Madame Bovary's Daughter (29 page)

“Oh, oh! Oh, madame. I am so sorry! Oh please, forgive me …” Berthe burst into tears as she dropped to her knees to pick up the pieces.

“H
USH, CHILD, IT IS NOTHING
. J
UST TAKE CARE NOT TO CUT
yourself cleaning up the glass.” Madame Rappelais reached down and squeezed her shoulder. She smiled and left the room as if there was nothing more to be said. Berthe had expected anger and berating. Such unexpected kindness left her feeling oddly uneasy.

As she bent down to clean up the mess, the tears continued to spill down her cheeks. She thought of her mother and how she might have reacted to Berthe's breaking the beautiful crystal vase. She would have been furious. How very different Berthe's life might have been if she had had a mother like Madame Rappelais. She vowed to fulfill Madame's every wish to the very best of her ability. Nothing would stand in the way of her doing a perfect job for her perfect mistress.

Over the next few weeks the endless backbreaking hours spent in the cotton mill began to seem like a bad dream. Apart from the hustle and bustle of the Rappelaises' kitchen at breakfast, it was as if Berthe was in an elegant new world of her own.
And for most of the day she was able to avoid Mariette, who gave her dirty looks every time they passed in the hall.

She spent much of her time going through Madame's wardrobe, examining each gown for detached lace, a loose hem, a frayed bow. She caressed the rich fabrics and marveled at the fine detailing of every dress. She reorganized the long dresses by color so that the result was a range of hues from the darkest to the palest pastels, not unlike Monsieur Millet's palette of Conté crayons.

Madame Rappelais surprised her one afternoon while Berthe was peering inside the sleeve of a particularly elaborate satin ball gown to examine the stitches.

“You are interested in fashion?” asked Madame. Berthe dropped the sleeve and quickly turned to her mistress.

“No. Yes. I'm sorry, madame, I was just wondering how the lace was attached.”

“Then you are interested. All the better. Come with me.” Berthe followed her into the bedroom. “The more attention you pay, the better you can serve me. I want you to make a study of these,” Madame said, pointing to a stack of large journals that sat atop a marble end table. Berthe immediately recognized her mother's favorite fashion periodical. “Your job is to keep abreast of the latest fashions. When a trim or a button or a feather changes in
La Corbeille
, it must change in my closet. I can't be running to the dressmaker every two minutes for these things. Do you think you can do this?”

“Oh, yes, madame. I used to look at these books with my mother. She loved fashion.”

“And where does she live, your mother?”

“She passed away some time ago, madame.”

“A pity. She would be very proud of her daughter.”

“Thank you, madame.” Berthe tucked the stray strands of her hair back in her cap and readjusted her pinafore.

“This afternoon, I shall send you to the dressmaker to place an order for me. I must make a decision on my summer visiting dress. Which do you think?” She held up two lengths of fabric. One was a lemon yellow silk with black threads shot through. The second was a linen in the palest of pale blue.

“Oh, madame, I don't know …” said Berthe. Before she could stop herself she reached out to touch both fabrics.

“Of course you do. You have an opinion. I want to hear it.” Madame Rappelais peered closely at her.

“Well, madame,” said Berthe, taking a deep breath and forgetting her anxiety, “this would make a beautiful dress.” She pointed to the blue linen. “It has a lightness to the material that the yellow doesn't. But more important, the color is a perfect complement to your eyes.”

“I told you,” said Madame Rappelais, looking pleased. “You know more than you say and much more than you think, young lady.” She draped the blue fabric over Berthe's shoulders and then stood back and studied the effect. “The blue suits you as well. You are quite the loveliest thing. But I suppose you know that.” Berthe shook her head, her face crimson. “Oh dear, now I've embarrassed her. Being beautiful isn't a crime, you know.” Madame Rappelais laughed and pulled the fabric away from Berthe. “You may go, my dear.”

“Monsieur returns tonight,” sighed Madame Rappelais when Berthe woke her mistress the next morning. She lay in bed for a long time without removing her eye mask. Berthe's heart sank. It was the thing she had been dreading since she arrived
chez
Rappelais. She had yet to work out how she was going to handle his advances. Even though the story about Mariette jumping into the Seine proved to be false, she was certain the other part of the
story must be true. Why else had he brought her all the way from Lille, if not to seduce her?

