by Linda Urbach
Madame DuPoix showed Berthe where the dress should be hung in one of the huge armoires. There were three armoires just for dresses: summer dresses, winter dresses, and ball gowns. Berthe gasped at the sight of so many elegant gowns. Her mother would have thought she had died and gone to heaven. There was even a separate armoire just for bonnets. The housekeeper picked up a pair of beautiful brown kid boots that had been flung in the corner. “These are kid,” she said, holding them up for Berthe to inspect. “They must be wiped off with a sponge soaked in milk. Later, I will give you the recipe for boot blacking. Madame has over thirty pairs of shoes and boots.”
Thirty pairs for just one pair of feet!
Madame DuPoix looked around the dressing room to make sure everything was in its place. She glanced down at her watch and sighed, and Berthe suddenly realized that her training was an added burden to Madame DuPoix’s already full schedule. “Next, you must prepare for the dressing of Madame.” She said this as if they were preparing for the coronation of the Emperor. She pulled open one of the built-in drawers in the wall and carefully removed a set of lingerie. She laid the finely embroidered, white-ribboned, lace-edged chemise and bloomers on the chaise longue. “In the winter you must warm them first by holding them in front of the fire.” Berthe felt overwhelmed. How could she remember all this? If only she could take notes. “Today is Monday, Madame’s day to go calling. And because of the inclement weather you should lay out one of her warmer spring frocks, a pair of sturdy boots, a light short cape, and, of course, her umbrella.” She opened one of the armoires and turned to Berthe. “Pick one,” she said. Berthe stared at the endless line of long, elaborately trimmed, full-skirted dresses, mostly in pastel shades. She tentatively touched the sleeve of a black silk dress embroidered with tiny red flowers and felt a small thrill. How she wished she could own a dress like this.
“Wrong. That’s a dinner frock,” said Madame DuPoix. Berthe felt her face flush. She had already failed her first test. Madame DuPoix removed a dove-gray dress with puffed sleeves and black velvet piping running in several rows around the entire skirt. From another armoire she unfolded a wire cage hoopskirt and crinolines.
Then she turned her attention to the dressing table.
“Look at this mess,” she exclaimed. There was face powder everywhere on the mirrored tabletop. She replaced the silver lid on the crystal powder pot, took the powder brush and shook it out over the fireplace. She carefully placed the silver-handled brush and comb set side by side and moved by minuscule inches the perfume bottles, the pillboxes, and a beautiful hand mirror so that everything lined up exactly. How can one person own so many beautiful things?
“Now it’s time to draw Madame’s bath.” The bathroom adjoining the dressing room was as large as Berthe’s bedroom, if not larger. Her mouth fell open. She had never imagined even in her most fantastic dreams that there were bathrooms such as this. The room was filled with a soft light that seeped through the translucent pale green drapes. The drapes covered the tall windows that looked out onto the wet green garden. A huge gilt-framed mirror was set into the wall and framed on either side by gilt sconces. The washbasin was white marble set into a carved, hand-painted cabinet. The gold handles for the hot and cold water were in the shape of dolphins. The faucet was a swan with a long, elegant neck. The enormous white bathtub had four clawed golden feet; the handles and faucet matched those on the sink. Madame DuPoix turned the faucet and hot water steamed out.
Berthe was amazed. Where did the hot water come from? She was not about to ask. She didn’t want to display her ignorance any more than she had to. The housekeeper opened a tall cabinet, removed a large white towel, and hung it over a needlepoint chair in the corner. She tested the bathwater with her elbow, then added some bathing salts from a silver and crystal container and a splash of lilac bath oil from an exquisite cut-glass carafe. Finally she straightened up and announced: “And now it is time to wake Madame.” Berthe’s stomach did a turn. It was one thing to be instructed by this stern woman, quite another to have to deal directly with the mistress of such a grand house.
Berthe followed her into the darkened bedroom. Madame DuPoix pulled the heavy damask drapes aside. It was still dark and rainy outside. Madame Rappelais lay in the exact center of the enormous high-canopied bed, her head on a stack of small white embroidered pillows, her hands crossed over her bosom. It was as if she were laid out for burial. Berthe felt a twinge of horror.
