Madame Bovary's Daughter (45 page)

“You're well out of there. It was not a good place for a young woman. Especially a young woman with a brain on her shoulders.”

Monsieur Bobergh interrupted. “The applicant for the assistant's position has arrived, Charles.”

“Ah, yes. Excuse me, Mademoiselle Bovary,” he said, “I am currently searching for an assistant. My dear Bobergh thinks I need another pair of feet. I'll be just a moment.”

Berthe's heart sank as Monsieur Bobergh escorted a tall, poised young woman into the room. She was dressed in the very latest fashion and carried herself like a ballet dancer. She extended her hand toward Worth, ignoring Berthe.

“Monsieur Worth, I am Mademoiselle Therault. I was recommended by Madame Carton of the Beaux Modes School. I have studied design with her. Here are my references.” She handed Worth a packet of letters. He looked them over.

“Very good. Now, did Madame Carton explain the position to you?” asked Monsieur Worth.

“Yes, she said it involved dress design.”

“You are feasting your eyeballs on the premier dress designer in the world. And here is my plan: I will employ the most beautiful models to wear all my latest creations and invite the creamery of Paris to view them. Women will be seduced into ordering my dresses. That is where you would come in, mademoiselle. Madame Carton mentioned in her recommendation that you have knowledge of silk and luxury fabrics and trims. You will help my clients make their selection. Women tend to become confused and dazzled by the beauty of my creations. It is important that they understand they have a choice in fabrics. But most important, I don't want my designs ruined by their bad taste. Which is why you must manhandle their selections. What do you think? Does the job interest you?”

“I was hoping to have the opportunity to do my own designs,” said Mademoiselle Therault.

“A woman designer! Don't be rarified!” exclaimed Worth.

Mademoiselle Therault sniffed and then looked about her at the elegant surroundings.

“How much does the position pay?” she finally asked.

“Forty francs a week.” Worth looked at Monsieur Bobergh, who nodded, a pained expression on his face.

“I shall have to consult my father about it,” she said. “I am afraid he is very much against me working in the trades.”

“The trades!” shouted Worth. “This is not the trades! This is the House of Worth! And speaking of trades, where did you get that horrified hat?”

The young woman turned bright red. She touched the brim of her feathered bonnet as if she was reassuring a frightened child.

“By all means, think it over, mademoiselle,” said Monsieur Bobergh, quickly escorting the young woman out. He returned within seconds. “That is the fourth applicant that you've managed to insult this week,” he said. “You had better settle on someone soon or you will run out of prospects.”

“Oh, monsieur, I could do that job. I would be very good at it,” Berthe said, surprising even herself at her audacity.

Worth looked at her and smiled indulgently.

“You are too young, too inexperienced, and too undressed.”

“But I could learn. You yourself said I had a flair for fabrics. Please, monsieur, if you would just give me a chance.”

“Why not, Charles?” put in Bobergh, clearly relieved that here was someone willing to work with Worth.

“I don't mean to assault you, mademoiselle, but it is a question of class. My patrons are wealthy, demanding women. One has to be able to withstand their artichoke.”

“After Madame Rappelais, I can withstand anyone's ‘artichoke,' ” she said. “Please, if you aren't happy with my work, you can fire me.”

“Why not fire you now and save myself the aggravation?” joked Worth.

“Monsieur, please. You won't be sorry, I promise you.”

He removed his skullcap and rubbed his head.

“All right, we'll give you a trial. You will start next week.”

Berthe was ecstatic. To work in Monsieur Worth's beautiful atelier, helping women select fabrics and trims for his wonderful gowns, to actually be paid for something she loved doing was a dream come true.

“How much will my pay be?” she asked, holding her breath.

“Shall we say twenty francs a week?” said Worth, looking at Bobergh, who nodded his head happily in agreement.

Berthe thought for a moment.

“But you offered the other girl forty francs a week,” she finally said. She could feel the perspiration collecting underneath her bonnet.

Monsieur Worth looked at her.

