Madame Bovary's Daughter

by Linda Urbach

  She didn’t want to leave this lovely house. Was she to give in to his lecherous advances? Should she quietly do his bidding? Was that the price she had to pay for this new life? She remembered his long dry fingers on her cheek. His clever eyes taking in every detail of her face. And what if she said no? Undoubtedly, that would be the end of her wonderful job. She suddenly felt clammy all over.

  She couldn’t risk being fired. Would they send her back to the mill? She couldn’t go back. She would rather starve on the streets of Paris than risk life and limb in that place.

  She remembered Renard’s caresses in the hayfields. Would Monsieur Rappelais want the same thing? Or would he want to mount her as Renard had the neighbor girl? She felt dizzy and nauseated.

  That night, after she had laid out her mistress’s peignoir, pulled back the bedcovers, and sprayed the sheets with l’eau de cologne, Madame Rappelais appeared in the doorway.

  “Berthe, my dear, my husband requests your presence. He’s in his bedroom.”

  “But I …” She felt her whole body go cold. And yet there were beads of perspiration running down her back.

  “It’s very late. Please don’t keep him waiting. Bonne nuit,” said Madame Rappelais. She raised her arms above her head, yawned, and slipped into bed. Berthe felt as if she were being fed to the lions. She stood there for a moment wanting to ask Madame what was expected of her. But her mistress was already snoring lightly.

  Berthe tripped on her own feet as she made her way slowly down the long hallways to Monsieur’s bedroom. She thought she was going to be sick all over the Oriental runner. She took a deep breath before knocking lightly on the door. There was no answer. Perhaps he had fallen asleep. She knocked a second time, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t answer.

  “Entrez,” came the command. She opened the door and stepped inside. Monsieur Rappelais’s back was turned to her. He stood before a long table that was stacked with bolts of material. He was wearing a beautiful green and blue silk brocade dressing gown and elegant velvet brocade slippers. Berthe immediately noticed that his legs were bare. He’s naked underneath his robe, she realized with a start. He turned around and smiled.

  “Ah, the beautiful mademoiselle from the mill. Come in, come in. Tell me, how do you like your new job?”

  “Very much, monsieur. Thank you,” she said in a barely audible whisper.

  “And the mistress? She is not too demanding?”

  “No, sir, not at all.”

  “Ah, good. Good. Now I need you to do something for me, my dear. Look at these fabrics. Are they not exquisite? They come from my mills in Lyon. You see, cotton is my bread and butter. But silk, silk is my caviar and champagne. Look at the detail of this.” He unrolled a bolt of cloth. “Is this not the most delicious fabric you have ever seen?” It was a heavy silk of yellow and white flowers upon a royal blue background with a design of ivy intertwined with golden fleurs-de-lis.

  “It is very beautiful, monsieur.” Her fingers hesitated over the cloth. She was afraid to touch it.

  “Now, mademoiselle. Take off your clothes.” He said it so matter-of-factly, Berthe wasn’t sure she had heard him correctly.

  “What?” She backed away.

  “Just do as I say. Don’t be shy.” He tutted impatiently.

  “But, but, sir … I … I …” she stammered, twisting her apron string round and round her hand.

  “Please, it’s late and I’m very tired. I want to see how these fabrics drape.” He unrolled another bolt of cloth—a pale blue and cream satin with a design of red roses and blue ribbon. Berthe was sure it was a trick. When he had her completely naked and there was no escape, then he would pounce on her. The fact that Mariette was still working in the Rappelais household just meant that rather than throw herself into the river Seine she had decided to swallow her pride and shame and continue to work for the man who had ruined her life. “I haven’t got all night, mademoiselle,” Monsieur Rappelais said, frowning at her.

  Berthe took a deep, shaky breath and untied her apron. Then she removed her dress and with trembling hands, carefully laid it over a brocaded chair. She stood shivering in her cotton chemise and underpetticoat. She willed herself not to cry. During all this time Monsieur’s attention was elsewhere. He was rolling and unrolling bolts of cloth, one on top of the other. He commented to himself about each one.

