With Violets Read Online Free PDF Page B

sense of the appropriate trails after him like the unclean stench of a leper. I do not wish my daughters infected by him.

    A bouquet of purple hyacinths and a note arrive the next morning.
    When Amélie presents them to Maman, Edma and I are sitting on the divan in the drawing room with sketch pads in our laps. Maman rests in her chair by the window and reads the letter with a face as blank as untouched paper .
    Cradling the blossoms, Amélie stands slightly behind our
    mother and gives us a knowing smile.
    An arched brow.
    A nearly imperceptible nod.
    Edma elbows me and mouths, “From him. ”
    I bite my lip as my gaze f lickers to Maman . But she is still scrutinizing the note through her lorgnette.
    Amélie shifts the f lowers so she can hold them out for Ma-man’s inspection . Their pleasing scent f ills the room, and I inhale the sweet expression of Édouard’s regret.

    Hyacinths, the f lower of repentance. A symbol of atone-ment for one’s misdeeds.
    Maman inspects the bouquet through her glasses, but does not accept it.
    After a moment’s hesitation, Amélie retracts the f lowers. “I beg your pardon, Madame, the courier awaits your answer.”
    Lips pursed into a tight rosebud, my mother lowers her looking glass and thrusts the card at the maid. “The answer is no. Return the f lowers immediately.”
    Edma gasps.
    My heart twists. “No? Maman! ”
    I scoot to the edge of the divan. The sketch pad falls from my lap as I hover in a half-sitting, not-quite-standing pose.
    “They are beautiful.” My voice is a squeak. “Please do not send them away. We . . . we could use them in the studio, arrange them into a beautiful still life.”
    My mother looks right through me. Just as she had as we boarded the carriage last night. Even if she had struck me it would not have hurt as much as seeing her blind rage.
    My knees give way and I fall back into the cushions.
    Oh, she says she does not blame me. Last night she pro-claimed the fiasco Stevens’s fault, belittled his disregard for proper decorum.
    “Right in front of Madame Manet,” she had said in the carriage. The black of night cloaking her disgust, but I knew the look. She wore it like a decorated soldier who had been wounded in battle.
    As I counted the clip-clip-clop of the horse’s hooves muffled by the squeak and rattle of the carriage, she ranted, “Right in front of Suzanne, as if she were not the wife. As if she would not care that her husband might be ‘languishing in misery’ over another woman. Unnnnnnthinkable. ” Maman had drawn out the word, her voice an octave higher than its usual pitch.

    I stared out the window for the duration of the trip, relieved I could not fully see her face. Or perhaps I was glad she could not see mine.
    “It is a good thing your father was not with us tonight to witness such a slight against his own f lesh and blood.”
    A small oomph punctuated her words as she threw herself against the seat back. Finally, it seemed the rant had f lushed her bile. The rhythmic sway of the carriage, carrying us home through rain dwindling to a soft patter, lulled her into heavy stillness.
    I know she blames me, even if she does not realize it herself.

    I am twenty-seven years old and long past marriageable
    age. Even worse, I am a painter, a sympathizer of the disgrace-ful cretins who passed my portrait back and forth like a bawdy joke, an illicit amusement.
    Pornography between married men.
    If word of last night’s incident gets out, my chances of finding a husband will narrow even further. The only reason it gives me pause is the potential repercussions Edma might suffer because of my antics.
    She is changing, starting to come around with interest in Adolphe Pontillon. A navy man. A sensible man with whom she can make a life and have so many bébés to fill her world they will edge out everything except proper life.
    As for me, sometimes I feel as if there is another Berthe who lives deep inside me. She is not the dutiful