Madame Bovary's Daughter (22 page)

“Christmas is eleven months away,” whispered Hélène. “By then half of us will be dead.”

“Are there any questions? Any complaints?” asked Monsieur Rappelais. “Good, good. Back to your work.”

The next morning Roucher stopped Berthe on her way into the mill.

“Bovary, in here,” he said. She followed him into the dark office. She stood quietly as he took a seat behind his tall desk and peered over his glasses at her. Was she in trouble? Was she going to be fired? She kept her shaking hands hidden behind her. She didn't want to show Roucher how frightened she was.

“You are a very lucky girl. You have a new job this morning. As I recall you can read and write.”

“Yes, sir.” She bit her lower lip.

He handed her a ledger and a pencil.

“Go out to the courtyard and mark down every bale of raw cotton that gets unloaded. Copy down the numbers that are written on the tags attached to each bale and give me a report at the end of the day.”

“But what about my piecing job?” She somehow felt she was being demoted. Counting bales of cotton seemed far less important than repairing broken threads.

“This is by order of Monsieur Rappelais himself. I have already given your job to someone else.”

“To Antoine? He can do the job. He's even been practicing. And he wants it badly.”

Roucher laughed. “Antoine? He's my best Scavenger. And they're not easy to find, or to keep. Why don't you let me manage
the mill? You just attend to your bales of cotton, mademoiselle.”

The job was easy. She sat on a stool in the courtyard marking down bales as they were unloaded. The air was clean and free of the rancid smell of fat and the suffocating lint. At the end of the day she took the book in to Roucher. He glanced at her neatly written list.

“Can you do sums?” he asked. She nodded.

“Enter the bales that were delivered today to those in this book,” he said, pointing to a ledger that sat atop a high desk, “and then add up the total for the week. I'll check your figures over to make sure you don't make any errors.”

The next morning Monsieur Roucher put her to work again adding more figures in the ledger.

“Your penmanship is quite satisfactory,” he said, peering over her shoulder.

“Thank you, Monsieur Roucher,” she said, not lifting her head from her work.

“Let's see if you can take dictation,” he said.

“Dictation?”

“I will dictate a letter and you will write down exactly what I say.” He put a quill, a bottle of ink, and a heavy piece of cream-colored stationery before her.

He dictated a letter to one of his cotton suppliers. It was a long letter filled with numbers and weights and dates of delivery. When he was finished, he took the paper from her and read it.

“No errors and no ink spots. Yes, you will do.”

To her amazement she had been promoted to office work. She was thrilled with her rapid advancement. She wondered if this came with a raise in pay. She decided not to push the point until she had really proven herself to Roucher. But despite herself,
she began to calculate an imagined increase in pay into her meager budget. Even if it was only a few centimes she knew she would be that much closer to her new boots.

Hélène did not share Berthe's happiness in her sudden promotion.

“What did you do to make him give you that job?” she demanded as they walked home.

“I didn't do anything,” protested Berthe. “He needs someone who can read and write and do sums to help him in the office.”

“He never needed help before. He spends half his day sleepin' in his chair. I seen him. He ain't exactly overworked, the weasel. Why does he suddenly need your stinkin' services? Think about it.”

“I don't know,” said Berthe. “But I thought you'd be happy for me.”

“Why should I be happy for you? It don't make my life any easier, do it?”

“Maybe I can talk to Monsieur Roucher about getting you a better job. I'll have his ear, after all.”

“That's not all you'll have, I guarantee. Listen, Mademoiselle High-and-Mighty, don't get ahead of yourself. Roucher's going to want something from you. Something you might not be wantin' to give to the slimy bastard. Or to his equally slimy employer.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” said Berthe. “I think you're just jealous.”

Hélène walked off ahead of her. They didn't speak for the rest of the night.

Berthe couldn't help but notice the other workers giving her dirty looks. The weather had warmed and she took to eating her supper in the courtyard rather than endure the black glances and
barbs from the rest of the employees. One day, while she was sitting in the courtyard about to eat her supper, Marnet the Overlooker passed by.

“Well, if it ain't the queen of the cotton bales.” He made an exaggerated bow. “Don't you want me to taste that first to make sure it ain't been poisoned?” he asked, pointing to her supper pail. Remembering her mother's gruesome death, she was startled by the suggestion of poison.

“Why would it be poisoned?” she asked.

“With all the grumbling and resentment goin' on about your sudden and spectacular advancement in this here fine establishment, especially after loyal employees have worked their fingers to the boney-bones for years just to get an extra centime and a kind word from the master? It rankles, it does. Course, I ain't talking about myself. I'm well pleased and wonderfully grateful for me place of privilege in this company. But bein' in the position I am, I do know what's going on behind the scenes, so to speak. I got me ear to the grindstone. Do you get my drift?”

“I think so,” said Berthe.

A week later Monsieur Roucher greeted her with a big smile when she arrived for work.

“I have just this morning received a communication about you from our beloved Monsieur Rappelais,” he said, holding up the letter as if to offer proof. “In his infinite generosity he is offering you, Mademoiselle Bovary, a position in his household in Paris.”

“What position?” Berthe asked. For some reason her stomach twisted into knots.

“The position you are to fill is that of upstairs maid.” Roucher folded the letter carefully as if it were the Holy Grail and replaced it in its envelope. “Don't tell me. The next thing you will want to know is what your salary will be.” He laughed.

“What
will
my salary be?” she asked, lifting her chin.

