Madame Bovary's Daughter (23 page)

“He's offered me a job,” said Berthe weakly. “As upstairs maid.”

“Ha! Don't you think Paris is filled with maids, upstairs, downstairs, in between stairs? Why do you think he picked you out of all the girls in the world?”

“I don't know,” said Berthe, frowning.

“Because you ain't got no family. Because you're a useless orphan. Because there is nobody in the world who cares whether you live or die. Because you are dim-witted and dumb beyond belief. And because he probably has a taste for copper-colored hair, big bosoms, and skinny legs.”

As tired as she was, Berthe tossed and turned all that night. She knew Hélène was right. Monsieur Rappelais had no good reason to offer her the position. She was better off staying where she was. She so liked to live in her fantasies she found that she didn't trust reality at all. And after talking to Hélène, she certainly didn't trust Monsieur Rappelais's intentions.

“I am afraid I will have to refuse Monsieur Rappelais's offer,” Berthe said to Roucher the next morning.

“This is preposterous!” he shouted. “Utterly preposterous. Monsieur Rappelais will not be pleased, I can assure you of that, mademoiselle.” Berthe started to take her seat at the desk. “What do you think you're doing?” asked Roucher.

“I was going to finish copying yesterday's sums into the ledger,” explained Berthe.

“I don't believe so,” said Roucher. “If you're too stupid to accept a perfectly fine position in Paris, then you're much too ignorant to work in my office. No, I think your talents are far better suited elsewhere.”

She was back where she'd started, at the spinning machine tying knots in broken thread.

U
NFORTUNATELY
, B
ERTHE WAS NOT QUITE BACK WHERE SHE
started. The fact she had the temerity to turn down the mill owner's offer of work in his Paris home did not sit well with Roucher or Marnet the Overlooker. She was reprimanded over and over again for doing sloppy work and was given an extra cleanup job that shortened her lunch hour. Marnet seemed to hover over her and every knot she tied as if hoping to provoke her into making a mistake. She was more exhausted than ever. But she was angry as well. They could pile on the work and the criticism as much as they wanted. Somehow she would not just survive this time, she would prevail. She would show them what she was made of.

“Why dontcha get yourself a pair of decent shoes,” Hélène asked one Sunday as she watched Berthe inserting newspaper into her clogs.

“As soon as I get through paying for my carriage and four,” Berthe said, not looking up.

“Don't be mouthy with me,” Hélène shot back. “I was just making a friendly suggestion.”

“Come, I'll show you the boots I'm going to buy when I've saved up enough,” Berthe said in an effort to make amends. It was a pleasant day. The early March sun warmed the dingy streets. There was a feeling of spring in the air. The two girls walked arm in arm, enjoying the mild weather. Berthe was glad of Hélène's company. It made the long, hungry Sunday easier to get through.

She pulled Hélène toward the shoemaker's shop at the end of the street. Berthe was surprised to see that it was open on this Sunday. Hélène gazed up at the sign.

“What does it say?” asked Hélène. Berthe couldn't imagine what it was like not to be able to read a simple sign.

“M. Gregoire. Beautiful boots. Elegant footwear,” read Berthe.

“Maybe he's got a pair of ugly boots he's willing to part with.”

“Ugly or not, I have no money.”

“Let's just go in and see what they cost,” said Hélène, pulling Berthe after her. A bell rang as the girls entered the shop. A man was hammering small brass nails into the bottom of a high riding boot.

“What do you want?” he asked rudely, glancing at the two girls before returning to his work.

“What do you think we want?” Hélène said. Berthe tried to pull her out of the shop, but Hélène ignored her. “We're here to buy a pair of lady's boots for my friend.” She turned to Berthe. “Which boots did you have in mind?”

Berthe pointed to a pair of black leather boots with thick sturdy heels.

“Let me see your money first,” said the shoemaker.

“Don't you worry about our money. We got ourselves good
jobs. We get paid every Friday. Let my friend try on those boots to see if they fit,” said Hélène.

