Madame Bovary's Daughter (41 page)

“Madame Rappelais removed it. I can reattach it if you wish,” she said.

“Don't be silly. It's an excellent improvement—for both you and the neckline.” He looked at her with such admiration, she suddenly did feel very beautiful. This was reinforced by the long looks she received from the men who passed by her as they escorted their wives into the ballroom. She ignored the men's glances and focused on their wives. Could she ever be one of these women? They had husbands and families and a secure sense of their place in society. She studied the pleased expression on each woman's artfully painted face. Was this happiness? It certainly looked like it.

The last guest had arrived. Berthe had promised herself a peek at the ball, so she peered through the narrow opening between the closed double doors. She watched as the dancers swirled around the floor, the ladies' skirts lifting and falling like enormous flower petals. The air was filled with the scent of perfume and pomade. The men were masterful in their straight-backed postures. They moved the ladies around the floor as if they were exquisitely dressed dolls.

She felt a sudden pang of jealousy. The beautiful story her mother had planted in her mind so many years before was being reenacted before her very eyes. But it all belonged to Madame Rappelais. Now she wished, just for a moment, that this could be her birthday, her home, her ball. She wished Armand were
there with her, twirling her around in her beautiful gown as the guests stood by watching with admiration.

Suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder, heavy and strangely familiar. She pulled away from the touch and turned. Her eyes widened as she recognized the man who towered over her. With the exception of a few more lines around his eyes, Monsieur Boulanger, her mother's old lover, looked exactly the same.

“Mademoiselle Bovary, how delightful to see you. And how you've grown! It's been … almost three years since last we met? What a surprise to find you here, a beautiful young woman in this most beautiful of all cities. I had no idea.” He picked up her hand and started to kiss it, but she yanked it away before his lips touched her skin.

“Still the skittish one, I see.” He laughed, apparently unbothered by her show of revulsion.

“Ah, Rodolphe, how naughty of you to be so late!” The doors to the ballroom had opened and Madame Rappelais stood fanning herself with her ostrich fan. “You've missed the first dance. And I see you've wasted no time in making the acquaintance of my pretty maid, you rascal.”

“Oh, but Mademoiselle and I are very old friends. Very
good
old friends. Aren't we, mademoiselle? We come from the very same province. Her dear, departed mother was a particular favorite of mine.”
A particular favorite of his? As if her poor mother were a prize horse or a vintage wine. How dare he?
Biting her lip to keep from expressing her disgust, Berthe glared at him.

“How very nice.” Madame Rappelais smiled, a gleam in her eye. “But come, Rodolphe, the evening's half over. You must dance this next dance with me. That is, if I can tear you away from our Mademoiselle Bovary. Berthe, why don't you take Monsieur Boulanger's cloak and hat to the cloakroom?”

Berthe's hands were shaking as she hung Boulanger's things on one of the last remaining hooks. She longed to toss them into the nearest fireplace. The very sight of the man gave her a feeling of enormous dread. He couldn't possibly harm her here, she told herself. Not in the midst of this lavish ball, in the home of her well-respected employers, under the nose of her very possessive mistress. She tried to calm herself, but his proximity filled her with fear.

Instead of watching the dancers as had been her plan, she stole out into the garden, took a seat on the marble bench underneath a pear tree, and leaned her head against the trunk. It was a brisk December night and the cold air felt good against her skin. The evening was clear and the moon shone on the frost-covered garden, giving the dead grass and barren branches of the trees and bushes an almost magical glow. She took deep, slow breaths in and out. In a few moments, she began to feel steady again.

Berthe clearly remembered the look on her mother's face the day the apricots were delivered with Boulanger's last note. She remembered how her mother hadn't been surprised by the gift or the note that lay alongside them. It was as if she had known that this was the end of the love affair. Berthe wondered if she had always known. Even as she ordered her traveling outfit and trunk, as she planned her farewell note to her husband and daughter, had she somehow known that her life with Boulanger was never to be? Had she known when she had gone to Boulanger to beg him for enough money to save her family from bankruptcy that he would refuse? Surrounded by his furniture and art, his dogs and horses, he had turned her away without a franc. She had given him her love and he had robbed her of her hopes, her heart, and, finally and most painfully, her pride.

