Madame Bovary's Daughter (30 page)

“I think so, monsieur.”

“So let us continue. In 1804, Joseph-Marie Jacquard invented a loom which used a belt of pattern cards that were punched with various holes designed to create a patterned weave. The result was that the Jacquard weave replaced the need for humans who had to spend long hours hand-pulling the old-style looms. It is because of his invention that we have brocades, brocatelle, and lamé such as these.” He showed her various fabric samples to illustrate his story. “In the beginning, because the Jacquard loom was putting so many workers out of work, there was a great deal of sabotage of these looms. But that was years ago. Now there are over four thousand Jacquard looms in Lyon alone.” He yawned and stretched. “Well, even if you're not tired, mademoiselle, I am exhausted. Next time, we'll discuss the beauty of brocade and the threat of the new blends.”

Thus began her education in the history and manufacturing of silk. Berthe began to dream of another sort of job: working alongside Monsieur Rappelais, helping him choose and perhaps even design fabrics. Could she earn her living this way? Why not? To think of it: making money doing something she loved. Not having to depend on a husband or some other man to support her, the way her mother had. Now, that was a dream worth dreaming—one that Berthe reasoned her mother never even imagined.

The following afternoon, as Berthe was helping Madame Rappelais dress for an outing, Monsieur appeared in the doorway.

“Well, I am pleased to say that your Mademoiselle Bovary has the eye for fabrics and a mind eager to learn more,” he said. “Finally, someone who can appreciate my talent.”

“I'm happy you're pleased, my dear,” said Madame Rappelais, as she handed a comb to Berthe to place in her hair. Monsieur Rappelais bowed to both of them and left the room. “I hope my husband isn't boring you to death,” she said to Berthe.

“Oh, no. Not at all. I love learning about the making of silk.”

“Well, take care that he doesn't monopolize you. And don't forget your place,” she said with mock sternness. “Your place, my little mademoiselle,
is with me
.”

Monsieur Rappelais spent the next two weeks grabbing Berthe whenever she had a spare moment, to have her model the newest silks and to explain to her the origins of some of the lavish designs.

“These are some of my most successful creations,” he said, proudly handing her a book of swatches. The book contained page after page of designs: daisies, lilies, bouquets of roses entwined with ribbons, laurel, oak leaves, exotic birds, and bees. The latter, according to Rappelais, were a favorite of Napoléon's. Berthe turned each page slowly, touching every swatch.

The time came that Monsieur had to again make another trip to Lille and Lyon. “From the sow's ear to the silk purse,” he said to Berthe. “I spend only one day at Lille because what is there to say about cotton? It is what it is. My presence is more important in Lyon. They are after me to start making, forgive the expression, blends. These hideous department stores have created a demand for fabric that the great unwashed can more easily afford.”

“The great unwashed?” Berthe frowned. She was poor, but certainly not unwashed.

“Perhaps I put it too harshly,” Rappelais said, noticing her expression. “But my point is that silk was created for a certain class of people. And unfortunately, these blends are getting better and better at masquerading as the more expensive fabrics.”

“But, monsieur, if a less expensive blend could be made wouldn't that benefit everyone? Why shouldn't less fortunate women be able to own beautiful gowns as well as wealthy women?”

He looked at her as if a frog had just emerged from her mouth.

“We just can't have everyone wearing silk, my dear! You have to understand, the fabrics I manufacture are embroidered by hand and finished by hand. They are expensive to buy because they are expensive to make. Can you imagine how a woman of means wearing an exquisite gown would feel if she saw her maidservant wearing a cheap replica of the same thing? Why, she would feel terribly cheated. I am not in the business of cheating the rich. We must maintain our standards, or society as we know it would crumble!”

Though she couldn't say it aloud, in her heart Berthe reflected that if she ever had the chance, she would see to it that every woman, rich
or
poor, could have the pleasure of dressing well. Then, as her mother always said, the world would be a prettier place. It was not such a terrible idea, after all.

