Madame Bovary's Daughter (42 page)

“What do you think this is, a national holiday for maids? You're lucky that Madame is good-hearted enough not to complain when you never appeared this morning. Now get up at once.” Berthe dragged herself out of bed and walked slowly to the window. It was a bright blue day; she felt that even the weather was conspiring against her.

She did her chores listlessly, thankful that her mistress had gone out for the day. She was turning down the bed that evening when Madame Rappelais called to her from her bath.

“Come and scrub my back, dear girl.” Berthe wanted to pretend she hadn't heard her. She wanted to flee from the room. The satin bloodstained duvet had been replaced with a new one. Was it that easy to erase all signs of a rape?

Berthe went into the bathroom, picked up the brush, and began to scrub Madame's pink back. She imagined how satisfying it would be to drown this woman in her own lavender-scented water. To hold her down until bubbles no longer escaped from her nose and mouth, until her eyes grew wide and blank. Berthe's brushstrokes became rougher and rougher until the bristles left red marks on Madame's skin.

“Ouch!” Madame shrieked. “
Mon Dieu!
Not so hard. You're hurting me.” Madame tried to grab her by the arm, but Berthe slipped out of her soapy grasp. “What's the matter,
ma chérie
? Why are you angry? Come, let me kiss that frown away.”

“No, madame.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“No, you will not touch me. Not now, not ever.” Berthe struggled to keep her voice steady and low.

“Do not worry, mademoiselle,” her mistress said coldly. “I don't make a habit of raping young girls.”

“No, you get an old friend to do that for you.”

Madame acted as if she hadn't heard. “Hand me my towel and then you may go.”

Berthe took the towel that was draped over the chaise, dropped it on the floor, turned on her heel, and left the room.

“Get me my robe! Do you want me to catch pneumonia?” Madame Rappelais shrieked.

Berthe picked up the robe from Madame's bed and returned to the bathroom. She looked down at Madame Rappelais, who was beginning to lift herself out of the tub, soapy water slipping down her wet body.

“Your robe, madame,” she said, dropping it into the water. Berthe was pleased to see that her mistress was left speechless.

Four days later, a young girl appeared at the front door of rue Payenne. She was about thirteen years old and quite beautiful, with thick chestnut hair, brown eyes, and a fresh peach complexion.

“I have an appointment,” the girl said shyly.

“Who shall I say is calling?” asked Berthe.

“Michelle Gossien. I have come from Monsieur Rappelais's mill in Lille. I was told there was a position available.”

“Position?”

“Of lady's maid.” The girl kept her eyes downcast as she played with the ribbons of her faded bonnet. “Monsieur Rappelais himself sent me money for my train fare.”

Berthe considered warning the poor girl away, but her only option would be to return to the cotton mill, and Berthe shuddered at the thought of sending her back to that hideous place. Besides, Madame would only make her husband find another victim to fill her place.

“I am making a few staff changes,” Madame Rappelais said when Berthe announced the visitor. She sat at her secretary, writing
thank-you notes. “Mademoiselle Gossien will take on the position of lady's maid. After you train her you will be promoted to a position downstairs.”

“Downstairs?”

“You will serve as downstairs housemaid.”

We are like pieces on a game board
, Berthe thought.
Everyone moves one space down to make room for the next poor fool
. She was to be moved to Hélène's old place and perhaps one day, if she worked hard enough and if Madame forgave her, she could take Madame DuPoix's place as housekeeper. She clenched her hands into tight fists, turned, and left the room. She felt like slamming the door, but she wouldn't give Madame the satisfaction.

She packed her few things, leaving the maid's uniform carefully folded on the bed. She was back in her homespun skirt once again. Then she went to say good-bye to Monsieur Rappelais, whom she found on the landing near the front door.

“In her way, my wife loves you, you know,” he said, twirling his mustache nervously.

“She has an odd way of showing it.”

“She has an odd way of showing everything.” He smiled ruefully.

Berthe thanked him for the knowledge about fabrics he had imparted and for his kindness toward her. Then she quietly walked out and strode quickly down the street. As she turned the corner and glanced back one last time at the handsome house at 11, rue Payenne, she reflected that she might never again live at such an exclusive address. But instead of feeling sad, she felt a great sense of freedom. Now she must face the unknown. And what a boundless unknown it was.

I
N THE ENTIRE CITY OF
P
ARIS
, B
ERTHE HAD ONLY ONE FRIEND
she could turn to. Hélène had written her to tell her of her new address, a boardinghouse on the Left Bank near Saint Germain-des-Prés.

Berthe was surprised to see that the house was well maintained, with brass door fittings that had recently been polished and windows hung with clean lace curtains.

The landlady was a pretty, middle-aged woman with thick dark hair parted in the middle and worn in two large buns covering each of her ears. She was dressed in a blue silk dress with a clean white collar and cuffs.

“Ah, you are a friend of Mademoiselle Du Croix? I am so happy to meet you. She is out but will be back momentarily. Make yourself comfortable in our parlor.” Berthe was surprised at the landlady's warm reception. Hélène must be doing well for herself. At least she must be paying her rent on time, Berthe thought.

The parlor was furnished with velvet couches, needlepoint
side chairs, fringed table lamps, gilded mirrors, and a fine, slightly faded Persian carpet on the floor. Twenty minutes later, Berthe heard a rustle at the door.

“Bonjour, Madame Laporte, comment ça va?”
Berthe immediately recognized Hélène's husky voice.

“You have a visitor in the parlor,” said the landlady.