“Oh, so she has a head for numbers, as well as an eyeball for fashion,” he said to Bobergh. “I better watch out. Pretty soon she will be taking over my business.” He turned to Berthe. “All right, mademoiselle, forty francs it is.”

“Oh, sir, thank you, thank you,” said Berthe, clasping his hands and shaking them vigorously. She wanted to cry or laugh, she didn't know which.

“Be careful of The Instruments,” he said, pulling his hands away and holding them up as if they were those of a concert pianist. “And perhaps later, if you work out, we will add a small commission. Is that agreeable with you, Monsieur Moneybags?” he said, turning to Bobergh.

“As you wish, Monsieur Masterpiece.” Both men laughed uproariously.

Berthe had started daydreaming about the first gown she would create. She thought of the illustration she had carried around with her for so many years. She could modernize that once adored dress, keeping the basic structure but removing the roses, leaves, and crystals and replacing them with simple lilies of the valley. Intead of spotted tulle trimmed in velvet she would use a double layer of plain silk tulle. But for now she would keep her designs in her head. Clearly Worth was not looking for someone to challenge his control over what was produced in his studio.

“You wanted the name of a supplier of
serge de Nîmes
?” Worth reminded her.

“Oh, yes, please,” Berthe said, coming back to reality. “My friend will be grateful. I think it is just the fabric he needs for
what he has in mind.” She completely put aside her alternative plan to go to America.
I am much better off here in Paris without the Indians to worry about
.

Worth wrote down the address of a wholesale dry goods company that would give her a sample and, ultimately, a fair price on a large order of
serge de Nîmes
.

Berthe took a sample of the fabric back to the boardinghouse to show Monsieur Strauss. He was in his room about to partake of a meal of bread and cheese on top of his bed.

“I see your appetite is back, Monsieur Strauss. You must be feeling better.”

“I can't take any chances with Madame's cuisine. I will be taking all my meals in my room until I leave.” He held out a piece of bread. “May I offer you something, Mademoiselle Bovary?”

“Thank you, no. But I have something for you.” She unwrapped the package and held out the fabric to him.

“And what is this?” He fingered the material, then held it up to his nose to smell.

“It's
serge de Nîmes
, a fabric that is made in the town of the same name. As you can see it's quite soft but very durable. Our farmers wear it for its sturdiness. This is what you should be making your overalls from.”

He took the small piece of cloth over to the window and held it up to the light, pulling it this way and that. It seemed like so many years ago that Monsieur Millet had done the same thing with the homespun cloth as he demonstrated the importance of texture. She felt as if she had grown threefold since that girl in the pasture.

Monsieur Strauss pulled at the fabric with all his strength.

“This is marvelous. You have performed a great service to my
family and me, mademoiselle. A very great service indeed.” Berthe gave him the name of the dry goods store where she had obtained the sample.

Two days later there was a knock on her door. Monsieur Strauss stood in the hallway, twirling the brim of his hat round and round.

“Mademoiselle Bovary, I am planning to travel to Nîmes to negotiate the best price for this new fabric,” he said. “But before I go, I have a proposition for you. Come to America with me. I will give you an important position in my company. You have already made an enormous contribution. I want you to continue to prosper with us.” He looked up at her with his sad brown eyes.

For a moment she felt a giddy surge of pride. In a short time, she had received two excellent job offers. Other people were willing to pay her for her knowledge, for what Monsieur Worth had called her “flair for fabrics.” It had nothing to do with her youth, or her beauty, or her body. Monsieur Strauss wasn't interested in those things. And Worth was too involved with himself and his creations. It was the first time Berthe truly believed that she could not only take care of herself, she could succeed. But now she had to choose. Should she go to California with Monsieur Strauss? She could leave the legacy of her mother, the tragedy of the Bovary name far behind. Or should she stay in Paris and work for Monsieur Worth?

Out of nowhere, an image of Armand's long arms reaching up to paint the mural on Madame Rappelais's ceiling came back to her.
Oh, those arms, those deep-set blue eyes
. She shook the vision from her head. She couldn't afford to dwell on what she didn't have.

