by Linda Urbach
“Still the skittish one, I see.” He laughed, apparently unbothered by her show of revulsion.
“Ah, Rodolphe, how naughty of you to be so late!” The doors to the ballroom had opened and Madame Rappelais stood fanning herself with her ostrich fan. “You’ve missed the first dance. And I see you’ve wasted no time in making the acquaintance of my pretty maid, you rascal.”
“Oh, but Mademoiselle and I are very old friends. Very good old friends. Aren’t we, mademoiselle? We come from the very same province. Her dear, departed mother was a particular favorite of mine.” A particular favorite of his? As if her poor mother were a prize horse or a vintage wine. How dare he? Biting her lip to keep from expressing her disgust, Berthe glared at him.
“How very nice.” Madame Rappelais smiled, a gleam in her eye. “But come, Rodolphe, the evening’s half over. You must dance this next dance with me. That is, if I can tear you away from our Mademoiselle Bovary. Berthe, why don’t you take Monsieur Boulanger’s cloak and hat to the cloakroom?”
Berthe’s hands were shaking as she hung Boulanger’s things on one of the last remaining hooks. She longed to toss them into the nearest fireplace. The very sight of the man gave her a feeling of enormous dread. He couldn’t possibly harm her here, she told herself. Not in the midst of this lavish ball, in the home of her well-respected employers, under the nose of her very possessive mistress. She tried to calm herself, but his proximity filled her with fear.
Instead of watching the dancers as had been her plan, she stole out into the garden, took a seat on the marble bench underneath a pear tree, and leaned her head against the trunk. It was a brisk December night and the cold air felt good against her skin. The evening was clear and the moon shone on the frost-covered garden, giving the dead grass and barren branches of the trees and bushes an almost magical glow. She took deep, slow breaths in and out. In a few moments, she began to feel steady again.
Berthe clearly remembered the look on her mother’s face the day the apricots were delivered with Boulanger’s last note. She remembered how her mother hadn’t been surprised by the gift or the note that lay alongside them. It was as if she had known that this was the end of the love affair. Berthe wondered if she had always known. Even as she ordered her traveling outfit and trunk, as she planned her farewell note to her husband and daughter, had she somehow known that her life with Boulanger was never to be? Had she known when she had gone to Boulanger to beg him for enough money to save her family from bankruptcy that he would refuse? Surrounded by his furniture and art, his dogs and horses, he had turned her away without a franc. She had given him her love and he had robbed her of her hopes, her heart, and, finally and most painfully, her pride.
“Well, mademoiselle, it seems we are destined to keep meeting.” Berthe sat up with a start. Monsieur Boulanger leaned against the stone balustrade, his arms folded and one elegant leg crossed over the other. “Which leads me to believe that perhaps destiny has something more in mind.” He slowly uncrossed his arms and came toward her as if preparing to ask her to dance. “Yes, it seems to me that we are somehow meant to be together.” She stood quickly and backed away as he came closer. “I remember you as a child looking up at me with those big eyes as I rode out of the courtyard in Yonville. You were a beautiful little girl. More beautiful even than your mother.” Her back scraped against the high wall that separated the Rappelais garden from that of their neighbors. “Come, don’t be afraid of me. I only want to help you.” He extended his hand to touch her arm.
“And how do you think you can help me, monsieur?” She tried to keep her voice from wavering.
“I can take care of you. I told you that on the road outside of Millet’s house. I’ve thought of you often since then,” he said, peering down at her. She felt sick to her stomach.
“Why would you think of me? I am nothing to you,” she said, lifting her chin and fixing him with her steeliest gaze.
“Perhaps because you, chère mademoiselle, had the temerity to refuse me. I don’t think anyone has ever done that before. I must say that intrigued me. You intrigue me.” He moved even closer and before she could move away he grabbed her arm, his fingers pressing into her flesh.
“Let me go,” she hissed, trying to free herself. “Let me go or I’ll scream.” The threat sounded ridiculous even to her own ears.
“You have your mother’s lovely white skin,” he said, stroking her neck with his thumb. She felt her throat close. She wanted to scream but she could barely catch her breath. Fear had driven the very air from her lungs. His large form bent over her, blocking out the full moon. She was aware of his strong cologne, as well as the unmistakable scent of cognac. His mouth moved to her ear and he breathed into it. “The insides of your thighs, I wager they are like your mother’s, too. Like white satin.” He reached under her skirt. Now she did scream.
“Get away! Leave me alone!”
But he didn’t stop. Using his whole body he pressed her against the wall and began to lift her skirt higher.
“Oh, ho, Rodolphe, up to your old tricks—deflowering young maidens. I thought you gave that up when you took up billiards. Aren’t you getting a bit old for this?” Madame Rappelais stood a few steps away, watching them with amusement.
Berthe was never so glad to see anyone. Boulanger slowly lifted his head to look at Madame Rappelais. She was smiling at him fondly as if he were a mischievous child—as if there was nothing untoward about his behavior. “Of course, I can’t say that I blame you, my dear,” Madame Rappelais continued. “She is quite a beauty.”
