by Linda Urbach
“Thank you, Monsieur Roucher, but I need to think about it.” She felt a drop of perspiration run down her back.
“What?” he exclaimed. “Are you mad? You have to think even for a second about working in a grand household in the most beautiful city in the world?”
“Paris is so far away,” Berthe said.
“You are mad. There are at least one hundred girls who would jump at this chance. Ha! I would even take the job myself had he offered it to me.”
“Still, I must think about it,” she repeated. “You cannot just ship me off against my will, can you?”
For a minute he scowled at her, saying nothing.
“You must give me your answer tomorrow. The very idea of making Monsieur wait upon your reply is … is … unheard of,” he sputtered.
Berthe walked home pondering the proposal from Monsieur Rappelais. She was filled with so many conflicting feelings. Why would a man so powerful and rich as Monsieur Rappelais have the slightest interest in her? She couldn’t answer the question and it filled her with a great unease. And Paris was a long way off. It was a huge cosmopolitan city, the capital of France, the home of over a million people. She was distrustful of this sudden opportunity, this unexpected stroke of good luck. It seemed to her that there was something dangerous lurking behind it. She remembered the way Monsieur Rappelais had looked at her, how he had held her hand.
She had already experienced so much upheaval in her life. She was just starting to feel at home at the boardinghouse, her friendship with Hélène was growing, and she now had work that she liked and was good at. The idea of yet another move to another city filled her with fear. She longed for some security and stability in her life.
But as always, despite her doubts and fears her imagination and fantasies took over: Monsieur Rappelais had taken one look at her and realized she was the daughter he had always longed for. Berthe knew he had sons but had no idea if he had any daughters. Still, she was not one to let facts interfere with her daydreams. She felt certain he was merely using the guise of needing a maid to get her to Paris. Once there he would tell her the truth: He wanted to formally adopt her. He would love her better than any child had ever been loved before. He would educate her at the finest schools. She would learn to play the piano. And the violin. How to sing in Italian, and paint in oils. She would get to decorate her own room with its six floor-to-ceiling French windows which looked out onto a terraced garden of flowering bushes and rare roses.
Oh, but first, as his beloved daughter, she would have to acquire a new wardrobe. “No daughter of mine can be seen dressed in rags,” said Monsieur Rappelais. “Come, we will visit the dressmaker before we do another thing.” Her mind filled with hoopskirted dresses, trimmed in lace and ribbon, and feathered bonnets and soft shoes. “You will never want for anything, my darling daughter,” Monsieur Rappelais said as she tried to decide between the yellow satin shoes with buckles and the blue ones with bows. And she would grow up in this lovely, loving home, wearing a different gown every day, and she would meet and fall in love with a wonderful man even richer than Monsieur Rappelais and they would live in a grand house and her husband would love her and they would make a family, a perfect family who would live beautifully dressed and happily ever after. She was so immersed in her thoughts and her wonderful fantasy future that she almost stumbled over Antoine, the Scavenger, who was trudging slowly ahead of her.
“Oh, Antoine,” she said, touching his shoulder, “I didn’t see you.” He stopped and turned to look at her. He was crying.
“Why the tears?” she asked.
“Monsieur Marnet strapped me today.”
“Whatever for?”
“He caught me sleeping under one of the spinning machines. I don’t mind the strappin’,” he said, “but he’s dockin’ me wages. I got to work extra hours to make it up. Only, there ain’t so many hours in a day.” He sighed.
Berthe desperately searched her mind for something to say to cheer him up but she could think of nothing. She brushed his blond hair away from his face. She didn’t even have a crust of bread to give him. She reached into the pocket of her apron. There was a filigree button. She remembered that she had taken it from her mother’s sewing basket so many years before. She carried it around with her as a good luck piece. She had all but forgotten about the good luck part. It had just become a habit to carry it around with her. She handed it to Antoine.
“What’s this?” he asked, studying the button.
“It’s one of my mother’s buttons. Put it in your pocket. It will bring you luck.”
