Madame Bovary's Daughter (18 page)

“Sit here next to Monsieur Ratatouille. He will take good care of you.” Madame Lisette indicated a spot next to a young boy whose face was almost buried in his soup bowl. When he glanced up, it took everything Berthe could do not to gasp. She understood why Madame Lisette had called him ratatouille. His face was a mass of painful-looking red eruptions. He quickly looked down again.

“Bonsoir,”
said Berthe, picking up her spoon. The boy didn't answer. She peered down at the bowl of soup in front of her. She touched her spoon to the surface and a film of grease parted to reveal strange pieces of what appeared to be vegetables with a few chunks of what might have been sausage. It smelled abominable.
But she was famished and she couldn't afford not to eat. At the far end of the table in front of Hélène was a basket of bread. Berthe summoned up her courage.

“Pass the bread,
s'il vous plaît
,” she called out.

Hélène ignored her. One of the girls sitting next to her started to lift the basket. Hélène's hand came down hard on the girl's wrist.

“Girls, girls,” sang Madame Lisette. “Please let's not squabble. There's plenty of food to go around. More soup anyone? Don't be shy. I have half a full pot here.”

“You're welcome to give it to the pigs,” the boy next to Berthe whispered.

Berthe was more than a little intimidated by Hélène. But she knew from her experience with her grand-mère that she couldn't let the girl bully her, especially when it came to getting enough to eat. She stood, walked down to the end of the table, reached over, and tried to pick up the basket of bread. Hélène's hand held it down. A silent but serious tug-of-war ensued until with her other hand Berthe knocked over a pitcher of water. The water ran off the table and directly onto Hélène's lap.

“Why, you little snake!” Hélène shouted. She jumped up and brushed the water off her lap. Berthe picked up the breadbasket and returned to her place at the table. All eyes were upon her.

“Now you're in for it,” the boy with the bad skin mumbled into his soup.

“She doesn't scare me,” said Berthe. But her hand was shaking as she picked up a piece of hard bread.

Immediately after the meal she went straight up to bed. She lay there for a long time afraid to shut her eyes for fear she would be attacked in her sleep. But finally, the hot soup and the long hours of travel did their work and she drifted off to a dreamless slumber.

She awoke late the next morning and looked over at the other bed. It was empty. Hélène was nowhere to be seen. Where had she spent the night? And then Berthe had a wonderful thought: Perhaps the girl was as afraid of Berthe as Berthe was of her.

It was Sunday. She had the whole day before her. There was nothing to do until she started work early Monday morning. Berthe squirmed underneath the gray blankets. She desperately needed to urinate. She leaned over and looked under the bed. There was no chamber pot. She would have to go down all five flights and out the back to the privy in order to relieve herself. She just hoped she could hold it until then.

She dressed quickly, putting on the few clothes that she hadn't slept in. The water in the pitcher had a thin sheet of ice. She broke the ice with the handle of her hairbrush and poured the water into the washbowl. Then she wet the corner of her flannel and quickly scrubbed her face.

Madame Lisette met her at the bottom of the stairs.

“Ah, off to church, Mademoiselle Bovary?” she asked.

“No, madame. To the privy,” said Berthe. Madame Lisette laughed.

“Well, sometimes nature calls even before God,” she said. “The cathedral is down the street on your left. You've missed the early mass but the next one is at ten o'clock.”

“Thank you, madame.” Berthe didn't care to explain that she had no interest in church, that her parents had never taken her, and that the only so-called religious instruction she had ever received was from Félicité, whose version of the Eighth Commandment was revised to read: Thou shalt not steal unless when absolutely necessary.

“Of course this is my day of rest as well,” Madame Lisette said, “so my family have to fend for themselves when it comes to
supper. We'll have a nice hot Sunday soup tonight. There is a
boulangerie
across from the church. Their prices are not too dear.” Just hearing the word
boulangerie
caused Berthe's mouth to water. She remembered the meal from the night before and realized her stomach was empty. She had one franc fifty in her purse left over from her train ticket. But that would have to last until she received her first wages.