S
EVERAL WEEKS HAD PASSED SINCE
M
ONSIEUR
R
APPELAIS HAD
departed for his mills. Before leaving he had given Berthe the book of swatches. “Here,” he had said, handing her the heavy leather-bound book, “you may borrow it and study it at your leisure.” His only interest in her seemed to be as a potential student of fabric and fashion, and as a model. She was relieved not to have been molested by the strange old man, just as she was happy to be serving Madame Rappelais. At least with her there would be no sudden surprises.

“Oh, I am desperate for a nice, long bath,” said Madame Rappelais, coming home after a long day of shopping.

“Shall I run the tub for you, madame?”

“Please, and, Berthe, make it good and hot. Shopping leaves me feeling
dégoûtante
.” Berthe ran the water, adding the bath salts and a splash of lavender oil. She took two thick white towels and hung them on a rack near the fireplace. The evening was cold and rainy, so she built a small fire. She pulled back the duvet, fluffed and smoothed the feather pillows, straightened
and scented the sheets for the second time that day. Then she went into the dressing room and removed a fresh nightgown and Madame's favorite
peignoir
. After laying the nightclothes on the bed, she went downstairs and fetched a pot of tea and a few biscuits from the kitchen. Madame liked something hot and sweet before turning in for the night. Berthe found that she enjoyed observing the details of Madame's routine. It gave her a sense of security and order.

She lit the oil lamp next to Madame's bed and placed the book her mistress had been reading on the bedside table, surprised to see that it was
Emma
by Jane Austen, a book her mother had read. But why, she wondered, would a fabulously wealthy woman like Madame Rappelais be interested in a story about a well-to-do family? To Emma Bovary the whole point of a book was to give her a glimpse of another world, a world otherwise out of her reach. Why would Madame Rappelais want to read about a lifestyle that she herself was already living?

“Berthe, can you come here, please?”

The request startled Berthe. With a last glance at the book, she walked across the room and knocked on the bathroom door. She had never before entered while Madame was taking her bath.

“Entrez,”
called Madame Rappelais. She lay in the tub surrounded by fragrant soap bubbles. Her silver-blond hair was swept up in a topknot. The hot water had turned her skin a rosy pink.

“Ah, Berthe, dear, my back needs a good scrub. Would you be so kind?”

“Yes, madame.” Berthe picked up the soft sponge and rubbed it against a bar of the vanilla-scented soap. Madame Rappelais sat up in the bath and leaned forward.

“Don't be afraid to scrub hard,” she said, smiling over her wet
shoulder. Berthe kept her eyes averted. “Ahhh, yes, that feels wonderful.” She sighed. “Now the front, but lightly, very lightly.” She leaned back, rested her head against the edge of the tub and closed her eyes.

Now Berthe couldn't help but see her mistress's full, red-nippled breasts. She rinsed the sponge and soaped it again and tried not to wonder why tonight of all nights Madame Rappelais couldn't wash herself. She gently brought the sponge around her shoulders, the tops of her arms, and then, finally, across her breasts. She felt her face flush with warmth. She didn't know where to direct her gaze.

Suddenly Berthe felt a hand on the back of her neck pulling her down. Madame Rappelais's gray eyes were inches from Berthe's. She pulled Berthe even closer and kissed her softly on the mouth.

“Madame!” Berthe pulled away, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Don't be afraid,” whispered Madame Rappelais. “I'm not going to hurt you. I would never hurt you, dear child. Quite the contrary, my sweet, lovely girl.” The next kiss was longer. And, if possible, even softer. Berthe's lips seemed to fit perfectly against Madame's generous mouth. And then Madame's tongue slipped between her lips. Berthe was torn between a desire to pull away and a desire to immerse herself in the warm scented water with her beautiful mistress.

“Take off your clothes, dear. Take them off now,” Madame Rappelais instructed softly.

“But I …” Berthe drew back, her wet hands nervously pulling at her pinafore.

“I know they must have taught you how to follow instructions in my husband's mill. Just do as I say and all will be well.” Berthe suddenly understood the threat that lay underneath the
words. And yet Madame Rappelais was smiling kindly as if she were teaching a slow child.

