Madame Bovary's Daughter (46 page)

“As you can see, Your Exaltedness, I have created a new sleeve in this visiting dress. I call it the Polonaise.”

The Empress had no comment.

“And you will notice my new silhouette. I have christened her the Bustle.”

Again not a word from the Empress.

“The fabric you are fingering is called … I forget the French term. What is it called, Mademoiselle Bovary?”

“Velours de peluche,”
Berthe said, flattered to be called upon in the presence of the Empress Eugénie.

“I know what plush velvet is, monsieur,” said the Empress, lifting her chin to an even more regal angle.

When every last dress had been paraded, Monsieur Worth rubbed his hands, waiting for some reaction from the Empress. Berthe stood in the corner, a notebook readied to write down her special instructions.

“Tell me, Monsieur Worth, your honest opinion of what I am wearing.” Empress Eugénie stood up and turned around. She was wearing a walking dress of mustard-colored brocaded silk. The sleeves hung down to her wrists, from which cuffs of muslin peered out. Over the dress she wore a double cape of red velvet with a lace flounce trimmed in a line of velvet ribbon. Covering her dark hair was a bonnet of matching mustard-colored velvet with a white plume. Berthe thought that both the color and the style were terribly unflattering.

Worth stood back, his chin in his hand, studying the whole effect.

“Well, Your Majestiness, I can honestly say that this is the ugliest ensemble I have ever opened my eyelids to.”

Berthe gasped. The Empress lifted the edge of her cape and studied it. Finally, she looked at Worth and said, “Exactly my feelings, monsieur. Let us begin. We obviously have much work to do.”

As Worth led the Empress toward his inner sanctum, Berthe followed, almost breathless with excitement.
Perhaps I could help them with the color choices
. She knew what color she would choose first: a pale peach to complement the Empress's lovely complexion.

At that moment, there was a loud ringing of the doorbell. Monsieur Worth turned to Berthe.

“Whoever it is, tell them to come back tomorrow. I have all I can chew on now,” he whispered. He escorted the Empress into the fitting room. With a sigh, Berthe made her way to the entrance
of the atelier. She could hear someone shouting from the street.

“Wake up! Wake up! Where is everyone? La Pearl has arrived.”

Berthe opened the door a few inches. There, standing on the steps, was the most notorious woman in Paris, the courtesan and actress Cora Pearl. Berthe had read about her in the papers, as had everyone else in the country.

“I have an appointment with Monsieur Worth. Where is he?” she said, pushing past Berthe.

“I'm so sorry, madame, but he is occupied at the moment.”

“Occupied? But I am supposed to choose the fabric for my opening night gown today. I am in rehearsals every day. I have no other time.” She spoke French fluently but with an English cockney accent.

Her high cheeks were flushed with frustration. She was a pretty woman—not beautiful, but she exuded a sweet sexuality, an irresistible combination of innocence and intrigue. Her thick auburn hair was worn in a casual upsweep. Her soft full mouth was pushed out in a rosy pout.

“Perhaps I can help you, madame.”

“And who are you, may I ask?” the actress said, one eyebrow arched.

“I am Monsieur's assistant. I can show you some fabrics until he is free.”

“Well, I suppose there is nothing else to be done.” The actress followed Berthe into the room where long tables were stacked with bolt after bolt of fabric. Immediately she saw something she liked. “What about this?” Madame Pearl said, running her fingers along a heavy brocade. “I love this. Wouldn't it make a stunning gown?”

The fabric she'd chosen, of brocaded lampas and silk, was a copy of a tapestry woven for Catherine the Great. The medallions enclosed alternating pairs of peacocks and swans. It was better suited to an upholstery fabric, Berthe thought. But how could she redirect the woman away from the horrid material? Should she flatter Madame Pearl's taste or tell her the truth? She remembered Worth and the Empress and how he had spoken his mind without fear of disapproval from the most powerful woman in France. She took a deep breath.

“I'm afraid a dress made out of that would make you look like a chaise longue.” She had followed Worth's example, but he was Charles Frederick Worth and she was nobody. Had she gone too far?

There was a long silence as Cora Pearl studied Berthe closely. To Berthe's great relief, Madame Pearl finally threw back her head and laughed boisterously.

“A chaise longue? Something to lie upon? That's not such a bad idea.” She patted Berthe on the cheek. “I like you. You tell the truth. How very refreshing. Well, mademoiselle, since you are so wise, you tell me which fabric I should select. And make sure it's not one of Monsieur Worth's most expensive or I will begin to suspect you of collusion.”

Berthe selected two fabrics: an embroidered silk brocade of gold and white, and a silver lamé with embossed
fleurs-de-lis
. “I can't decide. What do you think?” Madame Pearl asked, holding up each to her chin.

“Why not use both in one dress,” suggested Berthe. “You could have a bodice of the gold and white, and carry it over with insets in the silver skirt.”

“Won't that cost me twice as much?”

“I will have to speak to Monsieur Worth.”

“Has anyone combined these two fabrics in one dress before?”

“No, not that I know of, madame.”

“Well, let's do it, then. Hang the price,” said the actress, clapping her hands.

To Berthe's amazement, she became a great favorite of Cora Pearl's—so much so that whenever the woman came to order new dresses she asked to see Berthe first.

“The little one understands the need not just to look beautiful but to make a statement as well,” she said to Monsieur Worth. Berthe was counting on the fact that Worth would appreciate her efforts and ultimately reward her with a raise in salary. But as time went on and it became apparent that he was not going to offer an increase, she decided to ask him herself. What would happen if he was so angry at her for asking that he fired her instead? She was very nervous. But she knew she had proven herself. She had to take the chance.

