by Linda Urbach
“I know they must have taught you how to follow instructions in my husband’s mill. Just do as I say and all will be well.” Berthe suddenly understood the threat that lay underneath the words. And yet Madame Rappelais was smiling kindly as if she were teaching a slow child.
Trembling, Berthe kept her head lowered as she took off her pinafore and her dress. She lowered her petticoats to the floor. She felt as if she were not connected to her body, as if some power had taken over her every move. The next thing she knew she was kneeling by the side of the tub and they were kissing again. Madame’s soft fingers danced across one of Berthe’s nipples and then the other until they stood out sharp and erect. She knew she should hate this woman for what she was doing, but her mind had gone somewhere else. She had stopped thinking altogether. Only her body was present.
Madame leaned down and with the tip of her tongue licked around and around the perimeter of Berthe’s breasts, ignoring the silent pleas of her erect nipples. Please, touch us, please kiss us, please bite us, please, please. Finally, when Berthe thought she would die from need, Madame’s tongue lightly tipped the end of her nipple and with the other hand she continued to caress Berthe’s other breast. Then she began suckling on Berthe like a hungry newborn baby.
“Get in,” she said huskily, “and I’ll show you what to do.” She made room for Berthe in the tub. Berthe slipped in beside her. At first the water felt too hot, but then her skin adjusted to it and the warmth embraced her. “You are so delicious. So young and delicious,” breathed Madame Rappelais. “Do you know how beautiful you are? Of course not. Kiss me.”
Berthe gave herself up completely. She kissed her mistress again and again. She wanted never to stop. “Kiss this,” Madame Rappelais said, pointing to her breast. Berthe lowered her mouth to the perfect breast and began to kiss it, lick it, and then finally suckle it. She thought, incongruously, of her mother at that moment, and she began to cry. Madame Rappelais appeared not to notice.
They caressed and kissed each other until the water turned cold and Madame Rappelais began laughing.
“Oh, it’s freezing,” she said, stepping quickly out of the tub and grabbing a thick towel. “Get out, m’enfante, or you’ll catch your death.” She wrapped Berthe in the other towel and dried her off as if she were a baby. And then, as if only moments before they hadn’t been wrapped in each other’s arms, she smiled and said, “Sleep well, Mademoiselle Bovary. I’ll see you in the morning.” She left Berthe standing on the wet marble floor, her head spinning with confusion, her body aching with desire.
The next morning, Berthe went downstairs to the kitchen to get her breakfast. She felt as if everything that had happened in Madame Rappelais’s bathtub was written all over her face. Fortunately, no one seemed to notice. Everyone treated her exactly the same, except Mariette. She was ruder than usual to Berthe. Did she sense something?
“Hurry up with the butter, Bovary. You’re not the only one at this table,” she snapped. “Hush your mouth, Mariette,” scolded Madame Brobert. “There’s plenty for everyone. You take as much as you want, dear.” Mariette scowled and reached across the table to grab the butter. When Berthe got up to take her dishes over to the washing sink, Mariette stuck out her foot and Berthe tripped over it. Later, on the back stairs as she was carrying down the sheets for the laundress, she ran into Mariette once again.
“You think you’re special. You’re not special. Just wait and see. She’ll tire of you just as she did of me.” Berthe suddenly realized why Mariette had been crying that very first day. She hadn’t just been demoted to downstairs maid. She had been rejected as Madame’s lover. No wonder she had acted at the time as if her heart had been broken. It had.
Berthe’s stomach was tight with tension when she went to awaken Madame. She didn’t know how to behave. She didn’t know what was expected of her. And she was afraid. Afraid that Madame would start up with her again. Afraid that she wouldn’t. What should she do? Should she wake her mistress with a kiss? Should she keep her distance? She needn’t have worried. Everything was as if last night had never happened. Madame Rappelais was her usual self, if not somewhat distant. She acted exactly the same as she had before the bathtub incident. Berthe began to wonder if she had dreamt it.
She felt relieved and, at the same time, disappointed. But she knew enough not to say anything. She was a servant, after all. She must be prepared to do her mistress’s bidding, whatever that might be.