Trembling, Berthe kept her head lowered as she took off her pinafore and her dress. She lowered her petticoats to the floor. She felt as if she were not connected to her body, as if some power had taken over her every move. The next thing she knew she was kneeling by the side of the tub and they were kissing again. Madame's soft fingers danced across one of Berthe's nipples and then the other until they stood out sharp and erect. She knew she should hate this woman for what she was doing, but her mind had gone somewhere else. She had stopped thinking altogether. Only her body was present.

Madame leaned down and with the tip of her tongue licked around and around the perimeter of Berthe's breasts, ignoring the silent pleas of her erect nipples.
Please, touch us, please kiss us, please bite us, please, please
. Finally, when Berthe thought she would die from need, Madame's tongue lightly tipped the end of her nipple and with the other hand she continued to caress Berthe's other breast. Then she began suckling on Berthe like a hungry newborn baby.

“Get in,” she said huskily, “and I'll show you what to do.” She made room for Berthe in the tub. Berthe slipped in beside her. At first the water felt too hot, but then her skin adjusted to it and the warmth embraced her. “You are so delicious. So young and delicious,” breathed Madame Rappelais. “Do you know how beautiful you are? Of course not. Kiss me.”

Berthe gave herself up completely. She kissed her mistress again and again. She wanted never to stop. “Kiss this,” Madame Rappelais said, pointing to her breast. Berthe lowered her mouth to the perfect breast and began to kiss it, lick it, and then finally suckle it. She thought, incongruously, of her mother at that moment,
and she began to cry. Madame Rappelais appeared not to notice.

They caressed and kissed each other until the water turned cold and Madame Rappelais began laughing.

“Oh, it's freezing,” she said, stepping quickly out of the tub and grabbing a thick towel. “Get out,
m'enfante
, or you'll catch your death.” She wrapped Berthe in the other towel and dried her off as if she were a baby. And then, as if only moments before they hadn't been wrapped in each other's arms, she smiled and said, “Sleep well, Mademoiselle Bovary. I'll see you in the morning.” She left Berthe standing on the wet marble floor, her head spinning with confusion, her body aching with desire.

The next morning, Berthe went downstairs to the kitchen to get her breakfast. She felt as if everything that had happened in Madame Rappelais's bathtub was written all over her face. Fortunately, no one seemed to notice. Everyone treated her exactly the same, except Mariette. She was ruder than usual to Berthe. Did she sense something?

“Hurry up with the butter, Bovary. You're not the only one at this table,” she snapped. “Hush your mouth, Mariette,” scolded Madame Brobert. “There's plenty for everyone. You take as much as you want, dear.” Mariette scowled and reached across the table to grab the butter. When Berthe got up to take her dishes over to the washing sink, Mariette stuck out her foot and Berthe tripped over it. Later, on the back stairs as she was carrying down the sheets for the laundress, she ran into Mariette once again.

“You think you're special. You're not special. Just wait and see. She'll tire of you just as she did of me.” Berthe suddenly realized why Mariette had been crying that very first day. She
hadn't just been demoted to downstairs maid. She had been rejected as Madame's lover. No wonder she had acted at the time as if her heart had been broken. It had.

Berthe's stomach was tight with tension when she went to awaken Madame. She didn't know how to behave. She didn't know what was expected of her. And she was afraid. Afraid that Madame would start up with her again. Afraid that she wouldn't. What should she do? Should she wake her mistress with a kiss? Should she keep her distance? She needn't have worried. Everything was as if last night had never happened. Madame Rappelais was her usual self, if not somewhat distant. She acted exactly the same as she had before the bathtub incident. Berthe began to wonder if she had dreamt it.

She felt relieved and, at the same time, disappointed. But she knew enough not to say anything. She was a servant, after all. She must be prepared to do her mistress's bidding, whatever that might be.

A
WEEK WENT BY WITH NO FURTHER SIGN FROM
M
ADAME
Rappelais that anything had passed between them. Berthe felt herself turn red with embarrassment every time she was in Madame's presence. She was much relieved when Monsieur returned from his trip. Ironically, she felt much safer in his company now than with his wife.