She didn't want to leave this lovely house. Was she to give in to his lecherous advances? Should she quietly do his bidding? Was that the price she had to pay for this new life? She remembered his long dry fingers on her cheek. His clever eyes taking in every detail of her face. And what if she said no? Undoubtedly, that would be the end of her wonderful job. She suddenly felt clammy all over.

She couldn't risk being fired. Would they send her back to the mill? She couldn't go back. She would rather starve on the streets of Paris than risk life and limb in that place.

She remembered Renard's caresses in the hayfields. Would Monsieur Rappelais want the same thing? Or would he want to mount her as Renard had the neighbor girl? She felt dizzy and nauseated.

That night, after she had laid out her mistress's
peignoir
, pulled back the bedcovers, and sprayed the sheets with
l'eau de cologne
, Madame Rappelais appeared in the doorway.

“Berthe, my dear, my husband requests your presence. He's in his bedroom.”

“But I …” She felt her whole body go cold. And yet there were beads of perspiration running down her back.

“It's very late. Please don't keep him waiting.
Bonne nuit
,” said Madame Rappelais. She raised her arms above her head, yawned, and slipped into bed. Berthe felt as if she were being fed to the lions. She stood there for a moment wanting to ask Madame what was expected of her. But her mistress was already snoring lightly.

Berthe tripped on her own feet as she made her way slowly down the long hallways to Monsieur's bedroom. She thought she was
going to be sick all over the Oriental runner. She took a deep breath before knocking lightly on the door. There was no answer. Perhaps he had fallen asleep. She knocked a second time, hoping against hope that he wouldn't answer.

“Entrez,”
came the command. She opened the door and stepped inside. Monsieur Rappelais's back was turned to her. He stood before a long table that was stacked with bolts of material. He was wearing a beautiful green and blue silk brocade dressing gown and elegant velvet brocade slippers. Berthe immediately noticed that his legs were bare.
He's naked underneath his robe
, she realized with a start. He turned around and smiled.

“Ah, the beautiful mademoiselle from the mill. Come in, come in. Tell me, how do you like your new job?”

“Very much, monsieur. Thank you,” she said in a barely audible whisper.

“And the mistress? She is not too demanding?”

“No, sir, not at all.”

“Ah, good. Good. Now I need you to do something for me, my dear. Look at these fabrics. Are they not exquisite? They come from my mills in Lyon. You see, cotton is my bread and butter. But silk, silk is my caviar and champagne. Look at the detail of this.” He unrolled a bolt of cloth. “Is this not the most delicious fabric you have ever seen?” It was a heavy silk of yellow and white flowers upon a royal blue background with a design of ivy intertwined with golden
fleurs-de-lis
.

“It is very beautiful, monsieur.” Her fingers hesitated over the cloth. She was afraid to touch it.

“Now, mademoiselle. Take off your clothes.” He said it so matter-of-factly, Berthe wasn't sure she had heard him correctly.

“What?” She backed away.

“Just do as I say. Don't be shy.” He tutted impatiently.

“But, but, sir … I … I …” she stammered, twisting her apron string round and round her hand.

“Please, it's late and I'm very tired. I want to see how these fabrics drape.” He unrolled another bolt of cloth—a pale blue and cream satin with a design of red roses and blue ribbon. Berthe was sure it was a trick. When he had her completely naked and there was no escape, then he would pounce on her. The fact that Mariette was still working in the Rappelais household just meant that rather than throw herself into the river Seine she had decided to swallow her pride and shame and continue to work for the man who had ruined her life. “I haven't got all night, mademoiselle,” Monsieur Rappelais said, frowning at her.

Berthe took a deep, shaky breath and untied her apron. Then she removed her dress and with trembling hands, carefully laid it over a brocaded chair. She stood shivering in her cotton chemise and underpetticoat. She willed herself not to cry. During all this time Monsieur's attention was elsewhere. He was rolling and unrolling bolts of cloth, one on top of the other. He commented to himself about each one.