“Are you completely sure?” asked Monsieur Strauss when she told him her decision. “I cannot say anything that will change your mind?”

“No, monsieur, my future is here. But thank you, truly, for your kind offer.”

“It is not kind, mademoiselle. I am a businessman. I don't make business decisions from the heart.” He took her hand. “And I repay my debts.”

“You don't owe me anything, monsieur.”

“I don't. But Levi Strauss and Company surely does. May I write to you?”

“Oh, please do! I will be happy to hear news of your venture.”

Monsieur Strauss returned to America loaded down with several thousand yards of
serge de Nîmes
while Berthe began work at the House of Worth.

W
ITH HER NEW SALARY
, B
ERTHE WAS ABLE TO AFFORD HER OWN
room at Madame Laporte's. She didn't want to stay a minute longer in Hélène's room; she was afraid that at any time a
gendarme
could come knocking at the door looking for stolen goods. And she knew that half the merchandise from Paris's department stores lay hidden underneath her friend's bed. As a gesture of grudging goodwill, Hélène gave Berthe a lovely frock to wear to her new job.

“And don't be forgettin' where that come from,” said Hélène.

“From you, my dear friend.”

“No, from Le Bon Marché.”

As she settled into her new employment, Berthe found herself in a constant state of excitement and awe watching Monsieur Worth create his art. He never seemed to stop thinking of new ideas. The atmosphere at the atelier was alive with his creative energy.

Often, the models just stood around in their cage crinolines,
bell-shaped frameworks formed from a series of horizontal hoops and suspended with tapes from the waist, that made it difficult to sit. Worth, meanwhile, dashed from one model to the next, draping and undraping fabric, attaching trim, standing back, squinting his eyes, removing his skullcap, and scratching his head. Nothing seemed to please him.

On one such day, finally, one of the models said, “My feet are killing me.” Sitting down suddenly on one of the small side chairs, her crinoline rose up, exposing her bloomers. Everyone laughed except for Worth.

“Genius is having a brainstorm!” he said, clapping his hands. “We are going to do away with the underskirt. The time has come for me to use my brilliant idea. Yes, this is the moment.” He instructed one of the girls to put on a dress without the crinoline cage. Then he draped and pinned the fabric in the back, thereby creating a whole new silhouette.

“The lady's bottom is now the new royalty,” he proclaimed. “And here is where we put the crown.” He added a large bow to the bunched up fabric. “I christen you the Bustle. Write this down,” he said to Berthe. “From here on out, all great dress designs will focus on two places: the
bustier
and the
derrière
.”

One morning Berthe arrived to see Worth rushing around gathering swatches. He was in an even higher state of agitation than usual.

“The Empress is coming! The Empress is coming!” he announced. “Find me some silk. In blue. No, burgundy. No, saffron.”

“The Empress is really coming?” asked Berthe.

“Did I not say so? Now hurry. Gather up the most gargantuan of our fabrics.”

An hour later, the Empress Eugénie herself arrived. She was
one of the most beautiful women Berthe had ever seen. She had wide-spaced violet blue eyes, a small straight nose, and the smallest rosebud mouth. Her hair was worn in a simple chignon at the back of her long white neck. Her arms were graceful and beautifully plump and her hands were so tiny they looked as if they belonged to a child. She was cold and aloof, as befitted an empress. Berthe wondered why she had come to the shop. She could have easily had Worth call upon her at the palace.

She soon explained. “I wanted to see what all the fuss was about, and to view
all
of your dresses, Monsieur Worth.”

“All of them?” he said, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

She didn't even bother to nod her head. He clapped his hands loudly and called out: “Girls, girls, quickly. Gown yourselves.” What followed was to be known thereafter as the world's first fashion show. After much commotion, Worth's models came out one by one, dressed in his most recent creations. One after another bowed and then turned slowly, according to Worth's direction, in order to show off every angle. The Empress sat unsmiling. Worth fluttered about, describing each gown in his flawed French, pointing out and praising various details.