  “Too heavy, too formal, too fussy.” Finally selecting a bolt of cloth, he turned and looked at Berthe. “Ah, let’s try this, shall we?” He draped a plum-colored silk with raised black brocade over her and stood back to admire the effect. “Parfait! Just parfait! This is lovely on you. You should always wear eggplant. You have the most exquisite coloring. Like a peach. This is not an easy shade to wear. I wager there are not three women in all of Paris who can do it justice. Well, we’ll let Monsieur Worth worry about that, shall we? Take that off. And let’s put this on.” He unfurled a bolt of light green chiffon and swept a length of it over Berthe’s bare shoulders. “Oh, marvelous! So delicious I could eat it.” As he turned around, the sash on his robe came undone, and Berthe saw something that so shocked her she gasped aloud.

  Underneath his dressing gown, the distinguished Monsieur Rappelais was wearing a woman’s black lace corset and garters and nothing else. The garters, unattached to stockings, dangled freely.

  “Oh, monsieur!” said Berthe, covering her eyes and turning away.

  He looked down.

  “What? Oh, sorry,” he said, retying the robe. Was this the man who was going to ravage her, to take away her virginity? What exactly was he going to do to her? “Now, which do you like better, this or this?” He held up two different lengths of crimson silk. “Here, feel it against your skin. This has a much heavier heft to it and I think it would be lovely as a lining for a cape. What do you think?”

  She suddenly realized that he was, in fact, far more interested in the fabric than he was in her. She felt the fear begin to leave her.

  “I like this one,” she said, tentatively touching the heavier silk. “But this,” she pointed to the second, “would make a lovely underskirt.”

  “Ah, yes, very good. Very good. Come here, I want to show you something.” She stiffened again. He led her over to a stack of books on another long table. They were filled with small swatches of silk: silk in every conceivable color, every conceivable design. “This is what makes my job so very difficult. How to choose what to manufacture from all of these. How to know what the ladies will want.” He sighed. “Silk is what dictates the look of the day. Silk changes, it innovates, it leads the way. Fashion follows ever so slowly. Fashion is what hangs in your armoire. Silk is what dresses the future.” He turned to look at her. “Do you understand?”

  Berthe nodded. He reminded her of Monsieur Millet. The artist’s speech about texture came back to her: “The coarser the texture, the sturdier the weave; the rougher the life, the greater the reward … Always honor the homespun.” Here was another man passionate about fabric—but, ironically, exactly the opposite kind of material. Berthe found Rappelais’s words and his enthusiasm as exciting as she had found Millet’s. As the evening progressed, she forgot all about the fact that her employer was wearing a corset underneath his dressing gown. It suddenly didn’t matter.

  “Now, look at this,” Rappelais said, carefully removing a swatch from the book and holding it up to the light of the chandelier. “This is going to be in great demand.”

  “How very beautiful,” said Berthe. The fabric was a deep wine silk with gold threads woven to create a raised design of grapes and grape leaves.

  “The world is moving into darker solid colors,” explained Rappelais, “but florals and fruits will always be in vogue. This fabric is very dear. Of course, none of this would be possible without that genius Jacquard. You have heard of Jacquard?”

  Berthe shook her head.

  “Oh, mon Dieu,” he said, slapping his face. “I must take you in hand, mademoiselle. There is much to learn. Luckily, I am a bril
liant, inspired teacher. My wife, unfortunately, cares nothing about the making of silk. All she is interested in is the wearing of it.” He peered at her closely. “You are not tired, are you?”

  “No, monsieur.” Her body ached with fatigue, but her mind felt unexpectedly alert, ready to absorb all he had to offer.

  “Good. Very good. Sit down.” He indicated a chair. He poured them each a small glass of liqueur. “I thought I had found a pearl for my wife and I ended up with a diamond for myself.” He laughed. “Do you remember telling me you preferred silk as you stood in the middle of my cotton mill?”

  She nodded, taking a small sip of the liqueur. It burned her throat but tasted deliciously of pears.

