by Linda Urbach
Instead of looking for a gendarme, Berthe made her way slowly back to the house. Madame DuPoix was standing at the front door, her arms folded tightly across her chest.
“Well, where is he?” she asked.
“Who, madame?” Berthe asked innocently.
“The gendarme, you little idiot!”
“Oh, I couldn’t find one,” said Berthe. “The man was off duty.”
“A likely story. Protecting your thieving friend, as usual. Well, go on upstairs. Madame wants to see you immediately.”
Berthe had no doubt that her time chez Rappelais was over. She didn’t bother to remove her cape. She wished that she had just left with Hélène—they could have found a new place to live together. Now she would have no idea where her friend had gone in this huge city. She ascended the stairway, her fingers running along the damask-covered walls as if savoring their touch for the last time. Madame Rappelais sat in front of her dressing table mirror trying on a new bonnet.
“Is it true what Madame DuPoix has told me? Your friend has been stealing silver from right under our very noses?”
“Yes, madame.” Berthe bowed her head and focused her attention on the tips of her boots. Forget living together, next time she saw Hélène she would throttle her.
“And did you know she was a thief when you recommended her to us?” Madame tilted the hat from one side of her face to the other. The black ostrich plume dipped over her eyes, giving her a mysterious air.
“Well, yes. But I thought she had reformed. She promised me that she had given up her bad habits.”
“Bad habits!” snorted Madame Rappelais. “Biting your fingernails is a bad habit. Stealing heirlooms is a crime.”
“Yes, madame.” Berthe shifted her weight.
“Which makes you an accomplice in the eyes of the law.”
Berthe’s face burned. “Oh, no, madame, I never …” She grasped her hands together in what even to her was an overdone gesture of entreaty.
“Calm down, calm down. I know you’re not a thief. But believe me, it took all my powers of persuasion to convince Madame DuPoix not to sack you immediately. And for that you shall be greatly indebted to me.”
“Yes, madame,” said Berthe, inhaling deeply.
“And to begin repaying that debt you may kiss my feet,” she said with a sly smile.
“What?” Berthe began to laugh nervously.
“I mean it,” said Madame Rappelais, removing her satin slippers. “Kiss my feet, slowly and lovingly. And gratefully. And don’t forget to suck each toe.” She held up one pink foot. Berthe was filled with disgust, which she didn’t bother concealing.
Kiss your feet? Why, I would rather bite off your big toe.
“I’m sorry, madame, you must excuse me. I’m feeling quite ill.” And with that Berthe left her mistress shoeless, speechless, and more than a little surprised.
Much later Berthe contemplated what Hélène had said about being in love with Armand. What exactly did love feel like? A fluttery feeling in her stomach? Well, she certainly had that every time she saw him. A desire to be with him whether he seemed to want her around or not? She had that, too. An overwhelming curiosity about who he was, what he thought, how he felt? Yes, she had that as well. But even if it was love, there was nothing she could do about it. It was just another luxury she could not afford right now.
Still, she thought of very little else but Armand. And just as she had with Renard on her grand-mère’s farm, she created elaborate romantic scenarios involving herself and the young artist. As soon as she erased one fantasy from her mind another would appear like pages from a picture book.
She and Armand would live in a charming artist’s garret. They would lie abed in the mornings with nothing to do but exchange short, sweet kisses. He would bring her hot café au lait in a bowl and fresh bread smeared with sweet butter and orange marmalade. They would breakfast in bed and then make love. And there would be no bread crumbs in her fantasy bed.
She had a somewhat limited view of what making love entailed. Oddly enough, her knowledge of sex was limited to seeing Renard and the neighbor girl and what she had experienced under the tutelage of Madame Rappelais. She was, in the strictest sense, still a virgin.
After making love, she would watch Armand from underneath a soft duvet as he painted one magnificent canvas after another. But nothing was as magnificent as the sight of his smooth, well-muscled back. In her fantasies, he always painted with his shirt off. And that was how they would spend their days: he painting his masterpieces, she sketching out designs for her extraordinary fabrics.
