by Linda Urbach
“But, monsieur, you must make a living. You have a family to feed, do you not?”
“Ah, methinks you have spent too much time corresponding with Madame Millet. ‘Feeding the children’ is one of her favorite refrains,” he said, laughing and patting his stomach. Boulanger was not amused.
“Perhaps I should take my money to the artist Corot. I think he would be more than glad to sell me his work.”
“Never heard of him,” said Millet, shrugging his shoulders.
“I’m surprised you haven’t. He, too, paints the countryside. But with much greater use of color. His landscapes are greatly admired for their lack of pedantry.”
This seemed to give Monsieur Millet pause. He scratched his heavy beard.
“What do you think, Berthe? Should I sell this gentleman one of my paintings?” Feeling her face and neck go red, she ducked her head down further.
For the first time Rodolphe Boulanger looked her way. She held her breath, hoping and praying he wouldn’t recognize her. At the same time she wanted him to know exactly who she was. She wanted to remind him of how he had destroyed her mother. But as soon as he spoke she lost all her courage. “This must be one of your beautiful daughters,” Boulanger said, bowing slightly.
“No, this is my beautiful model, Mademoiselle Berthe Bovary.”
Berthe gasped.
“Bovary, Bovary,” Boulanger repeated. “I used to know a Bovary in Yonville. Are you any relation?”
She shook her head. “No, monsieur,” she said breathlessly. She lowered her eyes again but she could feel him studying her.
Meanwhile, Millet turned three of the canvases that had been leaning against the wall around so that they could be viewed, and to her great relief Boulanger immediately lost interest in her.
One canvas showed an exhausted man leaning all his weight on a hoe. The second was a beautiful depiction of three large haystacks beneath a stormy sky. The third was a very small painting of a boy chopping wood.
“Wonderful,” exclaimed Boulanger. “I will take all three. How much do you want for them?”
Millet thought a moment. “Perhaps I should let my wife negotiate. I am at a loss when it comes to money matters.”
“I will give you one thousand francs for all three,” said Boulanger quickly.
“One thousand is a fine price,” Millet said, smiling. “But, of course you mean for each one.” With a rush of delight, Berthe suddenly realized that this was all a clever ploy. Monsieur Millet was turning out to be an even better salesman than his wife.
“Three thousand francs! You appear to be as talented a bargainer as you are a painter, Monsieur Millet.” Boulanger laughed. “All right. Have them wrapped and I will send my man for them.”
Smiling, Millet began to carefully wrap the paintings in cloth, tying them with soft cord.
As he was leaving Boulanger turned to Berthe and said, “I recall that my friends the Bovarys had a young daughter. She would be about your age. Her mother was a very beautiful woman.” He reached out and lifted her chin with one finger. She bit the inside of her cheek as his dark eyes studied her face. “And I can see why Monsieur Millet has chosen you to model for him.” Berthe felt sick to her stomach as she turned away. “When you have completed the paintings of Mademoiselle Bovary,” he said to Millet, “I hope you will let me have the first viewing.”
CHAPTER 7
The Rake
WHEN BERTHE RETURNED FROM MILLET’S HOUSE RENARD greeted her as if she’d been gone for weeks. He grabbed her hand and pulled her into the barn before she could even tell her grand-mère she was home.
“Where have you been?” he demanded.
“You sound just like my grand-mère.” She laughed. She was happy to see him. He was nothing like Monsieur Boulanger, who had seduced her mother and then abandoned her without a thought. No, she could tell Renard cared about her. Perhaps he even loved her. If he did love her then she would certainly love him. Yes, it was really all so simple. They could pledge themselves to this love. Nothing would ever come between them. She felt herself grow warm inside. She was immediately transported to the beautiful mansion in her mind.
