Madame Bovary's Daughter (43 page)

“My
chère
mademoiselle, Unfortunately, due to my home situation, I am unable to assist you at this time.”
Berthe tore the paper into shreds. How gutless could a man be? She knew Rappelais liked her and admired her talent with fabrics, and yet his fear of his wife was so great that he didn't have what little courage it would take to even write her a short reference.

She spent the next several days walking up and down the dingy streets of the Sentier in the 2nd
arrondissement
where many of the dress manufacturers were located. She applied for seamstress jobs, modeling jobs, clerking jobs, anything that was available. But without references and with no evidence of experience, she was turned away again and again.

Finally, she swallowed her pride and went in search of a position as a lady's maid. Applying at Première Placement Domestique, the largest establishment in Paris, she was told that a career as a lady's maid was closed off to her forever.

“Mademoiselle, I acknowledge the fact that you have the experience, but you also have the
mauvaise réputation
.”

“What?”

“Madame Rappelais, although kind enough not to report you to the police, has notified us in no uncertain terms that you are a thief and not to be trusted in a home which contains things of value. That, of course, would include every single one of our clients.”

Berthe was furious.

“I am not a thief,” she said, feeling the heat rise up her neck. “Madame has no right to say that.”

“Are you calling your former employer a liar?”

“Oh, I could call her many, many more things,” Berthe said, “but I don't have all day.” She turned and marched out the door,
holding her head as high as she could manage without falling backward.

Because she didn't have the rent for Madame Laporte, Berthe had avoided mealtimes at the boardinghouse. She hadn't eaten a decent meal since leaving the Rappelaises. She was starving and she was growing more fearful every day. How was she going to live? She had no other choice but to join Hélène in her shoplifting enterprise.

“Good,” said a delighted Hélène. “I'll take you to my favorite store tomorrow.”

B
ERTHE ALLOWED
H
ÉLÈNE TO SELECT HER COSTUME FOR THE
morning foray to Le Bon Marché, the largest department store in Paris. The store was located at 24, rue de Sèvres on the Left Bank. In all her time in Paris, Berthe had never had a chance to visit the famous store.

“Ferme la bouche,”
said Hélène as they climbed down from the carriage and walked toward the entrance. “You're gawking.” It was true. She stared at the stone with her mouth ajar. The outside of the huge building was encased in a beautiful metal framework, as if it had been gift-wrapped in wrought iron.

“This is the first time a metallic framework has been used in a building of this size,” said Hélène, sounding every bit like a tour guide. “See, it's much lighter and stronger than stonework. It was designed by Monsieur Gustave Eiffel, an engineer who is a bit of a fanatic when it comes to metal structures.”

“Where did you get all this information?” asked Berthe.

“I ain't a complete dolt, you know,” said Hélène, reverting to
her normal speech mode. “I make it me business to learn such stuff.”

She pushed Berthe through the door. Sweeping staircases led up to the mezzanine that bordered the main floor. A ceiling bejeweled with fifty glittering chandeliers gave everything a festive and fanciful glow. The store was crowded with well-dressed women in huge bell-shaped skirts, who glided from one display to another almost as if they were on skates. The array of goods took Berthe's breath away. As she looked around from one counter to the next, she felt almost dizzy. The joy of seeing all this beauty and luxury momentarily lifted the weight off her mind. She drank in the sights and the fragrant scent of expensive perfumes. She had the strangest feeling that she was looking at this extravagant scene through her mother's eyes. The customers moved from one display to another, chattering excitedly to each other. Who were these women and what were their worries? Certainly not where they would get their next meal nor where they would find enough money to rent a roof over their heads. No,
their
minds were on the newest lace from Belgium, the softest Italian kid gloves, the latest look in bonnets.

Berthe had tried to make an honest living, and where had that gotten her? She promised herself that she would find a legitimate way to support herself. But first she had to survive. And if surviving required stealing, then so be it.