“Well, mademoiselle, it seems we are destined to keep meeting.” Berthe sat up with a start. Monsieur Boulanger leaned against the stone balustrade, his arms folded and one elegant leg crossed over the other. “Which leads me to believe that perhaps destiny has something more in mind.” He slowly uncrossed his arms and came toward her as if preparing to ask her to dance. “Yes, it seems to me that we are somehow meant to be together.” She stood quickly and backed away as he came closer. “I remember you as a child looking up at me with those big eyes as I rode out of the courtyard in Yonville. You were a beautiful little girl. More beautiful even than your mother.” Her back scraped against the high wall that separated the Rappelais garden from that of their neighbors. “Come, don't be afraid of me. I only want to help you.” He extended his hand to touch her arm.

“And how do you think you can help me, monsieur?” She tried to keep her voice from wavering.

“I can take care of you. I told you that on the road outside of Millet's house. I've thought of you often since then,” he said, peering down at her. She felt sick to her stomach.

“Why would you think of me? I am nothing to you,” she said, lifting her chin and fixing him with her steeliest gaze.

“Perhaps because you,
chère
mademoiselle, had the temerity to refuse me. I don't think anyone has ever done that before. I must say that intrigued me.
You
intrigue me.” He moved even closer and before she could move away he grabbed her arm, his fingers pressing into her flesh.

“Let me go,” she hissed, trying to free herself. “Let me go or I'll scream.” The threat sounded ridiculous even to her own ears.

“You have your mother's lovely white skin,” he said, stroking her neck with his thumb. She felt her throat close. She wanted to scream but she could barely catch her breath. Fear had driven the very air from her lungs. His large form bent over her, blocking
out the full moon. She was aware of his strong cologne, as well as the unmistakable scent of cognac. His mouth moved to her ear and he breathed into it. “The insides of your thighs, I wager they are like your mother's, too. Like white satin.” He reached under her skirt. Now she did scream.

“Get away! Leave me alone!”

But he didn't stop. Using his whole body he pressed her against the wall and began to lift her skirt higher.

“Oh, ho, Rodolphe, up to your old tricks—deflowering young maidens. I thought you gave that up when you took up billiards. Aren't you getting a bit old for this?” Madame Rappelais stood a few steps away, watching them with amusement.

Berthe was never so glad to see anyone. Boulanger slowly lifted his head to look at Madame Rappelais. She was smiling at him fondly as if he were a mischievous child—as if there was nothing untoward about his behavior. “Of course, I can't say that I blame you, my dear,” Madame Rappelais continued. “She is quite a beauty.”

“And how very generous of you to be giving gifts on your birthday.” His hand tightened its grip on Berthe's arm.

“A token from one fellow connoisseur to another. Forgive me, I must get back to my guests. I don't want to miss the supper.” Madame Rappelais swirled around and without a backward glance floated up the garden steps.

Berthe then realized that her mistress, an advocate of sex in all its forms whether it was between consenting or non-consenting adults, had planned this meeting from the beginning. She kicked out at Boulanger but he held her tightly by both arms. He marched her toward the back staircase of the house. She knew it was useless to scream. Nothing could be heard above the music from the orchestra. She could barely put one foot in front of the other. Sweat dripped down from her
forehead, blurring her vision. She could not breathe. Never in her life had she experienced such all-consuming fear.

One hot summer afternoon when Berthe was quite young, Félicité had taken her to a nearby pond for a picnic. While the maid was unpacking the lunch, Berthe wandered into the water and fell in over her head. She could see the light of the sun and sky above, but no matter how hard she struggled she couldn't get out. One minute she was alive and breathing and the next drowning and dying. It was a feeling of total panic, but nothing compared to what she was experiencing now.

Inside Madame's bedroom, Boulanger pushed Berthe roughly onto the bed. He stood over her as he began to unfasten his velvet breeches.