“You are truly the most arrogant girl I have ever had the misfortune to meet,” exploded Roucher. “You should be down on your knees kissing my feet for just being the bearer of these glad tidings. I really don't know why Monsieur Rappelais is interested in such an ingrate. But it is not my place to question my superiors. Finish your work today and be ready to leave tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Monsieur Roucher, but I need to think about it.” She felt a drop of perspiration run down her back.

“What?” he exclaimed. “Are you mad? You have to think even for a second about working in a grand household in the most beautiful city in the world?”

“Paris is so far away,” Berthe said.

“You
are
mad. There are at least one hundred girls who would jump at this chance. Ha! I would even take the job myself had he offered it to me.”

“Still, I must think about it,” she repeated. “You cannot just ship me off against my will, can you?”

For a minute he scowled at her, saying nothing.

“You must give me your answer tomorrow. The very idea of making Monsieur wait upon your reply is … is … unheard of,” he sputtered.

Berthe walked home pondering the proposal from Monsieur Rappelais. She was filled with so many conflicting feelings. Why would a man so powerful and rich as Monsieur Rappelais have the slightest interest in her? She couldn't answer the question and it filled her with a great unease. And Paris was a long way off. It was a huge cosmopolitan city, the capital of France, the home of over a million people. She was distrustful of this sudden opportunity, this unexpected stroke of good luck. It seemed to her that there was something dangerous lurking behind it. She remembered
the way Monsieur Rappelais had looked at her, how he had held her hand.

She had already experienced so much upheaval in her life. She was just starting to feel at home at the boardinghouse, her friendship with Hélène was growing, and she now had work that she liked and was good at. The idea of yet another move to another city filled her with fear. She longed for some security and stability in her life.

But as always, despite her doubts and fears her imagination and fantasies took over: Monsieur Rappelais had taken one look at her and realized she was the daughter he had always longed for. Berthe knew he had sons but had no idea if he had any daughters. Still, she was not one to let facts interfere with her daydreams. She felt certain he was merely using the guise of needing a maid to get her to Paris. Once there he would tell her the truth: He wanted to formally adopt her. He would love her better than any child had ever been loved before. He would educate her at the finest schools. She would learn to play the piano. And the violin. How to sing in Italian, and paint in oils. She would get to decorate her own room with its six floor-to-ceiling French windows which looked out onto a terraced garden of flowering bushes and rare roses.

Oh, but first, as his beloved daughter, she would have to acquire a new wardrobe. “No daughter of mine can be seen dressed in rags,” said Monsieur Rappelais. “Come, we will visit the dressmaker before we do another thing.” Her mind filled with hoopskirted dresses, trimmed in lace and ribbon, and feathered bonnets and soft shoes. “You will never want for anything, my darling daughter,” Monsieur Rappelais said as she tried to decide between the yellow satin shoes with buckles and the blue ones with bows. And she would grow up in this lovely, loving home, wearing a different gown every day, and she would meet and fall
in love with a wonderful man even richer than Monsieur Rappelais and they would live in a grand house and her husband would love her and they would make a family, a perfect family who would live beautifully dressed and happily ever after. She was so immersed in her thoughts and her wonderful fantasy future that she almost stumbled over Antoine, the Scavenger, who was trudging slowly ahead of her.

“Oh, Antoine,” she said, touching his shoulder, “I didn't see you.” He stopped and turned to look at her. He was crying.

“Why the tears?” she asked.

“Monsieur Marnet strapped me today.”

“Whatever for?”

“He caught me sleeping under one of the spinning machines. I don't mind the strappin',” he said, “but he's dockin' me wages. I got to work extra hours to make it up. Only, there ain't so many hours in a day.” He sighed.

Berthe desperately searched her mind for something to say to cheer him up but she could think of nothing. She brushed his blond hair away from his face. She didn't even have a crust of bread to give him. She reached into the pocket of her apron. There was a filigree button. She remembered that she had taken it from her mother's sewing basket so many years before. She carried it around with her as a good luck piece. She had all but forgotten about the good luck part. It had just become a habit to carry it around with her. She handed it to Antoine.

“What's this?” he asked, studying the button.

“It's one of my mother's buttons. Put it in your pocket. It will bring you luck.”

“Really?” A brilliant smile lit his dirty face. “Thank you, mademoiselle. I've never had a good luck piece before.” He said it as if this were the single cause of his miserable life until now. As he walked away he had a small bounce to his step.

Hélène was sitting cross-legged on her bed. On the blanket in front of her was a pile of coins. She quickly covered them with the blanket when Berthe walked in.

“You'll never guess!” Berthe said. “I have been offered a job with Monsieur Rappelais in Paris.”

Hélène began laughing. “I knew it! That's how come you landed such a plum job in the office. It weren't because of your reading, writing, and countin' abilities, as fine as they may be. The
Grand Patron
was just getting ready to catch you in his web.”

“I don't understand.”

“Course you don't. You're an ignorant country bumpkin. Did you think you were the first silly girl Monsieur Rappelais has taken a shine to? Oh, he prefers 'em stupid
and
young, like you. Mariette, the last mill girl who went to work for him, was never seen nor heard of again. She was only twelve and as thick as a board. Naturally she thought she had died and gone to heaven when he moved her to his house in Paris. Poor thing. They say that he kept her locked up in a room in the cellar, tortured her day and night, had his way with her, and when she finally escaped she were so destroyed she jumped into the river Seine and drowned herself.” Hélène yawned and stretched her arms over her head. “Well, congratulations, you are about to be ruined for life,” she said cheerfully.