Madame Bovary's Daughter (36 page)

“Yes, madame.”

“You're a man of few words, Monsieur de Pouvier. But I
imagine that is because you choose to express yourself in paints,” she said, looking him up and down through catlike eyes. “As I am not familiar with the mysterious workings of you master painters, please explain to me how you will proceed.”

“I will need to erect a scaffold, madame. You won't be able to use this room while I work here.”

“That is no matter. Now, about the painting itself. I want you to make a few minor alterations to the original: I want my face in place of Titian's Venus. As you can see, we have the same hair color. Will you require me to pose?”

“No, madame. I can work from a miniature of you,” said the artist with a wry smile. For the first time since Berthe had entered the room, she thought that there might be something about this Armand de Pouvier to actually like.

“As you wish,” said Madame Rappelais, clearly disappointed. “Now, I want the hills of Rome, if that's what they are, in the background. But no partridge. I hate the partridge. And instead of the boy Cupid, I want Cupid to be a girl.”

“But, madame, wouldn't you prefer an exact replica of the Titian? It is considered a masterpiece,” he said, frowning slightly.

“That may well be, but I want my own masterpiece. Do you have a problem with that, Monsieur de Pouvier?” she asked, her eyes flashing.

“It is your ceiling, madame. And your money.” Armand shrugged.

“Ah, but you think I am a presumptuous dilettante, don't you?” Madame said, tilting her head and trying to charm him into a smile.

“I don't know you well enough to say. I just think you are a woman who knows what she wants,” he said evenly. “When do you wish me to begin?”

Berthe hid her smile. This was the first time she had heard
anyone talk so confidently to Madame Rappelais—including Madame's husband. Even more amazing was the fact that her mistress seemed to be taking the young artist's attitude toward her in stride.

“The sooner the better,” she said, peering over the top of her fan.

“I will build the scaffolding tomorrow and begin my sketch the next day.”

“He's a cold one,” Madame Rappelais remarked to Berthe once De Pouvier had left. “I hope he has the skill to accomplish this task.” She gazed upward. “It would be awful if he ruined my ceiling just in time for my birthday ball.”

Berthe suddenly imagined how wonderful it would be if he did ruin Madame's ceiling. If he painted something so atrocious, so incredibly ugly, that her birthday ball would be ruined, her ballroom would be the laughingstock of all her fancy friends. She felt the thrill of possibility. At the same time, she admired Armand de Pouvier for holding his own with someone as formidable as Madame Rappelais. He had the makings of a true hero in her eyes.

The next day, the young artist brought in long lengths of lumber and built scaffolding that allowed him to reach the ceiling. Madame Rappelais had gone out for a day of shopping, so after finishing her chores Berthe stood in the doorway of the ballroom and watched him work. She was impressed by his silence, his seriousness, and the air of brooding in a man so young. He must be either very sad or wise beyond his years, she thought. To her, he approached the embodiment of her dreams: someone who was making a living using his talent, and had already earned the support of a master like Millet. At the same time, she wondered
why anyone who was doing what he loved to do would seem so somber.

That afternoon, using a thin stick of charcoal, Armand began to sketch out the mural. He continually referred to a miniature copy of Titian's original, which he kept by his side.

“Do you mind if I watch?” Berthe asked. He glanced over his shoulder at her but didn't answer. “How long do you think it will take you?” Again no answer. “Will the paint cover the charcoal marks?” The longer his silence, the more determined she became to extract an answer from him. “Are you a great admirer of Monsieur Millet?”

He glared down at her and finally spoke.

“I have better things to do than educate a maid about my work. My admiration of Millet is not necessary to do this job. And this is a job, not art. It doesn't require talent, just an empty belly and chronically empty pockets.” He made broad slashing strokes with the charcoal.

“Well, at least I know that you can talk,” Berthe retorted.

She turned on her heel and left the room, slamming the door behind her. She may have been dependent on her mistress for her livelihood but she certainly didn't owe this arrogant man anything, including her goodwill.
Who does he think he is? Just because he's handsome and talented doesn't give him the right to treat me like a servant girl
. And then she remembered: She
was
a servant girl. She thought about what he said about an empty belly and empty pockets. Why, he was as poor and dependent on work as she was.
We have much more in common than he realizes
.