As a young girl she had once listened to her mother telling Félicité’s fortune. Berthe sat by the hearth as Emma Bovary peered into the maid’s palm and outlined a future filled with romance and peopled by dark handsome strangers. Félicité blushed and giggled as her mistress spun the story.
“And one very hot summer day you will be walking down the road to the river,” Madame Bovary said, tracing a line in Félicité’s palm with her forefinger. “You will be very thirsty and very hot. You will hear the sound of hoofbeats behind. You won’t look up because you are afraid and alone on a country road. Someone will grab you by the arm and swing you up and over behind him on a great white horse, and he will gallop off. You will have to hold on tight to his hard ribs and lean against his strong back because you will be afraid of falling off. And he will take you down to the river and leap off his horse and then he will gently help you down. ‘Who are you?’ you will ask. And you will realize then that you have seen him before in town, at the market. He is the rich marquis who lives in the castle on the outskirts of the village.”
“A marquis!” Berthe and Félicité said at once. “A real marquis?” Berthe’s mother smiled and nodded.
“A real marquis who has watched you and loved you from afar, but who had no way of telling you because you are from two different worlds. He adores you and cannot live without you. He will take you in his arms, kiss you on the neck and the shoulders and on top of your bare bosom.”
“Oh, madame, my bosom is bare?” exclaimed Félicité, turning even redder than ever.
“Of course it is, you ninny,” said Berthe’s mother.
Berthe remembered Monsieur Millet mentioning that Armand lived not far from Millet’s studio on the rue Jacob. On her next day off, she would find him. Nothing and no one, not even Madame Rappelais, could stop her.
The following Sunday Berthe walked down the narrow rue Jacob, her mind focused so hard on Armand’s physical presence that every other man began to look like him. She felt that at any moment he might appear. She would find his lodgings, and if he wasn’t there she would leave him a note.
She spent the next hour walking up one side of the street and down the other. At around five o’clock, when her feet began to feel like lumps of lead, she spotted Madame Millet getting out of a carriage at the end of the street. Berthe ran to catch up with her.
“Ah, Madame Millet, how good to see you,” she said breathlessly. “Could you please tell me where I might find the lodgings of Armand de Pouvier?”
Madame Millet had a slight smile on her face.
“Of course. His room is up there,” she said, pointing to the sixth floor of the building she was about to enter. “But you won’t find him there.”
“Is he at Monsieur’s studio?”
“No, my dear. He left this morning. Gave notice and left my poor husband one apprentice short. He is off to Italy to study art, he says. Although I can’t imagine what those Italians can teach him that Maître Millet can’t.”
Berthe stood in shock as Madame Millet patted her hand, then continued into the building.
He had left the country without a word to her. Was there anything worse than to love and not be loved in return? If there was any lesson Berthe should have learned from her mother, it was that the more a woman loved, the more love failed her. Berthe wiped her hand across her eyes as if to clear her vision, then she turned and headed for the pr
ison that was the Rappelais home.
CHAPTER 27
The Birthday Ball
THE MORNING OF THE BIRTHDAY BALL BEGAN INAUSPICIOUSLY. Berthe had been instructed to be present in the ballroom to offer Madame Rappelais her opinion of the finished mural. She kept her head down to hide her swollen eyes; she had spent half the night before crying over Armand. Now she kept herself busy straightening the silk slipper chairs that lined the wall of the huge room. The artist who had come to replace Armand was applying final touches to the ceiling when Madame appeared in the entranceway.
She immediately flew into a terrible temper. “I told you: no partridge in the window. And what have you done but paint a stupid bird exactly there!” she yelled.
“But, madame, you wanted an exact copy,” explained the trembling artist.
“I said an exact copy but without the hideous poultry,” Madame said, stamping her small foot.
“You must have told the previous artist. You never said anything to me.”
