Madame Bovary's Daughter (6 page)

Renard seemed to linger in the mornings so that Berthe always saw him on her way out to milk Céleste. They never spoke, only exchanged glances. But for her part she looked forward to that glimpse of him. His smile was the single bright spot of her day.

One morning while she was rinsing the milk jug at the pump he came up behind her and pulled at the string of her straw hat.

“And how goes it with you and your cow?” he asked, his blue eyes bright in the early sun.

“It's fine. She gives her milk without an argument.”

“I told you. All you have to do is be gentle.” He pulled the string of her hat again and this time it came tumbling off.

“Stop that,” she said, snatching the hat from the ground and smashing it down on her head. He laughed and made another lunge for her hat but she jumped out of the way. She wanted to keep the conversation going—to keep his blue eyes on her. At the same time, she felt shy. “Is your house far from here?”

“Over there,” he said with a slight nod of his head. She looked in the direction he indicated and saw nothing but fields of hay stacked in towering hills. “My house is beyond that grove of trees. But it's nothing to see even if you could see it. My sister Marie says we should burn the place down and start over from scratch. My mother says it would only take our family a week to ruin a new place.”

“Do you have many brothers and sisters?”

“I am the oldest of seven. Four boys, three girls,” he said, kicking dirt at one of the geese who had ventured a little too close.

“How lucky you are,” she said, remembering the Homaises
and the comfort and laughter of a large family. She thought back to how, as a little girl, she'd hovered around them as though they were a good fire that provided her only source of warmth.

“Lucky to sleep three to a bed? Lucky that my father is so poor I have to work on four different farms in order to earn my keep? Lucky if I get a decent supper by the time I return home at night because they have eaten what little there is?”

“I'm sorry,” she murmured. She reached out and touched his arm and then withdrew her hand quickly.

He kicked at the dirt once again, his face red.

“Why should you be sorry? It's not your fault.” He hitched up his pants, grabbed his pitchfork, and walked toward the fields. This time, he didn't look back.

She thought of Renard going hungry at the end of a hard day's work, and that night when she had finished scrubbing the kitchen she took some food from her grand-mère's pantry to give to him. The old woman frequently traded her cheeses for delicacies from other farms. Her pantry was filled with all manner of good things: smoked hams hanging from hooks, jars of strawberry preserves, tiny cornichons, and boiled sweets lining the shelves. Food was something they had more than enough of. Berthe reasoned her grand-mère would never miss what she took.

Berthe had stolen only one thing as a child. She had coveted many things that had belonged to her mother: a single silver hair comb, an embroidered handkerchief, a velvet ribbon, a cut-glass rouge jar. From time to time, she would “borrow” these small treasures, play with them, and return them before her mother was any the wiser. Until the paisley shawl.

Monsieur Lheureux, the draper, seemed to become more and more of an enticing presence to her mother. One day, when
Berthe was around six years old, he brought a dozen of his finest silk shawls for Madame Bovary to choose from.

“They come from around the world,” he said, laying them out on her mother's bed. “Some all the way from China. Look at the patterns: Are they not exquisite? Choose one. Choose two.”

“I have no use for such a thing,” Emma Bovary said, pretending disinterest as she fingered the one nearest her.

“It is not a question of use,” said Monsieur Lheureux, “it's a matter of obligation. You owe it to yourself to have one of these. They are too beautiful to sit hidden away in a dark drawer in my shop.”

Her mother spent the whole week narrowing down her selection. One afternoon she spread the shawls over the settee and turned to Berthe, who was sitting on the floor practicing her needlework. “Pick one. The prettiest,” she said. Her mother had never asked her opinion before.

Berthe chose a shawl of the palest peach, with an intricate design of delicate blue and green leaves. Seeing which one her daughter preferred, Emma Bovary chose another, a deep red and purple paisley that she wore for a day over her cashmere dressing gown.

Some months later Berthe found the shawl on the bottom of her mother's wardrobe and took it for herself. She hid the shawl underneath her mattress. Félicité found it later while turning the bed.

