Madame Bovary's Daughter (14 page)

She was in such a happy mood that Berthe summoned up the courage to speak.

“Maman, can I please have a travel costume, too?”

Her mother glared at her.

“What in the world do you need a travel costume for? You're not going anywhere, you silly girl.” She turned back to Monsieur Lheureux. “She's such an acquisitive thing.”

Berthe felt a sharp ache in her throat. She realized her mother had lied to Boulanger. She was going away with him but leaving her daughter behind. Despite all her preparations, all her mother's late-night needlework, adding cross-stitching and drawn-thread work to her linens and nightgowns, she had never
once taken out any of Berthe's garments to have her mend them or make them more beautiful.

Berthe wanted to cry out. She wanted to beg her mother to take her, just as her mother had begged Monsieur Boulanger weeks before. But somehow she knew it was useless.

It was not long after that Rodolphe Boulanger's servant delivered a beautiful basket of the largest apricots Berthe had ever seen. In the basket was a letter with Emma Bovary's name on it. Berthe's mother saw the basket, quickly snatched the letter, and disappeared upstairs into the attic. Félicité gave Berthe one of the apricots to eat. Beautiful as it was to the eye, the flesh of the fruit was pulpy and strangely without flavor or sweetness.

Moments later, they heard a loud thump. Something had fallen over in the attic.

“Stay here,” Félicité commanded and ran up the stairs. Berthe heard her knocking on the attic door.

“Madame, madame, are you all right?” There was no answer. It was not until hours later that Emma Bovary came down the stairs. Her hair was disheveled and her eyes were red and swollen. Bloody scratches ran up and down her arms. Berthe was frightened at the sight. How had she come to injure herself so?

At that moment her father arrived home. He smiled, delighted to see the basket of apricots on the kitchen table.

“From Monsieur Boulanger's orchard?” he exclaimed. “How very kind. And what perfect fruit. Here, my dear,” he said, extending one of the apricots to his wife. “Have one.” Shaking her head violently, Emma Bovary drew back as if he were offering her a rat. Then she put her hand up to her brow and simply crumpled to the floor. Berthe knelt by at her mother's side and began to cry. Her father, too, was alarmed.

“Call Homais,” he shouted to Félicité.

The chemist came at once. He opened a small bottle of strong-smelling liquid and Berthe's mother revived. Her father breathed a huge sigh of relief, but Berthe couldn't chase away the feeling that something awful had happened that morning, something she couldn't quite grasp. She bit down hard on her lower lip, hoping she could make it bleed, hoping someone would take notice.

“Oh, my darling one, you are all right,” her father said, clasping her mother's hand. “How you frightened your daughter. Here, give her a kiss.” He thrust Berthe toward her mother. Berthe stretched out her arms to embrace her, but Emma pushed her away.

“No. No, I want no one,” she cried, turning her face aside.

There followed a long period of illness. Emma took to her bed, had the curtains drawn, and all but stopped eating. Her father was beside himself. He couldn't determine the cause of his wife's sickness. He thought that perhaps the apricots had somehow caused her sudden collapse. Monsieur Homais seemed to concur, explaining that some people were very sensitive to certain foods. Perhaps Madame Bovary was allergic to the fruit. Between these two men of science, it was a wonder that Berthe's mother didn't perish right then and there.

Winter came and her mother hadn't improved. Berthe was sent to stay in the house of her old nurse, Madame Rollet. When she returned in the spring she discovered a stranger, a mother she barely recognized. Emma Bovary wore her black hair in a simple chignon, and she was dressed in a dark gray cotton dress and cotton stockings without a hint of decoration. She looked for all the world as if she were the housemaid, not the mistress of the house. And her demeanor had gone through an even more startling transformation.

She had lost her spirit, her energy, and her passion for life. She spent a great deal of time praying every day, something her daughter had never seen her do before. Neither she nor her husband had been churchgoers. Monsieur Boulanger was not seen again, but Berthe knew without a doubt that he was the cause of her mother's great sadness. It was only much later that his name was even mentioned, and that was only when her mother was desperate for his help. Help that never came.