  “I thought to myself then: This is a girl who is not afraid to declare her love of the more luxurious things in life. There is nothing in this world more important than silk. And my wife tells me that you also have an eye for fine fashion. Is that correct?”

  “I think so, monsieur.”

  “So let us continue. In 1804, Joseph-Marie Jacquard invented a loom which used a belt of pattern cards that were punched with various holes designed to create a patterned weave. The result was that the Jacquard weave replaced the need for humans who had to spend long hours hand-pulling the old-style looms. It is because of his invention that we have brocades, brocatelle, and lamé such as these.” He showed her various fabric samples to illustrate his story. “In the beginning, because the Jacquard loom was putting so many workers out of work, there was a great deal of sabotage of these looms. But that was years ago. Now there are over four thousand Jacquard looms in Lyon alone.” He yawned and stretched. “Well, even if you’re not tired, mademoiselle, I am exhausted. Next time, we’ll discuss the beauty of brocade and the threat of the new blends.”

  Thus began her education in the history and manufacturing of silk. Berthe began to dream of another sort of job: working alongside Monsieur Rappelais, helping him choose and perhaps even design fabrics. Could she earn her living this way? Why not? To think of it: making money doing something she loved. Not having to depend on a husband or some other man to support her, the way her mother had. Now, that was a dream worth dreaming—one that Berthe reasoned her mother never even imagined.

  The following afternoon, as Berthe was helping Madame Rappelais dress for an outing, Monsieur appeared in the doorway.

  “Well, I am pleased to say that your Mademoiselle Bovary has the eye for fabrics and a mind eager to learn more,” he said. “Finally, someone who can appreciate my talent.”

  “I’m happy you’re pleased, my dear,” said Madame Rappelais, as she handed a comb to Berthe to place in her hair. Monsieur Rappelais bowed to both of them and left the room. “I hope my husband isn’t boring you to death,” she said to Berthe.

  “Oh, no. Not at all. I love learning about the making of silk.”

  “Well, take care that he doesn’t monopolize you. And don’t forget your place,” she said with mock sternness. “Your place, my little mademoiselle, is with me.”

  Monsieur Rappelais spent the next two weeks grabbing Berthe whenever she had a spare moment, to have her model the newest silks and to explain to her the origins of some of the lavish designs.

  “These are some of my most successful creations,” he said, proudly handing her a book of swatches. The book contained page after page of designs: daisies, lilies, bouquets of roses entwined with ribbons, laurel, oak leaves, exotic birds, and bees. The latter, according to Rappelais, were a favorite of Napoléon’s. Berthe turned each page slowly, touching every swatch.

  The time came that Monsieur had to again make another trip to Lille and Lyon. “From the sow’s ear to the silk purse,” he said to Berthe. “I spend only one day at Lille because what is there to say about cotton? It is what it is. My presence is more important in Lyon. They are after me to start making, forgive the expression, blends. These hideous department stores have created a demand for fabric that the great unwashed can more easily afford.”

  “The great unwashed?” Berthe frowned. She was poor, but certainly not unwashed.

  “Perhaps I put it too harshly,” Rappelais said, noticing her expression. “But my point is that silk was created for a certain class of people. And unfortunately, these blends are getting better and better at masquerading as the more expensive fabrics.”

  “But, monsieur, if a less expensive blend could be made wouldn’t that benefit everyone? Why shouldn’t less fortunate women be able to own beautiful gowns as well as wealthy women?”

  He looked at her as if a frog had just emerged from her mouth.

  “We just can’t have everyone wearing silk, my dear! You have to understand, the fabrics I manufacture are embroidered by hand and finished by hand. They are expensive to buy because they are expensive to make. Can you imagine how a woman of means wearing an exquisite gown would feel if she saw her maidservant wearing a cheap replica of the same thing? Why, she would feel terribly cheated. I am not in the business of cheating the rich. We must maintain our standards, or society as we know it would crumble!”

  Though she couldn’t say it aloud, in her heart Berthe reflected that if she ever had the chance, she would see to it that every woman, rich or poor, could have the pleasure of dressing well. Then, as her mother always said, the world would be a prettier place. It was not such a terrible idea, after all.