“And what is this, pray tell?” Félicité asked, holding it in front of Berthe's face.

“It's mine,” Berthe said, reaching up to pull it away from her.

“Oh, we shall see.”

Moments later, her mother swept into the room.

“I've been looking everywhere for this,” she said. “What
wonderful news. My daughter is turning into a thief. As if I don't have enough to deal with.” She thrust the shawl in Berthe's face. “Here, if you want it so badly, you may have it.”

Berthe took the shawl and laid it on top of her pillow. She loved having something of her mother's to sleep with every night. But one day the shawl disappeared. And as her mother sold off her belongings one by one, Berthe never saw it again.

The following afternoon when Renard was about to leave, Berthe motioned him into the barn.

“I have something for you,” she said, handing him a jar of strawberry preserves and a cheese wrapped in muslin that she had hidden away in her apron.

“You don't have to feed me,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I'm not starving.”

“It's just a gift. From my grand-mère,” she added.

He raised an eyebrow.

“Your grand-mère would kill you if she knew,” he said seriously.

“Not if I kill her first,” she declared. He laughed.

“You talk like a hooligan.”

“You would know how a hooligan talks,” she said. He pulled at her hat strings and she hit him lightly on the arm. Suddenly all her shyness was gone. He took the preserves and cheese and gave her a smile so wide it caused his blue eyes to sparkle with pleasure.

She continued to take small items from the pantry, one or two at a time. Renard accepted them willingly. She felt certain he enjoyed the idea that they were putting one over on her grand-mère even more than the treats. But one day Grand-mère Bovary grabbed Berthe as she was going out to the barn to do her morning
milking. She reached into Berthe's apron pocket and pulled out a piece of pâté wrapped in cloth.

“Where are you taking this?” she demanded.

“It's for my lunch, Grand-mère.”

“Pâté for your lunch? Who do you think you are, Marie Antoinette? Stealing food right under my nose. I should have known. A thief! Like mother like daughter. If your mother could have taken the food from your poor father's mouth, I have no doubt she would have. Oh, there was no end to that woman's avarice. She stole everything from him. His pride, his ambition, his reputation. Yes, even his life. Thank heavens, he had no gold teeth, she would have yanked them out of his head.” She dragged Berthe by the arm into the pantry. “Everything that you see here I have saved and scrimped and worked for.” She slammed the wrapped pâté down on the shelf. “You think pâté and cornichons and fresh eggs grow on trees? You think you are entitled to more, more, more?”

Berthe shook her head, clutching her apron tightly.

“Are you your mother's daughter? Are you?” Berthe didn't know how to answer the question. She nodded. “No, you are not. Not anymore. From now on you are your grand-mère's charge and you will act accordingly.”

“Yes, Grand-mère.” Berthe felt tears well up in her eyes.

“Your mother's father spoiled her terribly. I have no doubt that was where she learned her wastrel ways. I only pray to God that it's not too late for you.

“My son Charles just wanted to be a good doctor and lead a simple life. He spent so much money on your mother that first year. Moving from one town to another because she was bored. Buying new curtains and furniture when there was perfectly good furniture in the house already. And the hats and dresses.
And the gloves. How many pairs of gloves does one woman need? Oh, it makes me want to cry when I think of the waste,” she said.

Berthe realized her grand-mère was right. She remembered all the expensive things her mother had purchased from Monsieur Lheureux when they could barely pay the mortgage. And her poor father. How hard he had tried to provide for his beautiful wife. The long hours he worked, the many miles he traveled, and for what? The few francs he managed to scrape together were nothing compared to the enormous debt his wife had incurred.

And then the awful day when the men came to collect the furniture. Berthe had been awakened by the sound of a crowd in the square. She looked out the window. A group of people had gathered around a large yellow notice nailed on to one of the posts. She saw Félicité rip the notice off the post, stuff it in her bodice, and run back toward the house. Berthe hurried down into the kitchen, where she found Félicité in tears. Her mother sat in a chair, staring at the notice. Berthe had learned to read at a young age, looking over her mother's shoulder as she read aloud from her books, and so she, too, could read the damning words:

“Oh, madame, it's an outrage!” Félicité cried.

