Madame Bovary's Daughter (3 page)

“It's just not possible,
chérie
,” Madame Homais said.

Berthe grew quiet. She vowed never to beg for anything again. Not if she could help it. It hurt too much to be refused.

“The house is going to be sold,” said Madame Homais. “You had better take one last look and make sure there's nothing that's been missed.” Berthe had no desire to revisit the home she'd grown up in, but she did as Madame Homais instructed. It was empty of everything. Every chair, every cushion, every painting, even the curtains had all been taken away by her father's creditors. The only things that were left were the pallets she and her father had slept on. How sad the small house looked. How sad and how poor. Only the outlines of furniture in the dust on the floor gave evidence to the fact that anyone had ever lived here. And yet this house had been her whole life. It was through these small paned windows that she first made sense of the world. It was on the worn wooden steps that led upstairs where she learned to walk, holding on to the railing, taking one step at a time. Her tiny room had been a haven from her mother's moods and her father's distance.

And how she had loved the kitchen where Félicité had created the most delicious aromas out of nothing more than a dollop of butter, mushrooms, and onions. Berthe inhaled deeply. The only smell now was that of dust and something else: mouse droppings. The mice had taken over the house.

Well, let the mice have it. Let the creditors fight over the crumbs. One day she would have her own home, a beautiful house with sparkling windows, a huge kitchen hearth that never
went cold, and a marble staircase that led to a ballroom big enough for fifty waltzing couples. She would fill the mansion with brocade couches and satin cushions, and paintings in real gold frames. She would have armoires … no, entire rooms filled with gowns made of the costliest fabrics. Satins and silks, velvets and chiffons. And she would have a long sloping lawn and flowered gardens. And acres of meadows with many, many horses so that she could choose a different one to ride each day of the month. She would build a high wall around the house with a big iron gate fitted with a lock so that no one would be able to get in unless she wanted them to. And no one could ever take her house away from her. Ever.

She suddenly stopped and yanked hard at her single braid as if to chastise herself. She had been infected with the same delusional thinking as her mother. It was all those books, and that poetry; her mother's often repeated story of the grand ball at Vaubyessard.
I won't fall into the same trap. I won't
. She would monitor herself very carefully. Whatever she gained in life, horses or houses or beautiful gowns, they would all be real. Most important of all, she would have what her mother never had: the love of someone she loved in return.

She slowly pushed open the door to her mother's bedroom. She always thought of it as belonging only to her mother even though her father certainly shared it. The small space had been crowded with all her mother's favorite things. A four-poster bed made of silken rosewood, a heavy damask bedspread, a matching rosewood dressing table, a blue and red Oriental rug, a velvet-covered chaise longue, and a freestanding gilt-framed mirror. With everything gone, the room seemed even smaller. She opened the wall cupboard not expecting to find anything. There, on the very top shelf, was a page torn from one of her mother's
fashion books. It was an illustration of a woman in a ball gown. Berthe read the description at the bottom.

Berthe's chest felt tight as she gazed at the gown in the picture. It was the most beautiful dress she had ever seen: one that would diminish an entire ballroom full of gowns. Why had this one piece of paper been the only thing left behind? Was it just to serve as a reminder of her mother's lavish, foolish tastes? Had Madame Bovary actually been planning on ordering this dress to be made? And if so, where was she going to wear it? In front of the long mirror in her bedroom? Walking the narrow streets of Yonville, infuriating the residents even more? Perhaps this was the dress in which she wanted to be buried. Berthe choked down a sob. This gown represented all the beauty her mother had ever yearned for. Taking the picture, she carefully folded it in half and placed it in her apron pocket.

It took only two weeks for the house to sell. After all her father's debts were paid, including the one to Monsieur Homais, who seemed both relieved and surprised, Berthe received a total of twelve francs and seventy-five centimes. Not enough to live on,
but more than enough to send her off to what she thought of as a fate worse than death: life with grand-mère Bovary.