CHAPTER 18
Family & Friends
A WEEK WENT BY WITH NO FURTHER SIGN FROM MADAME Rappelais that anything had passed between them. Berthe felt herself turn red with embarrassment every time she was in Madame’s presence. She was much relieved when Monsieur returned from his trip. Ironically, she felt much safer in his company now than with his wife.
Monsieur Rappelais was exhausted, and unhappy with one of his new fabrics.
“What do you think of this?” he asked Berthe. It was an unusually simple pattern of orange vines and white baby’s breath against a deep blue background. Berthe frowned as she caressed the heavy silk.
“I know. It’s boring,” he said.
“Oh, sir, it’s beautiful … but …”
“But what? Say it.”
“It has no … how to describe it … anchor. Nothing holds the eye.”
Rappelais tilted his head and squinted. “Yes, I see what you mean. But I am sick to death of tulips and roses.”
“What about stars?” she said, turning to Monsieur Rappelais.
“Stars?”
“Large stars scattered throughout, and then you could weave the ivy vines around them.” She picked up the pen from his desk and quickly drew her idea on a scrap of paper.
“Brilliant. Yes, stars. I’ve never used stars before. But why not? It’s all out of nature.” He patted her on the shoulder. “You have the gift, mademoiselle.” Berthe flushed with pleasure. The dream of working on fabrics with him suddenly seemed very real.
“Ah, the geniuses hard at work,” said Madame Rappelais as she entered the room.
“Perhaps not genius,” chortled Monsieur Rappelais, “but we are certainly hard at work. I hope I’m not being too piggy with Mademoiselle Berthe’s time, my dear.”
“Actually, you are being very naughty about her. I don’t understand why you need her so much.” She pursed her lips petulantly and turned to Berthe. “Dear, go into my dressing room and see about cleaning my shoes, if you will.” As Berthe left, she heard Madame tell her husband: “The boys are coming home the day after tomorrow, for a week.”
“So soon?” was Monsieur’s only response.
The next day the house prepared itself for a weeklong visit from the fils. Madame DuPoix put all the small breakables away or on high shelves. She had Mariette roll up the smaller Orientals.
“They like to slide,” Madame DuPoix explained to Berthe, pointing to the polished marble floors. Mariette draped the silk damask couches and brocade chairs with muslin covers. Madame Brobert, the cook, began baking up a storm. The household in general was acting as if preparing for the invasion of the Huns.
The boys, Roger and Raoul, nine and eleven, arrived around noon the following day. They tore through the house as if it were a gymnasium. They climbed on Madame Rappelais’s bed with muddy shoes and jumped on and off her delicate sofas and chairs.
“You bad, bad boys,” Madame Rappelais said in a faux angry voice. She seemed not to care what they did as long as they showered her with kisses. She indulged their every whim. Berthe felt uncomfortably jealous of the affection that Madame Rappelais showered on them. That evening when Monsieur returned from the shops, he greeted his sons with a stiffness and formality that Berthe found surprising.
“And how are the young gentlemen? Are your studies progressing well?” The boys all but ignored him.
In the middle of the night Berthe was awakened by a knock on her door. She opened it, surprised to see Monsieur Rappelais holding a candelabra in his hand.
�
�I’m so sorry to wake you, mademoiselle. But I’m afraid I need your help. Please, will you come with me?” She found her shawl and followed him downstairs to his room. “My wife is fast asleep. Otherwise I would have asked her assistance. You see my difficulty,” he said, taking off his dressing robe. Underneath it he was wearing a crimson ball gown, without the usual crinolines. He turned his back to her to indicate what his problem was. One of the satin buttons was caught in a twisted button loop and it couldn’t be unfastened. “Please, if you would be so kind.” Berthe stifled a giggle and nodded, then released the button. “As long as you’re back there, perhaps you can manage the rest for me. I’m not as limber as I used to be.” She unbuttoned all the buttons and the dress fell to the floor. She quickly turned her back.
“I’m decent,” announced Monsieur Rappelais. She turned around. He had put his robe back on. “My little hobby is sometimes more trouble than it’s worth. Ah, well, bonne nuit, mademoiselle, and thank you.”
