Madame Bovary's Daughter (48 page)

The celebrated actress herself appeared later in the day carrying a copy of the newspaper.

“Where is my precious
styliste
?” she called out. “Where is my
belle
Bovary?”

“I'm here, madame,” Berthe called from the fabric room.

“Did you see the papers?” Madame Pearl asked, waving her copy.

“I don't understand, madame. If it was a private party, how did it get into the papers?”

“I have no idea,” said the actress, winking. “But wait till you read about what I'm wearing, or not wearing, in the opening act of my next show. Come,
chérie
, after all this
nudité
Madame Pearl feels the need for a new frock.”

Cora Pearl was Paris's ultimate trendsetter. One day she appeared with her hair dyed mahogany red to match the upholstery of her carriage. Soon women all over Paris followed suit. She brought more and more business to Worth's salon. And she continued to rely on Berthe for her fashion sense.

“Monsieur Worth dresses women for his own glory. You,
dear girl, understand my essential spirit. You know that underneath all my flamboyance is a delicate flower that just wants to be protected and nourished.”

“You are a rare orchid, madame.”

“Exactement.”

It occurred to Berthe that she possessed a valuable talent she had instinctively learned at her mother's knee: how to cater to a larger-than-life ego. Madame Pearl was not unlike Madame Rappelais in her need to be the most important, most beautiful, most talked-about person in the room, in any room. Instead of feeling overwhelmed by Madame Pearl or Monsieur Worth, Berthe began to rely on her own strength and skill in dealing with their importunate personalities.

But as successful as she was, she was lonely. And that was one quandary she felt completely incapable of solving.

B
ERTHE HATED
S
UNDAY
. I
T WAS HER ONE DAY OFF
. T
HERE WAS
no work, nothing to occupy her time, and although she never stopped creating gowns in her head, the day always spread out before her like an onerous chore. For her it was the loneliest day of the week.

To console herself, she strolled along the Seine, browsing among the bookstalls. She kept her eyes averted from the many lovers who strolled hand in hand as though they were reenacting a romantic painting. She was aware that men—men on the street, fellow lodgers in the boardinghouse, even the husbands of women who frequented Worth's atelier—found her attractive, but for whatever reason—natural shyness, a fear of being hurt as her mother had been—she never encouraged them.

It was a warm afternoon and, looking up from a book she had been perusing, she suddenly saw, or thought she saw, Armand! He was sitting by the side of the river with a drawing pad. She closed her book, stood, and slowly walked closer. He wore a long linen shirt, black breeches, and boots. His dark hair
was even longer than before and his skin had been tanned to a golden brown.

Over the last two years she had imagined him so many times in so many places that she could not believe her eyes. Had her mind simply conjured him up? Her stomach fluttered uncontrollably. She couldn't take a deep breath. It was as if a band of steel had tightened around her chest. She was surprised at the strength of her reaction.

She stood behind him for a long time watching as he captured the movements of the Sunday strollers in quick, thick strokes of his charcoal. Instead of focusing on the river as his subject, he was sketching women as they walked by.

She could see that his were not the kind of sketches designed to attract an audience or, ultimately, a paying customer. Some artists painted pleasant landscapes of the river and its surroundings. Others had set up outdoor studios, complete with easel and stool, where they would create overly flattering pastel portraits of passersby for a franc or two. Clearly, this was not what Armand was interested in. He worked intently, glancing up only long enough to study the movements of the people who passed.

He was even more handsome than Berthe remembered. He had filled out. His hands seemed larger, his shoulders broader, his bones denser. It was a warm day and his shirt was open at the neck, and the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows revealing his strong forearms.

“I'll give you a franc for that,” she said.

“My sketches are not for sale,” he said, not looking up.

“Your work reminds me very much of the great Armand de Pouvier,” she said. “Do you know him, perhaps?”

He turned then, his smile brilliant. “Why, it's little Mademoiselle Bovary, all grown up.”

