Madame Bovary's Daughter (53 page)

“How do I look, DuPoix?” said Madame Rappelais.

“Beautiful as always, my darling girl.”

As Berthe slowly descended the stairs of the Rappelais house, a scene from her childhood came back to her—something she hadn't thought about in years. Her mother, as usual, had been busy trying to cover her shopping debts before her husband discovered them. She had taken to selling her old clothes, hats, gloves, even the silver dessert spoons her father had given the Bovarys for a wedding present. On this particular afternoon Berthe found her mother on her knees before an old trunk in the attic. She was sorting through pieces of lace and lengths of ribbon, holding each item up to the light to see if it was in good enough condition to merit selling. There were dust motes swirling around her head. Her usually smooth coiffure had come loose and a sheen of perspiration covered her worried face.

Berthe was old enough to understand what was going on. She sometimes accompanied her mother and had heard her trying
to convince various merchants of the value of what she was trying to sell. She had seen the looks of scorn on their faces as her mother extolled the qualities of this moth-eaten cape or that misshapen bonnet. She remembered the anger she felt toward her mother at the time. Anger and shame.

Now, remembering all this, a swell of emotion suddenly hit her. It was so strong she had to stop and grab hold of the banister. The feeling started in her stomach and moved to her chest and up to her throat. She felt her jaw slacken and her face collapse. And then the tears began, pouring down in unchecked streams. At that moment she felt a tremendous longing for her mother. Is this where her heart had been hiding all along? Had she stuffed the feelings down so far that she couldn't even recognize them for what they were? Had she been that afraid of loving her mother? She wiped her face with her hands and gulped for air.

It was then that she finally let go of all the anger and began to understand. Her mother had only been trying to get through life, to give herself what she thought she needed to be happy. Berthe knew how lucky she was to have found a trade, to be good at what she did. Her talents and skill were real. The money she earned was real. The ability to take care of herself—it was all real. No one and nothing could take that away from her. And as for her love for Armand? She thought of her old friends, the Homaises. Their love, their home, their family, for all its clutter and chaos, was as solid as a city sidewalk. That was what she wanted with Armand and that was what she would work for.

Berthe wasn't surprised when word came to her two weeks later that Madame Rappelais had died. She made one last visit to the house at 11, rue Payenne, whereupon she met with Madame DuPoix.

“I am taking Mademoiselle Gossien away.”

“Oh, and pray tell what do you plan to do with her?” Madame DuPoix's eyes were red and swollen as if she had been weeping for days.

“I am offering her a position as my housekeeper,” Berthe said, neglecting to mention that she had yet to own a house that required keeping.

“The girl is not capable of that.” Madame DuPoix laughed. “Why, she can barely make a bed, let alone run a household.”

“I will train her,” said Berthe.

She took the girl by the hand, and when they arrived at the boardinghouse she put her to work performing small duties for Madame Laporte. When she cashed her commission check, she gave Mademoiselle Gossien the ten thousand francs.

“Oh, no, mademoiselle, I couldn't …”

“Send this home so that your sisters no longer have to work in the mill,” Berthe insisted. Only for a moment did she worry that this was the money for her house. Then she remembered that, business being what it was, there would be plenty more where that came from.

M
ONSIEUR
R
APPELAIS, EVER THE LOYAL HUSBAND, FOLLOWED
his wife to her grave within weeks. Their home was boarded up, awaiting the return of the Rappelais
fils
when they came of age; the boys had been shipped off to a distant cousin in England.

Meanwhile, Berthe continued putting all her energy into her work. Her subsequent commission checks sat locked in a box in her desk. Armand's contempt for her income had kept her from completing the remaining payment with the bank. She wanted to move carefully, to make sure he knew that her efforts were for both of them. But first she had to give him time to get over his irrational anger. No amount of explaining was going to work when he was in this kind of state. She had learned from experience to let his storm blow over.