“Good morning, madame,” said Madame DuPoix quietly.
“Oh, goodness me, is it that time already?” said Madame Rappelais. A satin and lace sleeping mask covered her eyes. “Where is my beautiful Berthe?” she asked, yawning. Berthe reddened with embarrassment.
“She is right here, madame.”
“And you have shown her everything she needs to know?” she said, removing the mask and smiling at Berthe.
“No, not everything, madame. We have only just begun.”
“Run along, Madame DuPoix. I can instruct her in the rest.”
“But, madame, you shouldn’t have to—”
“I would enjoy teaching her,” interrupted Madame Rappelais. “You may go. You have enough to do as it is.”
Berthe dreaded being alone with her employer. Why was she afraid? Her mistress seemed so kind and patient.
“Yes, madame,” said Madame DuPoix. She curtsied and then backed out of the room as though she had just ended an audience with the queen.
“You can make up the bed and tidy around here while I take my bath,” Madame Rappelais said to Berthe, sitting up and sliding off the bed.
She disappeared into the bathroom. Berthe made the bed, fluffed and refluffed the pillows, straightened the items on Madame’s secretary, opened the window slightly to air the room, and then was at a loss as to what to do next. As cool as the day was, she felt the perspiration run down her back.
After some time Madame Rappelais emerged from the bath wearing a beautiful Chinese kimono.
“Come into the dressing room,” she said, “and we’ll do my hair.” She sat at the dressing table, picked up the silver-handled brush, and handed it to Berthe. “Not too rough; I have a very sensitive scalp.” Her hair was long and lustrous. It fell down her back in thick, heavy waves. “Just a simple hairstyle will do for a day like this,” she said. Showing Berthe what she meant she pulled her hair up and back then twisted the long locks into a spiral bun at the top of her head.
Berthe had a sense of déjà vu. She remembered watching Félicité dress her mother’s hair before she went riding with Monsieur Boulanger. She had sat in the corner enjoying Emma Bovary’s welcome change of spirits. As if noticing her daughter for the first time, her mother turned from the mirror.
“Well, what do you think?” she asked.
“I think you’re a princess, Maman.” Her mother beamed at her and for that one split second, Berthe felt almost loved, or, at the very least, accepted. It was a moment she never forgot.
Madame Rappelais picked up the hand mirror and examined the back of her head. “Now a few pins and that’s it.” With shaking hands, Berthe placed the hairpins carefully so that they didn’t show. Then she pulled down a few stray curls around her mistress’s face. “Very good,” Madame commented, turning her face this way and that. “You see, it’s not so difficult. For the evening, of course, it’s another matter entirely. But I shall have a professional hairdresser come and give you a few lessons. You won’t need many. I see you have a real knack.”
“Shall I fetch your breakfast, madame?” Berthe asked, beginning to feel slightly more at ease.
“If you ever hear me asking for breakfast in my bedroom, call the doctor immediately. No, I like to eat sitting up at a proper table in the dining room. I cannot bear getting toast crumbs all over my lovely bedroom. You’ve had your breakfast?”
“Oh, yes, madame, hours ago.”
“Well then, I suppose it’s time to get me dressed. Can’t you see I’m totally helpless?” She laughed.
Madame Rappelais stood, untied the kimono, and let it drop to the floor. Berthe was suddenly flustered. She simply stood there and stared in shock.
“My dear girl, have you never seen a naked woman before?”
“No, madame,” Berthe stuttered. Of course this wasn’t true. She had seen her mother naked, and her grand-mère, the memory of which caused her to shudder. And she had certainly seen the naked half of Renard’s neighbor as they embraced in the barn. But Madame was a virtual stranger and her employer to boot.
“Well, don’t just stand there gawking, get my clothes before I catch my death.” Madame patiently showed Berthe how to dress her. How tightly to pull the corset. How to put on the cage hoop followed by the crinolines. How to attach the band of her petticoats around her waist with a strong safety pin.
“My friend the comtesse de Léon once lost her petticoats at a ball. She was being twirled around by her much younger husband when they fell to her feet and almost caused her to break her neck.” She showed Berthe how to make sure the sleeves of her gown fell nicely over her arms, how the folds of the dress should be arranged over the petticoats so that they fell into graceful waves. She instructed her how to tie the sash in a bow and then secure the bow with a pin on the inside.