“I've always been grown up, Monsieur de Pouvier. When did you return from Italy?”

“How did you know I went to Italy?”

“Oh, it was the talk of the Parisian art world. Nothing of any note has been painted since you've been gone.”

He studied her for a long time, still smiling. “You're angry with me. Why? Because I didn't say good-bye?”

“I'm not angry with you, Monsieur de Pouvier,” she said, hating him a little for guessing the truth.

He stood up. It seemed he had grown even taller.

“Well, if you're not angry then you'll have tea with me and we can catch up on old times.”

“I'm afraid we have no old times to catch up on.” Armand seemed charmed by her bad humor. He packed up his sketchbook and charcoal, and then took her firmly by the elbow and led her toward a café. She hoped he wouldn't notice that she was trembling all over.

She was so happy to see him again. Why couldn't she just tell him that? But something prevented her. They had a way of talking to each other that seemed to always result in some kind of disagreeable exchange.

Suddenly he stopped and turned to her.

“I have an idea. Would you like to see my work?” Her stomach and her heart seemed to collide with each other.

“Yes, yes, I would,” she said finally.

Armand had a room on the fifth floor of a badly maintained apartment house in an industrial section of the 8th
arrondissement
. As they walked up the five flights, the smell of garbage permeated the air. His garret was totally unlike the one Berthe had fantasized about years before. In her vision she had pictured a huge room with windows and skylights, a large four-poster bed
in the corner, a couch covered with a beautiful piece of drapery, and a small table and chairs set up for romantic dinners by the French windows.

Instead, an easel and a stool took up the majority of the space and a small table covered with paints filled the remainder. Stacks of canvases stood against the wall. A lumpy cot was wedged under the eaves. There was but one soot-covered window.

Pulling over a stool for her to sit on, Armand began to show her his work, reverently holding up one canvas after another as if waiting for a response from her. The paintings were of ordinary people doing ordinary things: a little girl playing with a cat; a couple walking hand in hand through a garden; a woman peeling an apple. Berthe was surprised how different his work was from the copy of the Titian that he had done for Madame Rappelais. He painted in loose brushstrokes, not paying attention so much to details as to the feeling and movement of the figures. The colors seemed to be soaked in sunlight.

“I know nothing about art …” she began.

“Then don't say anything stupid.” He grinned.

“I was going to say they are beautiful paintings, but if you think that's stupid then I happily retract it,” she said. Her face grew hot. She stood up to leave.

“Wait, I'm sorry. I'm the stupid one. Forgive me. I'm not in the habit of showing my work to anyone.”

“You're not in the habit of showing your good manners, either.”

“There's one more I want you to see.” He reached over and turned the last canvas around. The painting was of a young woman lying on a chaise longue. She was totally naked with the exception of a gardenia in her hair, a thin gold necklace, and a pair of satin mules. These few items seemed to emphasize her nakedness all the more. Her hand rested on her upper thigh, not
so much hiding as drawing attention to the thick bush of her pubic area. Behind her stood a man fully dressed in formal wear. His hand rested on her shoulder a tantalizing few inches from her breast. He gazed down at her as if mesmerized by the sight of her bare skin. The expression on the woman's face could only be described as triumphant. It seemed to say,
I have my lover and I have you the viewer as well and I defy anyone to look away
.

Berthe thought there was something familiar about the woman. And then it hit her: It was her own face.

“This is supposed to be me?” she said. He nodded. “Without my clothes?”

“As I imagined you without your clothes. Unfortunately, I only had my imagination to inspire me.”

“You had no right to paint me without my permission!” Berthe's voice broke.

“If I had asked you to pose for me like this, would you have?”

“No, of course not.”

“And yet you posed for the illustrious Monsieur Millet. Is it because I am a nobody?” Armand moved to stand in front of her, his hands on his hips. His eyes flashed with anger.

“How did you know I posed for him?”

“My dear Mademoiselle Bovary, his painting of you sitting by the stream hung in his studio waiting for the highest bidder, which turned out to be your own Madame Rappelais.”

