaks new ground and several of the critics agree.”
“Yes, and for most of the people, the ordinary Parisians, art is very important,” Berthe Morisot said. “For a long time they have longed for art that touches their lives, and so they are in awe of the paintings. And some of the reviewers have been kind to us, too. Many of them, though, not so kind.”
“Who cares what they write, as long as they write about the exhibit. Most reviewers talk nonsense anyway, and the world knows that.”
Tessa returned to the room and the talk of Elena and reviewers stopped.
“Everything is so fresh, so alive,” Tessa said.
“The poses are so natural,” Carmela said. “I feel brand new.”
“And I must be getting back to my studio,” Victorine said. She took Carmela’s hand. “So nice to meet both of you and do please come for a visit. No need to send your card. I’m there all the time. I’d love to show you my work.”
After Victorine left, Berthe Morisot took them through the rest of the rooms. Although she’d seen all of the work while the others were talking, Tessa had to stop at each painting again, enthralled, and Berthe Morisot told them what she knew of each artist. “You see this sunset?”
They nodded and Tessa stepped closer, reading the name. “Claude Monet.”
“And over here-the man there with the straw hat. I must get a straw hat,” Tessa said.
“You must if you want to paint like us, outside, en pleine air.”
“These paintings are all about the light, how it changes from moment to moment,” Tessa said, her face thoughtful, contemplative as she gazed at her favorites.
“One more question if I might,” Carmela began. “Do you have the Paris address for Elena? We have a message for her from her father.”
“I might.” Berthe Morisot went over to the guest book and opened it to the first page. She ran a finger down the rows of names. It took her a few minutes, but she pointed to Elena’s signature and an address in the sixteenth arrondissement. “You can hire a cab or take la petite ceinture. You are familiar with it?”