Berthe remembered how new clothes had always seemed to lift her mother’s moods. Madame Rappelais seemed unmoved by the whole experience of dressing in a beautiful gown. But of course, her spirits were already good. And why shouldn’t they be? Berthe thought. Her mistress’s life already seemed a delicious dream.
“What about jewelry, madame?” she asked.
“No, I never wear jewelry during the day. It’s gauche.” Berthe filed away that bit of information for future reference.
A knock sounded at the door.
“Madame, your breakfast is getting cold,” said Madame DuPoix in an impatient tone that surprised Berthe. She was even more surprised by Madame Rappelais’s reaction to her housekeeper’s chiding. She laughed lightly and waved her hand.
“Oh, yes, yes. Don’t nag, DuPoix. I’ll be right down.”
When Madame Rappelais went down to breakfast, the housekeeper took over Berthe’s instruction.
“While Madame is at breakfast you are to finish with the dressing room and her bedroom. I will only show you this once, so pay attention. I see you made the bed already.” DuPoix glanced at the bed and shook her head in disgust as if it were covered with bird droppings. “You did it all wrong. Madame likes her coverlet turned down.” Berthe’s face flushed. The housekeeper placed the brocade slippers precisely, so that only the toes peeked out from underneath the high bed. “The windows should stay open for at least an hour to air the room.” She showed Berthe where the carpet sweeper, feather duster, and dustpan were kept in a small closet built in next to the fireplace. From this same cabinet she took a jar that contained moist tea leaves and threw them about the floor.
“The tea leaves keep the carpet smelling sweet. Now you may sweep them up. Dust each individual piece and make sure you move everything. Madame Rappelais hates dust. It makes her sneeze. Empty all the water pitchers and refill them with fresh water. And empty the slops into the slop pail and take it down. Mariette will dispose of them with the rest of the household waste. Polish the furniture with lemon oil. Keep track of everything in the closet—the polishes, the soaps, the toiletries—and let me know what requires replacing. Find out what her evening plans are so that you make sure what she wishes to wear is ready and in perfect repair. Do you sew?”
Berthe wanted to say she was an experienced piecer, that she knew how to tie knots in broken thread, but she decided against it.
“I did some sewing as a girl,” she said. She was not about to overstate her skills to this woman.
“Well, you had better practice because your job requires you keep Madame’s wardrobe in good repair. You must check her stockings to see if they need mending, and her hems, and the edging on collars, and of course repair all the lace. Madame is an easy mistress. Far too easy in my opinion. But I am the housekeeper and my job is to make sure that you do your job even if she doesn’t seem to care as much as she should.” She scowled. “So always remember, I am watching you.”
Berthe spent the next hour dusting, sweeping, and polishing. The room was filled with small objects of incredible beauty. Tiny jeweled pillboxes, small framed portraits of beautiful ladies in lavish dresses, silver candelabras and bud vases. Everywhere she turned there was another lovely piece to admire.
In the bathroom, she inhaled the many delicious scents, from Madame’s creamy vanilla soap to the lavender-scented towel that she hung on a rack to dry. On a gold-plated tray fastened to the side of the huge bathtub were several crystal bottles of bath oil. She lifted one, removed the crystal stopper, and inhaled the contents. Lilies of the valley. How well she remembered the intoxicating smell of those tiny white, waxy flowers.
It was this same sweet fragrance that was connected to the day she hid and watched her mother and Monsieur Boulanger touch each other in the woods. She remembered it as if it were yesterday. The picture of Boulanger’s dark hand against her mother’s white sun-dappled buttocks suddenly came back to her. And along with it, her mother’s moan, her thighs opening, his fingers probing.
“It is a lovely fragrance, n’est-ce pas?” Madame Rappelais stood in the doorway of the salle de bain, smiling. Berthe was so startled by the sudden appearance of her mistress that she dropped the crystal bottle; it shattered into tiny shards all over the marble floor.
“Oh, oh! Oh, madame. I am so sorry! Oh please, forgive me …” Berthe burst into tears as she dropped to her knees to pick up the pieces.