Hélène seemed very much at home in the opulent store. She gave a small wave of her hand to a distinguished middle-aged gentleman who stood in the corner. He was dressed in a beautifully tailored velvet jacket and well-cut wool slacks. He returned her greeting with a smile and quick nod of his head.

“Monsieur Proiret, the store manager,” Hélène explained.
“He's the one who helps defray my expenses. Come on, I want you to meet him.”

Berthe squeezed her hands together to calm her nerves, and followed Hélène down the aisle.

“Monsieur Proiret is not only the manager of this grand establishment, he is also my very dear and special friend,” said Hélène with her newly acquired gentility. “Monsieur Proiret, this here is my dear friend, Mademoiselle Bovary.”

“Enchanté.”
Picking up Berthe's hand as if it were a delicate flower, Proiret bowed low and placed a kiss on her fingers. He was a short pinkish man in his forties with a pleasing well-fed look about him. He sported a tidy mustache and well-trimmed beard. His black hair glistened with pomade and he wore a pince-nez on the end of his upturned nose. Berthe noticed that he smelled strongly of bay leaves.

“Have you been to Le Bon Marché before, mademoiselle?”

“No, I haven't,” said Berthe.

“Where in heaven's name do you do your shopping?” he asked, lifting one eyebrow.

“I'm afraid I'm not much of a shopper, monsieur.” She smiled.

“That's probably just as well,” said Monsieur Proiret, “since your friend Hélène more than makes up for you.”

Hélène gave him a playful tap on the shoulder with her lace fan.

“But since this is your first time here, it is incumbent on me as the manager of Le Bon Marché to impart a few important facts to you.”

Hélène placed her gloved hand over his mouth and proceeded to recite the following facts:

“Monsieur Boucicaut, the owner of Le Bon Marché, is the most brilliant of men. Among the many innovations he started
are: the first store to offer free delivery; the first store to have prices clearly marked on every piece of merchandise; the first store to offer a catalog from which customers can order; and the first-ever white sale. Every January sheets and linens are reduced in price.”

Monsieur Proiret removed Hélène's hand from his mouth and added, “He got the idea for the white sale from looking out one morning in January and seeing the rue de Sèvres covered in snow. He said, ‘Each January we should have a special sale on sheets. And call it a white sale.' Brilliant,
n'est-ce pas
?”

“
Ma chère
, the day is slipping away from us. We got much shopping to do,” said Hélène, pulling Berthe along.

“I don't understand. Doesn't he suspect what you are up to?” Berthe asked as they made their way to one of the crowded jewelry counters.

“He knows all about it,” said Hélène with a smile.

“But …” Berthe frowned.

“Oh, look, there's a kleptomaniac now. Watch,” said Hélène, pulling at Berthe's sleeve.

An elderly woman dressed in widow's weeds was trying on gold necklaces. While the clerk fastened one necklace on her neck she picked up another and placed it in her reticule. The clerk saw the whole thing and signaled to a man standing nearby.

“She comes here every day. Never pays for nothing,” said Hélène. “They always stop her, just as she is leaving, and gently remove the items. The place is crawlin' with women like her. As Monsieur Proiret says, ‘It is a veritable epidemic.' And they are all amateurs. In fact, I think they want to be caught.”

“I feel sorry for the poor woman.”

“Don't waste your tears. She'll never see the inside of a jail. It looks like the jewelry counter will be a good place for you to start. Me, I got a craving for expensive fountain pens today. I'll meet you back at the main entrance in thirty minutes.”

“I don't have a watch.”

“Well, steal one, silly girl.”

Berthe tried on pair after pair of earrings—dangling crystal, gold filigree, pearl studs. She held up a mirror to examine each one. Then she selected various necklaces and bracelets to go with the earrings. Finally, as if nothing had quite met her satisfaction, she wandered away. Hélène was waiting for her at the front entrance.

“Well?” said Hélène. “How did you do?”

“I didn't. I couldn't. I don't want to do this,” Berthe said.

“Oh, you want to starve in the streets instead?”

