by Linda Urbach
“She did die young.” The words stuck in her throat. Berthe didn’t want to recount the gruesome details of her mother’s agonizing death.
“How she loved all the tragic tales of romance. All those beautiful ladies and their handsome lovers. They always die young. Sit down. Here, you can help me with my mending. Your mother had a fine hand with a needle. The thread and needle are somewhere in the basket. Take care you make the stitches small.”
Before she knew it, Berthe was repairing the edging on a pillowcase with tiny, even stitches.
The cotton was so worn and soft it almost felt like silk. For how many years, how many heads had lain on this same pillowcase? She held it to her nose and inhaled the clean smell. Perhaps her mother’s head had once rested on this very fabric. She thought about the cotton mill for the first time since leaving it and remembered what a terrible price was paid in making this simple material.
She was suddenly aware that the old woman was talking to her.
“She even made up her own wonderful stories,” Madame Blanquet was saying. “She would tell me about how one day a handsome young man would come and take her away and lock her in his beautiful castle and dress her all in gold and silver and leave her there until she told him she loved him. Everything was a fairy tale. She even invented sins to confess to the priest. I told her that her imagination would get her into trouble one day. But how I did love listening to her. Here, dear, let me see your work.” She reached out her hand and Berthe placed the pillowcase in it. The old woman brought it up to within inches of her eyes. “Fine work, just like your mother,” she said, running her fingers over the stitches. They sat for a long while stitching in the dim light. Finally, the old woman stopped and touched Berthe’s hand.
“I just remembered, I have a book of your mother’s,” she said, reaching over and pulling out a drawer in the long table. She took out a faded red leather-bound volume and handed it to Berthe. “This was her favorite. The Bible never had enough plumes and passion for her taste.” Berthe took the book and studied it. It was entitled Sense and Sensibility by “A Lady.” It was an English novel translated into French. On the inside first page was an illustration, covered by tissue paper, of two ladies in high-waisted dresses of the Regency period standing under a huge oak tree. Off in the distance could be seen an enormous mansion with a meandering path that led up to it. One woman peered at a small miniature painting while the other looked on. The caption underneath the illustration read: “Be so good as to look at this face.”
“She used to read this to me while I sewed, and when she left the convent she gave it to me. You may as well have it. I can’t see the words anymore, anyway. The sisters never did know what to do with her. Luckily, it was decided that she had to go home and take care of her father when her mother died.”
Berthe reached out and touched the old woman’s gnarled hand. “It’s the first time I’ve heard about my mother as a young girl. Thank you for sharing your memories, Madame Blanquet.”
“My memories are all I have left to share,” said the old woman.
Berthe took leave of Madame Blanquet and found her way back to the main salon. She was surprised that there had been nothing but kind words for her mother.
“Mother Superior asks that you wait until she finishes her evening prayers,” said the young sister who had first greeted her earlier in the day.
Berthe sat down on a wooden chair and opened the book. She noticed that there were lightly penciled underlinings of what must have been her mother’s favorite passages. She closed the book. She couldn’t bear to read it now. She made an effort to push her mother’s presence from her mind. The closeness she felt to her was almost too painful to bear.
As she sat in the great room with the gold light of the setting sun coming through the windows, Berthe thought how wonderful it would be to stay here, to study, to read, to sew small stitches in old soft cotton and to just be at peace. Suddenly she had an idea. She would beg the Mother Superior for a job in the convent. She would do the wash, cook, clean the rooms, anything as long as she could make this her home.
If she could just live here she would do it differently from her mother. She would follow the rules. She would even try and dedicate herself to the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. She would learn humility and obedience—something for which her mother obviously never had a talent.
The Mother Superior entered from a doorway at the end of the room and seemed to almost glide across the floor before Berthe realized she was standing at her side.
“Mother Superior, let me stay,” said Berthe, standing up. “Give me a job. I’ll work hard to earn my keep.”
