Madame Bovary's Daughter (21 page)

“I don't want you as my friend,” Berthe said. “You're a thief.”

“Well, it takes one to know one,” said Hélène. And they both laughed. Hélène reached under her bed and pulled out a cloth bag. From the bag she removed a large paper book. “Do you want to see something hilarious?”

Berthe recognized her mother's favorite ladies' periodical,
La Corbeille
. The very same journal that Emma Bovary had spent hours poring over. She felt a pang in her stomach.

“Where did you get that?”

“I borrowed it from Madame Lisette. She'll never notice it's gone. She has a whole stack of these.” She sat down on her bed and opened the periodical. “Have you ever seen anything so ridiculous? Just like that fancy picture of yours.” She pointed to an illustration of four women dressed in ball gowns. They were strangely shaped figures with unnaturally long necks and arms, and no shoulders to speak of. “Where do they think they're going all dressed up like that?”

“To a ball or to the opera or to some other formal evening engagement,” said Berthe knowingly.

“But ain't this dress the silliest thing you've ever seen?” Hélène said, singling out one of the gowns. “How can you even sit in something like that?”

“I don't think they do sit,” Berthe said. “I think they probably just dance the night away.” She read the description from underneath
the illustration. “ ‘An evening dress of white silk with two skirts. The lower one having a flounce of lace, headed by a puffing of silk caught up at regular intervals with delicate sprays of crimson salvia.' ”

“Saliva!” cried Hélène, doubled over with laughter. “Caught up in saliva!”

“Salvia,”
corrected Berthe. “It's part of the mint family.”

“Oh, ain't we the educated one,” Hélène sniffed.

“My mother had lots of these periodicals,” explained Berthe.

“And she read them to you?”

Berthe nodded. Her mind was suddenly filled with memories of her mother. Berthe knew she had her mother's affinity for clothes. She could tell just by looking at an illustration in
La Corbeille
which gowns were overdone, which ones had the right lines to flatter any figure.
Perhaps we are not so very different, after all
.

She remembered watching as her mother got dressed to go for the first time to the opera at Rouen. This was almost a year after the end of her affair with Monsieur Boulanger. Attending the opera had been another idea hatched by Berthe's father and Monsieur Homais in an effort to raise her mother's poor spirits. Her mother had ordered a new evening gown particularly for the occasion. As with the riding costume, it was hard to tell if she was more thrilled about the event or what she was to wear to it.

Getting ready was a process that took her well over an hour. She seemed unaware of Berthe's presence, as the child sat in the corner watching her. Emma Bovary removed her silk
peignoir
and stood naked before the large gilt mirror that hung in the corner of her bedroom. Berthe's eyes widened. She had never seen her mother without clothes. Emma turned this way and that, admiring her reflection. Berthe was struck by how different her mother's body was from her own. Is this what she would look
like when she grew into womanhood? she wondered. Was it even possible? She looked down at her own flat, narrow chest covered by her white pinafore. Her mother's heavy breasts were laced with tiny blue veins and crowned with large pink nipples. She had pearl-white skin, long slender arms and legs, and a triangle of thick dark hair where her legs joined. She slipped the
peignoir
back on and called out for Félicité to come help her with her coiffure.

Félicité followed Madame Bovary's precise directions, combing the sides of her hair high on top of her head, fastening it into a topknot, and then creating individual curls so that they cascaded down her long white neck. Finally, she pinned the salvia at the top of each individual curl. The purple blossoms shone like jewels against her mother's dark hair. Berthe closed her eyes. The fact that her mother was even allowing her to be in the same room while she dressed filled her with conflicting feelings of gratitude and shame. Awe and fear.

Emma Bovary put on an ivory-white chemise and slipped into a pair of matching bloomers. The chemise was trimmed in the finest Belgian lace and strung throughout with ribbons that tied in the front. Then the hoop petticoat and an overpetticoat that had an elaborate hem of green satin ribbon leaves and vines dotted with pink rosettes. And, at last, the dress: a bottle-green satin with a fan front bodice, short-capped sleeves, and a four-tier flounced skirt. The bodice was cut very low and Emma's bosom swelled above it. She slipped her feet into pointed satin shoes which had been dyed the same green as the dress. Finally, she picked up a pair of long kid gloves and draped a white cashmere shawl around her shoulders.

