Madame Bovary's Daughter (44 page)

“The Wild West and Indians!” said Madame Laporte's daughter, Yvette, leaning forward across the table.

“I understand that it ain't safe to walk down the streets alone. That men on horseback come galloping by and swoop you up and carry you off and do heaven knows what with you,” said Hélène excitedly.

“And do the men shoot each other on the street? And are the ladies' dresses really lined with gold?” asked Yvette.

“It's not the dresses, dear. It's the streets. They are paved with gold,” corrected her mother.

“Once they is done with you they hand you over to the Indians, who strip you of all your clothes and cut your hair, turn you into a slave, and make you have their babies,” said Hélène. Berthe felt torn between Yvette's streets paved with gold and Hélène's dire accounts of rape, bondage, and babies. The former sounded too good to be true and the latter too likely a possibility, as she knew all too well.

“And every third man is a millionaire,” added Madame Laporte. “I read it in the newspaper.”

This could be Berthe's chance at a fortune. She imagined a country filled with millionaires, with every third man dressed in a top hat and tails. At the same time, she saw herself tied up to a tree in front of a band of Indians ready to ravish her.

“Don't believe everything you read, madame,” said one man. The rest of the men went back to their food, too busy eating to take part in the conversation. The women were all focused on Monsieur Strauss, much to his embarrassment.

“Have you ever seen an Indian?” asked Yvette, her eyes bright with excitement.

“What do they eat, these Indians?” asked her mother.

“I bet they dine on fat millionaires,” said Hélène.

The women never gave him a chance to answer. The barrage of questions and observations went on through the soup and the main course. The other guests continued to concentrate on their food, ignoring the conversation as if it were taking place in another room. One by one, they excused themselves and left the table. Strauss was still eating. He piled food into his mouth as if he hadn't eaten in days. Finally, Berthe decided to engage him in a serious conversation.

“Monsieur, what exactly takes you to California?” she asked. He looked up and met her inquiring smile. He put down his fork.

“That's a very good question,” he said. But apparently not as good as the answer. Once he started talking there was no stopping him. “I left Germany when I was fourteen. I joined my two brothers, Jonas and Louis, who had a successful textile and tailoring business in New York. After a short stay there I went on to Louisville, Kentucky, where my uncle Goldman had a ranch. That was where I learned English. My uncle wanted me to take over the ranch but I'm afraid that the open road called to me.
Once a peddler, always a peddler,” he said, laughing and helping himself to a second portion of the casserole.

“More
haricots verts
?” asked Madame Laporte. He nodded and took another helping of the green beans without losing the thread of his story. “When the gold rush started, I had to join the throngs. Not for the gold, but for the glory,” he said, laughing again. “I made my way to San Francisco to sell my notions, my scissors and bolts of fabric. My brother and I opened a dry goods business and were doing very well. In talking to the miners I heard many complaints of their torn breeches, and one day I had a brilliant idea.” He paused and leaned back in his chair, waiting for the women to respond. Hélène, Madame Laporte, and Yvette were busy eating. They seemed to have lost interest just around the time Monsieur Strauss had begun telling his story.

Finally, Berthe, taking the hint, said, “What was your brilliant idea, Monsieur Strauss?” He beamed at her.

“Well, I had a huge supply of canvas cloth for making tents and covers for the wagons. And it occurred to me that this fabric would be ideal for making overalls. I went back to Germany to raise money from family and friends for my new enterprise, which I truly believe will not only be a benefit to the men who toil in the mines but enrich my family as well.”

“But what brings you to Paris?” Berthe said.

“Ah, I have always wanted to see Paris. I decided to treat myself to a few days before sailing back to America.” How easy it was for these men, Berthe thought. Monsieur Strauss was free to travel and do business wherever he chose, just as Armand could pack up his paintbrushes and go anywhere in the world.

Strauss turned to Madame Laporte, catching her in the middle of a yawn. “Delicious dinner, madame. Particularly the casserole. May I ask what was in it?”