“Oh, my dear.” Mother Superior took Berthe’s hands and smiled kindly. “We can’t possibly take you in. Our sisters do all the labor, with the exception of Madame Blanquet, who takes care of the linens. We keep her on because, well, where is she to go at her age? But the convent is no place for you. Oh, no. I need only take one look at you to see that you are your mother’s daughter. You belong in Paris. That’s the life for a beauty like you. Go and be happy. And may our Lord Jesus Christ protect you,” she added, making the sign of the cross over Berthe.
Berthe felt as if this was more of a warning than a blessing. Her shoulders sagged and all the breath went out of her. Again, she was being pushed toward a life she hadn’t chosen, one that she felt was fraught with danger. She wrapped the book in a shawl, carefully placed it in the bottom of her bag, and took her leave.
CHAPTER 15
A Palace in Paris
BERTHE STOOD IN FRONT OF 11, RUE PAYENNE, AND STARED UP at the enormous three-story stone house. She thought she had never been so nervous. Underneath the heavy homespun skirt her grand-mère had given her, her legs felt weak.
The first two floors were composed of tall many-paned windows; the top floor had smaller round windows topped off by a copper-trimmed mansard roof. It was hard to imagine that this was someone’s private home. Hesitating, she lifted the heavy bronze knocker and tapped it lightly on the double door. A pretty raven-haired girl dressed in a maid’s uniform opened it immediately. Tears were streaming down the girl’s face and her cheeks were flushed and splotchy.
“Oh, I … I’m sorry, I’m Berthe Bovary.”
“I know who you are,” the girl snapped, opening the door wider. She pulled up her apron to wipe at her tears. “Stay right here.” She pointed to a spot on the floor. “I’ll tell Madame you have arrived.” She turned and went quickly up a huge spiral staircase.
Nothing had prepared Berthe for her first glimpse of the interior of the house. The walls were covered in a rich cerise damask. The floor was polished marble.
A huge crystal chandelier hung in the center of the hall. On the walls above the staircase hung ornate gilt-framed oil paintings of serious-looking people in fancy dress and complicated hair arrangements.
Berthe caught a glimpse of herself in the elaborately framed mirror that hung over a delicate tapestry-covered bench in the entranceway. She looked frightened. She was frightened. What was she doing in this place? The shock of coming here from the dingy mill life in Lille was almost more than her nervous stomach could bear.
The house smelled of furniture polish and fresh flowers. She waited for a long time. The longer she waited the more nervous she became. She didn’t know the first thing about being a maid. She thought about Félicité, their old maid. But she was more like a member of the family. She did the cooking, the wash, and the cleaning, but she did all these household chores in her own simple country way. Berthe looked around. This was definitely not a simple household. The Rappelais home was, as far as she could see, a veritable palace.
The dark-haired young maid finally returned. Her tears had dried into white streaks.
“Madame will see you now,” she said, blowing her nose. Berthe followed her up the long staircase, keeping her eyes lowered. They walked down a wide hallway, the walls of which were covered in blue damask and hung with more paintings of even more seve
re-looking people in formal dress. The maid knocked on a door at the end of the hall.
“Entrez,” said a soft voice. Inside, everything was red—warm blood-red. The paneled walls were covered in red and gold silk, as were the chairs, the chaise, and the bed. The canopy over the bed was hung with heavy red brocade embossed with beautiful gold and silver palm leaves. Madame Rappelais was sitting at her secretary, writing. She looked up and smiled.
“Leave us, Mariette,” she said.
“But, madame,” wailed Mariette, her tears starting anew. Mariette? Wasn’t that the name of the girl Hélène told Berthe about, who was supposed to have drowned herself in the Seine?
“Mariette, compose yourself, dear,” Madame Rappelais said quietly. “Now go and tell Madame DuPoix that the new girl has come, and make sure her room is ready.” Madame Rappelais was a beautiful woman, with the whitest, creamiest skin Berthe had ever seen. Her silver-blond hair was worn in a simple upsweep with side curls that just touched her high, elegant cheekbones. She had a lovely aquiline nose, clear gray eyes, and her full soft mouth turned up at the corners as if she was about to burst into laughter. She wore a pale blue-gray satin gown, trimmed in off-white lace. She was quite slender except for an ample bosom which swelled up and out of the top of her dress.