She stood in the open French doors greeting Renard as he returned from a hard day’s labor. For even though they weren’t poor, he continued to labor in the fields because he believed in hard work, particularly as an example for their young children. How many children? Three—no, five. And how the peasants looked up to Berthe and Renard. Renard, because he still insisted on getting his hands dirty in the fields, and his beautiful wife the very devoted mother of their five flawless children. What a lovely home she kept for them. Granted, she had maids to help her with the housework, but nobody could manage a household like she could. And while Renard taught their children the value of honest labor, she instructed them in the finer things in life: furniture, art, music, and, most especially, fine fabrics and well-made clothing.
“I went to Monsieur Millet’s house to see his paintings. He is truly a wonderful artist. You should see the colors, Renard. He makes the countryside—”
Renard stopped her words with a kiss. And he kept kissing her. Long, strong, very grown-up kisses. She couldn’t catch her breath.
“Your Monsieur Millet is just a dirty old man,” he said finally. “He is up to no good, painting dirty pictures of naked girls.” He reached up under her skirt and she began to giggle. And soon the giggling stopped and she became aware of their breathing, of their two bodies. The barn, the farm, and the rest of the world seemed to fall away.
“Oh, Berthe, Berthe,” he breathed into her ear. She could feel him harden against her leg. She longed to touch him. As if reading her mind he guided her hand with one of his while with the other he unbuttoned his breeches and gently curled her fingers around his sex.
Berthe sensed her grand-mère’s presence before she heard the scream.
“Mon Dieu!”
They jumped apart. Her grand-mère stood in the doorway, backlit by the late afternoon sun. Berthe couldn’t see her face but she didn’t need to. She felt her fury.
“You harlot! You whore! Curse of your mother’s womb!”
Renard ran out of the barn. Berthe’s grand-mère didn’t even turn as he hurried past her. It was as if he didn’t exist. Her rage was focused totally on her granddaughter. She looked around wildly for something to beat Berthe with. Her eyes landed upon the rake and she reached for it. The old woman’s eyes bulged and her face turned a terrible purplish red.
“I’ll beat the devil out of you if I have to kill you doing it,” she screamed.
The old woman lifted the rake, but Berthe ran past her and into the woods. Her heart felt as if it were leaping out of her chest. Not stopping until she found her favorite spot by the river, she slumped down against the big oak tree. She had hoped Renard would be there but he was nowhere to be seen. What should she do? Where could she go? She knew she couldn’t face her grand-mère. Dropping her head in her hands she felt deeply ashamed. Was her grand-mère right? Was she a harlot and a whore? She had let Renard touch her and she had touched him. Her mother’s life had been ruined by just this kind of touching. She cried until she ran out of tears and her eyes were almost swollen shut. Finally, exhausted, she fell asleep.
She awoke a few hours later. The sun had set and it was growing dark. She was hungry, cold, and sore. She knew she couldn’t go back to her grand-mère’s. She was terrified of the woman’s fury. She vaguely remembered where Renard’s house was and made her way slowly over the bumpy, harvested fields in that general direction.
She was practically penniless, pitiless, and now homeless. All she had in the world was the hundred francs Millet had given her to model. It was hardly enough to live on. The image of Monsieur Millet’s painting, The Gleaners, came to her. She realized her life was not unlike the wretched women he had portrayed. She shared their misery and poverty because, like them, she had not even the scanty remnants of a life to pick up.
She stumbled along until
she came upon a low farmhouse. Could this ramshackle house be where her beautiful Renard lived? She knocked on the rough-hewn door. A tired-looking woman answered. She appeared almost as old as Berthe’s grand-mère. She was stooped over by the weight of her breasts, which hung down practically to her waist. In the dimly lit room Berthe could see several children playing with stones in front of the fire.
“Excuse me for intruding, madame, but does Renard live here?”
“Who are you?” the woman demanded.
“My name is Berthe Bovary. I am the granddaughter of Madame Bovary.”
“She owes us money,” the woman said curtly. “She is always so slow in paying. Just when I think it will never come, she manages to cough up the few francs to pay my poor boy.”
“Is he here?” Berthe said, wrapping her arms around herself.
“Renard is in the barn. Tell him supper is almost on the table. If he doesn’t come in soon, there will be nothing left.” Renard’s mother slammed the door.