The more she thought about the house, the more she imagined how she and Armand would fill it with a family. She began to think seriously about children, many children—four, six, eight—enough to ensure that even with the occasional inevitable infant death she would never be alone or feel like an orphan
again. She had a vision of herself surrounded by all these beautiful, happy children whom she and Armand would dote on.

How many bedrooms did the house on avenue Bois de Boulogne have? Not enough for her brood. She could put several small children into one nursery, but ultimately they would have to move to larger quarters. Suddenly, she had to laugh at herself; Armand was barely speaking to her and she already had him installed in a new house surrounded by their offspring.

“Why must you toil so?” Armand asked her one night. “You act as if you are in danger of starving to death. I have enough money for both of us.”

“You forget, I love my work,” she said.

“Yes, it's quite clear. You love your work more than you love anything, including me.”

“Who said I loved you at all?” she said in an attempt to be playful. He gave her a long look. Was he hurt? Was he angry? Had she gone too far? Then he lunged for her.

“You love me. Admit it.” He pulled her over his knee and began spanking her.

“I'll admit nothing,” she said, laughing.

“It's not natural.” He pulled her up. “You work like a man.”

“Do I feel like a man?” she said, taking his hand and slipping it down the front of her dress.

“Let me see.” He ran his fingers lightly over her nipple until it became hard and erect.

Soon, they began to make love. “Isn't this better than all the money in the world?” he whispered when they were through. She took his face in her hands and held it a few inches from hers.

“The money I work so hard for is for us, for our house, our home. Our family.”

“What? What house? What family?” He pulled back, alarmed.

“Of course there's no family. Not yet. But there is a house,” she said, excited to finally be sharing this with him, “I have been wanting to tell you that I do have my eye on a place. After we are married—”

“Married? Who ever said anything about marriage? And a house? Why, you are full of little surprises. And big ideas.” He clucked his tongue at what he obviously thought to be a ridiculous notion. “So, my darling Berthe longs to be a homeowner.” He laughed.

“It's not a joke,” she said.

Suddenly he grew serious.

“You have great ambitions for one so young and so female. Be careful that they don't get the best of you.” He slipped his hand between her legs.

“What do you mean by that?” She pulled his hand away.

Armand gently pushed her hair back off her face.

“Just don't let your dreams take the place of reality. A house is a nice dream,” he said, placing her hand on his erect penis. “But this is reality.”

“It may be your reality, but I prefer mine to be a bit larger and better built.” Armand tried to turn Berthe over his knee again but she stood and faced him, her eyes flashing. “And what about marriage? Is that just a nice dream as well?”

“Suddenly everything has gotten so very serious. Aren't we happy just as we are? Aren't we having a wonderful life? What more can you want?”

She looked at him for a long moment. How could she tell him she had almost completely paid for their dream home when he wasn't even considering the idea of a house, or marriage, or a family?

“I'm late for work,” she finally said, feeling completely defeated. On her way to Worth's that morning the house loomed
large in her head. In her mind's eye moving men carrying various pieces of furniture were stopped in their tracks. They looked at her, awaiting further instructions. Move in? Move out? Just tell us where to put all these things. She sighed. How could her good news have turned so bad?

That evening Berthe left Worth's and bought a roasted duck, a loaf of fresh bread, a wedge of Camembert, and an expensive bottle of Beaujolais. Then she hurried to Armand's studio. She would surprise him with a picnic on the floor in front of the fireplace. They would make love and he would come to realize how much he adored her and how he wanted to spend the rest of his life and have a family with her. And once he came to this realization she would tell him that she had nearly finished paying for the house. She would be patient and give him time to come to the obvious conclusion—that it was where they were meant to be.

Carrying her packages and hurrying up the stairs to his studio, she knocked on the door with her foot. There was no answer. Perhaps he was sleeping. She put down her purchases and tried the door. It was unlocked. She turned the knob and entered the large, dark room.

