Madame Bovary's Daughter (11 page)

“She looks very nice,” Berthe said, shoving the sketchbook into his hand.

He laughed. “Oh, I would never describe her as ‘nice.' She has a terrible temper, my little Catherine,” he said, as though it was something that brought him pride. “So, Mademoiselle Bovary, have you thought about my proposition?”

“No,” she lied. She had thought about nothing else since he first asked her. “If you pay me I will be a professional model?” she added abruptly.

“Mademoiselle Berthe, I believe that you will be whatever it is you make up your mind to be,” Monsieur Millet said, smiling.

“Then, in that case, I will be your model.” She squared her shoulders.

She rose and went behind the nearest tree. Once there, she quickly took off her skirt and blouse, her pantaloons and chemise before she could change her mind. She left the blue kerchief
on her hair. For a moment she stood, letting the warm summer air caress her skin. Never in her life had she been totally naked outdoors. She looked down at her body. It was as if it belonged to someone else. She had breasts. What had been the mere beginnings of growth a few months before were now bona fide breasts with large pink nipples. She suddenly realized that she had all the makings of a woman's body. She felt as surprised as if she had suddenly sprouted wings. For a minute she forgot to be shy and looked down with pride at her new body.

“Come, Berthe, the light is fading,” Monsieur Millet called. She stepped out from behind the tree.

“Lovely,” he said. No one had ever used that word to describe her.

Suddenly she was overcome with shyness. She quickly sat down by the water's edge, holding her legs close to her chest. She hid her face in her arms. If she couldn't see him, she reasoned, then he couldn't see her. She thought about how Renard had caught her with her shirt off that day in the courtyard and here she was sitting in front of Monsieur Millet without a stitch on. Why didn't she feel the least bit of shame?

“Very good,” he said in a quiet voice. “Just hold that pose, if you will.” He hummed as he sketched. And after a long while she began to relax. She looked up and she saw that he was totally engrossed in what he was doing. Every now and then he would glance at her. But it was as if he wasn't really seeing her. She was just a form, a figure of shadows and shades.

“Monsieur Millet, I have to move,” she finally said. “I am getting quite stiff.”

“Oh, my apologies. Of course. Just change to whatever position is most comfortable for you.”

She extended one leg out so that her foot rested in the water.
She bent the other leg and leaned back on both her arms. Her entire body was now exposed to the sun, the air, and Monsieur Millet's Conté crayon.

There was a cool breeze blowing off the water. She looked down at her nipples, which had become hard and pointed. It seemed so odd that these pink nubs were meant for nursing babies. She felt a strange ache between her legs, a sudden pull that made her want to touch herself there. She wondered if the artist could tell that she was feeling these sensations. Had he noticed that her nipples had suddenly grown points? She glanced over at him, but it was almost as if she didn't exist. She was simply a part of his landscape.

He spent four days sketching her. Each day she grew more and more comfortable in her posing. “I will make a beautiful painting from these sketches,” he said, late one afternoon. “One day you will hang in a museum.”

“Oh, no,” she exclaimed. “What will Grand-mère say?” The thought of her grand-mère seeing her naked granddaughter hanging in a public viewing place threw her into a panic.

“She will never know. I promise you. No one will know it is you.”

“I guess it's a good thing that you are not very skilled with likenesses,” she observed. Millet chuckled.

The sun was beginning to set and there was a chill in the air.

“I'm getting cold, Monsieur Millet,” she said finally.

“Just a few more minutes,” he said. It was almost dark by the time he put his sketches away. She got dressed, hating the feeling of the rough, heavy material against her skin. In a matter of minutes she had gone from artist's model back to farm girl.

“You are a very good model, Mademoiselle Berthe.”

“I'm late. My grand-mère will kill me,” she said as she hurried
on ahead of him. She still had Céleste to milk and the dinner to make.

“Don't worry,” he said, following behind her. “I'll take care of your grand-mère.”

Once indoors, he made a big show of putting four five-franc pieces on the kitchen table. “Your granddaughter earned every centime,” he said. Berthe's fingernails dug into her palms.
That is my money
, she thought.
What are you doing?