Still simmering an hour later, Berthe carried a tea tray to the solarium, where Messieurs Rappelais and Worth were in conference
over the selection of fabric for Madame Rappelais's birthday ball gown. The teacups clattered as she set the tray down harder than intended. Sun poured through the French windows, illuminating the men's heavy brocade coats. They were dressed far too warmly for the room, but Berthe knew that for them to shed their elegant jackets was tantamount to leaving their egos at the door.

“This will be an excellent opportunity for you to promote your new establishment, my friend,” said Rappelais. “Therefore, you must pick the most incredible fabric. Something that will cause the guests to drool with envy.”

“You're right. It must be truly redundant. Something never before seen,” said Worth, fingering various swatches of cloth. “For the first time I feel a bit uncertain. I just don't know. Perhaps we should ask your wife.”

“Are you mad? You know quite well that she has terrible taste. She thinks there is no such thing as too many bangles and baubles. It is you and I who have made her one of the best-dressed women in Paris. We're better off asking Mademoiselle Berthe here what she thinks.”

Berthe bristled. Were they making fun of her? She was tired of being asked her opinion as if it were a novelty and then being dismissed as inconsequential in every other way. Both messieurs had told her on more than one occasion that she had an eye for fashion, a talent for suggesting tasteful combinations of fabric and design. She longed to be seen as a collaborator, an equal, not someone whose ideas they could take advantage of because she was a nobody. Just the same, she knew she still had much to learn from the men, and that she would have to be patient. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. For the first time, she told herself that this wasn't just a fantasy, a daydream out of her reach. She believed in herself, and she would not give up
until she'd made a career—and steady income—for herself in the fashion industry.

Monsieur Worth was speaking to her, a worried expression on his face. “This is the most important occasion, because it will represent the debut of my new enterprise, as my friend Rappelais suggests. This must be a one-of-a-kind fabric for a one-of-a-kind dress. It must make a stalemate. So please, mademoiselle, stop furrowing and give us your opinion.”

Berthe leaned over and calmly paged through the swatches in Monsieur Rappelais's sample book—embroidered satins and silks, gold lamés, brocades, intricately woven designs in every shade imaginable. She looked up and said, “What about something simple?”

“Simple!” both men exclaimed in horror. It was as if she had said, “What about something mud-splattered?”

“Do you remember the purple gown with the white silk tulle?” asked Berthe.

“Of course I do. It was one of my most inspired creations,” said Worth, twirling his mustache. Berthe opened her mouth to remind Worth of her contribution to the design but instead sighed, realizing that her ego stood only as an emerging sprout in the shadow of his towering oak.

“I suggest that you design a silk gown in the palest pink possible. It is one of Madame's best colors. Drape it with the lightest white tulle and nothing else.”

“Nothing else? No lace? No bows?” asked Worth, nervously biting the end of his mustache.

“No ribbons or embroidery? No crystals or pearls?” joined in Rappelais, one finger held to his lips in consternation.

“Nothing. Let her jewels be the only decoration. Her beauty will not have to compete with an overly ornate gown.”

“It is a radical concept,” said Worth, releasing his mustache and smoothing the damp end back into place.

“And it will be much talked about,” said Rappelais.

Both men beamed at each other.

“Now all we have to do is convince Madame,” said Worth, kissing Monsieur Rappelais on both cheeks.

“I would wait until the night of the ball if I were you,” said Berthe.

“What about fittings?” asked Rappelais, blushing deeply thanks to Worth's gesture of affection.

“I already have all her measurements,” said Worth.

And so it was decided. The Birthday Gown would be the simplest, most unadorned ever to grace Madame Rappelais's perfect form.

“She'll have a conniption, of course,” said Monsieur Rappelais, rubbing his hands together.

“Of course,” said Worth, smiling broadly. “She will give birth to a cat.”

“But when she looks in the mirror, I believe she will be well pleased,” said Berthe.

“You have the pink silk?” asked Worth.

“The palest of pale pinks, the color of a virgin's buttocks,” said Rappelais, flipping through his sample book.

