Madame Bovary's Daughter (50 page)

“It is such a pity about the Gautiers. They've lost everything. His ship not only didn't come in, it sank in the Bay of Biscay,” said Madame DuPlesse, carefully choosing a chocolate from a box on her lap.

“They owe millions to their creditors. They've fled the country,” said the wasp-waisted Madame Filet, who held out her hand for the box of chocolates. Madame DuPlesse appeared not to notice, so intent was she on making the right choice.

“Their home is in foreclosure. The bank has taken it over,” added Madame DuPlesse. Madame Filet turned her attention to her nails, admiring each one as if she had just grown them that day. When Madame DuPlesse finally offered the box of chocolates to her, she pretended she was no longer interested.

“What a shame!” said Madame Filet. “A lovely home. Not a
grand château
but it has its charms.”

“An excellent location,” agreed Madame DuPlesse. “I talked to Georges about buying it for our youngest. It is a veritable steal. But he thinks the garden too small.” Berthe was no longer listening. Early the next morning on her way to work she made a detour and stopped by the small house on the avenue Bois de Boulogne near the park. There was a sign posted on the front door:

FORCLUSION. Par Banque de Paris
.

She felt a great wave of pity for the people who once lived in this house. She remembered the day the bank had foreclosed on her parents' house, taking away every piece of furniture. To lose
a house was to Berthe second only to the loss of a parent. It was like forfeiting your place in the world.

Le Petit Manoir, by far the smallest house on the street, was situated on a lovely square. It was three stories high, built of granite. The French windows were graced by intricate wrought-iron railings and the mansard roof was trimmed with copper. She walked around to the back of the house. A gardener was cutting back some of the ivy that threatened to close in on the windows.

“Do you know how much they are asking for this house?”

The man put down his shears, wiped his brow, and looked Berthe up and down.

“All I knows is there ain't no takers. No one in this neighborhood is interested. It's too small for them that could afford it and too big for the likes of you, mademoiselle.”

She looked around at the garden of roses and wildflowers, planted between rows of Belgium block. The garden was not at all too small for her. And it was right here in the heart of Paris. With a house like this, she would be safe from the wolf she always imagined about to knock at her door. She had lost her home so many times in her young life; a house like this would provide her and Armand with a safe haven. Owning her own house would finally give her the security she longed for.

She began to decorate it in her mind as though she already lived there. She started with apple green and white striped curtains for the parlor.
No, first things first
. She placed a huge wing chair in front of the fireplace in the parlor, and in it she put Armand with his feet up on a hassock and a sketchbook on his lap.
No, no, he would work on the top floor where the light was so much better
. She moved him up there and placed him next to his large easel and table full of paints.
There, that's perfect
.

She had to have this house. She had a job; she had considerable
savings from the many commissions she had earned. She took one last look at Le Petit Manoir. She feared it wouldn't stay ownerless for long, so she headed straight for the bank.

“How much is the small house on avenue Bois de Boulogne?” she asked the banker, who glanced up briefly before returning to his ledger.

“I am afraid it would be beyond your means, dear young lady,” he said.

“I am an employee of Monsieur Charles Frederick Worth and he has bade me inquire the price. However, if you are not interested in selling it …”

The man looked up with sudden interest. “Oh, well, in that case.” He shuffled through a pile of papers. “Number eighteen, avenue Bois de Boulogne … oh, this is truly a
bon marché
. Be so kind as to tell Monsieur Worth it could be his for just fifty thousand francs.”

Berthe swallowed hard. Though far beyond her savings as the figure was, there was great relief in knowing the actual number. It was real and it wasn't in the millions. Still, it was more than twice what she had.

“Thank you, monsieur.” She started to leave and then turned back. “And does one have to pay the entire amount at once?”

“Oh, no, a down payment of twenty percent is all that is required. We will gladly arrange a mortgage with the proper person.” A mortgage. That wasn't something she had considered. It was a huge financial burden. She thought of her mother's disastrous indebtedness and how it had cost her family everything. A mortgage meant that she wouldn't fully own the house. If she lost her job again before she'd paid it off, the house might be repossessed. No, if she was going to buy a house, she wanted to own the house.

