Madame Bovary's Daughter (31 page)

Monsieur Rappelais was exhausted, and unhappy with one of his new fabrics.

“What do you think of this?” he asked Berthe. It was an unusually simple pattern of orange vines and white baby's breath against a deep blue background. Berthe frowned as she caressed the heavy silk.

“I know. It's boring,” he said.

“Oh, sir, it's beautiful … but …”

“But what? Say it.”

“It has no … how to describe it … anchor. Nothing holds the eye.”

Rappelais tilted his head and squinted. “Yes, I see what you mean. But I am sick to death of tulips and roses.”

“What about stars?” she said, turning to Monsieur Rappelais.

“Stars?”

“Large stars scattered throughout, and then you could weave the ivy vines around them.” She picked up the pen from his desk and quickly drew her idea on a scrap of paper.

“Brilliant. Yes, stars. I've never used stars before. But why not? It's all out of nature.” He patted her on the shoulder. “You have the gift, mademoiselle.” Berthe flushed with pleasure. The dream of working on fabrics with him suddenly seemed very real.

“Ah, the geniuses hard at work,” said Madame Rappelais as she entered the room.

“Perhaps not genius,” chortled Monsieur Rappelais, “but we are certainly hard at work. I hope I'm not being too piggy with Mademoiselle Berthe's time, my dear.”

“Actually, you are being very naughty about her. I don't understand why you need her so much.” She pursed her lips petulantly and turned to Berthe. “Dear, go into my dressing room and see about cleaning my shoes, if you will.” As Berthe left, she heard Madame tell her husband: “The boys are coming home the day after tomorrow, for a week.”

“So soon?” was Monsieur's only response.

The next day the house prepared itself for a weeklong visit from the
fils
. Madame DuPoix put all the small breakables away or on high shelves. She had Mariette roll up the smaller Orientals.

“They like to slide,” Madame DuPoix explained to Berthe, pointing to the polished marble floors. Mariette draped the silk damask couches and brocade chairs with muslin covers. Madame Brobert, the cook, began baking up a storm. The
household in general was acting as if preparing for the invasion of the Huns.

The boys, Roger and Raoul, nine and eleven, arrived around noon the following day. They tore through the house as if it were a gymnasium. They climbed on Madame Rappelais's bed with muddy shoes and jumped on and off her delicate sofas and chairs.

“You bad, bad boys,” Madame Rappelais said in a faux angry voice. She seemed not to care what they did as long as they showered her with kisses. She indulged their every whim. Berthe felt uncomfortably jealous of the affection that Madame Rappelais showered on them. That evening when Monsieur returned from the shops, he greeted his sons with a stiffness and formality that Berthe found surprising.

“And how are the young gentlemen? Are your studies progressing well?” The boys all but ignored him.

In the middle of the night Berthe was awakened by a knock on her door. She opened it, surprised to see Monsieur Rappelais holding a candelabra in his hand.

“I'm so sorry to wake you, mademoiselle. But I'm afraid I need your help. Please, will you come with me?” She found her shawl and followed him downstairs to his room. “My wife is fast asleep. Otherwise I would have asked her assistance. You see my difficulty,” he said, taking off his dressing robe. Underneath it he was wearing a crimson ball gown, without the usual crinolines. He turned his back to her to indicate what his problem was. One of the satin buttons was caught in a twisted button loop and it couldn't be unfastened. “Please, if you would be so kind.” Berthe stifled a giggle and nodded, then released the button. “As long as you're back there, perhaps you can manage the rest for me. I'm not as limber as I used to be.” She unbuttoned all the buttons and the dress fell to the floor. She quickly turned her back.

“I'm decent,” announced Monsieur Rappelais. She turned around. He had put his robe back on. “My little hobby is sometimes more trouble than it's worth. Ah, well,
bonne nuit
, mademoiselle, and thank you.”

The next morning, while Madame was taking her bath and Berthe was making her bed, the two Rappelais boys burst into their mother's bathroom. It was then Berthe discovered that everyone knew about Monsieur Rappelais's odd penchant for women's clothing.

“Maman, why does Papa wear ladies' dresses?” Roger, the younger boy, asked.

“You know, darling, that's part of his business.”

