On a fine spring day, at last, they visit the Salon. She and Olivier and Yves go together, although she and Olivier will return another day alone, her gloved hand tucked under his arm, to see their two paintings, hanging in different rooms. They have been there other years, but this is the first time--of two, as it will turn out--that Beatrice is looking for her own painting among the hundreds that crowd the walls. The ritual of attendance is familiar to her, but today it is all different; in the thronged halls, every person she sees may have seen her painting, glancing at it indifferently, gazing at it sympathetically, or frowning at its ineptitude. The crowds are no longer a blur of fashionable clothing but individuals, each capable of passing judgment.
This, she thinks, is what it means to be a public painter, to be on display. She is glad, now, not to have used her own name. Ministers of government have probably walked past her painting; perhaps so have Monsieur Manet and her old teacher, Lamelle. She wears her new dress and hat, both pearl gray, the dress edged with a thin line of crimson, the small flat hat tipped forward above her forehead, with long red streamers down the back. Her hair is coiled tightly under it, her waist tightly corseted, the back of her skirt caught up in a series of tight cascades, its hem trailing behind her. She sees the admiration in Olivier's eyes, the younger man gazing out of them. She is thankful that Yves has paused to view a painting, his hat held in two hands behind him.
It has been a glorious afternoon, but that night the evil dream returns; she is at the barricade. She has arrived too late, and Olivier's wife bleeds in her arms. She will not write to Olivier about it, but Yves has heard her groans. A few nights later he tells her firmly that she must see a doctor--she is nervous, pale. The doctor prescribes tea, a beefsteak every two days, and a glass of red wine at lunch. When the nightmare recurs a few more times, Yves tells her he has made plans for her to take a holiday on the Norman coast they love.
They are sitting in her small boudoir, where she has been resting all evening with a book; Esme has built up the fire. Yves says he must insist; there is no point in her wearing herself down further with household cares when she is not well. She can see from the concern in his face, the lines under his eyes, that he will not take no for an answer; this is the determination, the will, the love of order that has made him so successful in his career and brought him through hard times in the city again and again. She has forgotten, lately, to search his face for the person she has known and admired for years; his firm gray eyes, his air of neat prosperity, his surprisingly kind mouth, his thick brown beard. She has not noticed in some time what a young face it is; perhaps it is simply that he is in the prime of life, his life and hers--he is six years older than she. She closes her book and asks him, "How can you leave your work?"
Yves brushes the knees of his suit; he has not stopped to change for dinner, and the dust of the city is still on his clothes. Her blue-and-white chairs are a little too small for him. "I will not be able to come," he says regretfully. "I wouldn't mind a bit of a rest myself, but it would be terribly difficult for me to leave now, with the new offices going in. I have asked Olivier to take you."
She steels herself not to speak for a moment, but she is dismayed. Is this what life has in store for her? She considers telling Yves that his uncle's history is the cause of her nervous state, but she will not betray the trust Olivier has placed in her. Besides, Yves could never understand how one person's love could give another person nightmares. At last she says, "Will that not greatly inconvenience him?"
"Oh, he was hesitant at first, but I pressed him hard, and he knows how grateful I shall be if you can get the color back in your face."
It hovers between them that they might yet conceive a child, and also that Yves is constantly busy or tired and they have not made love in several months. She wonders if he is proposing some kind of fresh start, but wants to make her well first.
"I'm sorry if you're disappointed, my dear, but I simply can't leave at the moment." He folds his hands over his knee; his face is anxious. "It will do you good, and you needn't stay for more than a couple of weeks if you find it dull."
"What about Papa?"
He shakes his head. "He and I will get along fine. The servants can see to us."
Her fate seems to open out in front of her. She sees again the body behind the barricade, Olivier, his hair not yet white, kneeling over it, crushed by grief. She will go halfway to meet them, if this is what life requires. Before this, she has not understood love, despite the best efforts of the businessman sitting opposite her. She composes herself for the worst, smiles at him. If it's to be done, she'll at least be thorough. "Very well, darling. I will go. But I shall leave Esme here to tend to you and Papa."
"Nonsense. We can manage, and you must have her to look after you."
"Olivier can look after me," she says bravely. "Papa depends on Esme nearly as much as he does on me."
"Are you certain, my dear? I don't want you making sacrifices when you're not yourself."
"Of course I'm certain," she says firmly. Now that the journey is inevitable, she feels exuberant, as if she no longer needs to watch where she sets her feet. "I shall enjoy the independence -- you know how Esme fusses over one--and I shall worry far less, knowing Papa is being well tended."
He nods. She can see that the doctor has told him she must have whatever she wants, must rest; a woman's health can be undermined all too rapidly, and particularly that of a woman in her childbearing years. He will have the doctor examine her again, no doubt, before she leaves, pay the unreasonable fees, allow himself to be reassured. She feels a wave of affection for this steady, anxious man. He might have blamed her painting, she realizes, or the suspense of her having submitted to the Salon, but he has not said a word about those things. She gets up, pushing her feet back into her slippers, and crosses the room to kiss him on the forehead. If she is ever herself again, he will have the benefit of it. The full benefit.
Paris
May 1879
My dear,
I am sorry indeed that Yves will not accompany us to etretat, but I trust you will not mind putting yourself in my respectful care. I have procured the tickets, as you requested, and will come in a hansom for you at seven in the morning on Thursday. Write me ahead to let me know what I can bring you in the way of painting supplies; that, I am certain, will be better medicine than anything else I can do for you.
Olivier Vignot