For the next several days, she thought of nothing but the
pretty little place on avenue Bois de Boulogne. The house represented the life she wanted for herself and Armand. Wasn't that worth the risk? At the same time, she felt it was crucial that the house be her responsibility, that she not ask Armand to help pay for it. He was only finally starting to earn a real income from his art. In fact, she wouldn't tell him about the house at all—it would be a surprise. Gradually, she came up with a plan to put all her savings toward the house. But she vowed that if she wasn't able to come up with the rest of the money, she would walk away. Was this the kind of insane thinking her mother had indulged in? No, this was very different, she reasoned. For one, she wasn't relying on a man to take care of her. She was taking responsibility for her own dreams.

“I thought it was Monsieur Charles Frederick Worth who was interested in the house,” said the banker when she presented her proposition.

“No, in fact it's me, monsieur.”

“And what does your husband do, may I ask?”

“I'm not married.” Berthe took a deep breath. “But I hope to be soon.”

“Correct me if I'm wrong. You are an unmarried woman and you are putting your life's savings toward a partial, albeit considerable, payment on a house that you may never be able to afford. Forgive me for saying this, mademoiselle, but you could lose everything. I strongly suggest you instead make a minimal down payment and take out a mortgage for the rest, thereby protecting your assets.”

“Rest assured, monsieur, I will have the balance of the money, I promise you.”

“Well, it's your neck, mademoiselle.”

“No, monsieur, it's my life and I plan to live it in Le Petit Manoir.”

He sighed. “The payment you are proposing will suffice to hold the house for a period of twelve months.”

“Then the house is mine?” Berthe could barely catch her breath.

“For twelve months. Then if you haven't secured the rest of the money for the full payment, it will revert back to the bank.” He raised his eyebrows and looked at her grimly over his spectacles. “You will forfeit everything.”

Despite the banker's warnings, Berthe floated on an air of joy and anticipation for several days; she was confident that soon the house would be hers. But eventually the old familiar cloud of impending doom returned. She began to worry in earnest about losing the house, losing her money, and losing Armand's love. She felt anxious, tense, and afraid.

So when Rodolphe Boulanger appeared in the foyer of Worth's salon one evening Berthe thought,
This must be the terrible thing that I've been dreading
. The other employees, including Monsieur Worth, had left an hour before. It was almost dark outside. Her heart began to pound and she had difficulty breathing. She started to run to the back room and then she stopped. He wouldn't dare try anything here, would he? They were in plain sight of the passersby strolling up and down the rue de la Paix. If he tried to attack her someone would see or hear. Taking a deep breath and hiding her trembling hands behind her back, she turned and approached him.

“Monsieur Boulanger, what brings you to the House of Worth?”

“Ah, my
chère
Mademoiselle Bovary.” He looked her up and down with a leer that made her shiver. “What else, but you? My good friend Madame Rappelais told me I might find you here. And here you are, even lovelier than ever.”

“I'm afraid I cannot show you any of our gowns as the models are not here, but you may want to look at Monsieur Worth's collection of fashion accessories. However, I must warn you, it is almost closing time.” She kept her voice firm and steady. She prayed that Boulanger wouldn't realize she was alone in the shop.

Boulanger began to remove his gloves. “I want to tell you, mademoiselle, that I am a man with few hobbies and even fewer interests. I have grown tired of the opera. I no longer play chess. I have collected all the art I care to. In the summer I hunt. In the winter I travel to the south. But you, Mademoiselle Bovary, continue to hold my interest. I believe I have turned you into an obsession. As I told you once before, a woman who says no is a woman I can never forget. Your mother and I were very much alike in this way.”

Eyes suddenly blazing, Berthe hissed, “Don't you dare speak of my mother!”