Madame Laporte suddenly came to life.

“
Tripes à la mode de Caen
, a great specialty of mine,” she said.

“And what is it composed of?” he asked politely, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

As the subject of California had freed Monsieur Strauss's tongue, so his question to Madame warmed her to the topic of her cuisine.

“You take cloves and garlic, a leek and onions, some flour and apple brandy and a carrot, and you place them at the bottom of a large pot,” she said as if conducting a cooking class. “Add to that four pounds of tripe and a trotter's foot. Then you cook it all slowly for about fifteen hours until the tripe is tender.”

“Trotter's foot?” said Monsieur Strauss.

“The foot of a pig,” said Madame Laporte.

“Did you say pig?” Strauss clutched his throat.

“Yes. The recipe calls for the hoof of the ox, but I prefer that of the pig. It has more flavor.”

“Oy Gott!”
He turned the color of a raw turnip. “Excuse me, please,” he said, rushing from the room with his napkin held to his mouth.

The sound of Monsieur Strauss retching in the
salle de bain
kept Berthe up for hours. Finally, around two in the morning, Hélène sat up in bed.

“Tell your friend to get out of the bloody bathroom,” she said. “I have to use it.”

“He's not my friend and use your chamber pot,” said Berthe. Finally, taking pity on the sick man, Berthe knocked on the bathroom door.

“Are you all right, Monsieur Strauss?”

“I am dying. I am dying a goy's death,” he moaned.

She opened the door and found him clutching the porcelain toilet bowl. He was pale and sweating.

“You must have
la grippe
,” she said, handing him a towel.

“No, it is the
traif
I stupidly ate.” And with that he vomited once again. His vomiting was making her sick. When it seemed that he was finally done she helped him to his feet and supported him as he wobbled to his bedroom. He fell into bed and she placed a cold wet cloth over his head.

“Oy vey iz mir,”
he moaned. “I should be buried in the dirt along with the other filthy dishes,” he said in a loud voice.

“Hush,” she said. “You'll wake the whole house.”

“Such terrible
traif
.”

She had no idea what he was talking about. She thought he was delirious.

“Sleep now,” she said. “You'll feel better in the morning.”

“The foot of a pig.
Mein Gott
.”

She pulled the blanket over him and started to leave, but he grabbed her hand.

“Don't go. Please. I don't want to die alone.”

“You're not dying, Monsieur Strauss.” But despite herself her heart went out to him. There was something about his solitariness that touched a place deep inside her. He was in a strange city far away from family and friends. Whom did he have to love? Who loved him?

His hand in hers was cold and small. He looked like a little boy wearing a grown man's beard. Still holding his hand, she sat on the floor and leaned her head against the bed. Soon both of them were asleep.

The next morning he was still weak but clearly happy and grateful to be alive.

“You are an angel, Mademoiselle Bovary. You saved my life. How can I ever thank you?”

“Nonsense. I did nothing,” she said, getting up from the floor. Every bone in her body ached. She saw a pair of light colored overalls folded on top of the bureau.

“And are these your famous overalls, Monsieur Strauss?”

“Yes,” he said, lifting his head from the pillow. “As you can see they are quite durable.”

“The fabric is so stiff,” she said, feeling the rough material. “They must chafe terribly.”

“Oh, some have complained. But these are meant to be work clothes, not evening wear.”

“This is good for a tent perhaps, but not for human skin.”

She remembered the conversation she had had with Monsieur Rappelais and Monsieur Worth about a fabric that French peasants wore that was both durable and soft.
“Serge de Nîmes,”
she said suddenly.

“What?”

“I know just the thing. I'll see if I can get a sample to show you.”

Berthe put on her cloak and bonnet and was about to go out when Hélène stopped her at the door.

“Where are you going? We have shopping to do. There's a new store that's just opened on the avenue de l'Opéra.”

“Not today.”

“What do you mean?” Hélène demanded, hands on hips. “Do you expect me to do this all by myself?”