“Paint it over quickly,” she hissed. “I detest birds.” The poor young man immediately began adding earth tones to the blue-gray shape of the partridge. The result was that the brown and white spaniel pictured at Venus’s feet looked as if he was barking at an unseen object somewhere in the hazy outdoors.
All Berthe could think about was Armand and how far away he was now. Watching his replacement finish the mural made her miss him all the more. She felt abandoned and lost. And angry, suddenly very angry. Armand had been free to escape while she was still a prisoner in this wretched house, subject to her mistress’s every bizarre whim.
She shoved a chair hard against the wall and was alarmed to see she had left a small chip in the gold-painted chair rail. Glancing at Madame Rappelais, who stood with her neck craned to scrutinize every brushstroke, Berthe shoved another chair against the wall. Someday I’ll throw my own bloody grand ball. And when you try to gain entrance, I’ll slam the door in your face.
Fifty invitations to Madame’s birthday ball had been mailed out a month earlier. Madame Rappelais had explained the number to Berthe.
“Fifty is the minimum number of people that one can have and still refer to it as a ball. My pitiful ballroom could hold more but I want there to be plenty of room for dancing so that one can properly see the gowns.” Berthe knew by this she meant her gown, which Monsieur Worth had, in his words, “been slavering over for weeks”—without an ounce of credit to Berthe for the idea.
The gown was magnificent. An evening dress of white tulle over pink satin, it was simple and elegant, as Berthe had suggested. The bodice was very tight and Madame Rappelais’s breasts swelled high above it. In her hair she wore a contrasting wreath of red roses which shone beautifully against her pale blond hair. Early in the evening she stood in front of her full-length mirror turning this way and that, clearly delighted by how she looked.
“I’ve never worn so plain a gown. But it seems to complement my coloring well.” Finally, she turned to Berthe and said, “And I have just the dress for you, Mademoiselle Bovary.” She retreated to the dressing room and returned with a ball gown in pale blue. “Here, put this on.”
“But, madame, I can’t wear that.”
“Shush. It’s important to look your best even if all you’re doing is hanging up cloaks. It’s an old gown of mine that I no longer wear. Now, don’t dawdle. Get dressed. The guests will be here soon.”
Berthe did as she was told. It was a beautiful dress, with short puffed sleeves and a lace-trimmed bodice. Madame scrutinized the dress and then reached over and removed the extra lace, revealing a low décolletage.
“Madame …” said Berthe, covering her half-bare bosom with both hands.
“Don’t be a twit. There’s no reason to hide what you have. Now go downstairs and be ready to see to my guests.”
It was Madame’s fortieth birthday and no detail had been overlooked. The food for the midnight supper had been ordered and the cook and her extra help had been preparing it for days. Musicians had been hired, wine and champagne delivered; extra livery men in red satin uniforms trimmed with gold braid were in attendance, and additional chairs had been rented and set up along the walls of the ballroom.
As the time of the party neared, Berthe found refuge inside the cloakroom in an effort to escape Madame’s endless demands for just a few minutes. As she leaned against the wall, her thoughts drifted to the ball her mother had attended as a new bride. “One day I received an invitation from the marquis d’Andervilliers to dance at his château at Vaubyessard” was how she always began the story.
“You and Papa,” Berthe would invariably remind her.
“Yes, yes, Papa and I,” she said impatiently.
She would recount each detail of the evening as one would unpack a trunk of cherished mementos. The dinner, the sparkling cut crystal and gleaming china, the elegant silver-covered dishes. The succulent lobster, juicy steaming quails, roasts so tender you could cut the meat with a fork. And the wine. So much wine. And ladies drinking right along with the men—an unheard of thing at public parties. It was at this dinner that Emma Bovary first tasted pineapple—“a fruit as sweet as the sweetest candy.” Finally, a maraschino ice in a silver gilt cup. Berthe watched her mother close her eyes as if retasting the cold dessert.
And then after dinner she had changed into her gown. This was Berthe’s favorite part of the story: listening to her mother describe how she looked. There was no question in the child’s mind that her mother was the most beautiful woman at the ball.
