Read Online With Violets by Elizabeth Robards - Free Book Online Page A

sulking at my easel trying to work, trying to not think of how mad Maman was at me, when Edma started making silly remarks, taking on the voices of the men who had attended the soirée at the Manets’ home on the Thursday prior. She was trying to make me laugh, but was failing miserably. I was growing quite irritable because she was making it nearly impossible for me to concentrate.
    She held a paintbrush under her nose. I guess it was supposed to be a mustache, and she could barely keep a straight face.
    She deepened her voice into a slurred, faux baritone, imitating Stevens’s drunken antics. “Just ask her, or must I do it for you, you poor, poor miserable man?”
    I don’t know if it was the way her voice cracked during her ridiculous imitation of a drunken man that tickled me so, or the ridiculous way she looked with that brush balanced between her nose and upper lip, but I succumbed to her giddy buffoonery and said, “You want misery ? I shall give you misery. ” I grabbed the paintbrush from her and pretended to fence.
    Edma clapped.
    “ Mesdames et messieurs, I present to you the new Olympia.”
    I performed a dramatic, slow curtsy, waving my brush with a f lourish.
    Edma clapped louder, “Brava!”
    The memory teased a smile to my lips.

    “Do you like it?” Édouard’s deep voice, all too real sounds behind me, and I snap the sketch book shut and return it to its place on the worktable.
    The silence between us is a silken cord that binds me to him. It is too much, pressing down like a lover’s body. All my senses meld together until I hear my own blood rushing through my veins; or perhaps it is his breath against my neck or his hands in my hair.
    Yet when I turn to face him, he stands at a respectable distance. “I hope you do not mind my looking. I was just . . .”
    His expression, a look of sultry longing, of want and raw need, catches me so off guard I cannot speak.
    “Not at all. By all means, please look until you have had your fill.” He picks up Baudelaire’s book of poems and holds it out to me. “Would you like to borrow it?”
    I do not answer because the studio’s front door bangs open, and Madame Manet staggers through the threshold, holding a large picnic basket with both hands.
    “Bonjour, everyone!” she calls.
    Édouard hands me the book, which I take, for lack of knowing what else to do, and rushes over to take the basket from her.
    “Maman , what a surprise. I had no idea you were coming today.”
    I set down the book, knowing I cannot bring it home. I cannot even allow myself to imagine the scene it would cause in the carriage on the way home. Fully expecting Suzanne to trail in after Madame Manet, I move away from the table to join the others, feeling more than a little indiscreet at having lost myself in Édouard’s belongings.
    “I thought I would bring your lunch.” Madame Manet greets Maman . “I brought enough for an army. There is plenty for everyone.”

    Édouard closes the door. No Suzanne.
    Why did she not accompany Madame Manet? Why would she let her mother-in-law bear the burden of the long journey and transporting the food alone?
    Édouard sets down the basket and kisses his mother on the cheek. “What a surprise. How very kind of you to come all this way, Maman.”
    Madame Manet beams and retreats to Maman’s side. “Madame Morisot, I am so very happy to see you here today.” She hesitates, and I wonder if she will mention the unfortunate events at the soirée, but she does not. Probably for the best, because I’m not sure how Maman will respond.
    Instead, she asks her son, “How is the painting progressing?” “We have not yet begun. But I was just about to suggest we
    get to work.” He looked at me. “Shall we?”
    He drags a chair to the balcony setting, and indicates for me to sit. Once I am in place, he lifts my left arm to rest on the makeshift railing. My body hums at his deliberate touch. Yet, there’s nothing personal in it. It’s all in