Madame Bovary's Daughter (25 page)

“What? I don't understand,” she said, taking a step back.

“Absenteeism for whatever reason is punished by twenty strokes of the strap. It's in the rules.”

“Not the rules that I heard,” she protested, thinking back to her first day and the group recitation of the mill rules.

“Them's the written rules. This here's the unwritten rules,” he said. “Now, bend over.”

She wasn't sure which hurt more, the strapping or the public humiliation of being strapped. Clothier had everyone stop work for the two minutes it took to administer the punishment.

“Remember when you were talking about the worst thing that could happen to me if I missed work?” she said to Hélène as
they walked home that night. Hélène nodded, unable to look Berthe in the eye. “Well, it seems you forgot to mention the strapping.”

“I didn't want to worry you,” she said. “You needed to have a clear and free mind.”

“Thanks ever so much,” Berthe said, scowling.

On Sunday she went to see Monsieur Gregoire, the shoemaker.

“I've come to collect my boots. Here are the eighteen francs,” she said, handing him the money.

“What boots?” He scratched his head.

“The ones I gave you two francs for as a down payment,” Berthe said, frowning.

“Oh, yes, of course. But I'm afraid the price has gone up since last we spoke,” he said, bringing the black boots out from underneath the counter. “These gorgeous boots are now thirty francs.”

“But you told me they were twenty. We agreed on a price. You can't go back on your word.” She stamped her foot.

“All my prices have gone up, mademoiselle. Owing to the high cost of materials as well as to the losses I suffer as a result of theft,” he said, giving her a meaningful look.

She realized then that he suspected but didn't know for certain that she and Hélène had stolen the evening shoes. She decided to call his bluff.

“You made an agreement. Either you give me my boots for the price we agreed upon or I will report you to the local
gendarmes
. I'm sure they wouldn't look kindly on a successful shop owner such as yourself doing a poor girl like me out of a pair of boots.” She felt short of breath as she delivered her speech.

The boots felt wonderful. The leather squeaked as she walked. She threw her wooden clogs into the first refuse bin she passed on her way home.

Now that she had her boots Berthe put aside the idea of shoplifting. Thieving didn't require talent, just nerve. She had bigger goals beyond how to get her next meal or her next pair of boots. She wanted to make beautiful things. She remembered the thrill of being able to create original flowers out of simple colored thread when she first learned to embroider. She remembered the satisfaction of creating clothes for her doll, how she loved making the small even stitches, keeping the seams straight, seeing the garments come to life. She thought back to how much pleasure she had gotten from transforming the homespun dress at her grand-mère's farm. Even the sketch she had made for Monsieur Millet that day in the field had given her a glimpse of what she could do. What she should do. She needed to hold on to the belief that she was meant for something more respectful than stealing, more creative and challenging than tying knots in a cotton mill.

Still, over time, she became better and better at her job at the mill. She could almost anticipate the threads breaking before they did. She developed a method of moving up and down the spinning machine and quickly tying the broken threads without breaking her stride. Soon, she became lost in the rhythm of the work and in her daydreams.

Late one afternoon she was distracted by Antoine ducking under the carriage of her machine to pick up the loose cotton. She still hadn't gotten used to the sight of his small body so dangerously exposed to the heavy moving machinery. He kept himself as close to the floor as possible. Using a short-handled broom, he swept the fallen cotton out as the knitting machine passed noisily back and forth over his head. The look on his face told her he was in a constant state of terror. It was only minutes later when she heard the cry.

Antoine had apparently lifted his head too high. A piece of his curly blond hair was caught up in the moving wheel.

“Help! Help me!” he yelled out in terrible pain and fear.

“Turn off the machine!” Berthe screamed

“Turn off the machine! Turn off the machine! Someone turn off the bloody machine!” echoed one of the men who had been tightening the bolts on a nearby spinning machine. Antoine reached up a hand in an effort to untangle his hair from the hold of the revolving machinery. Berthe ran to the boy. His hair was being ripped from his scalp, and his scalp was being ripped from his head. Blood was running out all over his face. The next thing that happened was too horrible to imagine. The machine caught his hand and then his arm and kept moving forward. His shrieks of pain filled the air. Berthe grabbed his foot, but he was being pulled in the opposite direction.

“Turn it off! Turn off the machine!” she cried.

“For Jesus' sake, man, stop the machine!” shouted Marnet the Overlooker.

The Master Carder quickly climbed down from his platform and pulled a lever, but by that time it was too late. The poor boy lay under the machine, his arm mangled beyond recognition, his face frozen in agony and horror, blood pulsing out onto the floor. He was already dead.

Berthe continued to hear the clack-clack of the machinery before her brain registered the fact that all the machines had been turned off. The sound of the silence was almost as deafening. With a cold efficiency, two of the men removed Antoine's poor broken body, washed the floor, and cleaned the machine. The Master Carder bade everyone to return to work. Berthe, numb, stepped back to her position by the stretch of threads. As she did, she noticed something on the floor near where Antoine had lain. She bent down and picked it up. It was the filigree button
she had given him for good luck. Some luck, she thought, as tears poured down her cheeks.

“You ain't comin' to dinner?” Hélène asked that night.

“How can you eat?” Berthe shook her head. She lay in bed, the gray blankets pulled up to her chin. She felt a great guilt and responsibility. She had taken Antoine's place as Piecer, forcing him to return to a job that had ultimately led to his death. She didn't know how she had even managed to finish the day as the boy's cries of pain kept echoing in her mind.