She waited with Madame Homais for the morning coach. She had no idea what lay in store for her. She had lived her entire life in one house, in one small town, with the same two people. And now she was moving to a whole new place. She felt as if she were falling off the edge of the earth and there was no one and nothing to catch her. She wanted to cry, but crying seemed a feeble reaction to falling into an abyss. Screaming would have been more appropriate. But Berthe was not one to make a scene. That was more her mother's domain.

A
S THE COACH TOOK
B
ERTHE FARTHER AND FARTHER AWAY FROM
Yonville, the fields became bigger and the houses fewer and farther apart. The road grew quite rough. She had to sit forward on the leather seat so that her head didn't bump against the wall of the coach.

There was only one other passenger in the coach that day: an elderly gentleman who was so fat he took up the entire seat across from her. His vest was unbuttoned and his dusty black coat barely fit around him. He began eating his lunch as soon as the horses started up. He chewed on thick slices of garlic sausage and cheese, washing them down with long swigs from a bottle of wine. Madame Homais had packed a lunch for Berthe but she had no appetite.

“You are very young to be traveling alone.” Each word he uttered carried with it the strong smell of garlic. “And very pretty,” he added.

He belched loudly, closed his eyes, and fell into a deep, rumbling sleep. After a few minutes, Berthe felt his knee press against
hers. She moved away. He continued to sleep but his outstretched leg kept moving closer and closer until she was squeezed as far into the corner of the coach as she could get. Finally, she lifted the heel of her shoe and stomped it down hard on his foot. He snorted awake, looked around as if trying to remember where he was, closed his eyes, and promptly fell asleep again. She gazed out the coach window in order to avoid looking at him.

Just because I'm alone doesn't mean I'm afraid. If you try to touch me I'll bite through your big fat hand
. But she was afraid. She was trapped in a small carriage with a big greasy sausage of a man, and if he made another move toward her she wasn't quite sure what she would do.

It was early June and the sun was high in the sky. She saw peasants walking along the side of the road carrying farm tools on their way to or from work in the fields. Herds of brown and white Normandy cows grazed on the sweet spring grass. Small birds darted between the cows' legs, feeding on stray seeds. Everything seemed so simple and serene. She began to relax and forget her fears. She felt cheered by the beautiful countryside. She was, by nature, an optimistic child, who was greatly influenced by the physical world around her. As a little girl she would sit on the edge of the bottom stone step in front of her house and study the clouds. Closing her eyes and lifting her face to the sun's warmth, she savored every small shift in the breezes that blew in from the nearby Rieule.

Peering out at the pink-edged clouds now she felt, if not happy, at least hopeful. And that small bit of hope lifted her spirits and gave her a new energy.

She thought about her grand-mère. She must be very sad losing her only son.
But at least she has me
. She began to imagine a new relationship with the old woman. The cold, critical woman
disappeared and in her place appeared a loving grand-mère thankful for a second chance to show her granddaughter that she was capable of affection. They would start fresh and learn to love each other. After all, it was just the two of them left in the world. Madame Homais was right. All they had was each other. Her grand-mère would make up for all the love and attention Berthe had never received from her own parents. Theirs would be a close and cherished relationship. She couldn't wait for the old woman to throw her arms around her, perhaps even cry the tears that had been stored up for years. It was with these positive thoughts that she rode the rest of the way to her grand-mère's house.

Berthe half expected to see a run-down shack. On her infrequent visits to Yonville the elder Madame Bovary had pleaded desperate poverty. To hear her tell it she barely had enough to keep body and soul together. She always made a point of scolding her daughter-in-law for her wasteful ways.

“Emma, my dear,” she said to Berthe's mother one afternoon at tea, “do you really need to use so much sugar? These berries are sweet enough.”

“Perhaps to your taste, Mother-in-law, but I find them quite sour,” Emma said with a tight smile.