And here was Rodolphe Boulanger, eight years later. The very same man with the same thick, curly hair, but now with a touch of gray at the temples. The same dark eyes that stared both at you and through you. The same lopsided smile. Berthe kept her head lowered for fear he might recognize her. How she hated him. She hoped that Monsieur Millet would refuse to sell him a picture and send him away.
Show him that his wealth doesn't mean anything. Make him feel small just as he made my mother feel
.

Monsieur Boulanger removed a thick leather wallet from his coat. “Well, Monsieur Millet, I come prepared to buy. I just pray you won't take advantage of the fact I am so enamored of your work.”

“I regret, Monsieur Boulanger, I have nothing to sell,” said Millet, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his smock. Berthe almost laughed out loud. She turned her head so that they wouldn't see the smile spreading across her face.

“What? Your wife wrote me that you had many paintings.” Boulanger's gaze took in the entire studio and the canvases stacked against the walls.

“My wife sometimes gets carried away with her desire to increase my sales, promote my reputation, and fill our coffers.”

“But what about that one?” Boulanger said, pointing to the painting of
The Gleaners
that stood on the easel.

“Oh, I'm afraid that has already been spoken for.”

“You have others,” Boulanger said impatiently. Clearly, he was a man used to getting his way.

“My paintings are not for sale at this time,” Millet said with a sweet stubbornness. “But I would be more than happy to sell you some of my sketches.”

Berthe thought about her mother. How happy she would be if she could see the great Boulanger being denied something he desired. She wanted to throw her arms around the artist for not falling prey to the wishes of this entitled man.

“I don't want sketches. How can I hang sketches in my gallery?” said an exasperated Boulanger. “I have traveled all day to pay my respects and any amount of money for one of your paintings. How can you deny me?”

“Dear sir, it is very difficult for me to part with my paintings. They are like children to me. I look at them as being in a state of growth. In constant need of correction and improvement.”

“But, monsieur, you must make a living. You have a family to feed, do you not?”

“Ah, methinks you have spent too much time corresponding with Madame Millet. ‘Feeding the children' is one of her favorite refrains,” he said, laughing and patting his stomach. Boulanger was not amused.

“Perhaps I should take my money to the artist Corot. I think he would be more than glad to sell me his work.”

“Never heard of him,” said Millet, shrugging his shoulders.

“I'm surprised you haven't. He, too, paints the countryside. But with much greater use of color. His landscapes are greatly admired for their lack of pedantry.”

This seemed to give Monsieur Millet pause. He scratched his heavy beard.

“What do you think, Berthe? Should I sell this gentleman
one of my paintings?” Feeling her face and neck go red, she ducked her head down further.

For the first time Rodolphe Boulanger looked her way. She held her breath, hoping and praying he wouldn't recognize her. At the same time she wanted him to know exactly who she was. She wanted to remind him of how he had destroyed her mother. But as soon as he spoke she lost all her courage. “This must be one of your beautiful daughters,” Boulanger said, bowing slightly.

“No, this is my beautiful model, Mademoiselle Berthe Bovary.”

Berthe gasped.

“Bovary, Bovary,” Boulanger repeated. “I used to know a Bovary in Yonville. Are you any relation?”

She shook her head. “No, monsieur,” she said breathlessly. She lowered her eyes again but she could feel him studying her.

Meanwhile, Millet turned three of the canvases that had been leaning against the wall around so that they could be viewed, and to her great relief Boulanger immediately lost interest in her.

One canvas showed an exhausted man leaning all his weight on a hoe. The second was a beautiful depiction of three large haystacks beneath a stormy sky. The third was a very small painting of a boy chopping wood.

“Wonderful,” exclaimed Boulanger. “I will take all three. How much do you want for them?”

Millet thought a moment. “Perhaps I should let my wife negotiate. I am at a loss when it comes to money matters.”

“I will give you one thousand francs for all three,” said Boulanger quickly.

“One thousand is a fine price,” Millet said, smiling. “But, of course you mean for each one.” With a rush of delight, Berthe
suddenly realized that this was all a clever ploy. Monsieur Millet was turning out to be an even better salesman than his wife.

