Madame Bovary's Daughter (49 page)

“What's done is done,” Armand said. “All that matters is now. And right now, dear girl, I have to sleep.” And with that he promptly fell asleep.

Berthe eased herself out from under him and got up. She found an old robe of his and put it on. And then she sat in the only chair in the room, waiting for him to wake. But he slept on. It was beginning to grow dark, so she dressed and went down to the street to buy some bread and cheese. As she looked for the nearest
boulangerie
she was struck with a great feeling of loneliness. How had she gone from feeling as close to anyone as she ever had in her life to this? She had given herself to Armand and now she felt exposed and defenseless. How could he be sleeping when she needed him so much? If this was love she wasn't sure she wanted any part of it. She thought of her mother and understood a little of her sadness and her pain.

When Berthe returned, Armand was sitting on the edge of the bed. He looked up at her and smiled, then pulled her down next to him and kissed her.

“My dear Mademoiselle Bovary, where have you been? I thought I had been abandoned.”

“You forget it is you who abandoned me,” she said. “And furthermore, you snore.” They both laughed, and her sadness vanished.

“Ah, you've brought food for the great starving artist,” he said, grabbing the bread from her.

“What's so wonderful about starving?” she said. “Do you think you are better than me because your ribs show?”

“Actually, I do. Look, don't I have beautiful ribs?” he said, pulling down the sheet and exposing his chest.

“They're good and bony,” she said, poking him hard with her finger. He grabbed her hand and pulled her on top of him.

“Take off your clothes and I'll show you something good and bony.”

“You're an impossibly disgusting man,” she said, smiling. She felt quite the sophisticated woman, and supremely happy.

“I captured your face in my painting but not your body,” Armand said later, after they had made love again.

“You made my breasts far too large.”

“You're still young. They could grow.”

“They're not going to grow,” she said obstinately.

“I added just a little, to satisfy my painterly instincts. Here and here.” He traced one nipple and then the other with the tip of his finger. “And this needs to darken and get much fuller.” He ran his fingers lightly over her pubic hair. “Wait. I have an idea for another picture. Here's an area I've entirely missed in my other painting.” He spread her legs apart, leaned back on his heels, and narrowed his eyes as though working out the perspective.

“Armand!” she gasped.

“Hold this pose while I get my charcoal.”

“No, no.” She was breathless with laughter. She covered herself with the sheet.

“You are my model, my muse. You must do as I say,” he growled. He tried to pull the sheet off her but she prevailed.

Berthe had never felt like this before. She was flying. But with that delicious sensation came this awareness: the possibility of crashing to earth. She shuddered briefly and then pushed the thought out of her mind.

T
HE TIME
B
ERTHE SPENT WITH
A
RMAND WAS FILLED WITH LOVE
and laughter. They rarely fought, and if they did, their disagreements dissolved into more love and laughter. But she bemoaned the fact that they had so little time together. She worked long hours, and he painted from sunup to sunset and even late into the night by oil lamp. She longed to see more of him, which is how she came up with the idea of speaking to Monsieur Worth.

“Monsieur, I know just what your salon needs,” Berthe announced to her patron a few weeks later.

“Another pair of hands, another set of eyes, another brilliant mind like mine.” He was working on a new gown for the Empress, using one of his models for a fitting. “But alas, there is no one like me in all the world.” He sighed. “So many bosoms and bottoms, so little time.”

“You need to elevate your salon to the level of your genius.”

She had his attention. “Go on,” he said. “I don't have all day to stand and chew.”

“I propose you have a mural painted. A work of art that celebrates
your
art. On that wall over there.” She pointed to an area just inside the entrance to the atelier. “So that when your customers walk in they are immediately made aware of the fact that they are entering not just a dress salon, but a museum of art.
Your
museum.”

He needed no further convincing. She recommended Armand, and Monsieur Worth readily agreed. He remembered the Rappelais mural and had been impressed with the painter's skill.

Berthe was thrilled. If she could find Armand permanent work, then perhaps they could eventually afford a house, get married, raise a family.
To think, only six years ago I was struggling to learn how to milk a cow
. Looking back, she began to see a theme not just of survival but of great progress. It was only two years since she walked out of the Rappelais home with no job, no home, and no idea of how she would earn her living. And now she was gainfully employed, even highly respected by Monsieur Worth. She was earning an excellent salary with the confidence of more to come. She was eighteen years old, and for the first time in her life she envisioned a future filled with promise and great success.

Her stomach did a nervous dance. Why did that worry her? Why did she continue to have the feeling of a hovering shoe about to drop?

“I don't need you to peddle my wares,” Armand said angrily that evening. Berthe was taken aback.

“Oh, no. Of course not,” she said sarcastically. “You're doing so well on your own. Look at this wonderful gallery you use to show your work. People are lined up on the dingy stairway just for a viewing.” She opened the door and shouted down the stairway, “Messieurs and mesdames, the De Pouvier studio will be open shortly. Please be patient and have your money ready.”

She wasn't sure who was more surprised by her outburst, Armand or she. But he was the first to laugh.

“All right, all right, I'll talk to the great Monsieur Worth. But no copies of a Titian.”

“No, no,” she assured him. “Monsieur Worth will want something totally original, completely your own creation.”

“This is what I have in mind,” said Monsieur Worth, stroking his beard. “I want Titian's Venus here.” Worth waved his hand as if he were conducting an orchestra. “Only instead of her lying naked, I want her to be dressed in one of my newest gowns. I will show you which one.” Berthe put her hand on Armand's arm, but it was too late.