  CHAPTER 17

  The Bath

  SEVERAL WEEKS HAD PASSED SINCE MONSIEUR RAPPELAIS HAD departed for his mills. Before leaving he had given Berthe the book of swatches. “Here,” he had said, handing her the heavy leather-bound book, “you may borrow it and study it at your leisure.” His only interest in her seemed to be as a potential student of fabric and fashion, and as a model. She was relieved not to have been molested by the strange old man, just as she was happy to be serving Madame Rappelais. At least with her there would be no sudden surprises.

  “Oh, I am desperate for a nice, long bath,” said Madame Rappelais, coming home after a long day of shopping.

  “Shall I run the tub for you, madame?”

  “Please, and, Berthe, make it good and hot. Shopping leaves me feeling dégoûtante.” Berthe ran the water, adding the bath salts and a splash of lavender oil. She took two thick white towels and hung them on a rack near the fireplace. The evening was cold and rainy, so she built a small fire. She pulled back the duvet, fluffed and smoothed the feather pillows, straightened and scented the sheets for the second time that day. Then she went into the dressing room and removed a fresh nightgown and Madame’s favorite peignoir. After laying the nightclothes on the bed, she went downstairs and fetched a pot of tea and a few biscuits from the kitchen. Madame liked something hot and sweet before turning in for the night. Berthe found that she enjoyed observing the details of Madame’s routine. It gave her a sense of security and order.

  She lit the oil lamp next to Madame’s bed and placed the book her mistress had been reading on the bedside table, surprised to see that it was Emma by Jane Austen, a book her mother had read. But why, she wondered, would a fabulously wealthy woman like Madame Rappelais be interested in a story about a well-to-do family? To Emma Bovary the whole point of a book was to give her a glimpse of another world, a world otherwise out of her reach. Why would Madame Rappelais want to read about a lifestyle that she herself was already living?

  “Berthe, can you come here, please?”

  The request startled Berthe. With a last glance at the book, she walked across the room and knocked on the bathroom door. She had never before entered while Madame was taking her bath.

  “Entrez,” called Madame Rappelais. She lay in the tub surrounded by fragrant soap bubbles. Her silver-blond hair was swept up in a topknot. The hot water had turned her skin a rosy pink.

  “Ah, Berthe, dear, my back needs a good scrub. Would you be so kind?”

  “Yes, madame.” Berthe picked up the soft sponge and rubbed it against a bar of the vanilla-scented soap. Madame Rappelais sat up in the bath and leaned forward.<
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  “Don’t be afraid to scrub hard,” she said, smiling over her wet shoulder. Berthe kept her eyes averted. “Ahhh, yes, that feels wonderful.” She sighed. “Now the front, but lightly, very lightly.” She leaned back, rested her head against the edge of the tub and closed her eyes.

  Now Berthe couldn’t help but see her mistress’s full, red-nippled breasts. She rinsed the sponge and soaped it again and tried not to wonder why tonight of all nights Madame Rappelais couldn’t wash herself. She gently brought the sponge around her shoulders, the tops of her arms, and then, finally, across her breasts. She felt her face flush with warmth. She didn’t know where to direct her gaze.

  Suddenly Berthe felt a hand on the back of her neck pulling her down. Madame Rappelais’s gray eyes were inches from Berthe’s. She pulled Berthe even closer and kissed her softly on the mouth.

  “Madame!” Berthe pulled away, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “Don’t be afraid,” whispered Madame Rappelais. “I’m not going to hurt you. I would never hurt you, dear child. Quite the contrary, my sweet, lovely girl.” The next kiss was longer. And, if possible, even softer. Berthe’s lips seemed to fit perfectly against Madame’s generous mouth. And then Madame’s tongue slipped between her lips. Berthe was torn between a desire to pull away and a desire to immerse herself in the warm scented water with her beautiful mistress.

  “Take off your clothes, dear. Take them off now,” Madame Rappelais instructed softly.

  “But I …” Berthe drew back, her wet hands nervously pulling at her pinafore.