by Linda Urbach
“Now what about this?” Rappelais asked, draping a heavily embroidered cloth of red roses and small yellow birds over Berthe’s shoulder. Both men studied the fabric for a long moment.
“I don’t know,” said Worth, shaking his head. “It doesn’t shriek to me for some reason. What do you think, mademoiselle?”
“It’s awfully heavy for a dress,” said Berthe finally. She felt weighed down by the material. “Perhaps it would be better on a piece of furniture.”
“Of course. She is right,” said Worth, clapping his hands. “We are to dress ladies, not chaises longues.” He wagged his finger at Monsieur Rappelais.
“Oh, dear Charles, don’t mock me.” Monsieur giggled, flapping his hand in his friend’s direction. “Finally, the pièce de résistance,” announced Rappelais with a flourish. “I have something very exciting to show you. Close your eyes, my dear.”
“If I close my eyes how can I see, you ignorant fig?” said Worth. Both men laughed uproariously.
Monsieur Rappelais picked up a small package and unwrapped it. “Voilà!” he said. It was a piece of silk of the deepest, richest purple.
“Ah, this is the much-tooted work of the chemist Henri Perkin,” said Worth, reverently fingering the fabric.
Monsieur Rappelais explained to Berthe, “A young English chemist has recently discovered that aniline extracted with alcohol could produce this royal color. He calls it mauveine. It is able to hold its color regardless of the number of washings or exposure to light. This is the favorite color of the Empress Eugénie. Everyone will want it. And given the amount of fabric that goes into each dress, he will be a very rich young man. He has fallen into a pot of gold.”
“More like a pot of purple. Now every woman regardless of her statuary will be able to dress in the royal manner,” said Worth.
“That would please our Mademoiselle Bovary,” said Rappelais. “She believes that we should be providing ball gowns to scullery maids, don’t you, mademoiselle?”
“I do think beautiful clothes should be made more affordable,” Berthe said shyly.
“Well, these new hideous department stores would certainly agree with you,” sniffed Worth. “They want to reduce the prices of fabrics and trims and they even speak of selling synthetic blends.” He turned to Rappelais. “They are trying to ruin me. How am I ever to become rich and famous and adored by the crème fraîche?”
“You mean the crème de la crème, my dear Charles,” corrected Rappelais.
“As you say.” Worth turned his attention back to the purple fabric. “What shall we do with this? It is so dense and depressing. So lacking in light. Rich as it is, it’s not festive enough for a ball gown, I fear.”
Berthe picked up a length of white silk tulle and draped it over the purple material, giving it a gauzy cloudlike effect.
“Brilliant!” exclaimed Rappelais.
“Interesting,” said Worth. “I will steal this idea and claim it as my own. With your permission, of course, mademoiselle.”
“As you wish, monsieur,” said Berthe, feeling suddenly very pleased with herself and no longer shy.
“You see? She has real talent,” Monsieur Rappelais proudly exclaimed, as if he himself were responsible for Berthe’s ideas.
“She does have the eyeball,” agreed Worth.
Madame Rappelais appeared in the doorway with her arms folded.
“Luncheon will be served shortly, my dears. That is, if you can tear yourself away from all this,” she said, indicating the myriad fabrics that lay strewn around the room.
“No, no. First we must fit the new dress,” commanded Worth. “It must be before luncheon. I want to fit the bodice at the smallest of your waistlines,” he said to Madame Rappelais. He picked up his bag. “Come, mademoiselle,” he said to Berthe, “you will assist me with the assassination of Madame’s waistline.” They proceeded to Madame Rappelais’s bedroom.
Worth opened the large carpetbag on the bed and removed a dress carefully rolled in tissue paper. He held it up and shook out the voluminous skirt. The dress was made of the palest blue satin with an embroidered design of tiny blue hummingbirds hovering amid delicate bamboo leaves.
“Tighten Madame’s corset until she can no longer breathe,” he instructed Berthe.
Berthe pulled her mistress’s corset as tight as she could, leaning back with all her weight. Then she helped Worth button Madame into the gown.
