by Linda Urbach
Berthe wondered for a moment if she hadn’t made a mistake bringing Hélène to Paris. It was like escorting the fox into the henhouse.
“Hélène, please promise me you’ll behave.”
“I promise,” said Hélène, solemnly crossing herself.
CHAPTER 20
Monsieur Worth Has Some News
BERTHE WAS SORTING SWATCHES BY COLOR AND DESIGN WITH Monsieur Rappelais late one night when there came a loud banging at the front door.
“Who could that be at this hour?” Rappelais asked.
Everyone was asleep. Berthe hurried down the stairs and opened the heavy front door. It was Monsieur Worth. He was in a state of great excitement. His skullcap was perched at an odd angle on his head and, instead of his usual elegance, his clothes looked as though he had been sleeping in them.
“I am in a renovation,” he said in his usual battered French. “I must make words with Monsieur Rappelais. Is he up?”
“My dear friend, what’s the matter?” asked Monsieur, rushing down the staircase, his silk robe flapping about him.
“I have the good hour,” said Worth, collapsing on the chaise longue. “Please, a touch of brandy.” Berthe poured drinks for both of the men. “I have finally made my proposal to Gagelin.” Maison Gagelin was the fabric and dress accessories shop that had employed Worth since he first arrived in Paris. It was there that he’d met his wife, Marie Vernet, one of the young women who modeled shawls and cloaks for Gagelin’s clients. “I thought he would love the idea of a partnership but he turned me down, the ugly radish.”
“Oh, I am so sorry,” said Rappelais.
“Don’t be desolated. He is an idiot. The future is in ready-made dresses. You know that, and I know that, but Gagelin is too blind to see it. He has the stupidity of a mutton. He sees only the need to sell fabric and accessories. My brilliance is wasted there. It is not enough that I make beautiful dresses, that my chère Marie models them, and that the customers are clamoring for me to make more and more. No, he sees no reason to change. He doesn’t see my genius as important. He thinks he can go on stealing my ideas, my soul. Can you imagine? He has refused me. Me, the heart and soul of his stupid rag business. Well, I thank him for giving me the foot in the bottom. I have decided this very night I will take my designs and open up my own shop.” He fell back on the sofa, exhausted from his long speech.
“But, dear Charles,” said Monsieur Rappelais, sitting down next to him and clasping his hand, “can you afford to do this?”
“Of course not. I am as poor as a church mousse. But I have been planning this for some time. I already have a partner lined up. My dear and very rich friend Monsieur Otto Bobergh has money coming out of his pince-nez. He has been begging me to allow him to invest a small fortune in my business. And you, Rappelais, you will give me an exclusive on all your most beautiful fabrics. We will leave Gagelin nothing but the ugliest scraps. And we will all live happily and wealthily ever after.” He leaned forward and kissed the older man on both cheeks.
Berthe watched as Monsieur Rappelais gazed upon his friend with a look of utter adoration. She suddenly realized that, in his own peculiar way, he was in love with Charles Worth. “More brandy?” she asked. The two men nodded their heads and lifted their empty glasses.
“Just think,” said Monsieur Worth, “all I have to do is design and make my dresses and then sit back. Women will come from all over France, from Europe, from the world. They will flock to my atelier for the honor of purchasing one of my creations. I will be famous. I will be ravished. Women will boast to their friends of owning an original Worth.”
“Ah, my dear friend, indeed you are an artist. But permit me to remind you that as brilliant as you may be you are nothing without my fabrics. Textiles, as you know, are what determine fashion, not the other way around. It has always been this way.”
“Dear Rappelais, what was always the way as you call it, will no longer be the way. Wake up, my dear strawberry. I can design several hundred dresses at a time and have them ready-made in my workshop. So my fashions and the demand for them will necessarily determine what fabrics you will, by necessity, weave.”
“Dear Charles, fashions do change, but the fabric stays the same. A dress falls apart, falls out of fashion, but the fabric, the beauty of the design, the colors—those endure.”
Berthe thought the two men would go on “dearing” each other to death until the sun came up. But finally, they seemed to reach a standoff.
