I Always Loved You by Robin Oliveira Page B

of the drunkenness of the despoiled and downtrodden is so evocative that the public, horrified, has to look away, while Monsieur Zola’s medium, words, is less vivid, and therefore more acceptable.”
    Zola sputtered from the piano bench. “My novel? Not vivid?”
    Mary turned to the author, who had snubbed her earlier. His wine-flushed face blushed an even deeper shade of vermillion, suggesting the blood orange of sunset. “I am using conjecture, Monsieur Zola, about what appeals to the masses. For the sake of argument. Using your medium. Words. But I have read your novel and quite like it,” she said.
    â€œ
Quite like it?
She quite likes it? She is American, isn’t she?” Zola said, turning to the group, seeking accord.
    Berthe waited to see whether or not Eugène or Édouard or Suzanne would manage Monsieur Zola, and when they did not, she rose from the loveseat and glided across the room. “Please forgive me, if you can, Monsieur Zola, but earlier I misread what time it was. Don’t let my error keep you from your guests. We’ve all been selfish to delay you. No doubt they are knocking at your door at this very moment, wondering where their dear Monsieur Zola is, hoping they won’t be deprived of your company.”
    As Berthe nimbly guided Zola to the door and into the night, Degas came to Mary’s side and said, “Adroitly done, Mademoiselle Cassatt. Monsieur Zola will spend the rest of the night trying to understand what just happened to him, a prospect that gives me great pleasure.”
    â€œBerthe implied I had to prove myself.”
    â€œWe are all wondering what we did without you now,” Degas said. “Even Claude, though he’ll never tell you.” He smiled with pride and interest, but Mary felt exhausted, though she had to admit that the interlude had exhilarated her. Not one of her American friends was as alive as these people gathered here tonight. Abigail Alcott was as dear to her as Lydia, and darling Louisine was more sister than friend, but they were neither of them as provocative as this group
.
    â€œDo you always test people in this way, Monsieur Degas?”
    â€œTest? I don’t know what you mean.”
    â€œDon’t be coy,” Mary said. It was warm in the room, especially near the kitchen, and she could hear the maid banging pots and pans in the sink. “Will you tell me what Monsieur Manet meant earlier? About the Salon?”
    Degas reddened. “He’s a scoundrel. Don’t listen to him.”
    â€œBut his joke angered you. It must mean something. Berthe said everyone is angry with you because you bring in strays. Am I your latest stray?”
    Degas took her by the hand and pulled her into the far corner behind the dining table, near the serving dishes of the drowning fish and wilted asparagus. “Édouard was referring to the opening day of the Salon. I saw you in the crowds. I tried to reach you to introduce myself, but I lost you. I didn’t know who you were. When Monsieur Tourny introduced us, I hid my surprise. And all this nonsense seems to have amused Édouard very much. I did warn you, didn’t I, that you might repent your decision to join us?”
    â€œYou did,” she said.
    â€œWell, then?”
    After a time, she said, “The fish really was awful wasn’t it?”
    A smile played on Degas’s lips. “Yes it was,” he said.
    Suzanne Manet, having overheard the comment about the fish, breezed past them with a disapproving air, her hair irretrievably wilted. With an insulted flick of her wrist, she cleared a path through her guests, mounted the piano bench, and opened a piano score, flipping pages one after the other until she found the music she wanted. At the first notes, Degas steered Mary back to a gilded armchair to listen to the exquisite tones of the Handel sonata, played by Suzanne with skill and feeling. Berthe settled into a wing chair,