Boulanger ignored her. “Furthermore, I am determined to get my way no matter what it takes. By flattery or, if necessary, by more force. Which shall it be?” he asked pleasantly, as if he had just offered her a choice of after-dinner liqueurs. He smiled his awful smile and waited for her response. It took everything in her not to scream. She found his perfect calm and composure absolutely terrifying. She walked over to a table at the end of the room, opened a drawer, removed a pair of twelve-inch seamstress scissors, and pointed them at Boulanger.

“Which shall it be? These scissors buried in your neck, your eye, or your precious manhood?”

“Quel courage!”
He laughed. Then he lunged forward and grabbed her wrist, twisting her arm behind her back until she had no choice but to drop the scissors. She tried to knee him in the groin but her full skirts made the attempt useless. He bent her backward over the table and pressed his body hard against
hers. His mouth forced her lips open and it felt as if his tongue was thrust halfway down her throat. She gagged. Her heart was pounding so frantically she thought for a moment she might actually faint from fright. She struggled to keep calm, to think, to find a way to escape what seemed inescapable. She fought him with all her strength but it was no use. And then, in the middle of her panic, she thought of her mother's feelings for Boulanger, and the way he had rejected her, and an idea came to her.

She suddenly stopped struggling and forced her body to relax. Wasn't this the way she dealt with difficult customers—to give them what they thought they wanted? She wrapped her arms around his neck. As he ground himself against her, she moaned and returned his kiss. His tongue retreated in surprise.

She spoke the words she remembered hearing her mother say, that day in the woods. “Oh, Rodolphe,” she breathed. “Kiss me, love me. I am yours.”

He pulled back and looked at her, chuckling nervously.

“Well, well, you do surprise me, mademoiselle,” he said.

She traced her fingers lightly along his cheek.

“I can no longer lie to you or myself. I want you. Desperately,” she said, sighing. “Please, Monsieur Boulanger, if you only knew how I've dreamed of this moment.” She wondered if she was overdoing it. Would he realize this was just an act?

“Stop it, mademoiselle. You forget yourself,” he said, pulling out of her grasp. She saw the hesitation creep into his eyes.

“But I've never forgotten you. Ever since I was a little girl, when I watched you take my mother riding, I wanted you for myself. I'll live with you and you'll take care of me. We'll be married!” She threw herself against him and began covering his face and neck with kisses.

“Enough.” He shoved her away and retreated several steps. “Wh-what in heaven's name has gotten into you?” he stammered.

“My dear monsieur, don't you understand? You have inflamed me, just as you inflamed my mother. Can't you see? I am not unlike her. I want what she wanted,” she said, reaching for him. With a horrified look on his face, he backed away from her. Quickly wrapping his cloak around him, he turned and fled before she had a chance to utter another word. As Boulanger rushed through the door he bumped into Armand, who stood there, fury and outrage darkening his handsome face.

B
ERTHE RAN TO
A
RMAND BUT HE PUSHED HER AWAY
.

“You little whore!”

“Wait!” Berthe said. She grabbed his arm but he yanked himself out of her grasp. “Let me explain.”

“Explain what, that you were making love with a man twice your age? There's nothing to explain. I have eyes, you know.” He paced back and forth, his hands running through his hair as if he were trying to pull it off his head.

She burst into tears. “He was my mother's lover … he found me when I was working for the Rappelaises.” She forced herself to say what she had dreaded telling him all this time. “The night of Madame's birthday ball—he raped me,” she said, rushing to get the words out. “He came here tonight and tried to seduce me again. The only way I could think to escape was to turn the tables on him.”

“And you expect me to believe that?” He refused to look at her.

“Of course I expect you to believe it.”

“Why?”

“Because I've never lied to you. Because … I love you,” she said, reaching out to touch his arm.

He moved out of her reach. She could see there was a part of him that wanted to believe her, and a part of him that would find it hard to trust her again.
He is the son of a prostitute. Of course he believes the worst of women
. She knew there was nothing more she could say. She had told him everything. He stared at her for a long moment, his jaw clenching and unclenching. And then, without another word, he turned on his heel and left. She ran to the door, opened it, and called down the street. “Wait. Armand. Please!” But he had already turned the corner.