Both men looked at each other. “Why are we arguing, chèr Rappelais? It is the old question: Which came first, the chicken or the olive? Fashion dictates fabric; fabric dictates fashion. Who cares? We are geniuses living in the fashion center of the universe. Which makes us …”
“… the most powerful men in the world!” they said simultaneously. They tipped their glasses and drank the brandy down as if it were water. Berthe felt her eyes closing. It was almost two in the morning and she was exhausted.
“Is there anything else I can get you gentlemen before I retire?” she asked.
“Stay,” commanded Monsieur Worth. “This is a hysteric moment. We are creating the future of fashion here. And we need a witness to our great ideas. Please, take notes.” And so Berthe picked up pen and paper and jotted down their increasingly drunken ideas. Hours passed while they talked and drank and argued. She longed for her bed. She still had to get up at the crack of dawn to prepare her mistress for the day.
“And perhaps one day Mademoiselle Berthe will come and work for me. She can model my dresses, along with my darling Marie.” Berthe stirred in her seat. She felt a thrill of excitement. Could she be a model? To think of actually wearing the beautiful fabrics she loved. And then perhaps she could even begin to design a little … She shook herself to stop that sort of dreaming. It seemed every time she fantasized about her future something would happen to dash her hopes.
“She is not going anywhere. I need her here,” answered Rappelais, almost as if reading Berthe’s mind.
“Isn’t it wonderful to be fought over by two talented and soon-to-be-world-famous gentlemen?” said Worth.
Almost as wonderful as it would be to be fast asleep in her own bed, Berthe thought.
CHAPTER 21
Madame Has a Surprise
AS THE WEEKS PASSED, RAPPELAIS AND WORTH CAME TO RELY on Berthe more and more. At the same time, to no small relief, Madame Rappelais seemed to lose all interest in her as a bed-mate. And Hélène, remarkably, seemed to take to her new position. But with her light-fingered friend in the house, Berthe knew not to relax her guard entirely. Still, she had begun to experience an unfamiliar sense of contentment.
Madame arrived home late one morning, her face flushed with excitement, carrying a small flat package about fifteen by eighteen inches in size. It was carefully wrapped in brown paper and secured by twine. Without removing her cape she instructed Berthe to follow her up to her bedroom. She shut the door and turned to Berthe.
“Close your eyes,” she said. “I have a wonderful, wonderful surprise.” Berthe did as she was told. She heard the ripping of paper. And then: “You may open them now.”
Berthe gasped. Madame Rappelais held in front of her a lovely painting of rich browns and greens. In the background one could see a gaggle of white geese making their way through the trees to a small stream. And in the foreground was a figure clearly recognizable as Berthe, wearing … nothing but a blue kerchief on her head. She sat with one leg bent and the other held straight out, her white foot dipping into the slowly swirling water. The sun shone warmly on her back and shoulders, and on her budding breasts. Berthe felt her cheeks turn hot. How had Madame managed to find the one thing that could so publicly shame her?
“Where did you get this?” she croaked, barely able to get the words out.
“At Monsieur Jean-François Millet’s studio, where else?” Madame laughed with delight. “You can imagine my surprise when, upon viewing some of his work, I suddenly recognized my very own Mademois
elle Bovary as naked as a newborn baby. I, of course, insisted he sell it to me. Poor man had no choice. I do think this is one of his better pieces, and not just because I know the subject so well. Most of his work is so relentlessly rural and peasantlike. Why didn’t you tell me you modeled for the great Millet?”
“I didn’t think it was of any importance,” Berthe said through gritted teeth.
“Well, Monsieur Millet certainly thought a great deal of it. This painting cost me a bloody fortune. Aren’t you the lucky one? To be immortalized by a famous artist. Now, where do you think I should hang it?” Berthe felt a growing panic. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t.
“Oh, no, madame. Please, please don’t hang it.”
“It’s art, my dear. That’s what it’s for. To be hung and admired. Let’s see, should I put it downstairs in the gallery or on the wall going up the stairs where all the Rappelais ancestors hang? That would liven up the relatives a bit, I think.”