“Well, how do I look?” Berthe's mother asked, as she turned slowly, her white arms outstretched.

“Oh, Maman, you look so very beautiful,” Berthe whispered.
And she did. Berthe had never seen her look so lovely. She remembered reaching out to touch one of the flounces on the huge billowing skirt.

“Don't,” her mother said, pulling the skirt away, “your hands are filthy.” To this day Berthe could remember every ribbon, every rosette of her mother's gown but she could not, for the life of her, remember one kind word or one single kiss.

As the girls continued to thumb through
La Corbeille
, Hélène made fun of every page. Berthe tried to explain to her why the dresses were so beautiful. For some reason it was very important to her to make Hélène understand the importance of high fashion.

“Look at the detail on this skirt. And the lace. How exquisite!”

“They look like elephants dressed in hot-air balloons,” said Hélène.

“The bigger the skirt, the more slender the waist appears,” explained Berthe.

“The bigger the skirt, the bigger the buffoon.”

“You know, this is what we do for a living,” Berthe said.

“What?” exclaimed Hélène.

“Making fabric. Fabric becomes fashion. It's what Rappelais et Fils is all about.”

“Stop!” Hélène screeched with laughter and clutched her stomach. “You're killing me.”

Berthe had a sudden inspiration. “Come with me. I want to show you something,” she said, putting on her cloak. It was still light out.

“It's freezing. I ain't going anywhere.” Hélène pulled her blankets around her.

“Please, it will only take a few minutes. Besides, the walk will warm you up.”

“Is it something we can steal?”

“Perhaps,” said Berthe. Hélène needed no further encouragement.

They stood in front of Madame Marnault's Couturier staring at the white ball gown.

“Do you see how the tulle gives the flounces a shape and stiffness that they wouldn't have if they were made out of just plain silk?”

“What I see is a stupid dress behind a glass window of a shop that's locked up tighter than Madame Lisette's pantry. This is what we're supposed to steal?”

“We don't steal the dress. We steal the idea, the inspiration of it.”

“Oh, I see. We take the idea and turn it into a ball gown made out of Rappelais et Fils's hideous cotton. Bovary, you're crazy. I'm going home. It's almost time for our disgusting Sunday night dinner.” Hélène stomped off.

Berthe suddenly saw the humor of two factory girls clothed in rags, looking at a ball gown that they would never be able to afford even if they combined their wages for the next twenty years. Smiling to herself, she followed Hélène back to the boardinghouse.
And yet I can see myself in that dress. If I can see it then there must be a way for me to have it. I just have to find the way
.

M
ONTHS PASSED
. B
ERTHE GREW USED TO THE ROUTINE OF FACTORY
life. Her hands became tougher and she found that she wasn't as tired at the end of the day. She enjoyed Hélène's company and learned not to let the older girl's temper intimidate her. They each had an unspoken respect for the other.

She felt a growing pride in the fact that she was earning her own way. Granted, the sum they paid her was hardly enough to live on, but still she was taking care of herself. It was something her mother never would have understood.

One Tuesday, the mill workers were all in a froth. Monsieur Rappelais himself was coming. It was one of his twice-yearly visits to the mill.

“He's a very busy man,” Marnet explained to Berthe. “He's got many factories besides this one. And he's coming all the way from Paris to make sure everything is up to snuff. He's a great man, is Monsieur Rappelais. He truly cares about his workers.”

“He does?” said Berthe. She found that hard to believe given the deplorable mill conditions.

“Oh, yes. You'll see. It be an honor and a privilege to work for such a fine man.”

Sometime during that day when the breaks in the thread seemed to happen every two minutes Berthe became aware of someone watching her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Monsieur Roucher, the manager, and another much taller man in a dark coat and top hat. She moved quickly up and down the frame tying the broken ends. She tried to ignore their stares, but her movements became stiff and her fingers clumsy.

“You there, come down,” Roucher called.

“But, sir, I cannot. I must attend the breaks.”