Berthe could see her mother struggling for composure. Emma Bovary put on her best black dress, donned the cape with the glittering jet beads, and tied a bonnet around her head. She looked as if she were dressed for a funeral. Her own funeral.

She glanced at Berthe as if seeing her for the first time.

“What are you waiting for?” she said. “Go on and get ready. Put on your good pinafore.” Berthe had no idea where her mother was taking her. “Don't dawdle. We have a very important errand to attend to.”

It was a cloudy spring morning. The air was heavy with moisture and Berthe knew it would soon rain. She worried that they didn't have an umbrella, especially since her mother was wearing her good cape. The rain would spot the silk. Her mother pulled her along the street and through the village, until they came to a large house on the outskirts of town. It belonged to Monsieur Guillaumin, the notary and the second-richest man in Yonville. He could, if he chose, save her from complete ruin.

“You will be my trump card,” she said to Berthe. “Can you look the waif?” She lifted her daughter's chin and stared at her. Berthe made a sad face. “That will do.” She bade Berthe to sit on a garden bench by the side of the house.

“Wait here until I call you,” she said. As soon as she left, Berthe got up and peered into the nearest window. She looked in on a huge dining room. The walls of the room were paneled in mahogany. The table was set for breakfast with two silver chafing dishes, silver candelabras, and a snowy white tablecloth. In the corner a large porcelain stove crackled with a fire.

Monsieur Guillaumin entered the room, followed by Emma Bovary. He was an enormously fat man with full red cheeks and wispy blond hair escaping from his velvet skullcap. He pulled his embroidered dressing gown around his large belly, then indicated a parlor chair next to the stove; Berthe's mother took a seat. Berthe watched as he helped himself to eggs and sausages from the covered dishes. Her mouth watered. All she had had for breakfast that morning was a piece of yesterday's bread with no butter and tea without sugar. She could practically taste the food as he filled his plate.

When he had finished eating he wiped his mouth with a large white linen napkin. Then he leaned over and placed his hand on her mother's shoulder. Berthe watched as he ran his fat ringed fingers up and down her arm. Emma Bovary pulled back. And then Berthe saw him suddenly fall to his knees. She thought for a moment he had been taken ill. He pulled at her mother's skirt with his big hands. Her mother jumped up, her face red and angry, and rushed out of the room. Berthe quickly returned to the bench. Before she knew it her mother was at her side. She grabbed Berthe's hand, crushing it in her grasp, and pulled her along the street.

“Scoundrel. Beast. Wretch,” Madame Bovary muttered. “I should never have gone there. What was I thinking?”

“Maman, stop, you're going too fast,” Berthe said. But her mother paid no heed. She rushed down the street with her young daughter in tow, Berthe's feet barely touching the cobblestones.

When they got home Félicité was waiting for them at the door.

“Well?” Félicité asked, her brow rippled with lines of worry.

“No!” said her mother. “But I have one last hope. I am going to beg at the door of Monsieur Boulanger.”

“Oh, madame, please no, don't!” Félicité cried.

“Quiet,” said her mother.

Berthe could see the fear in both of their faces and it terrified her. She ran to hide in her room. She was afraid her mother would want her to go with her to beg Monsieur Boulanger for money. He had been so kind to her mother before, giving her a horse to ride, sending her a beautiful basket of apricots. Perhaps he would help her. Perhaps Monsieur Lheureux wouldn't take their furniture after all. And then there was her father. Was it possible he could find a way to get them out of this terrible mess?

Berthe watched from the window as her mother returned from Monsieur Boulanger's house an hour later. She could tell by the way her normally straight back was bent that she had failed. Rodolphe Boulanger, with all his great wealth, his mansion and many horses, had denied her request.