“But how ever can I dine in this? How will I be able to dance?” gasped Madame Rappelais.
“There will be no eating and no dancing in this gown,” Monsieur Worth replied with a laugh. “And only the barest of breathing. But do not despair, dear madame. There will be a great deal of falling in love with the beautiful body embalmed therein.”
He walked around her, scrutinizing every angle. “Wait, this will not do. Where are the breasts?” He plunged his hands down the front of Madame Rappelais’s dress, pushing and prodding her bosom until it swelled up and over the bodice to his satisfaction. His fumbling seemed not to bother Madame at all.
“Ah, good. Good. Now fetch Madame’s crinolines and hoop,” he said. Berthe did as requested, and handed him the wire hoop, which he took from her with a flourish. “You probably didn’t know that this is my invention, did you?”
“No, monsieur, I didn’t.”
“Be assured that I am the voice of all that is vain. I am the eye of the future of fashion. I am the hand of God encased in silk and lace. Isn’t that right, my dear Madame Rappelais?”
“You are, indeed, the great master.” Madame turned to admire her reflection in the mirror.
“One day I will wake up and decide no more big skirts. And voilà, there will be no more big skirts. I am thinking, in fact, of this …” He pulled the skirt back and bunched it behind. “As you see, the bottom is an entirely unexplored area of seduction.” He turned to Berthe. “What think you, mademoiselle?”
“It seems an entirely new look,” said Berthe.
“Of course it is. I am the original original.” He chuckled to himself. “I shall call this creation the bustle. But enough genius for now. One has to spoon-feed fashion to the unfashionable. Too much too soon and they get constipated.”
“You mean confused,” corrected Madame Rappelais.
“Oh, you French and your precision for language,” Worth said with a wave of his hand. “Constipated, confused—it is all the same to me. All this creativity is leaving me famished. Shall we lunch?”
“First, Berthe must get me out of this beautiful straitjacket,” groaned Madame Rappelais.
Observing Worth at work made Berthe again aware of her longing. She wanted to change places with him. How she wished to be designing gowns instead of just tightening corsets. Feeling a sudden rush of impatience, she fought the impulse to tighten her mistress’s corset even more, to squeeze Madame’s middle until she passed out from lack of air.
What happened to the calm acceptance of Madame that she had talked herself into only days before? She had no right to be out of sorts. Wasn’t life as Madame’s lady’s maid far better than any life she had had before?
CHAPTER 19
Lesson in Love
“THOSE POLES ARE FAR TOO RICH FOR THEIR OWN GOOD,” Madame Rappelais said weeks later, returning early from a much-anticipated ball given by the Polish prince Adam Czartoryski at his home in the Hôtel Lambert. “The entire Île Saint-Louis is overrun by them with their strange names and even stranger accents.” As Berthe helped her out of her new gown, Madame rubbed her ribs where the corset had left deep wedge marks in her skin. “I can’t imagine what the ball cost Prince Czartoryski. You should have seen it. They put a parquet floor over the stone entranceway. There was an enormous tent with huge crystal chandeliers hanging down from the ceiling, three different orchestras played, and the champagne flowed like water. So ostentatious.” She held her head in both hands. “Oh, Berthe, I’m so tired of all this, all these parties and these ridiculous people. The torturous dresses, this stup
id house. And that husband of mine. He spent the entire evening fingering the fabric of everyone’s dress.” She fell back on the bed and Berthe could tell then that she was quite tipsy. “It’s all so superficial, so meaningless,” she moaned. “They only care about how one looks and what one is wearing.”
She opened her eyes and looked up at Berthe.
“Nobody really cares about me or how I feel. Except you. You care, don’t you, dear girl?”
Berthe nodded. She hadn’t realized until this moment how very much like her mother Madame Rappelais was: spoiled, self-centered, and manipulative. “Come.” Madame reached out and took Berthe by the hand. “Lie down, keep me company just for a few minutes.”
“But, madame …” Berthe hesitated. “Madame, it’s quite late and you have an early appointment with your jeweler tomorrow.”
“I do?”
