Madame Bovary's Daughter (24 page)

“Well, they would put you in jail just as quickly for stealing things from the outside of a house,” observed Berthe.

“They don't care about an odd item here and there. They puts it down to vandalism,” said Hélène, closing her eyes. Within moments, she was snoring.

Unlike Hélène, Berthe did not want to be a thief for the rest of her life. But desperate times required desperate measures. Thus, a few weeks later, Berthe came up with the idea of the department store. Since she was already immersed in a life of crime, she reasoned, why not make their efforts more profitable.

“Why not? I'll tell ya why not,” said Hélène. “We couldn't even get ourselves into a fancy place like the Galeries Napoléon.
They'd take one look at ragamuffins like me and you and arrest us just for trying to cross the bloody doorstep.”

The Galeries Napoléon was the finest store in Lille. A six-story glass and steel structure with a majestic dome skylight, it was one of the first stores of its kind built outside of Paris. Hélène and Berthe stood admiring it one night on their way home from dropping off a small but extremely heavy garden bench at the foundry. “And besides that,” Hélène continued, “they ain't open on Sunday, which if you consult your social calendar, happens to be the only day we got off.” Berthe was silent. She stared at the dark building, imagining all the luxurious goods that lay beyond her reach. The term
kleptomania
had just been introduced into French society. Berthe had read a story in Madame Lisette's Sunday paper about a wealthy woman who was accused of taking three pairs of gloves because “she was overcome by a tremendous need to put them in her purse.”

“Madame X was clearly suffering from kleptomania, an illness that left her weak of mind and not responsible for her actions,” explained her lawyer. She was released with no formal charges brought against her. According to the article, kleptomania was a result of the introduction of the large dry goods stores to French society.

“The display of so much appealing merchandise tends to confuse the lady shopper,” one well-known physician was quoted as saying.

“That's what we'll be,” Berthe told Hélène after reading her the newspaper story. “We'll be kleptomaniacs. If wealthy ladies can get away with it, then so can we.”

“Klepto sounds all right,” observed Hélène, chewing on her fingernail, “but I ain't sure about the maniac part.”

One Friday morning they arrived at the mill to discover the fire wagon blocking their entrance. A fire had broken out in the early morning hours. They were told to go home and report for work as usual the next day.

Berthe clapped her hands. “This is the day,” she said to Hélène.

“The day we don't get paid,” said Hélène, kicking a piece of manure out of her way.

“No, the day we begin our careers as kleptomaniacs. The problem is, they'll never let us in dressed like this,” Berthe said, looking down at her homespun dress.

“Oh, don't worry, me dear, I've already figured that out,” said Hélène, pulling her down the street. When they got to their room Hélène reached under her bed and drew out a cloth sack. Inside was a very elegant navy blue dress with black jet beads down the front, and black lace ruffles.

“Where in the world did that come from?” asked Berthe, stroking the fabric.

“From our landlady's armoire. It's stuffed with dresses.”

“She's bound to miss it.” Still, Berthe was impressed with her friend's audacity.

“Stop fretting; I'll return it as soon as we're done with it. Here, put it on.”

The dress was far too big for Berthe, but Hélène was able to pin it so that it looked as if it almost fit.

“And here—” She removed a blue velvet bonnet from the bag.

“What about shoes?” asked Berthe.

“You can wear my boots. But just for today,” said Hélène, bending down to unlace her boots.

“What happens if Madame Lisette sees me in her dress?”

“Don't worry. Today's her market day. She'll be gone all day.”

“And what will you wear?”

Hélène pulled a clean apron from under the bed and put it on.

“You'll be the grand lady and I'll be your humble servant girl.”

“Excellent,” said Berthe, lacing up the boots.

“One more thing,” said Hélène. She handed Berthe a pot of rouge. “A spot of makeup to make you look older.”

“I already feel like an old woman. I'm so tired I think I could sleep for a million years.”

They watched from the corner as elegantly dressed women went in and out of the department store. It was a beautiful spring day and the sun glinted off the large windows.

“Just behave naturally,” said Berthe, barely moving her lips.

Hélène shot her a look as if to say, What do you mean by “naturally”?

“Better just follow me,” Berthe corrected. She took a deep breath, straightened her bonnet, and strode into the store, head held high, chin tilted upward like one of the wealthier women of Yonville. The same women who had looked down their noses at Berthe and her mother on market day. Hélène followed two humble steps behind. Once inside, Berthe fought the temptation to gape. Everywhere she looked tables were stacked high with beautiful things. She glanced up. The glass rotunda shone high above the main floor. Rising up around the rotunda were six open floors that looked down on the main floor. From where she stood she could see shelves and shelves of hats and gloves, shawls and lingerie. The air was filled with scents: roses, lavender, and lilies of the valley all blended together. It was intoxicating.

The main floor was crowded with women, so many women that their big bell skirts crushed together. There were women
trying on gloves and hats, holding glassware up to the light. Women dabbing perfume on the insides of their wrists, attaching earrings to their ears. On Berthe's right was a table covered entirely with bolts of lace. Next to that was another table heaped high with rich velvets, and beyond that a table laden with huge bolts of brocade fabric. Berthe felt she had entered another world—a dream world. So many beautiful fabrics, so within her reach. She didn't want to be seen dawdling without purpose, so she walked over to the table on which bolts of lace were piled. She fingered the end of one. A salesman was busy with several other women, unrolling lace for them to examine.