“Well, Mademoiselle Bovary,” she said, looking Berthe up and down, “you come highly recommended by my husband. I trust his judgment implicitly, which of course is why you are here. He knows how much I appreciate beauty. And you are quite the beauty, my dear.” Berthe blushed and lowered her head. “You will replace Mariette, who has, up until today, been my lady’s maid.”
Berthe understood now why the girl Mariette was so upset. She had been fired from her job. Berthe wondered what she had done to incur her mistress’s disapproval.
“But, madame …” Berthe twisted her fingers together.
“Yes, my dear?” said Madame Rappelais, already turning back to her correspondence. Berthe forced the words out.
“I have no experience as a lady’s maid.”
“Don’t worry. My housekeeper, Madame DuPoix, will show you everything you need to know. She is an excellent teacher. And you seem like an intelligent girl. I am sure you will pick up your duties in no time. Now, you must be tired after your long journey. Why don’t you settle in? Madame DuPoix will show you your room.” Berthe was dismissed.
Madame DuPoix escorted Berthe to the top floor. She was a tall woman who held herself as if she had a pole running down her back. She had smooth olive skin, a full down-turned mouth, and a long, elegant neck. She wore her brown hair pulled painfully back into a tight little bun. Berthe thought she could be quite beautiful if she smiled.
“Tomorrow we will begin your training,” she said, leaving Berthe alone in her room. It was a bright, spotless room with a large, quilt-covered iron bed, an armoire, a washstand, a writing table, and a chair. Berthe went to the window and opened it. It looked out onto a magnificent manicured garden. It was a soft spring day; the smell of lilacs filled the air. Overcome with gratitude, she began to cry. Finally, her life had taken a turn for the better. She had been given a new chance in a beautiful home with a beautiful and kind mistress.
She opened the armoire. In it was a long black maid’s uniform and a starched white pinny with simple frills. She put her few things away, then unwrapped her mother’s book. She lay down on the soft bed. Opening the book to one of the underlined passages she read:
“And yet two thousand a year is a very moderate income,” said Marianne. “A family cannot well be maintained on a smaller. I am sure I am not extravagant in my demands. A proper establishment of servants, a carriage, perhaps two, and hunters, cannot be supported on less.” …
“Hunters,” repeated Edward—“But why must you have hunters? Everybody does not hunt.”
Marianne colored as she replied, “But most people do.”
“I wish,” said Margaret, striking out a novel thought, “that somebody would give us all a large fortune apiece!”
She woke the next morning to the sound of rain clattering on the slate roof. It was still dark when there was a knock on the door. It was Madame DuPoix.
“Before we begin let me explain about Mariette, because you will of course wonder why she lost her position. And it behooves me to tell you, so that you avoid the same mistake.” She folded her arms across her chest. “One of the gardeners saw Mariette in the stable kissing young Bernard, the footman. The gardener told me and of course, as my duty as housekeeper, I informed Madame. Bernard was let go and Mariette demoted to downstairs maid. And that is that.” Something about the delivery made Berthe wonder if Madame DuPoix was telling the truth. She remembered what Hélène had said about Monsieur Rappelais having his way with the maid. Was this what had actually happened to Mariette? Anxiety gripped her stomach. She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders.
“I advise you not to become too friendly with Mariette,” Madame DuPoix continued. “She is not a happy girl. She is, however, very fortunate that Madame is loyal to a fault. She rarely gets rid of anyone. We girls all ultimately become a part of her family.”
“You were her lady’s maid?” Berthe had a difficult time thinking of Madame DuPoix as a girl.
“That was my first position in this family,” she said. Her mouth tightened into an even thinner line. “I was not much older than you. Of course, I was trained properly before coming here. My mother was a lady’s maid before me.” She looked Berthe up and down and sniffed. Madame DuPoix clearly found her wanting.
“I don’t understand why Madame Rappelais wants me to be her lady’s maid. I know nothing about what’s involved,” said Berthe, straightening her pinafore.