She held the small painting out at arm’s length and peered at it through half-closed eyes. “No, you certainly don’t belong with all of Monsieur Rappelais’s ugly ancestors. I think I shall put you here, right over my dressing table, where we can both appreciate it. I’m not sure I like the frame but that can be easily changed.” She placed the painting on the floor next to the dressing table. “By the way, I told Monsieur Millet that you were in my employ. He was so pleased to hear that you were in Paris. I have invited him to dinner next week. The two of you shall have a grand reunion. Do you own a dinner dress?”
Berthe wanted to strangle her. “Madame, I am your maid! I can’t possibly attend your dinner party.”
“Of course you can. If I say you are invited then you will be there. Besides, we don’t want to disappoint Monsieur Millet. It will be a small, intimate affair. Just us art lovers.”
Does she want to humiliate me in front of everyone? She can’t be that cruel. “But, madame, I don’t belong—”
“And you think I do?” Madame Rappelais laughed harshly. “You have no idea where I come from, do you? I was born outside Lille. My father was a dairy farmer who lost all his cows to disease. I went to work in the mill just as you did. And like you, I caught the eye of Monsieur Rappelais, who at the time was married to the first Madame Rappelais. When she died he brought me to Paris, dressed me, educated me, impregnated me twice, and has kindly left me alone ever since. The question of whether I belong has never come up.”
“I had no idea, madame.” Berthe was taken by surprise. She marveled that this woman had the ability to keep her always off balance.
“Why would you?” she said, smoothing her upsweep.
“But, madame, I can’t …” She twisted the skirt of her apron, feeling powerless.
“Don’t you dare spoil my evening,” Madame Rappelais said sharply, her eyes flashing. And then, as if a storm had cleared, she smiled sweetly. “When the time comes we’ll find you something nice to wear.”
CHAPTER 22
La Grande Fête
WHEN MONSIEUR RAPPELAIS HEARD ABOUT THE PAINTING, HE studied it for a long time then exclaimed, “Merveilleux! Painted by Millet himself.” He turned and looked at Berthe. Her face was scarlet. “Why, you’re famous, my dear girl. Of course this calls for a celebration. Mademoiselle Bovary will be our guest of honor. How perfectly delightful. I shall invite Monsieur Worth as well. The two artists should get along swimmingly. It will be a veritable grande fête.”
Berthe was almost more terrified of the Rappelaises’ grande fête than of anything she had encountered in her life. She had no idea what went on at a formal dinner. She had helped Madame DuPoix set the table on one occasion and couldn’t believe the amount of cutlery and the number of glasses each person required. With which fork or spoon did one begin? Did one actually eat or just pretend to eat? And far worse than not knowing the proper etiquette, she realized she was being paraded out as a novelty, a piece of entertainment. She felt sick to her stomach with nervousness as the night of the dinner drew near. She hoped and prayed that the painting would stay in Madame’s room.
“I feel quite ill, madame,” she said, holding her stomach an hour before the dinner was to begin.
“I don’t care how you feel,” said Madame Rappelais with a hard, bright smile. “You look beautiful and that’s all that matters.” She had dressed Berthe in one of her own gowns, a lovely pale blue silk. The skirt had a pattern of full-blown roses and foliage and the long tight sleeves were trimmed in lace. Madame had combed Berthe’s hair into a simple upsweep and given her a pair of sapphire earrings.
Madame glanced at the gold pendant watch pinned to her breast. “Oh my, look at the time. Now we must get me dressed and ready. We can’t have the lady’s maid outshine the lady, can we?”
When the guests arrived at exactly eight o’clock they were ushered immediately into the dining room and the double doors were closed.
“Stay here and wait until I announce you,” Madame Rappelais whispered to Berthe in the hallway. “It will be a lovely surprise.”
“Oh, madame, please don’t make me. I don’t want to be a surprise.” Ignoring her pleas, Madame put a finger to her lips and then swept into the dining room.
Hélène was helping to serve. When she caught sight of Berthe dressed in Madame Rappelais’s beautiful gown she could hardly keep her eyes in her head.
“Mon Dieu,” Hélène exclaimed. “What are you doing? If you’re gonna steal it, don’t parade around in it first, for heaven’s sake. They’ll throw you in jail, you little fool.”