Hélène swept into the room bringing with her a waft of gardenia. Berthe could hardly believe her eyes. If it hadn't been for the red hair she would have had a difficult time recognizing her old friend. She was dressed in a blue-gray striped jacket with turned-back pagoda sleeves trimmed in black braid and a matching blue-gray skirt. Underneath the jacket she wore a sparkling white blouse with long sleeves that hung down over her lower arms. She looked every bit the elegant young lady out for a day of shopping.

“Aha! So you finally got sacked as well!” said Hélène. She flung herself down on the velvet love seat. Her skirt rose up, revealing soft kid boots with gold buttons.

“Actually, I quit,” said Berthe.

“Oh, and that makes you better than me, I s'pose?” said Hélène, removing her kid gloves one finger at a time.

“I didn't say that.” Berthe shook her head.

“And what are you gonna do now?”

“I'm not completely sure.” She twisted the ribbons of the bonnet on her lap. “That's why I'm here.”

“Don't fret, my friend. I just might have an opening for you in my business,” Hélène said, giving Berthe's hand a little pat.

Hélène's business hadn't changed. She was still stealing, but now she was focusing only on the big Parisian department stores. She had become very clever at how and what she stole. She disguised herself in wigs and different costumes and concentrated on the
smallest, most expensive, most easily fenced items: jewelry, silk scarves, gold-framed eyeglasses, pearl collar studs.

“No more haulin' away iron birdbaths in the middle of the night,” Hélène said with a laugh.

In addition, she occasionally employed the services of twelve-year-old Yvette, the daughter of the landlady. Hélène predicted that Yvette would one day enjoy a career on the stage. “Wait till you see her,” she said. “She has a true talent, she does.” According to Hélène, Yvette was well practiced in the art of temper tantrums, epileptic fits, and other small dramatic pieces designed to draw attention away from Hélène's shoplifting. “But the biggest boon to my business is those crazy kleptomaniacs,” she said. “You can always spot 'em. They have a glazed look in their eye. And the clerks and guards in the store know 'em by sight. Poor things. So I puts myself next to one and wait for her to make her clumsy move. They have no skill at all. And, o' course the clerks have to bend over backward so as not to offend 'em, while at the same time they got to guard the merchandise. The kleptos are all from good families who can well afford to buy their luxuries. Oh, it all makes me laugh.”

“Aren't you afraid of getting arrested, of having to spend the rest of your life in jail?” said Berthe. The very word conjured up visions of steel bars, stone floors, rats and rat droppings.

“Of course not. I'm too fast for the likes of them.” Berthe had no desire to join Hélène's gang of two. It might be Hélène's idea of making a living but it certainly wasn't hers. She was determined to find a position where she could use her mind and her eye for design and fashion. Hadn't Messieurs Worth and Rappelais said that she had a real talent? And she did. She knew she did. The problem was, she didn't know where to begin.

“Well, I'm going to get a real job,” Berthe said.

“What real job? You gonna be some other fancy lady's personal slave?”

“I'll never be a lady's maid again.”

“How do you plan to pay your rent, then? And don't be lookin' to me; I got me own expenses.”

“I'll have a job within the week,” Berthe said with more confidence than she felt.

“Oh, then maybe you can hire me to be your lady's maid.” Hélène laughed.

Berthe joined in the laughter. After everything that had happened in the last two years, it felt wonderful to be free again. She had forgotten how much she liked being with Hélène. Her energy and humor were contagious. Berthe began to feel alive and untarnished once more.

The only thing that was missing was Armand. Strange how she had known him for just a short time and yet his absence left a huge hole. Where in Italy was he? What was he doing? Was he thinking of her? She was certain he must have forgotten all about her, yet she ached to see him again. She wanted to find out if there was truly something between them or if it was all just a fantasy. But at this point in her life, a fantasy was better than nothing.

“Where are your clothes and such?” Hélène asked, jolting her back to reality. Berthe pointed to the small satchel at her feet. “Still the pretty little pauper, I see. Well, you can share my room until you get your job. And I'll lend you a proper dress. But I have to warn you, Madame Laporte will make you pay even though you're just sharin' the same room. Do you have any money at all?”

How could she have forgotten? Everything she had managed to save from her salary was in a little box underneath her bed in
that horrible house. She couldn't go back. Besides, she felt even the money earned from the Rappelaises was dirty.

“Don't worry. I'm sure I'll have a position quite soon,” Berthe said confidently.

“There she goes again with the ‘position.' Just get yourself a bloody job, dear girl, and make it soon.”

That very afternoon she went to Maison Gagelin on the rue Richelieu. All her hopes for a paid position rested on her connection with Monsieur Worth. She knew he had opened up his own establishment, but she wasn't sure where it was.

“Can you tell me where I can find Monsieur Worth?” she asked a short, balding man dressed in a brocade smoking jacket and velvet pants whom she took to be Monsieur Gagelin himself.

“Why do you ask?” he said, eyeing her up and down.

“I want to ask him about a job.”

“Well, you are not in luck, mademoiselle. I understand that Monsieur Can't-Speak-a-Word-of-French has gone off to England with his
chèr ami
and benefactor, Monsieur Bobergh. I hope I've seen the last of him, the big arrogant Englishman. Good riddance to bad taste.”

Berthe's heart sank. Worth had been her one chance. “Could you, perhaps, give me the address of Monsieur Worth's home?”

“It won't do you much good, but here it is,” Monsieur Gagelin said.

When she inquired at Monsieur Worth's home she discovered that, indeed, he was in England with his wife and business associate and would not be back for at least a month. She couldn't possibly wait that long. She needed money and a job immediately. She wrote a note to Monsieur Rappelais asking him for help in obtaining a position in one of the many dress
shops he did business with. The reply came back within the hour.