CHAPTER 16
The Master Returns
“HUSH, CHILD, IT IS NOTHING. JUST TAKE CARE NOT TO CUT yourself cleaning up the glass.” Madame Rappelais reached down and squeezed her shoulder. She smiled and left the room as if there was nothing more to be said. Berthe had expected anger and berating. Such unexpected kindness left her feeling oddly uneasy.
As she bent down to clean up the mess, the tears continued to spill down her cheeks. She thought of her mother and how she might have reacted to Berthe’s breaking the beautiful crystal vase. She would have been furious. How very different Berthe’s life might have been if she had had a mother like Madame Rappelais. She vowed to fulfill Madame’s every wish to the very best of her ability. Nothing would stand in the way of her doing a perfect job for her perfect mistress.
Over the next few weeks the endless backbreaking hours spent in the cotton mill began to seem like a bad dream. Apart from the hustle and bustle of the Rappelaises’ kitchen at breakfast, it was as if Berthe was in an elegant new world of her own. And for most of the day she was able to avoid Mariette, who gave her dirty looks every time they passed in the hall.
She spent much of her time going through Madame’s wardrobe, examining each gown for detached lace, a loose hem, a frayed bow. She caressed the rich fabrics and marveled at the fine detailing of every dress. She reorganized the long dresses by color so that the result was a range of hues from the darkest to the palest pastels, not unlike Monsieur Millet’s palette of Conté crayons.
Madame Rappelais surprised her one afternoon while Berthe was peering inside the sleeve of a particularly elaborate satin ball gown to examine the stitches.
“You are interested in fashion?” asked Madame. Berthe dropped the sleeve and quickly turned to her mistress.
“No. Yes. I’m sorry, madame, I was just wondering how the lace was attached.”
“Then you are interested. All the better. Come with me.” Berthe followed her into the bedroom. “The more attention you pay, the better you can serve me. I want you to make a study of these,” Madame said, pointing to a stack of large journals that sat atop a marble end table. Berthe immediately recognized her mother’s favorite fashion periodical. “Your job is to keep abreast of the latest fashions. When a trim or a button or a feather changes in La Corbeille, it must change in my closet. I can�
��t be running to the dressmaker every two minutes for these things. Do you think you can do this?”
“Oh, yes, madame. I used to look at these books with my mother. She loved fashion.”
“And where does she live, your mother?”
“She passed away some time ago, madame.”
“A pity. She would be very proud of her daughter.”
“Thank you, madame.” Berthe tucked the stray strands of her hair back in her cap and readjusted her pinafore.
“This afternoon, I shall send you to the dressmaker to place an order for me. I must make a decision on my summer visiting dress. Which do you think?” She held up two lengths of fabric. One was a lemon yellow silk with black threads shot through. The second was a linen in the palest of pale blue.
“Oh, madame, I don’t know …” said Berthe. Before she could stop herself she reached out to touch both fabrics.
“Of course you do. You have an opinion. I want to hear it.” Madame Rappelais peered closely at her.
“Well, madame,” said Berthe, taking a deep breath and forgetting her anxiety, “this would make a beautiful dress.” She pointed to the blue linen. “It has a lightness to the material that the yellow doesn’t. But more important, the color is a perfect complement to your eyes.”
“I told you,” said Madame Rappelais, looking pleased. “You know more than you say and much more than you think, young lady.” She draped the blue fabric over Berthe’s shoulders and then stood back and studied the effect. “The blue suits you as well. You are quite the loveliest thing. But I suppose you know that.” Berthe shook her head, her face crimson. “Oh dear, now I’ve embarrassed her. Being beautiful isn’t a crime, you know.” Madame Rappelais laughed and pulled the fabric away from Berthe. “You may go, my dear.”
“Monsieur returns tonight,” sighed Madame Rappelais when Berthe woke her mistress the next morning. She lay in bed for a long time without removing her eye mask. Berthe’s heart sank. It was the thing she had been dreading since she arrived chez Rappelais. She had yet to work out how she was going to handle his advances. Even though the story about Mariette jumping into the Seine proved to be false, she was certain the other part of the story must be true. Why else had he brought her all the way from Lille, if not to seduce her?