“Well, with Madame Lisette's soup, it ain't easy. But when you're hungry, anything'll do.”

“No, I mean how can you eat after what happened to poor Antoine?”

“What?” Hélène scoffed. “You never saw a bit of blood before?”

“My father was a doctor. I've seen blood. But not coming from one little boy.”

“One
stupid
little boy,” said Hélène. “I had that job when I first started. It was a piece a cake. Alls you had to do was keep your head down. I used to take myself nice naps underneath the machinery. Course every once in a while I got a beating for layin' down on the job, but it was worth it.”

When Berthe finally drifted off to sleep shortly before dawn she had a dream. She was at the mill, working as a Piecer. Her job required her to tie the braids from one small girl's head to another girl's. Then she bade the two children to lie down side by side, and she pulled a lever. Seconds later the platform on which they were lying moved forward into a machine that contained many sharp teeth. The little girls were turned into long shredded strips
of flesh, which were then woven into bolts of blood-soaked fabric. The entire process went on without a sound. In the dream she wondered why there was no screaming. Someone should be screaming, she thought to herself. And then she heard it: a high-pitched, horrified “Nooooooooo!” She awoke to the sound of her own voice.

“Can we have a bit of quiet?” grumbled Hélène. “You been moanin' and yellin' for the past hour. How'm I supposed to get any sleep?”

Berthe had the same dream with slight variations every night for the next week. Finally, she knew she had to get out of the mill. Her fear of hearing the screams of another injured child or being hurt herself overwhelmed her during the day and haunted her even in her sleep. More and more she began to dread going to work.

She looked under her narrow bed. There were her beautiful new boots. And next to them the picture of her dress. She unfolded the paper and stared at the illustration.

She remembered not so very long ago how excited she had been about beginning her job at the mill. She had actually thought she would be making beautiful things out of cotton. She forgot for a moment the drudgery of her job at Rappelais et Fils and her imagination took her to a vision of owning her own mill. She would control the manufacturing of the fabric from beginning to end. And her mill would not make just plain cotton but she would weave fantastic fabrics of silk and satin in every imaginable color. And she would free all the workers from their awful servitude. She would give the poor children shorter hours, more food, a longer supper break, real sweets, and lots of money at Christmas, Easter, and even All Saints' Day. Berthe sighed. It was a grand dream, but one that would have to wait for another day.

Stop dreaming, you fool
. Nothing was going to happen unless she took action and made a change. She suddenly made a decision. The boots were a reminder that better things and another life was possible. No one ever should have to live—or die—like Antoine.

“Excuse me, Monsieur Roucher.” It was during the supper break the next day when she tapped on the manager's office door.

“What is it? Why aren't you eating your supper?” He glanced at his pocket watch. “You only have three minutes left.”

“I was wondering if the position is still open.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

“What position is that?” He turned back to his ledger and entered several numbers in a column.

“The one in Monsieur Rappelais's household in Paris.”

“Oh.” He chuckled. “I very much doubt it. Half of Paris would give their right arm to work in that distinguished house.” Berthe shuddered at his reference to right arms. “No, I'm sorry. She who hesitates is—”

“Could you please write and ask if it is still available?” she interrupted him. “Please, monsieur.” She hated the idea of having to beg him.

“Who do you think I am, your personal secretary?” he barked. “You already have a perfectly fine ‘position,' Bovary. One that you will not keep very much longer if you keep dawdling and wasting both my time and yours. Now, get back to work.”

Berthe started to leave and stopped.

“I had understood that Monsieur Rappelais wanted me to work as a maid in his household. I think he would be very annoyed if he were to discover you were unwilling to inform him that I had accepted the position.” She smiled sweetly.

“You had your chance,” he hissed, leaning forward in his chair. “I recall you turned it down.”

“Well, I changed my mind,” said Berthe, still smiling. He glared at her. “You'll write the letter, then?” He didn't answer. His face was red.

“Actually, I can write him myself. I
can
write, you know,” she said, squaring her shoulders.

“I'll write your cursed letter. Now, get back to work.” He yanked open a drawer and pulled out a piece of stationery.

Within a week she had the answer. She was to proceed to Paris immediately.

The morning Berthe was to leave she woke to the sight of Hélène lacing up Berthe's new boots.

“What are you doing with my boots?” Berthe said, rubbing her eyes.

“I'm stealing them, what do you think?” said Hélène, not looking up.

“But I thought I was your friend. How can you steal from a friend?”

“I'm a thief. That's what thieves do,” Hélène said, nonplussed. She finished lacing the boots, stood, and bounced on the toes of her feet as if testing them out.

“Give me back my boots, or I will turn you in to the
gendarmes.
”

Hélène looked down at the boots fondly. “You can get others when you're in Paris. At least leave me something to remember you by,” she said.

“My boots, if you please,” Berthe said. She held out her hand. Hélène sat down, slowly unlaced the boots, and kicked them across the floor toward Berthe.

“Well, good luck to you, then. I s'pose you'll be having your choice of footwear livin' the grand life in Paris.”

“I suppose I will,” said Berthe.

“Think of your old friend once in a while, will you?” Hélène said, flashing a smile. “Maybe I'll come and visit you one of these days, and you and me can make a run of the fancy shops. Pick us up a few things.”

“You take care,” said Berthe, hugging her.

“No, you take care,” said Hélène, returning the hug. “You're the one walkin' into the Devil's den.”