“Three thousand francs! You appear to be as talented a bargainer as you are a painter, Monsieur Millet.” Boulanger laughed. “All right. Have them wrapped and I will send my man for them.”

Smiling, Millet began to carefully wrap the paintings in cloth, tying them with soft cord.

As he was leaving Boulanger turned to Berthe and said, “I recall that my friends the Bovarys had a young daughter. She would be about your age. Her mother was a very beautiful woman.” He reached out and lifted her chin with one finger. She bit the inside of her cheek as his dark eyes studied her face. “And I can see why Monsieur Millet has chosen you to model for him.” Berthe felt sick to her stomach as she turned away. “When you have completed the paintings of Mademoiselle Bovary,” he said to Millet, “I hope you will let me have the first viewing.”

W
HEN
B
ERTHE RETURNED FROM
M
ILLET'S HOUSE
R
ENARD
greeted her as if she'd been gone for weeks. He grabbed her hand and pulled her into the barn before she could even tell her grand-mère she was home.

“Where have you been?” he demanded.

“You sound just like my grand-mère.” She laughed. She was happy to see him. He was nothing like Monsieur Boulanger, who had seduced her mother and then abandoned her without a thought. No, she could tell Renard cared about her. Perhaps he even loved her. If he did love her then she would certainly love him. Yes, it was really all so simple. They could pledge themselves to this love. Nothing would ever come between them. She felt herself grow warm inside. She was immediately transported to the beautiful mansion in her mind.

She stood in the open French doors greeting Renard as he returned from a hard day's labor. For even though they weren't poor, he continued to labor in the fields because he believed in
hard work, particularly as an example for their young children. How many children? Three—no, five. And how the peasants looked up to Berthe and Renard. Renard, because he still insisted on getting his hands dirty in the fields, and his beautiful wife the very devoted mother of their five flawless children. What a lovely home she kept for them. Granted, she had maids to help her with the housework, but nobody could manage a household like she could. And while Renard taught their children the value of honest labor, she instructed them in the finer things in life: furniture, art, music, and, most especially, fine fabrics and well-made clothing.

“I went to Monsieur Millet's house to see his paintings. He is truly a wonderful artist. You should see the colors, Renard. He makes the countryside—”

Renard stopped her words with a kiss. And he kept kissing her. Long, strong, very grown-up kisses. She couldn't catch her breath.

“Your Monsieur Millet is just a dirty old man,” he said finally. “He is up to no good, painting dirty pictures of naked girls.” He reached up under her skirt and she began to giggle. And soon the giggling stopped and she became aware of their breathing, of their two bodies. The barn, the farm, and the rest of the world seemed to fall away.

“Oh, Berthe, Berthe,” he breathed into her ear. She could feel him harden against her leg. She longed to touch him. As if reading her mind he guided her hand with one of his while with the other he unbuttoned his breeches and gently curled her fingers around his sex.

Berthe sensed her grand-mère's presence before she heard the scream.

“Mon Dieu!”

They jumped apart. Her grand-mère stood in the doorway, backlit by the late afternoon sun. Berthe couldn't see her face but she didn't need to. She felt her fury.

“You harlot! You whore! Curse of your mother's womb!”

Renard ran out of the barn. Berthe's grand-mère didn't even turn as he hurried past her. It was as if he didn't exist. Her rage was focused totally on her granddaughter. She looked around wildly for something to beat Berthe with. Her eyes landed upon the rake and she reached for it. The old woman's eyes bulged and her face turned a terrible purplish red.

“I'll beat the devil out of you if I have to kill you doing it,” she screamed.

The old woman lifted the rake, but Berthe ran past her and into the woods. Her heart felt as if it were leaping out of her chest. Not stopping until she found her favorite spot by the river, she slumped down against the big oak tree. She had hoped Renard would be there but he was nowhere to be seen. What should she do? Where could she go? She knew she couldn't face her grand-mère. Dropping her head in her hands she felt deeply ashamed. Was her grand-mère right? Was she a harlot and a whore? She had let Renard touch her and she had touched him. Her mother's life had been ruined by just this kind of touching. She cried until she ran out of tears and her eyes were almost swollen shut. Finally, exhausted, she fell asleep.