“Du Croix, take over for the girl,” he called out to Hélène, who was just passing by with a basket of spools. “Step down at once.” Berthe did as she was told. She thought she was in trouble. She stood before the two men, her hands clasped behind her back.

“Do you know who I am?” the tall man asked. He was a distinguished-looking gentleman in his late fifties. He had a strong cleft chin and bright deep-set eyes, a prominent but well-shaped nose, and a high, elegant forehead. His muttonchops were full and well trimmed and his thin mouth turned up at the corners as if he was thinking of something amusing. Berthe could smell the wonderful fragrance of pine wafting from his clothes.

“No, sir. Yes, sir. You are Monsieur Rappelais et Fils,” she said, flustered.

“Well, I am not the
et Fils
. The
fils
happen to be away at school. And what is your name, mademoiselle?”

“Berthe Bovary, monsieur.”

“You are doing an excellent job, Mademoiselle Bovary. What do you think of our wonderful cotton?”

“Actually, I prefer silk.” She had no idea why she said what
she did. Monsieur Rappelais threw back his head and laughed loudly.

“Perhaps one day you will visit my silk mills in Lyon and tell me what you think of the fabric we make there. How long have you been employed at Rappelais et Fils?”

Berthe looked at Roucher as if he had the answer. He shrugged his shoulders.

“About two months, sir,” she finally said.

“Only two months?” His bright eyes burned into her face. She looked down at her feet. He picked up one of her hands and turned it over as if it were an important part of the machinery that had come loose. “Well, you have very good hands, mademoiselle. Perhaps too good for this kind of work.” He ran his thumb gently up and down the calluses on her fingers. She wanted to jerk her hand away but was afraid to. He dropped her hand, then, with one finger, lifted her chin and studied her face. “Quite extraordinary,” he said to Monsieur Roucher. “A real beauty.”

“Yes indeed, Monsieur Rappelais,” muttered Roucher. Berthe felt herself go cold all over. She hated the special attention the owner was showing her. What did it mean? What did he want? She wished she hadn't opened her mouth at all, especially about preferring silk. Would he hold that against her? It seemed wherever she turned there was some new danger. She was nervous for the rest of the day and her stomach could not hold the little food that had been provided.

At the supper break, a bell was sounded. Everyone grew very quiet. Monsieur Roucher stood on a wooden box and spoke in a loud voice.

“As you all know, we are honored today to have our own beloved Monsieur Rappelais here to cheer us on and share his words of wisdom. May I speak on behalf of the entire establishment,
sir, when I say how much we appreciate your taking the time to grace us with your presence. It gives us encouragement, strength, spurs us on to even greater—”

“Yes, thank you for your kind words, Monsieur Roucher,” interrupted Monsieur Rappelais. Roucher quickly stepped down and Rappelais took his place on the box. He looked around the room, seeming to take time to observe each individual face. “I want to talk to you good people about an important subject: factory reform. There are some who have accused mill owners such as myself of being indifferent to the plight of their workers. I am here to tell you that is not the case with Rappelais et Fils. You may or may not be aware of the reforms that I have made in all my mills. As of last year there are no children under the age of nine employed by Rappelais et Fils.” Berthe saw Antoine and another boy his age nudge each other. “And like our neighbors in England, we have reduced the number of hours that children under thirteen may work, from sixteen hours a day to nine.” There was a distinct grumbling coming from the back of the room. It did not go unnoticed by Monsieur Rappelais. “If there is anyone here of that age who is working longer hours than you are supposed to, please raise your hands.”

Berthe started to raise her hand to explain that there were much younger children working much longer hours but Hélène, who was standing next to her, held it fast.

“Don't be an idiot,” Hélène whispered.

“And I have asked Monsieur Roucher to make sure that strapping is kept to a minimum and only done when there is just cause. Has anyone here suffered unfair punishment? Raise your hands.” Again not one hand was raised. “Well, I am well pleased with your work. And as a reward, come this Christmas you will all receive a sausage for your supper. And an extra franc in your pay.” The entire room applauded loudly. Berthe's mouth watered
at the very thought of sausage. “And that will be in addition to your Easter bonus.” Applause filled the room once again.