After her visit to the privy, she left the boardinghouse and walked down the street toward the church. Before she had gone a few steps her feet began aching. Her toes were so stiff she felt they were about to snap off. There was an old newspaper in the gutter. She picked it up, folded a few pages, and stuffed the paper inside her clogs. But within minutes her feet were as cold as ever.

Across the street, warm lights and irresistible smells were coming from the
boulangerie
. Berthe crossed over and stood for a long time gazing at the window. Doily-covered plates held pastries:
mille-feuilles
oozing with custard, tiny jeweled tartlets topped with gleaming raspberries and peaches, a mountain of Chantilly cream studded with chocolate profiteroles, and a majestic towering glazed
croquembouche
. She inhaled the delicious aromas: toasted almonds, vanilla, and cinnamon. She had never in her life seen such an array of delicious desserts. In the corner of the window, almost hidden like plain stepsisters, were the freshly baked baguettes, brioche, and flaky croissants. Berthe swallowed hard. The woman inside beckoned to her.

Berthe entered, knowing she couldn't afford to spend even a small sum on such treats.

“What can I offer you, mademoiselle?” said the woman behind the counter.

“Oh, nothing, madame,” said Berthe. “I was just admiring your display.”

“Come now, my pastries cannot be admired merely with the eyes. They are made to be eaten. Try one.”

“I'm not hungry, thank you, madame. I just had my breakfast,” said Berthe, trying to swallow the saliva that kept gathering in her mouth.
Get out of here before you drool all over the woman's floor
.

“Here, have a slice of my
tarte aux pommes
. I'll cut you a small piece. People swear it is the best they've ever had.”

She handed Berthe a thin wedge of the tarte on a piece of paper. It was in her mouth before she knew it. Berthe wanted it to last forever. But the pastry was so light and so perfectly baked that it melted away. The creamy rich custard slipped down her throat followed by the tender cinnamon-laced apples and light flaky crust. Berthe practically swooned from the richness of it.

“Good, yes?” the woman said. Berthe nodded, still savoring the sweetness. “I normally charge ten centimes for that. But it is a slow day. I will let you have it for five.” Berthe felt the tart start to come back up. She coughed.

“But, madame, I have no money. I thought …” The woman's smile vanished. Two cherry-red spots appeared on her cheeks.

“You thought what? That I give away my pastries to any street urchin who walks in the door? Get out of here and don't come back.” The woman turned away and began rearranging the fruit tarts on a sheet of bakery paper. Berthe wanted to explain herself but could find no words. On her way out she snatched another slice of apple tart off the tray.

“Why, you little thief!” the woman yelled after her. Her heart racing, Berthe took off down the street as fast as she could run. Once she realized the baker wasn't coming after her, she slowed to a stop and caught her breath. She wrapped the tart in the piece of paper the woman had given her and put it carefully in her apron pocket.

It was not an auspicious beginning for her in her newly adopted home of Lille, she realized. Now she could never go back to that shop or even to the church across the street. Just as well, since she was probably already damned to hell for being a thief, unless Félicité's eighth commandment was in fact true.

Another part of her knew there was no such thing as hell; there was just her life as she endeavored to live it. She controlled her own destiny. She took the apple tart from her pocket and ate it in three quick bites. She decided there would be much more where that came from. But how, and from where, she didn't know.

Berthe spent the rest of the day slowly walking the streets, drinking in the sights and sounds and smells. She was so entranced with everything she saw that she forgot about her cold feet, her hunger, and her loneliness. She devoured the city with her eyes. She came to a street of shops, one more glorious than the next. The first shop was a
parfumerie
. She thought of her mother's lavender scent. Before her were shelves and shelves of the most beautiful bottles, a set of three cut-glass crystal bottles encased in an ornate gilt caddy, a hand-enameled egg-shaped white opal glass held by a small golden figure of a woman, a sky-blue opaline bottle decorated with a gold filigree collar. She could only imagine what incredible fragrances they held. She moved on to Madame Marnault's Couturier next door. In the window was an evening dress modeled by a headless form. Its skirt filled the entire window. Berthe immediately felt a wave of pleasure. She eagerly read the calligraphy on the white card in the corner of the window:

“This elegant ball gown is made of silk. The underskirt is composed of white glacé silk, ornamented at the bottom with four puffings of pink silk, each puffing being edged with quilled
silk ribbon. Additional fabrics available. Inquire within.” She wondered how much a dress like this would cost. What would it feel like to wear it, to dance in it? To have all eyes on her? She would love to one day own a gown like this. Even more, she wished to be able to create something just as beautiful. Personally, she felt the quilled silk edging was a little too much. She gave a deep sigh and moved on.