“I wore my hair in a simple chignon with waves on both sides. And a single rose on a stalk with artificial dewdrops on the tip of each leaf, which shook gently when I moved my head. My gown was of pale saffron …”
“What color is saffron?” Berthe invariably asked.
“A beautiful golden yellow,” her mother always explained with irritation. “How many times have I told you?” She hated being interrupted at this point. “The gown was trimmed with three different bouquets of roses surrounded with green leaves. The skirt was huge and when I danced …”
“You danced?”
“It was a ball, silly.”
“With Papa?”
“Of course not. I danced with gentlemen. So many handsome gentlemen. My skirt swirled around with the music, and I waltzed for the first time even though I had never before waltzed; it was as if my feet already knew how to move. The women who weren’t dancing stood against the wall and watched as I twirled and spun around the entire floor, never getting dizzy, never getting tired, never wanting to stop.”
Each time she told the story she would add new details: the candles, the perfume, the gilt-framed portraits of important people on the wall, the kindness of the marquis and marquise, the music, the château, and each time she would end the story with: “It was the most wonderful night of my life.”
Now her mother lay rotting in her moldy mausoleum and it was to be Madame Rappelais’s “most wonderful” night of her life. If only Berthe could stuff Madame into her mother’s mausoleum and put her mother twirling about in the middle of the Rappelaises’ ballroom floor. Wouldn’t she love to give her mother another ball to remember and Madame Rappelais her just due?
Monsieur Millet and his wife were among the first to arrive. They greeted Berthe with great warmth even as they handed her their cloaks.
“How beautiful you look, mademoiselle,” said Madame Millet. “Look, Jean, look at our own Mademoiselle Bovary. She is all grown up.”
“Yes, I must get you to pose for me again one of these days, but this time without the cow, eh?” He laughed, and the couple continued inside. Berthe felt a deep blush move from her face down her neck to her bare shoulders.
Monsieur and Madame Worth made their entrance shortly after. Worth studied Berthe’s dress. “I did this three seasons ago, I believe.” He fingered one of the puffed sleeves. “But if I recall correctly it had lace over the bodice.”
“Madame Rappelais removed it. I can reatta
ch it if you wish,” she said.
“Don’t be silly. It’s an excellent improvement—for both you and the neckline.” He looked at her with such admiration, she suddenly did feel very beautiful. This was reinforced by the long looks she received from the men who passed by her as they escorted their wives into the ballroom. She ignored the men’s glances and focused on their wives. Could she ever be one of these women? They had husbands and families and a secure sense of their place in society. She studied the pleased expression on each woman’s artfully painted face. Was this happiness? It certainly looked like it.
The last guest had arrived. Berthe had promised herself a peek at the ball, so she peered through the narrow opening between the closed double doors. She watched as the dancers swirled around the floor, the ladies’ skirts lifting and falling like enormous flower petals. The air was filled with the scent of perfume and pomade. The men were masterful in their straight-backed postures. They moved the ladies around the floor as if they were exquisitely dressed dolls.
She felt a sudden pang of jealousy. The beautiful story her mother had planted in her mind so many years before was being reenacted before her very eyes. But it all belonged to Madame Rappelais. Now she wished, just for a moment, that this could be her birthday, her home, her ball. She wished Armand were there with her, twirling her around in her beautiful gown as the guests stood by watching with admiration.
Suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder, heavy and strangely familiar. She pulled away from the touch and turned. Her eyes widened as she recognized the man who towered over her. With the exception of a few more lines around his eyes, Monsieur Boulanger, her mother’s old lover, looked exactly the same.
“Mademoiselle Bovary, how delightful to see you. And how you’ve grown! It’s been … almost three years since last we met? What a surprise to find you here, a beautiful young woman in this most beautiful of all cities. I had no idea.” He picked up her hand and started to kiss it, but she yanked it away before his lips touched her skin.