“That being decided, I am much relieved,” said Worth. He took a seat at a small table, reached for the bowl of grapes, and began popping one after another into his mouth. “Unfortunately, the discussion of silk reminds me that I have some unpleasant news to impart to you, dear Rappelais. A purveyor of textiles came into the shop the other day. He mistakenly thought I would be interested in his wares; he talked of nothing but the great Louis Pasteur.”

“We do owe him a huge debt of gratitude,” said Rappelais
distractedly. “He did manage to save the silkworms by identifying the cause of the epidemic. He deserves a medal.”

“Save your medallion until you hear the rest of it,” said Worth. “Like all scientists he has become carried away by his own genie. Have you ever seen the way he dresses? I saw him at the opera the other night. He was wearing a black serge coat that was so old, the black had turned to chocolate brown.”

“Get to the point,” said Rappelais.

“The point is this,” said Worth, taking a piece of fabric out of his coat pocket and handing it to Monsieur.

“A very mediocre piece of silk,” said Rappelais, fingering the fabric. His lip curled upward in disgust, as if he were touching something repellent. “It's certainly not something I would ever manufacture in one of my mills.” He handed the swatch to Berthe, who examined it carefully.

“But, you see, it is not silk at all. It is an impostor!” screamed Worth. He stood and began pacing the solarium, waving his arms as he did so. “And it is all the fault of that damned Pasteur.”

“I don't understand,” said Rappelais.

“It is not from worms but from the fiber of trees.”

“Trees?” exclaimed Rappelais, jumping up and almost knocking over the small table. Berthe steadied it before it could topple over.

“As you know, Pasteur is working on trying to save the worms that threaten the silk industry. Another scientist, a Georges Audemars, became interested in trying to produce an artificial silk. And the result is what Mademoiselle Berthe is holding in her pretty mitten.”

“The idea is as ugly as the fabric,” sneered Rappelais.

“The good news is that at this juncture, it seems that the fabric is highly flammable.” Worth rubbed his hands together rather gleefully.

“Another great addition to the world of fashion,” Rappelais scoffed. “Dress flambé.” The two men burst into laughter.

“It almost feels like silk,” Berthe said, as she rubbed the fabric between her fingers and thumb.

She was sorry the minute she said it.

Rappelais stiffened. “Almost is not enough. It is cheaply made. And it looks that way. It's true Pasteur did save the silk industry. But why is he trying to undercut it by supporting this hideous faux silk? I don't care how brilliant a scientist he is. He's an idiot!”

“You know I always thought he was mad, ever since that whole rabies thing,” added Worth, resuming his seat and holding out his cup for Berthe to fill.

“These scientists know nothing whatsoever about fabrics,” said Rappelais, taking a pinch of snuff and inhaling deeply. “If they want cheap fabric, they should just wear
serge de Nîmes
.”

“What is that?” asked Berthe, filling Monsieur Rappelais's cup as well.

“It's a fabric made in Nîmes especially for the peasants. It is soft and durable and lasts forever,” explained Monsieur. Berthe smiled at the thought, wondering if Millet knew that finally something had been created for the peasants to wear that wasn't the scratchy homespun he seemed to think was such a noble cloth.

“I would love to see Pasteur and his fellows at the Opéra all dressed in artificial silk and
serge de Nîmes
,” Worth chuckled.

“Let's see if that little fashion idea catches fire,” said Rappelais. And both men burst into uproarious laughter.

A
S HER TUTELAGE UNDER THE TWO MEN CONTINUED
, B
ERTHE'S
confidence grew and along with it her feelings of security. But of course as one part of life grew sweeter another always soured.

She already regretted that she had ever recommended Hélène to the Rappelaises. She knew her friend was stealing things left and right. One afternoon she went into Hélène's room to search for the valuables she suspected had been taken. She got down on her hands and knees and lifted up the plain white bedspread covering the narrow iron bed. She pulled out Hélène's battered leather suitcase and opened it. Inside, wrapped in an old apron, were a half dozen Sèvres dinner plates double rimmed in gold with a bouquet of crimson roses painted in the middle of the white background. In addition, she found a sterling silver sifter, two sets of Cardeilhac silver flatware, a matching set of crystal vinegar and oil cruets, and finally, an elaborate Frenais Winged Sphinx butter dish. Not to mention the silver salt and pepper shakers and serving spoon Hélène had slipped into her apron pocket the night of the dinner party.