“Clothing the naked Venus! Are you out of your mind?” Armand practically spit.

Worth seemed to ponder this as if it were a question that required an answer.

“I think you misunderstood, Monsieur Worth,” said Berthe evenly. “Monsieur de Pouvier doesn't just paint Venuses by Titian. His real strength is in his own original work.”

“I don't know,” said Worth, taking off his skullcap and rubbing his head. “All I have seen of his work was what he did for Madame Rappelais.”

“I would think you, of all people, would want something unique, something that was an emblem of your genius,” Berthe gently reminded him.

“
Emblem
sounds more expensive to my trained earlobe,” said Worth, frowning.

“It will be a fair price, I assure you,” said Armand.

“In that case, the two of you decide what to paint. I have too much originality on my brain as it is.” He returned to his work, leaving Armand and Berthe grinning at each other.

Berthe took Armand to the nearest café, an elegant establishment on the corner of the rue de la Paix, where the price of a
café au lait
was what she had not very long ago spent on room and board for a week. “My treat, to celebrate,” she told him. It was late afternoon and the café was almost empty. They sat at a linen-covered table by the window.

Berthe came up with a plan that she thought would satisfy both men.

“You know those sketches you did of women walking along the Seine? Why not turn them into a painting, but have them wearing dresses that have been designed by Worth?”

“But that's absurd. He designs nothing but ball gowns. What would women be doing walking along the Seine in ball gowns?” Armand downed his coffee in one gulp and set the cup down in the saucer with a clink.

“No, you're wrong. He creates visiting dresses and walking dresses. He designs scarves and hats. He has even created a fragrance.”

“I can't paint a fragrance,” said Armand, throwing up his hands in frustration.

“Of course not. But don't you think it's a good idea? Your wonderful women strolling along in his beautiful designs.”

“I think it's crass and commercial, and I would not call it art. It's nothing more than an advertisement for Charles Worth.”

“Not to mention an advertisement for yourself.”

Despite himself, Armand finally smiled. He reached across the table and ran his finger along her cheek.

Monsieur Worth approved the sketch for the mural immediately. And he had another idea.

“At the end of the year, you can paint new dresses on the ladies. So that the mural keeps up with the fashion. What say you?” Armand considered this. “Of course I will be happy to put you on a handsome retainer. But you must not do this for any other dressmaker. It will be exclusive to my salon. Do you agree?” Armand continued to ponder the proposition, as if he were deciding what to have for lunch. Berthe gave him a push.

“I'm sure he agrees, don't you, Armand?”

Armand nodded his head.

“I like you,” said Monsieur, slapping Armand on the shoulder. “You are as imperious as I am. We arrogant artists must fasten together.”

It took Armand three months to complete Worth's mural, and it was a huge success. Portrait commissions from Worth's customers began pouring in. Armand was able to move to a bigger, brighter studio on the rue Bonaparte. One morning Berthe woke up before dawn and decided to surprise Armand with breakfast in bed. She stopped at the bakery on the corner of rue Bonaparte, where they were just taking the bread out of the oven. She bought a baguette and hurried up the stairs of his apartment house. She wanted to make him coffee before he woke.

As she entered the apartment she looked at him from across the room. His mouth was open, his head thrown back. His long narrow foot stuck out from under the covers. She felt tears well up. She never knew she could be so happy or feel so full of love. And then as she watched him it suddenly hit her: He wasn't breathing.
He's dead!

He had died during the night. All the hard work and late hours had taken their toll. His poor heart had given out; he was gone, leaving her forever alone.

She fell to her knees at the side of his bed and pressed her ear
against his chest. She heard the clear strong beat of his heart.
You silly fool
, she said to herself.
He's not dead. He's only sleeping
. He opened his eyes and smiled at her. It was then that she knew for certain. She wanted to spend her life with this man. “Are you my dream or am I awake?” He pulled her into bed with him and began kissing her.

“It's a dream.” She laughed. “You must wake up now and go to work. Fame and fortune await you.”

“Let them wait,” he said. “First I have to ravish someone in my dream.” And he proceeded to make slow, sleepy love to her. Afterward, he fell promptly asleep again. She lay there filled with happiness, and sheer joy. Armand had come back into her life because she had wished for it and dreamed of it. And now he loved her. It was what she had wanted from the very beginning. They belonged together.

But the minute she felt the sureness of this, she experienced the loss of it. It was like opening the door of a warm room onto a winter day. She forgot the warmth and only experienced the cold. Because if she could create this very real love, wasn't she also capable of creating the opposite? She tried to shake the blackness from her mind. J
ust enjoy your happiness and good fortune. Nothing untoward is going to happen
. But she didn't believe it. Everything in her life had somehow proven otherwise. Not only did she not trust her fortuity, but she knew in her heart of hearts that she would have to pay dearly for it. And probably far sooner than she was ready to.

Carriages lined the street outside the shop on rue de la Paix from early morning until late at night. Every day Worth attracted more and more clients. They were women of the very highest status. All of society it seemed was attracted to the salon. Women would wait for hours in the second salon for a chance to confer
with the master on either a new dress or his predictions for the forthcoming fashion season. They hung on Worth's every word and seemed to welcome his rather sharp criticism. Gossip abounded as the ladies gathered each afternoon, and that was how Berthe came to hear about Le Petit Manoir on the avenue Bois de Boulogne.