“Yes, madame.” Berthe silently thanked her stars that she knew her mistress’s schedule. She pulled the cover up to Madame’s chin. Even before she left the room she could hear the woman snoring.
Berthe was intimidated by Madame’s power and her position. She was resentful of the control Madame had over her. But mostly, she deeply feared her. Every day she worried that her mistress would try and get her into bed. Madame differed from her mother in one important respect. Whereas Emma Bovary’s affairs had been the result of what Berthe believed was a genuine search for love, Madame Rappelais toyed with people; gaining their affection was nothing more than a game to her.
Each day brought something different from her mistress. Sometimes she acted as if Berthe were invisible. Other times she spoke to her as an intimate, even a daughter. Berthe was kept totally off balance. And always, Madame Rappelais took up all the air and the space in Berthe’s life.
On the other hand, her relationship with Monsieur Rappelais continued to be thankfully the same. He had taken her under his curiously attired wing.
“I fear my business will fail when the fils take it over,” he confided to Berthe one evening when they were going through one of Monsieur Rappelais’s ribbon sample books. “They care nothing about the beauty of fabrics.”
Berthe felt as if she could spend hours turning the pages of the heavy book. On every page was a small sample of ribbon trims, each one more beautiful than the last. “Black and blue. Those are the only colors my sons care about,” muttered Monsieur Rappelais. Berthe looked up. “As in getting bruises,” he explained. She laughed.
“You see this.” He pointed to a page in the book. “We are returning to delicate patterns of floral tendrils and ribbon streamers and charming baskets. It’s back to nature, just as I predicted,” he said happily. He walked over to his desk and opened a package that had been delivered that afternoon from his cotton mill in Lille. He removed a cotton swatch and held it up to the light of the lamp.
“What is this abomination?” He handed the sample to Berthe. “Just look at the uneven spaces. I was going to give several bolts of this to the good sisters at Saint Sulpice.” Berthe could see that there were slight irregularities in the weave. “You worked with these idiots. Where is their pride? Where is their sense of workmanship? What are these stupid, lazy people doing?” He paced around the room.
“They are probably taking long naps after their huge midday meal,” said Berthe. She immediately regretted her words.
“What?” Monsieur Rappelais stopped and looked at her sharply. “What are you saying?”
She took a deep breath. She was compelled to go on.
“Monsieur Rappelais, the people at your mill work very hard.”
“Well, of course they do. That’s what they’re paid for. But I don’t pay them to produce garbage like this,” he said, flapping the cotton in front of her face.
She wondered if she dare tell him how awful the conditions were at his mill. Her guess was that he had never had a conversation with someone who actually worked at the level she had.
“Monsieur, the working conditions at your mill are terrible.”
“That’s the way it is at all mills. Mine is no different. No better. No worse. I am providing people a way to earn a living.”
“But you could make the hours shorter, the food a bit more plentiful. And you could hire older workers instead of such young children.”
His mustache twitched. He was smiling.
“My dear Mademoiselle Softheart. I see you know nothing about running a mill. Why, if I did as you suggested I would end up in the poorhouse.”
“Right along with the rest of your workers,” she said quietly. He threw back his head and laughed. She forged ahead. “Monsieur Rappelais, I saw a young boy killed; pulled up by his hair and ripped to pieces by one of your machines.”
“Unfortunately, these things happen,” he said, crossing to the table and pouring himself a brandy.
“Well, they shouldn’t,” she snapped. And then she worried she had gone too far. Now she would be fired for certain. But Rappelais’s attention had already strayed back to his sample book of ribbons and no more was said on the matter.
One morning after a night of trying to ward off Madame’s advances, Berthe dragged herself into the kitchen for breakfast. She felt tired, dirty, and depressed. The idea of throwing herself into the Seine was not unappealing. Madame DuPoix sat at the long kitchen table doing her accounts. Madame Brobert, the cook, was at the stove stirring milk for custard.
Mariette smiled at Berthe and even more surprisingly handed her a bowl of coffee.
