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.”
Chapter Six
There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the proportion.
—Francis Bacon
N
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.
But I am too late.
Maman corners me. “You sit right there and listen to me.” She thrusts her finger in my face and backs me to my place on the divan. “You will not humiliate this family.”
The force of her anger seems to vibrate the house, but soon
I realize it is only her voice that shakes. I could more easily weather another slap across the face. I would have even pre-ferred she drag me by the ear and throw me out into the street at Édouard’s feet rather than face the bald realization of how much I had hurt her.
It is not what I intended, but feeding on itself, the circumstance has taken on a course of its own. The reality is a physical ache that manifests itself in the pit of my stomach, a by-product of the lump lodged in my throat that will not allow me to speak.
She gave me the choice and I took it.
Probably for the best I cannot say this, as this will only worsen the situation.
“I suppose you think you know what is best?” She is screaming at me. “You know what you are doing? How are you going to explain this to your father?”
I try to answer, but my attempt to speak against her barrage of questions is as useless as trying to walk against the winds of the mistral. I let her blow.
After a long while she winds down with, “What are you trying to prove?” I do not answer immediately. She must think I am mocking her with sullen silence.
“Answer me when I speak to you! I asked you what you are trying to prove?”
I cleared my throat. “I am not trying to prove anything, Maman . ”
Heat f lames my neck and ears. I hope my mother will not
notice. She shakes her head, disgust skewing her small features. “He is a married man, Berthe. You are a single woman. Have you become so blinded by selfishness you have forgotten it is not merely your own reputation at stake here?”
I knew it was not my future over which she fretted. It was Edma’s relationship with Adolphe. The one bright spot she had
pinned her dreams upon. Certainly more hope than I had given her.
“Maman , I do not know what you mean. Married or not, I have no ill intentions. I simply want to learn from Monsieur Manet . ”
“Learn? Learn what? You do not need another painting teacher.”
“I am not looking for a teacher as much as I am looking for the inspiration I might receive by just watching him work.”
“Ridiculous. Your father and I have invested far too much money in your lessons with Messieurs Guichard and Oudinot. If you must seek inspiration elsewhere, we are not getting our due from them.”
She throws her hands in the air and talks as if someone else is in the room. “We spoil her. That is
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.”
Chapter Six
There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the proportion.
—Francis Bacon
N
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.
But I am too late.
Maman corners me. “You sit right there and listen to me.” She thrusts her finger in my face and backs me to my place on the divan. “You will not humiliate this family.”
The force of her anger seems to vibrate the house, but soon
I realize it is only her voice that shakes. I could more easily weather another slap across the face. I would have even pre-ferred she drag me by the ear and throw me out into the street at Édouard’s feet rather than face the bald realization of how much I had hurt her.
It is not what I intended, but feeding on itself, the circumstance has taken on a course of its own. The reality is a physical ache that manifests itself in the pit of my stomach, a by-product of the lump lodged in my throat that will not allow me to speak.
She gave me the choice and I took it.
Probably for the best I cannot say this, as this will only worsen the situation.
“I suppose you think you know what is best?” She is screaming at me. “You know what you are doing? How are you going to explain this to your father?”
I try to answer, but my attempt to speak against her barrage of questions is as useless as trying to walk against the winds of the mistral. I let her blow.
After a long while she winds down with, “What are you trying to prove?” I do not answer immediately. She must think I am mocking her with sullen silence.
“Answer me when I speak to you! I asked you what you are trying to prove?”
I cleared my throat. “I am not trying to prove anything, Maman . ”
Heat f lames my neck and ears. I hope my mother will not
notice. She shakes her head, disgust skewing her small features. “He is a married man, Berthe. You are a single woman. Have you become so blinded by selfishness you have forgotten it is not merely your own reputation at stake here?”
I knew it was not my future over which she fretted. It was Edma’s relationship with Adolphe. The one bright spot she had
pinned her dreams upon. Certainly more hope than I had given her.
“Maman , I do not know what you mean. Married or not, I have no ill intentions. I simply want to learn from Monsieur Manet . ”
“Learn? Learn what? You do not need another painting teacher.”
“I am not looking for a teacher as much as I am looking for the inspiration I might receive by just watching him work.”
“Ridiculous. Your father and I have invested far too much money in your lessons with Messieurs Guichard and Oudinot. If you must seek inspiration elsewhere, we are not getting our due from them.”
She throws her hands in the air and talks as if someone else is in the room. “We spoil her. That is
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