“I'll be with you in a moment, mademoiselle,” he said, glancing at Berthe.

“I'm in no rush, monsieur,” said Berthe, her heart racing.

“Do you have any of the Belgian lace in colors?” asked a woman in a cranberry-colored dress with matching bonnet.

“Yes, madame, I have some lovely yellow and gold. It's in the back. I'll fetch it at once,” said the harried salesman.

Out of the corner of her eye Berthe watched as the woman turned away from the table, lifted her skirt, and stuck a small bolt of Chinese silk from an adjacent table up under her petticoats. She quickly lowered her skirt and turned back to examine the bolts of lace on the table.

“Did you see that?” whispered Berthe.

Hélène nodded. “I'd like to see how she's going to walk out of here with
that
stuck between her legs.”

Berthe and Hélène moved away from the lace to another table which featured kid gloves in every length and color. As with the lace, there were a large number of women crowded around trying on gloves.

Berthe put on a pair of white opera gloves. The leather was as
soft as butter and they fit her perfectly. Her rough hands felt all the rougher inside the soft leather. The lone glove salesman was being inundated by requests at the other end of the table, so Berthe carefully pulled off the gloves finger by finger as she had once seen her mother do after attending the opera in Rouen. She looked around her quickly, then folded the gloves and handed them to Hélène, who put them in the pocket of her apron. Berthe breathed a sigh of relief. It was all so easy.
Too easy
. They moved on to the evening bag section. The bags were jeweled and beaded affairs, too small to hold anything but a lady's hanky, yet beautiful to behold. Berthe was able to slip two of them down the front of her dress.

“It's time to go. The marquis will be waiting,” Berthe announced to no one in particular. She turned and, without glancing back to see if Hélène was following her, glided out of the store, her knees knocking together beneath her long skirt.

“The marquis,” laughed Hélène, when they were out on the street. “Bugger the marquis.” A few passersby glanced at her and she ducked her head, retreating to her position two steps behind Berthe.

“Two purses and a pair of gloves. We did well,” said Berthe, admiring the booty later in their bedroom. “But who are we going to sell them to?”

“Don't worry. I have the perfect customer,” said Hélène, putting the stolen goods into the cloth sack and slipping it in the already crowded space underneath her bed.

After dinner they knocked on Madame Lisette's door.

“Oh, my lovelies. Do come in. What can I do for my two darling girls?”

Berthe did all the talking.

“Madame Lisette, we have come to conduct some business. We thought perhaps you might be interested in purchasing a few items that happened to come into our possession.”

Hélène laid the gloves and two purses on Madame Lisette's settee.

“Well, will you look at this,” said the landlady, picking up one of the purses and examining it carefully. “You say they ‘came into your possession,' dear hearts. How did that happen, if I might be so bold to ask?”

“It don't matter none,” Hélène shot back. “You're either interested or you ain't.”

“I don't have that much use for evening bags or opera gloves. But then if the price is right I might be convinced.” She pulled on one of the opera gloves and held her arm out, admiring it. “What were you thinking as far as a fair price?” she looked at Berthe.

“Twenty francs for everything,” said Berthe.

“Oh, no, that's beyond my humble means. And please forgive me for saying this, but if there's the slightest possibility of this being stolen merchandise … well … I have my reputation to think of, not to mention you girls. I couldn't live with the idea of you spending time in jail. Oh, the very thought …”

“Eighteen francs,” Berthe interjected.

“Twelve,” countered Madame Lisette.

Berthe nodded and Hélène held out her hand.

Madame Lisette paid them the money. The two girls left, encouraged by the landlady's last words.

“If any more pretty things happen to fall into your possession, you'll come to me first, all right, girls?” They now had a convenient outlet for their stolen goods. All they needed was more merchandise. But how were they to get it when they had to
be at the mill every day, all day? It was Hélène who came up with a solution.

“You stay home sick one day. I'll tell Monsieur Roucher you were puking the whole night. Course they'll dock your pay. But we'll more than make up for it in what you can steal from the Galeries. And they ain't gonna fire you. They have enough trouble finding fools to work there. I ask you, what's the worst that can happen to you?”

They held on to the “borrowed” dress from Madame Lisette. Berthe stayed home from work the next day. In the afternoon she again went to the department store. It was another very crowded day at Galeries Napoléon. She focused only on small and expensive items. She managed to bring home six pair of gold-framed pince-nez, five pair of kid gloves in varying lengths and colors, three beaded evening bags, two crystal necklaces, and four bottles of French perfume. They took the goods to Madame Lisette later that night.

“Well, it looks as if you girls could have your rent paid up for the rest of the year,” she said. “I'll tell the mill to stop deducting from your pay.”

“We want the cash,” said Berthe.

“We may not be here for the rest of the year,” added Hélène.

“Oh, my, aren't we coming up in the world. Well, my little ladies, let's not forget who provided comfort and shelter to you two lost souls from the very beginning.”

“Not to mention the soup,” said Berthe. Madame Lisette gave her a look.

They made a total profit of forty francs.

“I can finally get my boots,” Berthe said happily.

Unfortunately, she got something else quite unexpected the next day.

“R
EPORT TO
C
LOTHIER,” SAID
M
ONSIEUR
R
OUCHER WHEN SHE
arrived at work the next morning.

The Master Carder stood next to his platform as if waiting for her. He was slapping a heavy leather strap across his palm.

“Ah, the ailing Mademoiselle Bovary. Be so kind as to take the position,” he said, indicating a wooden bench to his right.