“Really?” A brilliant smile lit his dirty face. “Thank you, mademoiselle. I’ve never had a good luck piece before.” He said it as if this were the single cause of his miserable life until now. As he walked away he had a small bounce to his step.
Hélène was sitting cross-legged on her bed. On the blanket in front of her was a pile of coins. She quickly covered them with the blanket when Berthe walked in.
“You’ll never guess!” Berthe said. “I have been offered a job with Monsieur Rappelais in Paris.”
Hélène began laughing. “I knew it! That’s how come you landed such a plum job in the office. It weren’t because of your reading, writing, and countin’ abilities, as fine as they may be. The Grand Patron was just getting ready to catch you in his web.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Course you don’t. You’re an ignorant country bumpkin. Did you think you were the first silly girl Monsieur Rappelais has taken a shine to? Oh, he prefers ’em stupid and young, like you. Mariette, the last mill girl who went to work for him, was never seen nor heard of again. She was only twelve and as thick as a board. Naturally she thought she had died and gone to heaven when he moved her to his house in Paris. Poor thing. They say that he kept her locked up in a room in the cellar, tortured her day and night, had his way with her, and when she finally escaped she were so destroyed she jumped into the river Seine and drowned herself.” Hélène yawned and stretched her arms over her head. “Well, congratulations, you are about to be ruined for life,” she said cheerfully.
“He’s offered me a job,” said Berthe weakly. “As upstairs maid.”
“Ha! Don’t you think Paris is filled with maids, upstairs, downstairs, in between stairs? Why do you think he picked you out of all the girls in the world?”
“I don’t know,” said Berthe, frowning.
“Because you ain’t got no family. Because you’re a useless orphan. Because there is nobody in the world who cares whether you live or die. Because you are dim-witted and dumb beyond belief. And because he probably has a taste for copper-colored hair, big bosoms, and skinny legs.”
As tired as she was, Berthe tossed and turned all that night. She knew Hélène was right. Monsieur Rappelais had no good reason to offer her the position. She was better off staying where she was. She so liked to live in her fantasies she found that she didn’t trust reality at all. And after talking to Hélène, she certainly didn’t trust Monsieur Rappelais’s intentions.
“I am afraid I will have to refuse Monsieur Rappelais’s offer,” Berthe said to Roucher the next morning.
“This is preposterous!” he shouted. “Utterly preposterous. Monsieur Rappelais will not be pleased, I can assure you of that, mademoiselle.” Berthe started to take her seat at the desk. “What do you think you’re doing?” asked Roucher.
“I was going to finish copying yesterday’s sums into the ledger,” explained Berthe.
“I don’t believe so,” said Roucher. “If you’re too stupid to accept a perfectly fine position in Paris, then you’re much too ignorant to work in my office. No, I think your talents are far better suited elsewhere.”
She was back where she’d started, at the spinning machine tying knots in broken thread.
CHAPTER 12
A Den of Thieves
UNFORTUNATELY, BERTHE WAS NOT QUITE BACK WHERE SHE started. The fact she had the temerity to turn down the mill owner’s offe
r of work in his Paris home did not sit well with Roucher or Marnet the Overlooker. She was reprimanded over and over again for doing sloppy work and was given an extra cleanup job that shortened her lunch hour. Marnet seemed to hover over her and every knot she tied as if hoping to provoke her into making a mistake. She was more exhausted than ever. But she was angry as well. They could pile on the work and the criticism as much as they wanted. Somehow she would not just survive this time, she would prevail. She would show them what she was made of.
“Why dontcha get yourself a pair of decent shoes,” Hélène asked one Sunday as she watched Berthe inserting newspaper into her clogs.
“As soon as I get through paying for my carriage and four,” Berthe said, not looking up.
“Don’t be mouthy with me,” Hélène shot back. “I was just making a friendly suggestion.”