“Armand?” He wasn't there. Where could he be at this time of evening? she wondered. She busied herself putting the food on the table and starting a fire. Then she lay down on his bed and before she knew it she was asleep.

She woke to the sound of someone bumping into a piece of furniture. She turned up the lamp at the side of the bed. It was three in the morning. Armand was leaning against the table, devouring a drumstick. Duck fat covered his hands and chin. He had a silly grin on his face and she could see that he was drunk.

“Where have you been?”

“Painting. Where else would I be?”

“Painting at this time of night?” She felt her face grow hot. “Who were you painting?”

“The Mona Lisa.” He stumbled across the room, fell on the bed, and immediately began to snore.

Berthe spent the rest of the night lying awake, trying to quell her anger. By the time the sun came up she had decided that her best course of action was to act as if nothing had happened. For nothing had, had it? She sat in a chair waiting for him to awaken. She studied him as he slept. She loved the way his thick lashes shuttered his eyes. His strong chin was thrust up in the air, his mouth was ajar, and his hair, which seemed to grow in so many different directions, was a black tangle against the white pillowcase. His face had all the innocence of a child. She could imagine him as he must have been as a little boy, a bundle of energy, his body a series of sharp angles always in motion. His mouth moved in his sleep as though he were finishing the last of a delicious meal. She felt she could live her entire life exploring that mouth. She loved how quickly his whole face could change from dark and brooding to bright with humor and mischief. She admired his intensity, his energy, and his ambition—and how they drove him.

“Do you love me?” she whispered. “You know I cannot live without you. I would die without your love. You are my heart, my soul. I love you, Armand. Don't ever leave me.”

“What?” He yawned, his long lashes flickering open. He stretched his arms above his head. He seemed to have difficulty focusing. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

And then he smiled and said, “I'll never leave you.”

She realized with a pang that she had spoken aloud her love and her need for him, and he had heard her. And now he knew how she felt. Worse,
she
knew how she felt.

How many times had her mother's heart been broken by a need so great that no man could fill it? Berthe had vowed never to fall into the same trap. But that was before this man. This tall, lean, beautiful man with his mirrored eyes, his long lashes, his beautiful mouth and tongue.

For the first time, she understood the powerful pull a man could have on a woman. She began to see how her mother could forget everything while under Boulanger's spell. Berthe could begin to understand Emma's obsession, but still she couldn't forgive it. For it was during the time of Boulanger that her mother was the most dismissive of her daughter.

She got up and began to tend the fire. She would pretend she hadn't said anything. That was the best way, the safest way. She knew those words and feelings could ruin her. It was poison, this terrible passion. She was determined to be light and carefree. And yet despite her resolve the next thing out of her mouth was the last thing she should have said.

“And so,” she said, stirring the embers in the fire, “who were you painting last night?”

“Your friend Cora Pearl.” He swung his legs out of bed.

“I thought you had finished her portrait weeks ago.” She unwrapped the cheese she had bought the night before and put it on a plate.

“This is a new one. A nude portrait,” he said, splashing water on his face. Berthe suddenly felt nauseated. Was it the smell of the Camembert so early in the morning?

“Oh?” She tried to match his casual tone but she felt her whole body stiffen with tension. “And how goes it?”

“It's boring work.”

“Painting Madame Cora Pearl in the nude? That doesn't seem boring to me.” She laughed but it sounded brittle even to her own ears.

“She talks and talks—never runs out of words. She goes on all night. It's exhausting.”

“Do you think she has as beautiful a body as everyone says?”

He shrugged. “It's a body. It's no different from any other woman's body.”

“That's not true. Her breasts are enormous. I know. We have a terrible time fitting her bodices.”

“Why are you asking me all these questions? If you want to see what she looks like, ask her yourself. She has no difficulty taking off her clothes. She does so without a moment's hesitation. In fact, you don't even have to ask.” He wiped his face with a towel and threw it on the floor.