She began striking Boulanger hard in the face with her fists. She was filled with rage.

“Ah, there's nothing I like better than a good fight,” he said, easily catching her wrists and pinning her down with his entire body. “I see you are not going to go quietly. All the better.”

“I'll kill you,” Berthe hissed through clenched teeth. Boulanger threw back his head and laughed.

“Yes, of course, you'll kill me. But first you'll love me.” He crushed his lips against hers. She bit his lower lip until she drew blood. “You little fox. So much for foreplay,” he said, sucking his lip. While he held her down with one arm jammed across her neck he pulled up her skirt and ripped off her pantaloons. Totally immobilized by his considerable weight and height, she was powerless to move. He wrenched her legs apart and the next thing she knew there was a hard thrusting against her sex. She screamed. Her body resisted him.
He can't get in. I won't let him in
. But the pain was unbearable. He rammed against her over and over until she felt a sharp tearing inside, followed by a warm wetness. He continued thrusting for several seconds until he finally
groaned, shuddered, and lay still. “Now, that wasn't so terrible, was it?” He pulled himself up and straightened his clothes.

Berthe couldn't look at him. Choking on her tears, she sat up and slipped quickly off the bed. There, in the center of Madame's satin duvet, was a red splash of blood. Her blood there for the whole world to see. She felt somehow separated from her body. It had become a dirty, disgusting thing. It wasn't so much that it now belonged to Boulanger, but that it had been so debased it couldn't belong to anyone. But the pain between her legs reminded her that she could not cut herself off from her physical self no matter how much she wanted to.

The sound of a throat clearing loudly caused Boulanger to spin around.

“What have we here? Your own little party, monsieur?” To Berthe's immense relief and shame Monsieur Rappelais stood in the doorway.

“I fear your supper is getting cold,” Monsieur Rappelais said quietly. “And you, Mademoiselle Bovary, you look tired. You may go to bed. I'll arrange for one of the footmen to give the guests their cloaks.”

She was shivering. Her legs felt as if they would give way any moment. She grabbed on to the bedpost to steady herself. Monsieur Rappelais took hold of her elbow and escorted her up the back stairs to the next floor and to her room.

“Go to bed. Try to forget about all this unpleasantness,” he said kindly.

“Unpleasantness!” Her throat was as dry as paper. As if she had been screaming for hours. She wanted to scream now. She wanted to slap the old gentleman in his kind, concerned face. Instead she said, “Has your wife known Monsieur Boulanger for a long time?” She could barely get the words out.

“Oh, yes, they are old lovers. In fact, it was Boulanger who
introduced her to Monsieur Millet. It is a very small place, this world of ours.”

“And you don't care about ‘this world of yours'? About what Madame Rappelais does?”

“I am too old to care.” He sighed heavily. “My wife … She is a slave to her passions, the way we all are. She perhaps has more intense desires than most, but she means no harm.”

“No harm? Letting that man have his way with me is what you call no harm? Oh, Monsieur Rappelais, how can you say that? How can you believe it? How can you let yourself be deluded like that?”

The old man shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “I am sorry if you were hurt, my dear. I'm afraid I am powerless over what goes on in this house.” He patted her on the shoulder.

After Monsieur Rappelais left, she tore off the dress Madame had given her to wear, stuffing it into the closet where she wouldn't have to look at it. Then she washed herself between the legs. She stood in front of the small mirror and stared at her reflection. Suddenly she burst into deep, wrenching sobs. She wept for her father and for Monsieur Rappelais, men helplessly bewitched by women who took advantage of them, yet were guilty of perpetuating the world's evils through their passivity. She wept for her mother, who hadn't known how to love the decent man she had married. She wept for Armand, who might never learn how much Berthe cared for him. Finally, she wept long and hard for herself. And not one of the tears she shed that night offered her any relief whatsoever.

Berthe lay in bed the next morning staring at the ceiling. Except for a throbbing behind her eyes, she was numb all over. She could not convince her arms and legs to move. Eventually, the door flew open and Madame DuPoix stood in the room, her hands on her hips.