The barn was a crumbling affair that looked as if it would fall down with the next strong wind. The roof sagged in the middle and there were holes in the siding. The light of a small oil lamp gave the interior a warm glow.
She heard them before she saw them. There was the sound of rustling hay. Renard was on the barn floor bent over a neighbor girl. Her plump white legs were wrapped around him, her skirt hiked up above her waist. They were moving up and down making animal-like noises. The girl looked over Renard’s shoulder and gave Berthe a broad grin.
“Renard, I think your sweetheart is here.” He lifted his head from her bare bosom, turned, and smiled at Berthe.
“Ah, Berthe, come here. Join us.” Berthe stood with her mouth agape. At first she felt like laughing. Was this a game they were playing? Then she felt the heat of a blush rise up her face. That was when she realized what it was she was seeing. She was aware of the fact that she had been holding her breath. She let out a sudden “Oh!” and stamped her foot hard on the dirt floor. She felt tears starting down her cheeks and she furiously wiped them away. They were not going to see her cry. Filled with an emotion she had never before experienced, she suddenly wanted to strike out, to beat Renard with a stick. She wanted to scream at the top of her lungs. And finally she did:
“You horrid pigs!” She turned and ran out of the barn.
How could he turn out to be so opposite of who she had thought he was? She had thrilled at being touched and touching him. It was something that was just between the two of them, she had thought. How dirty she felt now. How could someone who had made her feel so happy and alive and so appreciated make her feel like the lowest thing on earth? Love wasn’t supposed to be this way. She ran quickly along the old cow path, not bothering to look where she was going. Suddenly, she tripped and fell face forward onto the stone-covered path, coming down hard on her hands and knees. She sat there waiting for the pain to go away. Her hands and knees were bleeding.
She remembered her mother reading aloud from one of her favorite books, Pride and Prejudice. How even when things weren’t going well between Darcy and Elizabeth, they treated each other with respect and well-chosen words. And in the book’s end, after so many painful pages of misunderstandings, their elegant love had won out. That was what Berthe had grown up expecting from life, just as her mother had. How terribly, terribly wrong they both had been.
Berthe stood and limped slowly toward her grand-mère’s house. She stopped and drew in a deep breath. She realized she would have to apologize to her grand-mère for what the old woman had witnessed between her and Renard. At this moment she began to see her grand-mère’s side. The old woman had been shocked. She had a right to be angry, Berthe reasoned. From now on she would learn to live by her grand-mère’s rules. After all, she was providing a safe home for her granddaughter. Berthe would show her that she was grateful to have a roof over her head. Her mother and all her rich fantasies had not been able to provide that. The least Berthe could do was respect her grand-mère and honor her way of life.
The oil lamp was still burning in the kitchen. Grand-mère must be waiting up for me to give me my beating. She took a deep breath and made herself ready to receive what she knew would be a terrible punishment. She almost welcomed it. It might help to deflect her thoughts from the awful pain inflicted by Renard.
“Grand-mère, I’m back,” she called out. “And I’m sorry,” she said, hoping to smooth the way with an apology first. Her grand-mère was nowhere to be seen. She walked over to the pitcher on the kitchen table, took the corner of her apron, and dipped it in the water. She sat down at the table, lifted her skirt, and bent over to dab at her bleeding knees. Her eyes caught sight of a clog on the floor at the other end of the long kitchen table. Her grand-mère never went anywhere without her shoes. Berthe got up and walked to the end of the table. Her grand-mère hadn’t gone anywhere. She was lying flat on her back on the kitchen floor. Around her lay torn pieces of paper. They were the two pictures Millet had once given her.
“Grand-mère, what’s wrong?” she cried, falling to her bruised knees. She quickly picked up the old woman’s hand. It was quite cold. “Grand-mère, wake up, wake up.” She shook the old woman’s shoulder gently at first and then with greater urgency. Her grand-mère’s body moved back and forth as she pushed at it. Her face was a grayish white and her mouth was slack. Berthe realized with a sudden start that her grand-mère was dead. She thrust her hand in her mouth to stifle a cry of horror. Falling back on her heels, she shut her eyes as if that would block out the sight of the dead woman. She opened them again and began to sob. Her mother’s death came back to her in one painful flash.