“How can that be? The berries I am eating come from the same patch as the ones you are eating.” The older woman popped another into her mouth as if to demonstrate its sweetness. “Mmm, like candy. Here, Berthe, have a berry and tell your mother how wrong she is. She's using expensive sugar when it's not needed.” Berthe was always being put in the middle whenever her grand-mère tried to make a point. Of course, she knew where her loyalty lay. She ate the strawberry, made a face, and offered her humble opinion.

“Oh, Grand-mère, it's quite sour,” she said.

“You and your mother will drive your father into the poorhouse,” the old woman retorted. “By the way, Emma, is that a new dress?” she asked sharply.

“No, Mother-in-law,” the younger Madame Bovary lied, “I've had this for years. I just put new lace on the bodice.”

Berthe thought if her grand-mère only knew how much time and money her mother spent shopping she wouldn't quibble over a little sugar.

“I myself have not had a new frock in over fifteen years.” Grand-mère Bovary sniffed. “I must make do with what I have. I am, after all, a poor widow.”

So Berthe was quite surprised upon arriving at the poor widow's house to discover a large, neat structure, built half in stone and half in timber like many of the houses in the region. The front was covered with crossbeams painted a pretty pale blue. A small barn sat some yards from the house. The barn and the house occupied a spacious courtyard, in the center of which was an old stone well. Everything looked clean and in excellent repair. Her grand-mère was waiting on the doorstep, her arms crossed as if Berthe was late. Her black hair was pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Her skin was very white and quite smooth for a woman her age. She studied her granddaughter with deep-set black eyes that never seemed to blink. The contrast between this, her real grand-mère, and the warm figure Berthe had begun to create in her mind was like a bad joke.

“Where is your baggage?” her grand-mère demanded, forgoing any greeting as the coach pulled away.

“Baggage?” Berthe's whole body stiffened as if she had forgotten something.

“Your things.”

“These are all my belongings, Grand-mère.” The old woman took Berthe's valise, opened it, and glanced at the contents, making a face as she did.

“You truly are a penniless orphan,” she said. “Well, bring it along, and wipe your feet before you ruin my floor. I just swept and scrubbed it.”

This turned out to be one of the last household chores Berthe's grand-mère performed.

The old woman led Berthe up the stairs to the second floor. She showed her the three bedrooms; the largest, overlooking the courtyard, was beautifully furnished: a majestic oak bed and matching wardrobe with ornately carved cornices of doves, flowers, and fruit.

“My bedroom,” she announced. “Not to be entered without my permission.” The other two rooms were more modestly furnished. “And this is my sewing room,” she said at the door of the second room. “I don't suppose anyone ever bothered to teach you to sew.”

“My mother did. I can embroider as well,” Berthe said proudly.

One of her earliest memories was her mother teaching her how to embroider. Félicité had started her out practicing a simple slanting overcast stitch to be used in outlining the letters of the alphabet. Berthe couldn't follow the lines that Félicité had so carefully drawn on the muslin. Her fingers felt fat and clumsy. She was constantly pricking herself. Soon the material was covered with rust-red blood spots.

“What is this?” her mother asked, pulling the cloth out of Berthe's hands. “What are you teaching her, Félicité? How to make useless, ugly things? Come with me. If you are going to sew, at least sew something that I can bear to look at.”

Her mother showed her how to do French knots, candlewicking,
point de plume
, and
point de minute
—a stitch used to make the pattern appear raised. Then she gave Berthe a large piece of soft cotton and said, “Now stop pestering me and go make something beautiful.”

“But, Maman, there are no lines to follow.”

“Use your imagination, that's what it's for,” she said on her way to the shops.

And Berthe did. While her mother was out shopping, or at home lost in a novel or the latest fashion periodical, Berthe practiced the stitches. As she sewed she found that her fingers seemed to suddenly grow longer and cleverer. When she was all done she presented the work to her mother.