“Monsieur, are you satisfied with my work?” she asked one day.

“I am as happy as an oyster,” he said, ripping a flounce off the bottom of a new black silk gown. “Why do you ask?”

“I would like an increase in my pay.” He looked at her as though she had just asked him if he minded if she poked him in the eye with a pair of pinking shears. She immediately began to lose her nerve.
You had to open your mouth. Now see what you've done. You'll be out on the street again
. There was a long silence. She had never experienced a silent Worth before. She longed for his fractured French chatter. She wanted to take back her request, but instead she pressed her lips together and clasped her hands behind her so that he wouldn't see them shake.

“A raise? A raise? I pay you forty francs a week. That is a very generous salad for a girl your age,” he finally said. It was just as she feared. He was very, very angry. But at that moment, she had the strangest sensation: She opened her mouth and someone else's words came out. A braver, bolder, more businesslike someone else.

“Not as generous as eighty francs,” she said.

“Eighty francs? A week? Are you trying to bankrupt me? Do you think I am made of molasses?” he cried.

And now what are you going to do, you greedy girl? Return to the cotton mill? Beg Madame Rappelais to take you back in any position she chooses?
There were the two voices: the one inside her head, growing more hysterical and fearful by the minute, and the other that was busy negotiating better terms with her employer.

“Not molasses, monsieur, but certainly money. Yes, I think you are made of money and have a good and generous nature.”

Despite himself, he was pleased by this latter. “Yes, I am a generous man. And you are a bad girl to take advantage of me like this.” He shook his ringed finger at her.

“And, monsieur, one more thing,” she said.

“What now?”

“A commission on dresses I help you design.”
You idiot. Now you've really gone too far
.

“A what? A commission! My ears cannot believe what they are seeing! Is she serious? Now she is a designer who deserves a commission? From me, God's gift to French fashion? Me, who taught her everything she knows? Oh, I think I am going to have a cat!” With great dramatic flair, Worth pulled a lace handkerchief from the sleeve of his smoking jacket, drew it across his brow, and stumbled back into a chair, whereupon he immediately collapsed, closing his eyes as if in pain.

Despite her fear, she stood firm, and in the end, fuming and
muttering, repeatedly asking for “smelling sugar,” he agreed to raise her salary to eighty francs a week plus a commission. “If she happens to be lucky enough to sell any of her so-called designs.”

Berthe's innovative choice and use of fabrics for Cora Pearl created a stir in the French press, which was exactly what both the actress and Berthe wanted.

“Madame Cora Pearl made a great splash at the Café Vendôme wearing a tea dress of striped silk in vertical red and blue stripes, embroidered with silken tassels at the sleeves and a bodice of black lace tapestry. Her
chapeau
was composed of the same stripes but set in a horizontal design.” This did not go unnoticed by Parisian society. As Worth's business grew, so did the demand for Berthe's expertise. Her commissions grew accordingly.

“I am raising you to one hundred and fifty francs a week, but don't let it go to your foot,” said Worth, patting her on the shoulder.

“Thank you, monsieur.”

“And since you are earning such a nice large sum I would like to do away with the commission. According to Bobergh, there is too much beekeeping involved.”

“No, monsieur, given the choice, I would rather do away with the salary and keep the commission.”

“As you wish.”

“But given your generous nature, I think you would like me to have both.”

“Ach, there it is again, my fatal ‘generous nature.' ”

They both laughed. Berthe was able to send substantial checks to her great-aunt Charlotte and to her grand-mère's old friend Madame Leaumont.

She was earning more money than she had ever dreamed possible. And she was fulfilling her fantasy of creating beautiful things. Wasn't that all she had ever wanted? Yes, but still she was alone and lonely. There was no one to love and no one to love her. Perhaps this was the trade-off, she thought. Lucky in work, unlucky in love. She felt the sadness of not having anyone to share her good fortune with.

She sat at the small writing table in her bedroom at Madame Laporte's house and gazed out the window. If only her mother could see her now. Wouldn't she be surprised? Wouldn't she be proud? Berthe imagined showing her around Monsieur Worth's atelier. Then she would take her into the fabrics room and let her pick out her favorite material. Monsieur Worth would make up a special ball gown. It would be simple and very elegant, showing off her mother's ivory skin and dark satiny hair. Berthe knew just the fabric her mother would have picked. Monsieur Rappelais had brought it in the day before: a midnight-blue silk embroidered throughout with wine-red roses.

Berthe shook her head. What was she doing? Designing a dress for a woman who had been dead these many years?

She cried then for a mother who was gone, whom she had never really had in the first place. She cried because she had no one to be proud of her, to say, “That young woman is my daughter; see how well she has turned out?”
Stop it
, she told herself, angrily brushing away tears.
I'm
proud of you and that is quite enough.

Cora Pearl continued to monopolize her time and applaud her talents. Berthe knew that her future earnings were sewn directly to Madame Pearl's satisfaction with her.

“I want a dress just like the one Worth designed for the Empress,” Cora Pearl said one day in late November. The dress she spoke of was one the Empress planned to wear to the December
Ball. It was a magnificent pink tarlatan gown with a huge double skirt. The upper skirt was looped with large bows of black velvet ribbon. The tarlatan sleeve plaited into the armhole was topped with a black velvet epaulette. “I want this very same dress, only disguised as something slightly different.”

“Is that wise?” asked Berthe, worried that copying Empress Eugénie's dress could be foolhardy to say the least.

“Silly girl. You know I don't wear ‘wise.' Besides, no one will notice. Their eyes will be on the Empress. Who would look at me?” said the woman whom all of Paris followed with obsessive curiosity.