“It’s quite simple,” said Madame DuPoix. “You have the look.”
“Oh.” Berthe had no idea what that meant but again she felt a wave of apprehension run through her entire body.
“Now get dressed and come down to the kitchen,” Madame DuPoix said, glancing at the small golden watch pinned to her starched white pinafore. “The day is getting away from us.”
The kitchen was an enormous room, hung with heavy copper pots and pans and long-handled ladles and spoons. Madame DuPoix introduced Berthe to the cook, Madame Brobert, Jeanine the scullery maid, and Madame Croisset the laundress, all of whom were sitting at the long, scrubbed pine table, dipping their bread and butter into steaming bowls of café au lait.
“Sit down, dear,” said Madame Brobert, filling a bowl with coffee and hot milk and passing it to Berthe. “Help yourself to the bread and butter. You look as if you could use a bit of fattening up.” Madame Brobert was a round, happy-faced woman with curly white hair that peeked out from underneath her starched cap.
Berthe tore off a piece of bread from one of several long loaves on the table. The bread was warm, as if it had just come out of the oven. She spread the butter and took a bite. It was crusty and chewy, and the butter sweet. She had not tasted anything as delicious since leaving her grand-mère’s farm. She ate quickly but had difficulty swallowing. As comforting as the food was, the knot in her stomach prevented her from fully enjoying it. She was filled with trepidation about the work she was to do, about what Madame Rappelais expected of her, and mostly about Monsieur Rappelais and what had been his real motive for bringing her here.
“Ah, good,” said Madame Brobert, watching Berthe consume the bread. “I was afraid we had a non-eater. Never trust anyone who doesn’t love their food is what I always say. Now, hurry up and finish, ladies. The men will be coming in for their breakfast.”
Berthe followed Madame DuPoix up the back stairs. “This is Monsieur Rappelais’s bedroom,” she said as they passed by.
“Where is Monsieur Rappelais?” asked Berthe nervously. “I haven’t seen him since I arrived.”
“Monsieur is visiting his silk mills in Lyon.” Berthe suddenly felt relieved.
“Silk is all Monsieur really cares about,” Madame DuPoix said sharply. “It is his only passion.�
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She opened the door adjacent to Madame Rappelais’s bedroom, and Berthe followed her in.
“This is Madame’s dressing room,” she whispered. “Keep your voice down. She is still asleep.” The dressing room was mirrored from floor to ceiling. In between the mirrors were panels of red and silver brocade wallpaper. There were built-in closets hidden by hand-painted doors. One entire wall was taken up by a set of five burled maple armoires. “Your responsibilities are to clean this room, the bedroom, and the bath. You are to keep everything tidy and dusted, aired and in perfect order. And that means everything. Your first job is to sweep the hearth in here and build a small fire on cold and inclement days. Do it quickly.” Madam DuPoix watched closely as Berthe did as she was told. She felt stiff and self-conscious. She worried about making a mistake in front of the critical eyes of this stern, stiff woman. Of course this was not the same as making a mistake on the dreaded mill machine. She was not about to have her arm torn off. But still, she was nervous.
The housekeeper nodded stiffly in approval. “Next, go through the clothes that Madame has discarded from the night before.” She bent and picked up a beautiful plum-colored satin dress. “Check to make sure the clothes are clean.” She pointed to a line of mud at the hem of the dress, then opened a cabinet drawer and removed a soft merino cloth. “All your cleaning supplies are here.” She rubbed the hem of the dress with the cloth and the mud disappeared. “Never take a brush to a silk dress. As the season changes you need to be aware of the different treatments for the lighter materials. And never assume that you know how to clean a certain item. Always ask me first if you’re in doubt. For now we will go through what we have here.”
She picked up a velvet and silk plum-colored bonnet with black ostrich feathers at the brim. “Dust bonnets with a light feather plume to remove every speck of dirt. All this should have been done the night before, but I see that Mariette was too upset to finish her duties. If the bonnet feathers are damp hold them in front of the fire for a few minutes.”