“Oh, Monsieur Millet, you are far too generous,” Grand-mère Bovary simpered. Berthe could tell she was counting the money from where she stood six feet away.

“Consider it but a small tribute to you and your lovely granddaughter.” Millet winked at Berthe.

Her grand-mère swooped down and picked up the four coins, putting them in the Quimper vase that stood on the oak sideboard. This was where she kept the money she earned from selling eggs and cheese.

“But, Grand-mère, that's my money. I earned it.” Berthe's voice trembled.

“And your room and board? When was the last time you paid anything for that?” She turned and smiled at Monsieur Millet. “Your work is going well, monsieur?”

“Yes, I believe I am almost done with this series,” he said.

Why doesn't he say something?
Berthe wanted to scream.
He told me he would pay
me,
not her
.

“Perhaps I may see some of your sketches,” Grand-mère said, smoothing her hair.

“They are still too rough for your cultivated eye,” he said.

Berthe couldn't sleep. She felt betrayed by the man she had learned to trust. In the middle of the night, she crept down to the kitchen. She couldn't stop thinking about the money her
grand-mère had stashed away.
It's not really stealing. It's my money. I earned it
. And if she only took some of it her grand-mère might not even notice. At least not right away. She tiptoed over to the sideboard and slipped her hand inside the Quimper vase. It was empty. Her grand-mère had taken the money and hidden it somewhere else. Did she think somebody was going to steal it? Of course; she was that somebody.

The next day the skies opened up and the rain came down in sheets. Berthe realized that the bad weather would keep Millet away and she felt a great disappointment. She needed to see him and ask him about the money. Berthe's grand-mère had gone into town in the covered wagon with Madame Leaumont.
To spend my modeling money
, Berthe thought. After finishing her house chores she went into the barn to clean out Céleste's stall and spread fresh hay. Renard ran in after her. He took off his leather hat and shook it at her, showering her with water.

“Stop it,” she cried, tossing her head. “You've got me all wet.”

“You won't melt,” he said, collapsing onto a pile of new straw. “Come, sit down beside me.” He patted the space next to him.

“I have my chores to do.” She picked up the pitchfork and began removing the soiled straw from Céleste's stall.

“You have time. Your grand-mère's not even here. I saw her drive into town with Madame Leaumont.” His blue eyes seemed to attract all the light.

“And don't you have work to do?” she asked, her hands on her hips.

“Not on a day like this,” he said, smiling. “Come, we'll play a game.”

“What game?” she asked.

“First, lie back and close your eyes.” She did as she was told. “Now, take off your pantaloons.”

She sat up abruptly. “What?”

“Why are you being so shy? You took off everything with Monsieur the Artist.”

“You saw me?” Her face burned.

“Of course I saw you. I saw everything,” he said, grinning.

“But that was for art,” she protested.

“And this is for fun. Come, Berthe, I won't hurt you. I promise.” His voice was soft and pleading. He gently tugged at her skirt. “You'll like this game, you'll see.”

“Why do I have to take off my pantaloons?”

“It's part of the game. I am a physician and I've come to cure you,” he said. For some reason the idea of Renard being a physician made her laugh loudly. Renard stood to leave.

“You care more about that hairy old artist than you do me. I can see you are in love with him,” he said angrily.

“I am not,” she shot back. Berthe was confused. She didn't want him to leave. Had he spoken the truth about Monsieur Millet? The artist paid her such fine attention. He had said she was lovely. She did feel affection toward him, of what sort she wasn't sure. But at the same time, she hadn't meant to hurt Renard's feelings. She liked him, with his thick corn-colored hair and summer-blue eyes. Perhaps she even loved him a little as well.

“Wait, Monsieur le docteur. Please, what is my ailment?” she asked. He turned and smiled.

“I won't know until I complete my examination,” he said, using a deep authoritative voice. “Now lie back and be still.” He reached under her skirt and unbuttoned her pantaloons.

