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wind tousling my hair out of its chignon.
    They are not neighbors, merci Dieu . In fact, I have never seen them in my life. But my, how right they look strolling together in the gentle warmth of the morning sunshine oblivious to my near mishap with the boy, unaware of all but each other.
    Just as they pass, I glimpsed a nuance in the woman’s expression, a mixture of aloof pleasure and worldly knowing, a subtle power in the tilt of her chin.
    I follow their movement as they continue down the rue Franklin until they are silhouetted by the sun. The light burns my eyes.
    The sun’s glow ref lects off windows and metal rooftops be-lying the storm that savaged us last night. It strikes me that fate is no more than a storm that blows through, upsetting everything in its path, until a random change of course propels it in

    a new direction, leaving us to pick up the pieces of our broken lives.
    Movement out of the corner of my eye draws my attention to the manservant from last night’s soirée. Slouched against the stone wall, he looks much younger than he appeared last night; a boy who has barely passed through the threshold of manhood. He straightens when he sees me and tips a quick nod.
    I hold out the note. “Please deliver this to Monsieur Édouard Manet. Merci. ”
    He reaches out to take it from me. The light captures the
    ink stain that sullied my palm. My gaze f lickers to the note and my writing, scrawled as dark and bold as a dirty secret exposed to the world.
    In a dreamlike slow motion, he takes possession of the letter. I glimpse a f licker of amusement in his eyes, and it seems I can almost read his thoughts: f lowers from a married man to a woman who is not his wife; notes with sweet sentiments f lying back and forth. All fodder for folly.
    I am probably not the first.
    Instinct screams for me to repossess the note, but by that time he has already thanked me and turned away.
    I should go after him or at least holler, “Tell him no. The answer is no.”
    But Maman appears at the gate.
    “Berthe, what are you doing out here?” Her initial surprise settles into an angry line across her forehead.
    Panic, like pinpricks, courses through me as I look from her to the courier who is growing smaller as he makes his way down the rue Franklin.
    “You’re f lushed,” Maman says.
    She reaches for my cheek, but I draw back. Her eyes f lash. “What is the matter with you? What in heaven’s name are

    you doing out here all alone? No hat. No wrap. Really, Berthe.”
    Edma peers at me over Maman’s shoulder. I glance from her wide, guilty eyes to my mother’s, narrow and accusing.
    “I needed . . . .” Wide and guilty. “I thought . . . .”
    Narrow and accusing. “I needed . . . air.”
    “Why did you not go out into the garden instead of coming out here like this?”
    Under the pressure of her scrutiny and too shaken to speak, I simply shrug and glance down the street. I have lost sight of the messenger. As I stand in front of my mother I try not to gulp air in greedy, unladylike breaths.
    “Come inside at once.” Maman steps aside to afford me room to pass. As she follows Edma and me up the walk to the house, she mutters the entire way. “Since last evening both of you have behaved strangely. All the more justification for avoiding that man . Yes indeed. Controversy breeds controversy. That is what I have always believed— Edma!”
    At the top of the steps, Maman grabs my sister’s arm. “Is this ink on your sleeve?”
    I glance at the dark stain, blue-black, on Edma’s yellow dress. I close my dirty hand and hide it in the folds of my skirt.
    The next thing I know, Maman throws Edma’s arm away from her as if it disgusts her. “Please go for a walk or go out into your studio for a bit. My nerves cannot tolerate the two of you. But change your dress first, Edma. You look like a filthy street urchin.”
    Still muttering, she pushes past us and climbs the steps to the front door.
    Edma and I stand on the