“And how very generous of you to be giving gifts on your birthday.” His hand tightened its grip on Berthe’s arm.
“A token from one fellow connoisseur to another. Forgive me, I must get back to my guests. I don’t want to miss the supper.” Madame Rappelais swirled around and without a backward glance floated up the garden steps.
Berthe then realized that her mistress, an advocate of sex in all its forms whether it was between consenting or non-consenting adults, had planned this meeting from the beginning. She kicked out at Boulanger but he held her tightly by both arms. He marched her toward the back staircase of the house. She knew it was useless to scream. Nothing could be heard above the music from the orchestra. She could barely put one foot in front of the other. Sweat dripped down from her forehead, blurring her vision. She could not breathe. Never in her life had she experienced such all-consuming fear.
One hot summer afternoon when Berthe was quite young, Félicité had taken her to a nearby pond for a picnic. While the maid was unpacking the lunch, Berthe wandered into the water and fell in over her head. She could see the light of the sun and sky above, but no matter how hard she struggled she couldn’t get out. One minute she was alive and breathing and the next drowning and dying. It was a feeling of total panic, but nothing compared to what she was experiencing now.
Inside Madame’s bedroom, Boulanger pushed Berthe roughly onto the bed. He stood over her as he began to unfasten his velvet breeches.
She began striking Boulanger hard in the face with her fists. She was filled with rage.
“Ah, there’s nothing I like better than a good fight,” he said, easily catching her wrists and pinning her down with his entire body. “I see you are not going to go quietly. All the better.”
“I’ll kill you,” Berthe hissed through clenched teeth. Boulanger threw back his head and laughed.
“Yes, of course, you’ll kill me. But first you’ll love me.” He crushed his lips against hers. She bit his lower lip until she drew blood. “You little fox. So much for foreplay,” he said, sucking his lip. While he held her down with one arm jammed across her neck he pulled up her skirt and ripped off her pantaloons. Totally immobilized by his considerable weight and height, she was powerless to move. He wrenched her legs apart and the next thing she knew there was a hard thrusting against her sex. She screamed. Her body resisted him. He can’t get in. I won’t let him in. But the pain was unbearable. He rammed ag
ainst her over and over until she felt a sharp tearing inside, followed by a warm wetness. He continued thrusting for several seconds until he finally groaned, shuddered, and lay still. “Now, that wasn’t so terrible, was it?” He pulled himself up and straightened his clothes.
Berthe couldn’t look at him. Choking on her tears, she sat up and slipped quickly off the bed. There, in the center of Madame’s satin duvet, was a red splash of blood. Her blood there for the whole world to see. She felt somehow separated from her body. It had become a dirty, disgusting thing. It wasn’t so much that it now belonged to Boulanger, but that it had been so debased it couldn’t belong to anyone. But the pain between her legs reminded her that she could not cut herself off from her physical self no matter how much she wanted to.
The sound of a throat clearing loudly caused Boulanger to spin around.
“What have we here? Your own little party, monsieur?” To Berthe’s immense relief and shame Monsieur Rappelais stood in the doorway.
“I fear your supper is getting cold,” Monsieur Rappelais said quietly. “And you, Mademoiselle Bovary, you look tired. You may go to bed. I’ll arrange for one of the footmen to give the guests their cloaks.”
She was shivering. Her legs felt as if they would give way any moment. She grabbed on to the bedpost to steady herself. Monsieur Rappelais took hold of her elbow and escorted her up the back stairs to the next floor and to her room.
“Go to bed. Try to forget about all this unpleasantness,” he said kindly.
“Unpleasantness!” Her throat was as dry as paper. As if she had been screaming for hours. She wanted to scream now. She wanted to slap the old gentleman in his kind, concerned face. Instead she said, “Has your wife known Monsieur Boulanger for a long time?” She could barely get the words out.
“Oh, yes, they are old lovers. In fact, it was Boulanger who introduced her to Monsieur Millet. It is a very small place, this world of ours.”
“And you don’t care about ‘this world of yours’? About what Madame Rappelais does?”
“I am too old to care.” He sighed heavily. “My wife … She is a slave to her passions, the way we all are. She perhaps has more intense desires than most, but she means no harm.”
“No harm? Letting that man have his way with me is what you call no harm? Oh, Monsieur Rappelais, how can you say that? How can you believe it? How can you let yourself be deluded like that?”
The old man shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “I am sorry if you were hurt, my dear. I’m afraid I am powerless over what goes on in this house.” He patted her on the shoulder.
After Monsieur Rappelais left, she tore off the dress Madame had given her to wear, stuffing it into the closet where she wouldn’t have to look at it. Then she washed herself between the legs. She stood in front of the small mirror and stared at her reflection. Suddenly she burst into deep, wrenching sobs. She wept for her father and for Monsieur Rappelais, men helplessly bewitched by women who took advantage of them, yet were guilty of perpetuating the world’s evils through their passivity. She wept for her mother, who hadn’t known how to love the decent man she had married. She wept for Armand, who might never learn how much Berthe cared for him. Finally, she wept long and hard for herself. And not one of the tears she shed that night offered her any relief whatsoever.