“Too heavy, too formal, too fussy.” Finally selecting a bolt of cloth, he turned and looked at Berthe. “Ah, let's try this, shall we?” He draped a plum-colored silk with raised black brocade over her and stood back to admire the effect. “
Parfait!
Just
parfait
! This is lovely on you. You should always wear eggplant. You have the most exquisite coloring. Like a peach. This is not an easy shade to wear. I wager there are not three women in all of Paris who can do it justice. Well, we'll let Monsieur Worth worry about that, shall we? Take that off. And let's put this on.” He unfurled a bolt of light green chiffon and swept a length of it over Berthe's bare shoulders. “Oh, marvelous! So delicious I could eat
it.” As he turned around, the sash on his robe came undone, and Berthe saw something that so shocked her she gasped aloud.

Underneath his dressing gown, the distinguished Monsieur Rappelais was wearing a woman's black lace corset and garters and nothing else. The garters, unattached to stockings, dangled freely.

“Oh, monsieur!” said Berthe, covering her eyes and turning away.

He looked down.

“What? Oh, sorry,” he said, retying the robe. Was this the man who was going to ravage her, to take away her virginity? What exactly was he going to do to her? “Now, which do you like better, this or this?” He held up two different lengths of crimson silk. “Here, feel it against your skin. This has a much heavier heft to it and I think it would be lovely as a lining for a cape. What do you think?”

She suddenly realized that he was, in fact, far more interested in the fabric than he was in her. She felt the fear begin to leave her.

“I like this one,” she said, tentatively touching the heavier silk. “But this,” she pointed to the second, “would make a lovely underskirt.”

“Ah, yes, very good. Very good. Come here, I want to show you something.” She stiffened again. He led her over to a stack of books on another long table. They were filled with small swatches of silk: silk in every conceivable color, every conceivable design. “This is what makes my job so very difficult. How to choose what to manufacture from all of these. How to know what the ladies will want.” He sighed. “Silk is what dictates the look of the day. Silk changes, it innovates, it leads the way. Fashion follows ever so slowly. Fashion is what hangs in your armoire. Silk is what dresses the future.” He turned to look at her. “Do you understand?”

Berthe nodded. He reminded her of Monsieur Millet. The artist's speech about texture came back to her: “The coarser the texture, the sturdier the weave; the rougher the life, the greater the reward … Always honor the homespun.” Here was another man passionate about fabric—but, ironically, exactly the opposite kind of material. Berthe found Rappelais's words and his enthusiasm as exciting as she had found Millet's. As the evening progressed, she forgot all about the fact that her employer was wearing a corset underneath his dressing gown. It suddenly didn't matter.

“Now, look at this,” Rappelais said, carefully removing a swatch from the book and holding it up to the light of the chandelier. “This is going to be in great demand.”

“How very beautiful,” said Berthe. The fabric was a deep wine silk with gold threads woven to create a raised design of grapes and grape leaves.

“The world is moving into darker solid colors,” explained Rappelais, “but florals and fruits will always be in vogue. This fabric is very dear. Of course, none of this would be possible without that genius Jacquard. You have heard of Jacquard?”

Berthe shook her head.

“Oh,
mon Dieu
,” he said, slapping his face. “I must take you in hand, mademoiselle. There is much to learn. Luckily, I am a brilliant, inspired teacher. My wife, unfortunately, cares nothing about the making of silk. All she is interested in is the wearing of it.” He peered at her closely. “You are not tired, are you?”

“No, monsieur.” Her body ached with fatigue, but her mind felt unexpectedly alert, ready to absorb all he had to offer.

“Good. Very good. Sit down.” He indicated a chair. He poured them each a small glass of liqueur. “I thought I had found a pearl for my wife and I ended up with a diamond for myself.” He laughed. “Do you remember telling me you preferred silk as you stood in the middle of my cotton mill?”

She nodded, taking a small sip of the liqueur. It burned her throat but tasted deliciously of pears.

“I thought to myself then: This is a girl who is not afraid to declare her love of the more luxurious things in life. There is nothing in this world more important than silk. And my wife tells me that you also have an eye for fine fashion. Is that correct?”