Next to the dressmaker's shop was the shoemaker's shop. Affixed to the side of the building above the door of the shop was a large wooden boot. On the boot were the words
M. Gregoire Beautiful Boots Elegant Footwear
. Berthe studied the shoes in the window. There were high boots, short boots, boots with narrow lasts. Boots made of silk and lace, boots embroidered with metallic thread. Boots with buttons, everyday boots with laces. Boots with elastic gussets that could be easily slipped on or off, fancy opera boots made of brocade and satin, and boots of soft, supple-looking leather on sturdy heels. M. Gregoire was certainly a master of boots. This is where she would come to purchase hers.

She imagined what the new boots would feel like. She looked down at her clumsy clogs. She tried on the satin opera boots in her imagination … Then what to go with this footwear? She envisioned herself in the pink silk ball gown. She lifted the heavy flounced skirt as she put the toe of her satin opera boot on the first step of her carriage.
Her
carriage, not a public vehicle. She heard the sound of the many crinolines whoosh as she sat back against the velvet cushions. She took a deep breath and inhaled the lily of the valley perfume she had so delicately placed on her wrists and behind her ears. Her ears, from which pearl and diamond chandelier earrings swung gently back and forth. She yawned, bringing her white kid-gloved fingers to her mouth. It was so boring being so rich and beautiful with no one to admire
her, no one to kiss her hand, no one to inhale the scent from her long white neck, no one to admire her slim ankle and small satin-clad foot. In her vision, her foot had begun to ache, to throb with pain and cold. Oh, that shoemaker had gotten her measurements all wrong. She would have to take the opera boots back.

She looked down and was momentarily surprised to see she was still wearing a pair of clumsy wooden clogs.

I
T WAS ALMOST FIVE O'CLOCK AND JUST GROWING DARK WHEN
Berthe returned to Madame Lisette's boardinghouse. Where was everyone? she wondered. The tables were set with bowls and spoons awaiting the Sunday evening meal. She heard movement from upstairs. Slowly people entered the kitchen yawning, rubbing their eyes, and looking as if they'd just gotten out of bed. That was when she realized that was exactly where they had been all day. In order to stay warm and forget about their hunger the entire houseful of workers had spent their one day off in bed under the covers, dreaming no doubt of warmer weather and better meals.

Then she saw the soup. It was the same soup as the night before but with pieces of turnip added. Berthe bit into one of the turnips. It was barely cooked. It took all the strength in her jaws to chew it.

“I can't wait until we can go back to cold oatcakes,” mumbled the boy with bad skin. Suddenly there were shouts from the other end of the room. Two of the men were throwing wild
punches at each other. Neither one had managed to land anything above the shoulders of the other.

“Gimme back my bread, you thieving scum,” panted one man.

“Ain't yours. It's my portion. You already got two pieces, you foul-smelling pig.”

“Why are they fighting?” Berthe asked the boy.

“Oh, those two they's always stealing bread from each other. It happens almost every night. All depends on the temperature outside. The colder it is the more they go at it. I think they just do it to work up a sweat. Get theyselves all warm. It don't happen in the summer, I can tell you that,” said the boy.

Madame Lisette walked around checking people's bowls. She bent over and picked up random pieces of uneaten turnip.

“Waste not, want not. Finish your
potage
,” she said to Berthe “or there won't be no chocolate soufflé for you.” Berthe now knew better than to take the bait. “You going to be needing that?” asked Madame Lisette, pointing to a piece of turnip on the side of Berthe's bowl.