“Yes, monsieur,” she said, trying hard not to giggle. Her heart was racing.

He lifted the skirt of her homespun dress and pulled it over her head.

“I can't see,” she protested.

“Ah, but I can.” He spread her legs apart with his hands. “Madame, you should have come to me sooner. This is very serious. Very serious indeed.” She continued giggling. She was glad the skirt covered her face. Renard placed his fingers on either side of her sex. She thought of Monsieur Millet and how wonderful it felt to have him look at her and call her lovely.

“Oh, but you are so pretty,” Renard whispered. She wondered how anyone could think she was pretty down there.

Then he began touching her lightly with one of his fingers. Up and down and up and down. The same pull between her legs that she felt when she was posing for Monsieur Millet came back, only much stronger. It was a sweet, strong ache in the very center of her being. It made her want to cry and laugh, all at the same time.

“Do you like this?” he asked. She nodded, afraid to speak. “Tell me you like it.”

“I like it.” Her voice sounded strange to her ears, soft and far away. For an instant a picture of her mother standing in the woods with her lover, her skirts raised above her hips, flashed before Berthe's eyes.

“And do you like this?” He pushed the tip of his finger inside her.

“That hurts,” she said sharply, trying to push his hand away.

“I'm sorry,” he said, but pushed his finger in a little farther.

“Stop.” And he did. She immediately regretted asking him to stop. He began rubbing her sex lightly again with his fingertip. She felt as if she were magically divided into two halves, such was the sensation of his touch. The top half covered by her dress was having no part of this game. But the bottom half exposed to the cool, rain-wet air and to Renard's probing, playful fingers was experiencing a new and urgent pleasure.

“Does this feel good?” She nodded. “Say it,” he demanded.

“Yes,” she said, followed by a long sigh, “it feels good.”

“Say, ‘Thank you, monsieur, you saved my life.' ” She repeated his words. “Now, give me your hand.” She held out her palm. Something firm and silky and warm was laid in it. Renard cupped his hand over hers and guided it up and down. Up and down. Suddenly, the thing in her hand jerked and exploded into a sticky wetness. She wanted to look and yet didn't want to see at the same time. After a few moments, Renard pulled away and lifted the skirt of her dress off her face. She looked up at him. His cheeks were flushed and he was buttoning his breeches.

“Did you like the game?” he asked. She nodded.

“Good, we'll do it again, soon.”

Berthe stood, wiped her hand on her kerchief, and shook the straw out of her skirt. She looked over at Céleste, who was munching away at her feed, ignoring them.

From that moment on, Renard took up residence in Berthe's mind. He seemed to fill a need, for someone or something that she had had as long as she could remember. She spent every waking moment thinking about him. No matter where she was or what she was doing, she was preoccupied with visions of him and of them together. She would have said it was love but wasn't she too young to be in love? She was not too young, however, for romantic fantasies.

Instead of saying her prayers at night she created scenes of herself and Renard in her imagination: walking hand in hand through the fields, wading in the river, sharing a lunch of apples and cheese, dozing in the summer sun, riding Jean-Luc, the huge Percheron, into the sunset and away, far away from her grand-mère and Renard's family. She imagined a beautiful cottage at the top of a hill, Céleste grazing among the wildflowers and a
pantry filled with all of Renard's favorite foods. And she conjured up a big wide feather bed covered with a soft white duvet. In her ever-expanding fantasy, the cottage grew into a country mansion with many rooms and tall windows opening onto fields of sweet mowed grass. She fell asleep decorating each of the rooms of her grand home. It was all so innocent. Her romantic imagination was something she had inherited from her mother—a dangerous legacy of hopeless love.

Some days later as she was posing for Monsieur Millet she caught sight of Renard coming across the field, the sun glinting off his golden hair. Her stomach twisted in a knot and her heart began to beat faster.

Even Monsieur Millet seemed to notice the change in her.

“Mademoiselle Bovary is dreaming.” He was sketching Berthe in the act of using the long-handled baling rake to pull the hay into a bundle for tying. The artist always insisted on authenticity.