“Madame Rappelais has loaned me this dress for tonight,” said Berthe, nervously fingering her earrings as she waited for her cue.
“What? Why?” Hélène’s mouth fell open.
“I am to be a surprise guest at her dinner party,” Berthe said with a sigh.
“This is too perfect! You can steal the silverware!” said Hélène, clapping her hands. “I helped Madame DuPoix set the table. There is so much silver they’ll never notice a few spoons here and there. Does this dress have pockets?” She pulled at the full skirt.
“Hélène! You’ve lost your mind. I’m not stealing anything.” But Hélène wasn’t listening.
“There are also tiny salt and pepper shakers by each place. Or wait, I have a better idea—the silver napkin holders! No one will miss those.” Suddenly, Madame DuPoix appeared. She wore a starched white serving apron over her black dress.
“Hélène. To the kitchen! It is time to begin service of the meal.” Madame DuPoix’s eyes narrowed as she regarded Berthe dressed in the elegant gown. “I understand from Madame that you are to be seated at dinner. Mind your manners—what few you possess,” she hissed.
Just then the dining room doors opened and Madame Rappelais announced in a bright voice, “And now, for the guest of honor: our very own, very original Goose Girl.” She pulled a reluctant Berthe into the room. Monsieur Millet stood up.
“Incroyable. It is! My goose girl, all dressed up!” he exclaimed, holding out his huge hands. His beard and mustache were as thick and shaggy as ever. His wife, seated next to him, peered over her pince-nez as if trying to place Berthe.
On the other side of the long table sat Monsieur Worth and his swan-necked, elegant wife, Marie. Both smiled broadly at the wonderful surprise. Monsieur Millet rushed over to Berthe, clasped both her hands, and kissed her four times on each cheek.
“My beautiful Mademoiselle Bovary, how you’ve grown. And even lovelier than I recalled. You remember Mademoiselle Bovary,” he said to his wife.
“Ah, at first I didn’t recognize her dressed,” said his wife, setting aside her pince-nez. Everyone laughed and Berthe turned an even brighter shade of red. She could feel herself perspiring under the heavy gown. She looked first at Madame Rappelais and then at Monsieur, pleading with her eyes to be excused.
Instead Monsieur Rappelais stood and pulled out a chair for Berthe. But Berthe continued to stand, still hoping for a last-minute reprieve.
“Sit,” commande
d Madame Rappelais, as if speaking to a dog.
“Yes, please, mademoiselle, sit down,” said Monsieur Worth. “It’s not often we have the honor of dining with the subject of a famous painting.” That was when Berthe noticed that the painting of her hung above the long mahogany buffet. She felt doubly exposed, having the painting of her there for all to examine: her young breasts, the beginning of her pubic hair, her naked body. Added to that was the agony of wearing a dress that wasn’t hers, in a room in which she didn’t belong, with people who were far above her in social standing. She wanted to die, to disappear. Maybe I could faint or have a fit. If she had an eye-rolling, mouth-foaming, limb-thrashing fit it would distract from her shame and embarrassment. But then she realized that the fit would only bring her new shame and embarrassment. So she sat down and began to count the minutes, hoping the evening would soon be over and she would be safe back in her room.
“How very nicely you’ve developed since I painted this, mademoiselle,” Millet said, standing by the painting. He ran his forefinger along the breasts to prove his point. Everyone laughed.
Berthe flinched as if she herself had been touched.
“Yes, I would say the development merits another portrait,” said Madame Rappelais, smiling wickedly at Berthe.
“Madame Rappelais is right. You must come and model for me again,” said Millet. “I have a studio on rue Jacob.”
“But how will you paint her without all the poultry, mon chèr?” asked Catherine Millet with a gleam in her eye. Again everyone laughed.
“My wife was a model as well,” Monsieur Worth offered. “That was how I met her.”
“But never with geese, and never ever without my clothes,” chimed in Madame Worth. To Berthe’s continued humiliation, the room exploded into guffaws. She hated being the object of ridicule, particularly in front of Monsieur Worth. She had hoped one day to impress him with her willingness to learn about the world of fashion and the creating of beautiful gowns. Now even his elegant wife was making fun of her.