Emma Bovary’s solution to the mess in which she’d found herself after a failed love affair and a mountain of debt turned out to be painfully simple. Sneaking into Homais’s pharmacy, she managed to find and ingest a great quantity of arsenic.
And then she came home and began the long, agonizing process of dying.
Berthe stayed in her room alternately crying and praying. She desperately needed someone to come and comfort her but they were all too busy with her mother to bother about the girl. Her mother’s dying went on for days. She prayed that her mother would recover, mouthing over and over the meaningless prayers she had heard her mother chant in the days after Boulanger abandoned her. When she paused for breath, she heard her mother’s agonizing screams coming from the bedroom. Wild, gut-wrenching, ear-piercing cries of pain. She heard Félicité’s steps rushing up and down the stairs. If she could have, she would have stolen her father’s horse and the dogcart and gone far, far away. No one would have missed her, and she wouldn’t have had to hear those horrible screams.
After a night of howling, all was quiet. Morning came and Berthe thought her mother must have died. But no, she was still dying. Days passed. The screams continued, but each hour they grew weaker and weaker. Late one night Berthe heard a tap at her door. It was Félicité.
“Your mother has asked for you,” she said. The maid’s eyes were red and her auburn hair had come undone. Her normally spotless apron had yellow stains all up and down the front.
Berthe huddled in the corner of her bed and shook her head.
“You must come,” she said, stretching out her hand. “She needs to see you.” Berthe pulled back farther into the corner. Félicité reached out and grabbed the girl’s arm and dragged her off the bed and out of the room.
Berthe was not afraid that her mother would die, because she knew by then with great certainty that she would. What she feared was actually witnessing the agony she had only heard the past few days.
The door opened onto the bedroom, which was in a state of great disarray. There on the bed, her head thrown back, was Emma Bovary. It was a terrible sight. Gone was any trace of the beautiful woman she once was. Her skin was white and waxen, her black eyes sunk into her head like pits. Her lips were colorless, cracked, and covered with a strange thick coating. Even her black hair had lost its luster; it lay spread acros
s the embroidered pillowcase like something that had been dead for many years.
The smell of vomit, of strong soap, and of lavender scent filled Berthe’s nostrils. The room was ablaze from candles on the table, on the mantel, and at the bedside. It was like the beginnings of a ghastly celebration. Emma Bovary’s head turned, and her eyes locked on to Berthe standing by the side of her bed. Félicité leaned against the girl as if to prevent her escape. Charles Bovary stood at the head of the bed, his hands holding on to the bedpost as if to keep himself from falling over. The fearsome creature reached out her hand to grab at her daughter’s. Berthe knew her mother wanted to kiss her farewell. She may have even wanted to show her daughter that she loved her. But it was too late for that. Far too late.
“Berthe, dear, here is your mother. Give her a kiss,” her father said softly. She did as she was told. Her mother’s skin was dry as paper. The mother whose touch she had once craved, whose beauty had so enchanted her, whose love she had longed for was gone. Berthe opened her mouth to speak, yet nothing came out but the sobs of a grief-stricken child. Félicité led Berthe back to her room. She tried to comfort the distraught girl but nothing she said could stop her tears. Berthe never saw her mother again.
Berthe placed her grand-mère’s cold hand on her unmoving chest. After smoothing her hair from her forehead, she stood up. Death had become a regular occurrence in her life. This was the third time she had lost someone in less than two years. She was now truly and totally an orphan.
CHAPTER 8
Another Move
AS IT HAPPENED BERTHE’S GRAND-MÈRE WAS BURIED ON THE very day that Berthe turned thirteen. No one knew it was her birthday. So, of course, there was no celebration. There was no one left to celebrate. No one even looked her way. Berthe stood apart from the few mourners, hugging herself tightly. She felt that if she didn’t hold on to herself she might evaporate into the air.