“No, of course not. I just didn't plan on spending my life as a thief.”

“You're forgettin' you're the one who first talked me into stealing from department stores.”

“That was when we were desperate.”

“And you ain't desperate enough now? Come with me,” Hélène said, dragging Berthe back to the jewelry counter. “Now get on with it. Either you pay your way or you can look for another place to live.”

Under Hélène's watchful eye, Berthe managed to slip several pairs of earrings, a crystal necklace, and a mother-of-pearl pince-nez into a pocket hidden within the deep folds of the huge skirt Hélène had lent her.

“That's more like it,” said Hélène as they were leaving the store. “You got the gift, you might as well use it.” Berthe thought about her “gift” for fashion. She could say good-bye to that forever. She was back where she had started, scraping by, stealing, not knowing how she would survive from one day to the next. Tears of disappointment welled up and she turned her head away so that Hélène wouldn't see them.

Hélène treated them to a carriage ride home. She reached
into her long sleeve and pulled out half a dozen gold and enamel fountain pens, a solid gold letter knife, and a mother-of-pearl card case.

“I don't understand. If Monsieur knows you are a professional shoplifter, how can he let you into his store? Why does he turn a blind eye to your stealing?” asked Berthe.

“He don't let me get by with anything. I'm well punished, I am. He likes to see me take things 'cause he knows there'll be a spanking later.”

“He spanks you?”

“Oh my, yes. He loves spankin' me, don't he? That's the whole point. You should see how excited he gets.”

“I don't think I care to,” said Berthe, closing her eyes.

“And o' course I steal from other stores, ones that he has nothing to do with. I do know how to take care of me own self.”

Hélène's relationship with Monsieur Proiret certainly gave her a leg up in her shoplifting venture. Maybe jail wasn't in their future, after all. Berthe tried to relax a little, but her stomach was still tied in knots.

Unlike Hélène, who seemed to think therein lay her fortune, Berthe knew that ultimately she would come to a bad end if she continued along this path. And being gifted with a vivid imagination, she could easily visualize just what that end might be: a dark cell with only the smallest barred window, the floor covered in grime; the bed, a wooden plank; and a blanket chewed by a large gray rat. And speaking of rats, she could see their eyes glowing from the dark corners of the cell. She pictured herself shivering and coughing beneath the thin blanket, wishing she had never embarked on a life of crime. Which was when one of the rats ventured forth to nibble her cold, bare foot.

She shuddered as she tried to shake the image from her mind.

A
FTER
H
ÉLÈNE COUNTED THEIR BOOTY, SHE DRAGGED
B
ERTHE
to dinner with the other guests in the boardinghouse. In addition to Hélène, Yvette, and Madame Laporte, there were five men who took their seats around the long table. Berthe was now eighteen years old, in the full bloom of her beauty and used to stares from strange men. But she wasn't comfortable with how they made her feel. The men ogled Berthe as if she were that evening's dessert.

Madame Laporte introduced them. To Berthe's surprise, they were all in the
affaires de mode
, or fashion business. According to Hélène, Madame Laporte's boardinghouse was a popular stopping place because of its proximity to Paris's fashion district. Hélène had chosen the establishment for just that reason. “This is how I keeps up with what's the best stuff to steal from the stores. These men know what sells,” said Hélène. Berthe looked at the guests with new interest. Perhaps one of them might even have a job for her.

“And finally, our newest guest, Monsieur Strauss, who is
stopping here on his way back to Germany,” said Madame Laporte. Monsieur Strauss was a pale young man in his early twenties, with dark hair and a beard so dense it looked as if it was part of a disguise. He had a large head that dominated his very narrow shoulders, a high forehead, and soft, wide-set eyes. His mouth, too, was soft and sensual. When he stood up to shake hands Berthe noticed he was a good three inches shorter than she.

She smiled at the young man and he immediately lowered his head as if he was too shy to meet her gaze.

“Actually, I am on my way to California, in America,” he said to his potage.

“Ah, California!” Madame Laporte clapped her hands.