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his mouth, but in that moment of betrayal he had tied the knot of his own undoing, having seeded Berthe’s mind with a tortuous logic that no amount of his later pleading could undo.
    Now, two and a half years later, Édouard strolled the palais grounds, trying to appear contemplative in the sea of society and its show of finery and
arrivisme
, even as his sense of longing grew into an ardent panic. Once again he felt himself unseated. He didn’t like to feel this way, but that assertion, he knew, might just be a lie. There was something so enlivening about his persistent boiling need and the secretive glances and the perpetual denial that at times he thought it might be desire he loved and not Berthe.
    Berthe had to be here, he thought, in the gardens, or perhaps hiring a cab. It seemed impossible that she could hide herself, even in this crowd, for she looked like no one else in Paris. Her beauty hypnotized: a bounty of raven hair pinned into soft waves that fell about her face, haunting black eyes that seduced despite her natural reserve, and a complexion so pale it startled everyone. People had been known to gasp when they first met her, an occurrence so embarrassing that she avoided parties and evenings where she might not know some of the guests. But he couldn’t find her. He made one last sweep of the grounds, hoping that his gaze appeared bored enough to convince anyone who knew him that he was merely exhausted from the day’s feverish throngs. And he was tired. His legs were bothering him. All day he had nursed them, shifting his weight from heel to aching heel, trying to assuage the dull numbness that had appeared from nowhere. The doctor had recommended water treatments, which his wife was eager for him to take because it meant a summer in Austria, which suited her idea of how a summer ought to be spent, but Édouard did not like leaving Paris, even though he had once begged Berthe to.
    Placing his hat on his head, he limped toward the Champs-Élysées and the long cab line, where he hoped he might find her. He would feign astonishment, offer his protection, which, in public, she would have to take, for fear of fostering even more rumors. But the snaking queue yielded nothing of Berthe, so he waited for his own cab to the Nouvelle-Athènes, where he hoped Degas, if he were still there, might favor him with more of his condemnation regarding his disloyalty and ill-placed aspirations, effectively stripping Berthe from his mind.
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    Berthe Morisot was seated at a little table quite distant from the palais doors when she saw Édouard weaving between the tables. She opened her parasol to hide her face and only lowered it when, peeking from behind its lace ruffle, she observed him hobbling toward the Champs-Élysées. She had worn a new dress for the opening, one he didn’t know, and she was grateful that her little disguise had worked. This morning, Eugène had wished her well, pretending that he didn’t know where she was going, saying how glad he was that they would go together to the Salon tomorrow, and ignoring the pink heat radiating from her severe cheekbones, which he had long ago noticed appeared only on certain occasions, usually Thursday nights, when they saw Édouard at his mother’s evening.
    And it was Eugène’s spousal generosity—or ignorance—that had kept Berthe from Édouard today, when she had dared to arrive unescorted to the Salon. Hiding behind a fan, jostled but concealed by the throngs, she had watched Édouard and Degas from across the crowded “M” room, alert to Édouard’s distinctive face, uncertain as to whether he was disappointed or relieved that she wasn’t there. If Édouard only knew his brother’s forbearance, he, too, might feel ashamed, but she had long ago learned that shame was not in Édouard’s vocabulary. The little dance she played with