“Get Yvette to go with you.”

“Yvette's little dramatic scenes is getting out o' hand. She's actually learned to foam at the mouth. It's disgusting,” Hélène said with a toss of her head. “She cares more about the audience and the attention than doin' the job right. Come, change your clothes, time's a-wasting.”

“I have other plans. Ones that don't involve stealing.”

“Oh, really. Did someone just die and make you Empress of France?”

“Don't worry. I can take care of myself.” But could she? she wondered. If she didn't steal, she had no idea how she was going to support herself. She owed Madame Laporte for her room and board. Occasional stealing had been necessary to survive, but making it a profession was wrong, not to mention it was tempting fate. Besides, she wanted more. She had promised herself a life of integrity, whatever that was.

And she had a plan. One that might put her on the road out of her desperate life.

B
ERTHE HAD READ IN THE NEWSPAPER THAT
M
ONSIEUR
W
ORTH
was back from England and doing business at his own shop on the rue de la Paix. She was nervous that he would refuse her the way Monsieur Rappelais had. After all, Madame was one of his most important clients. But now Berthe had an excuse to approach him on a different matter, the fabric for Monsieur Strauss. And while she was there she would ask him for a job; the worst that could happen was that he would say no. As she hurried along the busy Paris streets she thought about the American streets, supposedly paved with gold. Maybe, if Worth refused her, she could persuade Monsieur Strauss to take her with him to America.

With each step she grew more and more confident. She would not be a thief, a maid, or, worse, a mill worker. She would not rely on the support of a man either, the way her mother had. She would earn a fortune for herself. And she would use some of it to help the children forced to work in cotton mills, so that not another child would have to die like poor Antoine, and not another
girl would find herself lured into serving Madame Rappelais.

She arrived breathless at the rue de la Paix. It was an elegant street and the House of Worth seemed to be the most elegant shop on it. She was standing outside, admiring the imposing exterior of the building and gathering her courage to enter, when she felt someone touch her on the shoulder.

“Ha, I see you are in exuberance over my new shop,” Monsieur Worth said in his usual bad French. “Well, don't just stand there with your head open, come in. Come in.”

He was happy to see her and more than delighted to show off his new establishment. The shop was beautiful. The French windows were draped in wine-colored velvet, and brocaded slipper chairs were set around low, graceful tables. On every table were long-stemmed red roses arranged in sparkling crystal vases. Even though Charles Worth was now the owner of a sophisticated fashion house on the most elegant street in Paris, he hadn't changed his style of dress. He still affected
la mode bohème
, wearing his usual black skullcap, loose bow tie, and oversized brocaded smock. He gestured to an elderly man who stood in the corner, dressed far more conservatively in a morning coat and dazzling white shirt.

“And here is my great benefactor, my dear Otto. Monsieur Bobergh, may I present Mademoiselle Bovary. Bobergh, show my friend your money.”

Bobergh chuckled, clearly used to Worth's sense of humor.

“Show her my money? All she has to do is look around her. What you see is the last of my meager fortune, mademoiselle. All wasted by this mad Englishman.”

“Mademoiselle Bovary has a real flair for fabrics,” Worth said to Bobergh. “Although I fear that has not extended to her own taste in dress.” He covered one eye with his hand as if what she
was wearing pained him. “And to what do I owe this pheasant surprise, mademoiselle? Are you here to purchase a gown, I hope?”

“I'm afraid not, Monsieur Worth.” She laughed. His warm greeting had reassured her that she was not unwelcome, but still she hesitated, worried that his reaction would change once she raised the possibility of a job. “I wanted to ask you where I might find the fabric called
serge de Nîmes
that you once spoke of.”

“Of course, I can give you a name. But what do you want that ugly fabric for? It's not fit for anything but the wiping of one's boots.”

“It's not for me. It's for a friend who is going into the manufacturing business.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I understand you are no longer a member of the House of Rappelais.”

She nodded.