“You take it with three sugars?” she asked. Berthe nodded and accepted the steaming bowl of café au lait. The minute she brought it to her lips she saw something strange: a gritty white powder, barely visible, on the surface of the coffee. It all came back to her in a flash: her mother, the open black mouth, the endless dying, the scent of vomit. Arsenic! Horrified, she immediately slammed the bowl onto the table, causing some of the coffee to spill out.
“What in heaven’s name?” Madame Brobert exclaimed.
“Poison,” Berthe said. “She’s trying to poison me,” she gasped, pointing at the maid.
“I don’t know what she’s talking about. She’s crazy,” said Mariette, her face flaming red.
Madame DuPoix looked closely at the bowl of coffee, then drew back. “What have you done, you wicked, wicked girl?” she shrieked.
“Nothing, I did nothing,” cried Mariette.
“I shall speak to Madame. But I think it’s wise if you pack your things immediately.” Mariette threw her apron to the floor and fled the kitchen. She was gone within the hour.
Madame Rappelais was strangely unbothered by the whole incident. If anything, she seemed amused.
“Jealousy is an ugly thing,” she said, rubbing cream into her long white neck. “I know, I speak from experience. It can cause one to act in very rash ways. I hope you are all right, my dear girl,” she said, turning and grasping Berthe by the hand.
“I’m fine, madame,” Berthe said, pulling her hand away and hiding it behind her back. But she wasn’t fine. She knew this woman cared nothing about her. And certainly less about Mariette. And what about her husband? She thought of Monsieur’s deaf ear to the plight of his mill workers. It seemed as if this house held as much ugliness and selfishness as it did beauty. But where else would she go?
“Now Madame DuPoix has to find a replacement for Mariette. What a bother,” Madame sighed, dabbing perfume behind her ears.
Berthe suddenly had an inspiration. “Madame, I have a friend whom I worked with in the mill at Lille,” she said. “She’s a very hard worker and I know she would love to come to Paris.”
“Is she reliable?”
“Oh, yes, madame.” Berthe firmly believed that if Hélène were given a good job she would learn skills that would enable her to support herself without having to steal. Besides, she longed for a real friend and ally in this place. For a moment she worried about what might happen to Hélène at the Rappelaises’, but then she remembered that Hélène, of all people, could certain
ly take care of herself.
“Well, write to her and tell her she has a position if she wants it.”
And it was as simple as that. Almost before she knew it, Hélène arrived chez Rappelais, tattered bag in hand, red hair swept up underneath a ridiculously formal black bonnet. Berthe wondered where she had stolen that from, but she was too thrilled to see her old friend again to care. She introduced her to Madame DuPoix, who seemed appropriately unimpressed.
“Madame was in such a rush to hire someone she neglected to check your references,” Madame DuPoix said with a sniff. “May I see them, please,” she said, holding out her hand.
“See what?” Hélène asked.
“Your letters of recommendation.”
Hélène laughed. “She is my recommendation, ain’t she?” She indicated Berthe with a wave of her hand.
“I see,” Madame DuPoix said dubiously. “Well, you may as well show Mademoiselle Du Croix to her room.”
As Berthe led Hélène up the stairs to the top floor, her friend’s eyes darted from the hand-carved oak banister to the crystal chandeliers to the ornately framed portraits on the walls. On the second-floor landing she stopped by an ornate gold inlaid table. On it were a framed miniature painting of Madame Rappelais, a mother-of-pearl vase, a jeweled pillbox, and a small alabaster Cupid. Before Berthe could stop her, Hélène slipped the Cupid into the pocket of her skirt.
“Stop it,” Berthe hissed. “Put it back. You have a roof over your head and a room of your own, the food is plentiful and delicious, and you are to be paid a decent salary. You don’t have to steal anymore.”
Hélène looked at her as if she had said “You don’t have to breathe anymore.”
She replaced the Cupid and picked up the pillbox instead. She examined the jeweled top with one eye closed as if trying to determine its value.
“Hélène!”
“I’m just looking, ain’t I?” she said, smiling a wicked smile. “There’s no harm in that. Why else do they have all these lovely things if they don’t want people admirin’ them?” She put the pillbox back on the table.