“I was just a child. I didn't know what I was doing.”

“You certainly knew how to take off your clothes.” She raised her hand to strike him. He caught her wrist, pulled her arm behind her, and kissed her long and hard. Finally, he released her. “You're free to slap me now,” he said, smiling.

“I don't want to touch you,” Berthe said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

Armand grabbed her by the waist and pulled her to him.
This time, even though he held her firmly, he placed the gentlest of kisses on her lips. His mouth was slow and sweet, his tongue tentative, giving Berthe control over whether to respond or to stop him. Soon she softened into his arms. He kissed her ear, the side of her neck, the hollow of her collarbone. He kissed her forehead, underneath her chin, and then her mouth again, and then again.

It seemed as if someone else was breathing for her. Berthe moved in his arms, pressing herself into him. She reached for his hand and placed it against her breast.

“Tell me what you want,” Armand whispered in her ear. She felt him harden against her. With one hand he managed to unbutton each of the many buttons that ran up the back of her dress. He pulled down one shoulder and slipped his hand inside her chemise, cupping her breast. With his forefinger he gently tickled her nipple back and forth. “Tell me.”

He lowered his head to her breast and ran his lips lightly over the skin. She lifted her chest up, offering her nipple, but he ignored it. He ran his fingers and then his tongue around and around her breast, covering every inch except for the obvious and aching nipple.

“More.” Berthe moaned with pleasure. “Please, more.”

He took her nipple in his mouth, the tip of his tongue continuously caressing it. A current of warmth ran through her body. She felt a tightness in her throat. Suddenly, she couldn't breathe; she couldn't swallow; she couldn't see. She felt paralyzed, and then just as suddenly her body exploded into a million spasms. Surge after surge, beginning below and moving from her toes through her legs and up her back. She emitted a strange groan that she didn't recognize as coming from her.

“Oh, my!” Armand laughed. “And we haven't even begun.”
He led her over to the cot and gently helped her out of her clothes. She tried to get under the blanket to hide her nakedness but he made her stand so he could gaze at her while he stripped. He had a beautiful body, lean and muscular—covered all over with fine dark hair. His thick penis stood out from his body like an unexpected guest. He took her in his arms and she felt the thrill of him and his bare skin next to hers.

He began kissing her all over. And again Berthe felt a calling—no,
a screaming
out for him. She needed him inside her as she had never needed anything in her life. She fell back on the bed and he moved on top of her. She opened her legs, feeling the wetness there, and he thrust himself tenderly into her. Instead of the terrible, sharp, tearing pain she had felt when Boulanger raped her, she felt the wonderfulness and rightness of Armand's strong sex inside her. Pushing, pushing, slowly, ever so slowly at first, and then faster and faster until she was carried along with his motion. Her hands held his smooth hard back. Her legs wrapped around his waist and all she was aware of was his breath on her neck, his lips at her ear, moaning, “
Chère
Berthe,
douce
Berthe,
belle
Berthe.” And then he uttered a long guttural sound and collapsed on top of her.

She began crying. She had wanted Armand to be the first. Oh, how she had longed for that. Now she felt used, sullied, unworthy.

“What's the matter? Did I hurt you? I'm so sorry.”

She couldn't answer. He hadn't hurt her. That was the trouble. Boulanger had already done the damage. He had stolen her virginity before she or anyone else had a chance to value it. What should have been a wonderful moment was full of misery.

“Please, tell me what's wrong.” Armand's breath was warm against her neck.

Finally she told him.

“You were not my first,” she sobbed. He was quiet for a long time.

“Don't tell me. I don't want to know,” he said in a low tone.

“But I want to tell you. He … I …”

Armand put his hand over her mouth. “Whatever happened before has nothing to do with us.”

Berthe wanted to tell him about Boulanger and the night at the Rappelais house. She had a tremendous need to rid herself of the awful memory. But somehow she knew that putting it into words wouldn't help. It would just make it all come back to her.