“Come, I’ll show you the boots I’m going to buy when I’ve saved up enough,” Berthe said in an effort to make amends. It was a pleasant day. The early March sun warmed the dingy streets. There was a feeling of spring in the air. The two girls walked arm in arm, enjoying the mild weather. Berthe was glad of Hélène’s company. It made the long, hungry Sunday easier to get through.
She pulled Hélène toward the shoemaker’s shop at the end of the street. Berthe was surprised to see that it was open on this Sunday. Hélène gazed up at the sign.
“What does it say?” asked Hélène. Berthe couldn’t imagine what it was like not to be able to read a simple sign.
“M. Gregoire. Beautiful boots. Elegant footwear,” read Berthe.
“Maybe he’s got a pair of ugly boots he’s willing to part with.”
“Ugly or not, I have no money.”
“Let’s just go in and see what they cost,” said Hélène, pulling Berthe after her. A bell rang as the girls entered the shop. A man was hammering small brass nails into the bottom of a high riding boot.
“What do you want?” he asked rudely, glancing at the two girls before returning to his work.
“What do you think we want?” Hélène said. Berthe tried to pull her out of the shop, but Hélène ignored her. “We’re here to buy a pair of lady’s boots for my friend.” She turned to Berthe. “Which boots did you have in mind?”
Berthe pointed to a pair of black leather boots with thick sturdy heels.
“Let me see your money first,” said the shoemaker.
“Don’t you worry about our money. We got ourselves good jobs. We get paid every Friday. Let my friend try on those boots to see if they fit,” said Hélène.
“It doesn’t matter if they fit or not. I can make boots to fit any foot.” He picked up one of the boots Berthe had pointed out, and caressed it. “These particular boots were made for a poor lady who died. I can let you have them for a very good price.”
“First let her try ’em on,” repeated Hélène. She made Berthe sit down on the one chair in the store. Berthe curled the toe of her woolen sock underneath her foot so that the shoemaker couldn’t see the hole. The boots were made of soft, supple leather that had a deep, lustrous sheen, as if it had been buffed for hours. She laced up both the boots, carefully tying bows at her ankles, then she gazed down at her feet. The boots felt wonderful, as if they had been made for her.
“How much are they?” Hélène asked, all business.
“They are custom-made of the finest Italian calfskin. I can’t part with them for a cent less than twenty-five francs.”
“Did the dead woman give you payment on them?” asked Hélène.
“No, why do you ask?” said the shoemaker, stroking his long mustache.
“Well, seein’ as they were custom-made for a dead woman they carry some bad feeling with them. They just happen to fit my friend here perfectly, so I am thinking you could do a bit better with the price. That’s what I’m thinking. What are you thinking, Mademoiselle Berthe?”
“I was thinking exactly the same thing,” agreed Berthe. The shoemaker continued caressing his mustache.
“All right, you may have them for twenty francs. That’s as low as I am willing to go. Take it or leave it.” Berthe looked down at the boots.
“Can I buy them in small payments?”
“Of course you can, dear mademoiselle. I am always happy to accommodate my customers when it comes to payment.” Berthe got up and searched her purse for two francs, which she handed to the shoemaker. He took out a ledger and made an entry in it. “I will pay you more on Sunday next,” she said, turning to go.
“Wait a bloody minute,” he said. “You don’t think you are going to walk out of here with my beautiful boots? You’ll get them when you give me the rest of the price.” He held out his hand for the boots. “Don’t worry, I will keep them safe and sound.” Berthe hated taking off the boots, but she slowly unlaced them and handed them back to the shoemaker. Then she slipped her feet back into the hateful, hurting clogs.
As they walked away from the shop Hélène began laughing.
“What is so amusing?” asked Berthe, who at that moment felt like crying. She wondered why she had given the shoemaker her last two francs when she didn’t know when or if she would ever get the remaining eighteen to pay off her debt on the boots.
Hélène reached under her cape and drew out a pair of lady’s elegant evening shoes.
“Oh, no,” said Berthe. “What have you done? He’ll know who took them. Now I can never go back there. I’ve lost my two francs.”