The next morning, while Madame was taking her bath and Berthe was making her bed, the two Rappelais boys burst into their mother’s bathroom. It was then Berthe discovered that everyone knew about Monsieur Rappelais’s odd penchant for women’s clothing.
“Maman, why does Papa wear ladies’ dresses?” Roger, the younger boy, asked.
“You know, darling, that’s part of his business.”
“But why must he wear the dresses?”
“I expect because he likes to. Your papa cherishes beautiful things. That’s one of the reasons he’s so successful.”
“When we grow up and take over the mills will we have to wear ladies’ dresses?” asked Raoul, the oldest. He was a beautiful boy with hair and coloring much like his mother’s.
“When you grow up you can do whatever you want to do, dear boy. That’s the joy of being grown-up, isn’t it?”
It hit Berthe then that these boys would grow up to take over their father’s business. But they would not follow in his tradition. No, they showed little interest in fabrics or fashion. And it was unlikely that they would ever entertain the idea of her joining the Rappelais firm. In their eyes she was nothing but a maid. Not just in their eyes, she reminded herself, but in reality as well. And with that her dreams frayed, like so many threads, right before her eyes.
After a week the boys went back to school.
“Well, now that they’re gone, the house can return to normal,” Madame DuPoix sighed with relief. Normal was not a word Berthe would have chosen.
That night, after supper, Monsieur retired to his room and his beloved fabrics.
“I am expecting a Monsieur Bonlit at ten o’clock. Please show him up to my bedroom when he arrives,” Madame Rappelais instructed.
“Yes, madame,” said Berthe, hanging up Madame’s dress.
“Ah, not even a look of surprise at my late-night company?” said Madame, smiling at Berthe. “You are turning into a true sophisticate, my Mademoiselle Bovary.” She laughed.
At exactly ten o’clock, Berthe heard the knocker on the front door. She hurried downstairs. Mariette was just opening the door. A handsome young man in top hat and coat stood before them.
“Monsieur Bonlit to see Madame Rappelais,” he announced.
“This way, monsieur.” Berthe took his coat and hat and handed them to Mariette, who for once looked amused instead of angry.
“How does it feel to be replaced so soon?” she whispered. Berthe ignored her.
She led Monsieur Bonlit up the stairs. She could feel his eyes on her back.
“And how is your mistress this evening?” he asked.
“I am sure she is quite well, monsieur.” She knocked on Madame’s door.
“Come in,” the voice sang out. Madame Rappelais reclined on her chaise longue in a silk dressing gown of the deepest blue embroidered with long-tailed birds of every color. Her blond hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders.
“Ah, René, what a surprise,” she said, extending her delicate hand to be kissed. “Dear Berthe, can you fetch a bottle of wine and perhaps some nice fruit from the kitchen? I think Madame Brobert will have left it out.”
“Yes, madame.” Berthe quickly exited the room.
The man was still in Madame’s bedroom the next morning. Berthe could hear their soft laughter as she straightened up the dressing room and readied Madame’s clothes for the day. Her sons barely gone, her husband still asleep in his bedroom at the end of the hall, and here was the lady of the house in bed with a man she wasn’t married to. Was this what Madame meant by sophisticated?
It was time to wake up her mistress, but clearly she was already awake. Berthe stood at the door not knowing what to do. She took a deep breath and knocked, three sharp raps.
“Yes, Berthe, come in,” Madame called out. Berthe entered. “Monsieur Bonlit was just going.”
“Not before I ravish you once more,” laughed the young man, reaching up to tweak Madame’s breast.
“René, you forget yourself,” Madame said indignantly. Her indignation rang false considering the fact that she was totally naked and sitting astride the young man. Her face burning with embarrassment, Berthe left them to their tumbling and went to run Madame’s bath.
That night a different man showed up at the same time as Monsieur Bonlit had the night before: a Monsieur Folinger, who knew his way up the stairs without having to be shown. He seemed in a great hurry and took the steps two at a time.