“It doesn't matter if they fit or not. I can make boots to fit any foot.” He picked up one of the boots Berthe had pointed out, and caressed it. “These particular boots were made for a poor lady who died. I can let you have them for a very good price.”

“First let her try 'em on,” repeated Hélène. She made Berthe sit down on the one chair in the store. Berthe curled the toe of her woolen sock underneath her foot so that the shoemaker couldn't see the hole. The boots were made of soft, supple leather that had a deep, lustrous sheen, as if it had been buffed for hours. She laced up both the boots, carefully tying bows at her ankles, then she gazed down at her feet. The boots felt wonderful, as if they had been made for her.

“How much are they?” Hélène asked, all business.

“They are custom-made of the finest Italian calfskin. I can't part with them for a cent less than twenty-five francs.”

“Did the dead woman give you payment on them?” asked Hélène.

“No, why do you ask?” said the shoemaker, stroking his long mustache.

“Well, seein' as they were custom-made for a dead woman they carry some bad feeling with them. They just happen to fit my friend here perfectly, so I am thinking you could do a bit better with the price. That's what I'm thinking. What are you thinking, Mademoiselle Berthe?”

“I was thinking exactly the same thing,” agreed Berthe. The shoemaker continued caressing his mustache.

“All right, you may have them for twenty francs. That's as low as I am willing to go. Take it or leave it.” Berthe looked down at the boots.

“Can I buy them in small payments?”

“Of course you can, dear mademoiselle. I am always happy to accommodate my customers when it comes to payment.” Berthe got up and searched her purse for two francs, which she handed to the shoemaker. He took out a ledger and made an entry in it. “I will pay you more on Sunday next,” she said, turning to go.

“Wait a bloody minute,” he said. “You don't think you are going to walk out of here with my beautiful boots? You'll get them when you give me the rest of the price.” He held out his hand for the boots. “Don't worry, I will keep them safe and sound.” Berthe hated taking off the boots, but she slowly unlaced them and handed them back to the shoemaker. Then she slipped her feet back into the hateful, hurting clogs.

As they walked away from the shop Hélène began laughing.

“What is so amusing?” asked Berthe, who at that moment felt like crying. She wondered why she had given the shoemaker her last two francs when she didn't know when or if she would ever get the remaining eighteen to pay off her debt on the boots.

Hélène reached under her cape and drew out a pair of lady's elegant evening shoes.

“Oh, no,” said Berthe. “What have you done? He'll know who took them. Now I can never go back there. I've lost my two francs.”

“Don't be an ass. Course you can go back. He's got your money. And he's holding the boots for you. When you do go back, just deny everything. Or blame it all on me. Your friend, the thief.”

“What are you going to do with those?” asked Berthe, pointing to the evening shoes.

“Sell 'em, of course. Unless you happen to be needing 'em for the opera.”

“I'm afraid they won't match my dress,” said Berthe. Hélène crowed.

Berthe felt a warmth that came from deep inside her. It was almost a physical thing that bubbled up within her, up and up until it reached the corners of her mouth and she smiled. She had a friend. She liked Hélène's bigness and brashness, her strength and her fearlessness. She even liked the fact that she was a thief.

She wondered why she found it so easy to forgive Hélène for taking things that didn't belong to her and that she certainly hadn't earned. And yet she felt nothing but contempt for her mother's rapacious ways.

“Wake up,” Hélène whispered to Berthe a few nights later.

Berthe sat up, rubbing her eyes.

“What time is it?”

“It's one in the morning. Come on. I'll show you how to earn some spendin' money.”

“How are we supposed to make money in the middle of the night?”

“Just get your clothes on. I'm gonna give you lesson number one in lifting.”

“What's lifting?”

“Copping, pilfering, stealing, you nincompoop. C'mon, time's a-wastin'.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” said Berthe, pulling the covers over her head and turning toward the wall. “It's freezing out there.”

“You want those boots, dontcha?”

“This is insane,” mumbled Berthe, as they hurried through the shadowy streets.