“Don’t be an ass. Course you can go back. He’s got your money. And he’s holding the boots for you. When you do go back, just deny everything. Or blame it all on me. Your friend, the thief.”
“What are you going to do with those?” asked Berthe, pointing to the evening shoes.
“Sell ’em, of course. Unless you happen to be needing ’em for the opera.”
“I’m afraid they won’t match my dress,” said Berthe. Hélène crowed.
Berthe felt a warmth that came from deep inside her. It was almost a physical thing that bubbled up within her, up and up until it reached the corners of her mouth and she smiled. She had a friend. She liked Hélène’s bigness and brashness, her strength and her fearlessness. She even liked the fact that she was a thief.
She wondered why she found it so easy to forgive Hélène for taking things that didn’t belong to her and that she certainly hadn’t earned. And yet she felt nothing but contempt for her mother’s rapacious ways.
“Wake up,” Hélène whispered to Berthe a few nights later.
Berthe sat up, rubbing her eyes.
“What time is it?”
“It’s one in the morning. Come on. I’ll show you how to earn some spendin’ money.”
“How are we supposed to make money in the middle of the night?”
“Just get your clothes on. I’m gonna give you lesson number one in lifting.”
“What’s lifting?”
“Copping, pilfering, stealing, you nincompoop. C’mon, time’s a-wastin’.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” said Berthe, pulling the covers over her head and turning toward the wall. “It’s freezing out there.”
“You want those boots, dontcha?”
“This is insane,” mumbled Berthe, as they hurried through the shadowy streets.
It was very dark and very cold for March. The air felt like ice against her face. They walked through the more commercial area until they came to a residential one. It was a quiet street of elegant townhouses, fronted with small gardens surrounded by wrought-iron fences. All the windows were dark. The only light came from the gas street lamp on the corner.
Berthe certainly wasn’t against the idea of stealing. She had a history of minor theft herself, she thought, thinking back to the items of food she had taken in the past. But when she saw what Hélène had in mind to steal she was appalled.
“Here, give me a hand,” Hélène whispered as she bent down and pulled at a cast-iron birdbath. “I had me eye on this beauty for some time.” The birdbath featured a plump
naked cherub with tiny wings who held on to the pedestal as if afraid someone was going to make off with it in the middle of the night. A hummingbird was perched precariously on the cherub’s shoulder. “This bugger is even heavier than it looks. No wonder they didn’t bother nailing it down. It weighs a ton,” grunted Hélène.
Berthe picked up one end of the birdbath.
“Heavens,” she gasped, “I don’t know if I can carry this.”
They lugged the birdbath through the streets, stopping to rest every few blocks. Hélène carried the heavier end with the bowl. Berthe hoisted the pedestal.
“What are we going to do with this?” she panted.
“Sell it, what do you think?” Hélène shot back.
“Who’s going to want to buy a stolen birdbath in the middle of the night?” Berthe asked, rubbing her aching back.
“Shut up and lift,” commanded Hélène. Berthe’s whole body strained with the weight of the birdbath. Several times she tripped on the uneven cobblestones and almost dropped her end. Fearing arrest, she began to compose a plea of mercy for herself and, as an added gesture of generosity, for Hélène as well.
Please, spare us. We meant no harm. It’s just that we were hungry. Poor. Starving. She couldn’t finish her defense. She was too terrified to think.
They came to a part of town that was composed of small factories, blacksmiths, and one small building with a sign that said: Foundry.
Hélène knocked on the dilapidated door. A large burly man opened it. He wore a heavy leather apron and leather sleeve guards.
“Got yourself a pretty little helper, I see,” said the man. His skin was almost as black as his beard and his eyes gleamed red. Berthe took a step back from the doorway.
“Yeah, well, I’m trying her to see if she works out,” said Hélène.
“So what you got for me today, missy?” He lifted the birdbath a few inches off the ground. “Hmm. Good and heavy. I’d say about ninety kilos.”