“But why must he wear the dresses?”

“I expect because he likes to. Your papa cherishes beautiful things. That's one of the reasons he's so successful.”

“When we grow up and take over the mills will we have to wear ladies' dresses?” asked Raoul, the oldest. He was a beautiful boy with hair and coloring much like his mother's.

“When you grow up you can do whatever you want to do, dear boy. That's the joy of being grown-up, isn't it?”

It hit Berthe then that these boys would grow up to take over their father's business. But they would not follow in his tradition. No, they showed little interest in fabrics or fashion. And it was unlikely that they would ever entertain the idea of her joining the Rappelais firm. In their eyes she was nothing but a maid. Not just in their eyes, she reminded herself, but in reality as well. And with that her dreams frayed, like so many threads, right before her eyes.

After a week the boys went back to school.

“Well, now that they're gone, the house can return to normal,” Madame DuPoix sighed with relief.
Normal
was not a word Berthe would have chosen.

That night, after supper, Monsieur retired to his room and his beloved fabrics.

“I am expecting a Monsieur Bonlit at ten o'clock. Please show him up to my bedroom when he arrives,” Madame Rappelais instructed.

“Yes, madame,” said Berthe, hanging up Madame's dress.

“Ah, not even a look of surprise at my late-night company?” said Madame, smiling at Berthe. “You are turning into a true sophisticate, my Mademoiselle Bovary.” She laughed.

At exactly ten o'clock, Berthe heard the knocker on the front door. She hurried downstairs. Mariette was just opening the door. A handsome young man in top hat and coat stood before them.

“Monsieur Bonlit to see Madame Rappelais,” he announced.

“This way, monsieur.” Berthe took his coat and hat and handed them to Mariette, who for once looked amused instead of angry.

“How does it feel to be replaced so soon?” she whispered. Berthe ignored her.

She led Monsieur Bonlit up the stairs. She could feel his eyes on her back.

“And how is your mistress this evening?” he asked.

“I am sure she is quite well, monsieur.” She knocked on Madame's door.

“Come in,” the voice sang out. Madame Rappelais reclined on her chaise longue in a silk dressing gown of the deepest blue embroidered with long-tailed birds of every color. Her blond hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders.

“Ah, René, what a surprise,” she said, extending her delicate hand to be kissed. “Dear Berthe, can you fetch a bottle of wine and perhaps some nice fruit from the kitchen? I think Madame Brobert will have left it out.”

“Yes, madame.” Berthe quickly exited the room.

The man was still in Madame's bedroom the next morning. Berthe could hear their soft laughter as she straightened up the dressing room and readied Madame's clothes for the day. Her sons barely gone, her husband still asleep in his bedroom at the end of the hall, and here was the lady of the house in bed with a man she wasn't married to. Was this what Madame meant by sophisticated?

It was time to wake up her mistress, but clearly she was already awake. Berthe stood at the door not knowing what to do. She took a deep breath and knocked, three sharp raps.

“Yes, Berthe, come in,” Madame called out. Berthe entered. “Monsieur Bonlit was just going.”

“Not before I ravish you once more,” laughed the young man, reaching up to tweak Madame's breast.

“René, you forget yourself,” Madame said indignantly. Her indignation rang false considering the fact that she was totally naked and sitting astride the young man. Her face burning with embarrassment, Berthe left them to their tumbling and went to run Madame's bath.

That night a different man showed up at the same time as Monsieur Bonlit had the night before: a Monsieur Folinger, who knew his way up the stairs without having to be shown. He seemed in a great hurry and took the steps two at a time.

What kind of marriage did the Rappelaises have? Berthe knew nothing about how the upper class conducted their conjugal relationships. The only thing she had to compare it with was her own parents' marriage, and she had never even seen them embrace. Her father had occasionally placed a kiss on the top of her mother's head, but his wife's reaction to his gesture of affection had been one of annoyance and distaste. Then once again she remembered watching her mother in the woods with Monsieur
Boulanger. That had certainly been passion. But was it love? Weren't you supposed to marry for love? She thought about the Homaises and the Millets and their many children. She'd assumed that children were evidence of passion
and
love, but was that true of the Rappelaises? Theirs appeared to be a marriage that had produced two children without the benefit of either passion or love.