What kind of marriage did the Rappelaises have? Berthe knew nothing about how the upper class conducted their conjugal relationships. The only thing she had to compare it with was her own parents’ marriage, and she had never even seen them embrace. Her father had occasionally placed a kiss on the top of her mother’s head, but his wife’s reaction to his gesture of affection had been one of annoyance and distaste. Then once again she remembered watching her mother in the woods with Monsieur Boulanger. That had certainly been passion. But was it love? Weren’t you supposed to marry for love? She thought about the Homaises and the Millets and their many children. She’d assumed that children were evidence of passion and love, but was that true of the Rappelaises? Theirs appeared to be a marriage that had produced two children without the benefit of either passion or love.
Madame Rappelais wasn’t the only one entertaining guests. A few days later Monsieur Rappelais announced to Madame DuPoix, “I am expecting Monsieur Worth on Saturday. He will be here for lunch and will possibly stay for dinner.”
“Worth is coming on Saturday?” Madame Rappelais clapped her hands. “Finally. I must see him. I have new ball gowns to order.”
“He is coming to see me, my dear. We will discuss next year’s fabrics. It is business.”
“You always monopolize the poor man. You never leave any time for me,” she pouted. “He is the only one who understands how to dress me. I am lost without him.”
“But you have your regular dressmaker.”
“My dressmaker makes dresses,” replied Madame Rappelais. “Monsieur Worth creates gowns.”
Rappelais said nothing for a minute. And then, “Yes, well, let us do our business and then you may have him for what time remains.”
Saturday arrived and with it a torrential rainstorm. Monsieur Charles Worth arrived in the late morning dripping wet and speaking French with a strange accent, not to mention an odd usage.
“The rain is making many cats and dogs,” he announced to Berthe as he handed her a large carpetbag and followed her up the stairs to Monsieur’s bedroom.
“I’m sorry, sir. I’m not sure I understand,” Berthe said, turning around to glance at the strange man as he huffed and puffed his way up the stairs.
“French is not my virgin tongue,” he explained to Berthe. “But I know it like the back of my foot.” With all the fuss that Madame and Monsieur had made over his visit, Berthe had expected a person of great stature or beauty. To her surprise, he was a homely man. A high pale forehead was framed by tight auburn curls, over which he wore an odd black skullcap.
His mustache grew down both sides of an already down-turned mouth. His eyes followed the same line as his mustache: They slanted downward and gave his face the look of a sad hound. Perhaps to overcome his less-than-impressive looks, he was dressed in a wildly inventive way. He wore a full coat of green and blue brocade over a jacket of red Chinese silk. Underneath that was a flowing white silk shirt that tied in a huge bow at his throat.
“Monsieur Worth is here,” Berthe announced outside Monsieur Rappelais’s bedroom. The door flew open.
“Come in, dear friend, come in.” Rappelais embraced Monsieur Worth after kissing him twice on both cheeks. “Dear Charles, you look wonderful. Just wonderful.” He fingered the fabric of Worth’s coat. “Ah, I see you’ve made good use of the brocade.” Worth made a pirouette, his arms held far out from his sides.
“Stunning,” exclaimed Monsieur Rappelais. “I adore the way you’ve used the extra material in the back. It has a lovely swing to it.” He suddenly seemed to remember Berthe, who was just turning to go. “Oh, Charles, I want to introduce you to Mademoiselle Bovary. She is new to us. And she has, I must say, an excellent eye for les textiles.”
“And she has quite the beautiful façade,” said Worth, holding Berthe’s chin and turning her face slowly from side to side. She tried to smile.
“You must excuse Monsieur Worth. He thinks his French is perfect. No one can correct him. I don’t even try anymore.”
“What’s wrong with my French? I speak like an indigent. You French think you invented language. It is we English who gave you the gift of words. Name one French poet that is equal to our Shakespeare. Just one.”
“Baudelaire,” offered Monsieur Rappelais.
“Never heard of him,” said Worth. “But enough of this. Come show me what you have brought me from Lyon.”
Berthe started to excuse herself.
“No, no, you stay here. We need you,” said Worth. “One cannot envision the fashion mode without the mannequin.”
They spent the next hour draping Berthe with various fabrics. One was more beautiful than the next.