It was very dark and very cold for March. The air felt like ice against her face. They walked through the more commercial area until they came to a residential one. It was a quiet street of elegant
townhouses, fronted with small gardens surrounded by wrought-iron fences. All the windows were dark. The only light came from the gas street lamp on the corner.

Berthe certainly wasn't against the idea of stealing. She had a history of minor theft herself, she thought, thinking back to the items of food she had taken in the past. But when she saw what Hélène had in mind to steal she was appalled.

“Here, give me a hand,” Hélène whispered as she bent down and pulled at a cast-iron birdbath. “I had me eye on this beauty for some time.” The birdbath featured a plump naked cherub with tiny wings who held on to the pedestal as if afraid someone was going to make off with it in the middle of the night. A hummingbird was perched precariously on the cherub's shoulder. “This bugger is even heavier than it looks. No wonder they didn't bother nailing it down. It weighs a ton,” grunted Hélène.

Berthe picked up one end of the birdbath.

“Heavens,” she gasped, “I don't know if I can carry this.”

They lugged the birdbath through the streets, stopping to rest every few blocks. Hélène carried the heavier end with the bowl. Berthe hoisted the pedestal.

“What are we going to do with this?” she panted.

“Sell it, what do you think?” Hélène shot back.

“Who's going to want to buy a stolen birdbath in the middle of the night?” Berthe asked, rubbing her aching back.

“Shut up and lift,” commanded Hélène. Berthe's whole body strained with the weight of the birdbath. Several times she tripped on the uneven cobblestones and almost dropped her end. Fearing arrest, she began to compose a plea of mercy for herself and, as an added gesture of generosity, for Hélène as well.

Please, spare us. We meant no harm. It's just that we were hungry. Poor. Starving
. She couldn't finish her defense. She was too terrified to think.

They came to a part of town that was composed of small factories, blacksmiths, and one small building with a sign that said:
Foundry
.

Hélène knocked on the dilapidated door. A large burly man opened it. He wore a heavy leather apron and leather sleeve guards.

“Got yourself a pretty little helper, I see,” said the man. His skin was almost as black as his beard and his eyes gleamed red. Berthe took a step back from the doorway.

“Yeah, well, I'm trying her to see if she works out,” said Hélène.

“So what you got for me today, missy?” He lifted the birdbath a few inches off the ground. “Hmm. Good and heavy. I'd say about ninety kilos.”

“And I'd say about ninety-seven,” corrected Hélène. “I'd also say put it on the bloody scale.”

“She's always questioning me,” he said to Berthe. “After all this time, you'd think she'd learn to trust me. Do I look like the kind of person who's gonna cheat a hardworking girl out of a few centimes?” Berthe thought he looked exactly like that kind of person. “All right, bring her in and put her on the scale.” Berthe was immediately hit with the heat of the blazing foundry fire and the smell of the melting metal. It was a small but efficient operation. One huge cauldron held the metal to be melted over a white-hot coal fire, while in another corner of the room Berthe could see the forms that would take the liquid metal and turn it into uniform machine parts.

The man helped Hélène lift the birdbath onto a huge scale.

“Oh, she's got an eye, she does. Ninety-seven kilos on the dot. All right,” he said, scratching his head, “ninety-seven at twenty centimes a kilo, that makes …”

“One franc, ninety-four centimes,” answered Berthe.

“Oh, now I see why you brought the skinny one along.”

“Round it out to two francs,” said Hélène.

“I ain't rounding out nothin', you greedy slut.”

“It's a beautiful piece … it's got to be worth far more than two francs,” said Berthe.

“One franc, ninety-four centimes,” he repeated. “And it don't matter if it's the Emperor's crown, it just gets melted down with the rest of the junk.”

When they got back to the boardinghouse, Hélène counted out twenty-five centimes and gave them to Berthe. “Here's your share. It adds up, you'll see,” she said as she collapsed on her bed. Berthe was wide awake.

“It seems like a lot of work and a big risk for not much money,” observed Berthe.

“You're so smart. What do you suggest?”

“Why not steal from inside the houses rather than outside?”

“Because they would hunt you down and put you in jail for that, me thieving friend.”