Madame Rappelais wasn't the only one entertaining guests. A few days later Monsieur Rappelais announced to Madame DuPoix, “I am expecting Monsieur Worth on Saturday. He will be here for lunch and will possibly stay for dinner.”

“Worth is coming on Saturday?” Madame Rappelais clapped her hands. “Finally. I must see him. I have new ball gowns to order.”

“He is coming to see me, my dear. We will discuss next year's fabrics. It is business.”

“You always monopolize the poor man. You never leave any time for me,” she pouted. “He is the only one who understands how to dress me. I am lost without him.”

“But you have your regular dressmaker.”

“My dressmaker makes dresses,” replied Madame Rappelais. “Monsieur Worth creates gowns.”

Rappelais said nothing for a minute. And then, “Yes, well, let us do our business and then you may have him for what time remains.”

Saturday arrived and with it a torrential rainstorm. Monsieur Charles Worth arrived in the late morning dripping wet and speaking French with a strange accent, not to mention an odd usage.

“The rain is making many cats and dogs,” he announced to
Berthe as he handed her a large carpetbag and followed her up the stairs to Monsieur's bedroom.

“I'm sorry, sir. I'm not sure I understand,” Berthe said, turning around to glance at the strange man as he huffed and puffed his way up the stairs.

“French is not my virgin tongue,” he explained to Berthe. “But I know it like the back of my foot.” With all the fuss that Madame and Monsieur had made over his visit, Berthe had expected a person of great stature or beauty. To her surprise, he was a homely man. A high pale forehead was framed by tight auburn curls, over which he wore an odd black skullcap. His mustache grew down both sides of an already down-turned mouth. His eyes followed the same line as his mustache: They slanted downward and gave his face the look of a sad hound. Perhaps to overcome his less-than-impressive looks, he was dressed in a wildly inventive way. He wore a full coat of green and blue brocade over a jacket of red Chinese silk. Underneath that was a flowing white silk shirt that tied in a huge bow at his throat.

“Monsieur Worth is here,” Berthe announced outside Monsieur Rappelais's bedroom. The door flew open.

“Come in, dear friend, come in.” Rappelais embraced Monsieur Worth after kissing him twice on both cheeks. “Dear Charles, you look wonderful. Just wonderful.” He fingered the fabric of Worth's coat. “Ah, I see you've made good use of the brocade.” Worth made a
pirouette
, his arms held far out from his sides.

“Stunning,” exclaimed Monsieur Rappelais. “I adore the way you've used the extra material in the back. It has a lovely swing to it.” He suddenly seemed to remember Berthe, who was just turning to go. “Oh, Charles, I want to introduce you to Mademoiselle Bovary. She is new to us. And she has, I must say, an excellent eye for
les textiles
.”

“And she has quite the beautiful
façade
,” said Worth, holding Berthe's chin and turning her face slowly from side to side. She tried to smile.

“You must excuse Monsieur Worth. He thinks his French is perfect. No one can correct him. I don't even try anymore.”

“What's wrong with my French? I speak like an indigent. You French think you invented language. It is we English who gave you the gift of words. Name one French poet that is equal to our Shakespeare. Just one.”

“Baudelaire,” offered Monsieur Rappelais.

“Never heard of him,” said Worth. “But enough of this. Come show me what you have brought me from Lyon.”

Berthe started to excuse herself.

“No, no, you stay here. We need you,” said Worth. “One cannot envision the fashion mode without the mannequin.”

They spent the next hour draping Berthe with various fabrics. One was more beautiful than the next.

“Now what about this?” Rappelais asked, draping a heavily embroidered cloth of red roses and small yellow birds over Berthe's shoulder. Both men studied the fabric for a long moment.

“I don't know,” said Worth, shaking his head. “It doesn't shriek to me for some reason. What do you think, mademoiselle?”

“It's awfully heavy for a dress,” said Berthe finally. She felt weighed down by the material. “Perhaps it would be better on a piece of furniture.”

“Of course. She is right,” said Worth, clapping his hands. “We are to dress ladies, not chaises longues.” He wagged his finger at Monsieur Rappelais.