Berthe lay in bed the next morning staring at the ceiling. Except for a throbbing behind her eyes, she was numb all over. She could not convince her arms and legs to move. Eventually, the door flew open and Madame DuPoix stood in the room, her hands on her hips.
“What do you think this is, a national holiday for maids? You’re lucky that Madame is good-hearted enough not to complain when you never appeared this morning. Now get up at once.” Berthe dragged herself out of bed and walked slowly to the window. It was a bright blue day; she felt that even the weather was conspiring against her.
She did her chores listlessly, thankful that her mistress had gone out for the day. She was turning down the bed that evening when Madame Rappelais called to her from her bath.
“Come and scrub my back, dear girl.” Berthe wanted to pretend she hadn’t heard her. She wanted to flee from the room. The satin bloodstained duvet had been replaced with a new one. Was it that easy to erase all signs of a rape?
Berthe went into the bathroom, picked up the brush, and began to scrub Madame’s pink back. She imagined how satisfying it would be to drown this woman in her own lavender-scented water. To hold her down until bubbles no longer escaped from her nose and mouth, until her eyes grew wide and blank. Berthe’s brushstrokes became rougher and rougher until the bristles left red marks on Madame’s skin.
“Ouch!” Madame shrieked. “Mon Dieu! Not so hard. You’re hurting me.” Madame tried to grab her by the arm, but Berthe slipped out of her soapy grasp. “What’s the matter, ma chérie? Why are you angry? Come, let me kiss that frown away.”
“No, madame.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“No, you will not touch me. Not now, not ever.” Berthe struggled to keep her voice steady and low.
“Do not worry, mademoiselle,” her mistress said coldly. “I don’t make a habit of raping young girls.”
“No, you get an old friend to do that for you.”
Madame acted as if she hadn’t heard. “Hand me my towel and then you may go.”
Berthe took the towel that was draped over the chaise, dropped it on the floor, turned on her heel, and left the room.
“Get me my robe! Do you want me to catch pneumonia?” Madame Rappelais shrieked.
Berthe picked up the robe from Madame’s bed and returned to the bathroom. She looked down at Madame Rappelais, who was beginning to lift herself out of the tub, soapy water slipping down her wet body.
“Your robe, madame,” she said, dropping it into the water. Berthe was pleased to see that her mistress was left speechless.
Four days later, a young girl appeared at the front door of rue Payenne. She was about thirteen years old and quite beautiful, with thick chestnut hair, brown eyes, and a fresh peach complexion.
“I have an appointment,” the girl said shyly.
“Who shall I say is calling?” asked Berthe.
“Michelle Gossien. I have come from Monsieur Rappelais’s mill in Lille. I was told there was a position available.”
“Position?”
“Of lady’s maid.” The girl kept her eyes downcast as she played with the ribbons of her faded bonnet. “Monsieur Rappelais himself sent me money for my train fare.”
Berthe considered warning the poor girl away, but her only option would be to return to the cotton mill, and Berthe shuddered at the thought of sending her back to that hideous place. Besides, Madame would only make her husband find another victim to fill her place.
“I am making a few staff changes,” Madame Rappelais said when Berthe announced the visitor. She sat at her secretary, writing thank-you notes. “Mademoiselle Gossien will take on the position of lady’s maid. After you train her you will be promoted to a position downstairs.”
“Downstairs?”
“You will serve as downstairs housemaid.”
We are like pieces on a game board, Berthe thought. Everyone moves one space down to make room for the next poor fool. She was to be moved to Hélène’s old place and perhaps one day, if she worked hard enough and if Madame forgave her, she could take Madame DuPoix’s place as housekeeper. She clenched her hands into tight fists, turned, and left the room. She felt like slamming the door, but she wouldn’t give Madame the satisfaction.
She packed her few things, leaving the maid’s uniform carefully folded on the bed. She was back in her homespun skirt once again. Then she went to say good-bye to Monsieur Rappelais, whom she found on the landing near the front door.
“In her way, my wife loves you, you know,” he said, twirling his mustache nervously.
“She has an odd way of showing it.”
“She has an odd way of showing everything.” He smiled ruefull
y.
Berthe thanked him for the knowledge about fabrics he had imparted and for his kindness toward her. Then she quietly walked out and strode quickly down the street. As she turned the corner and glanced back one last time at the handsome house at 11, rue Payenne, she reflected that she might never again live at such an exclusive address. But instead of feeling sad, she felt a great sense of freedom. Now she must face the unknown. And what a boundless unknown it was.
CHAPTER 28
Reunion
PARIS, 1858
IN THE ENTIRE CITY OF PARIS, BERTHE HAD ONLY ONE FRIEND she could turn to. Hélène had written her to tell her of her new address, a boardinghouse on the Left Bank near Saint Germain-des-Prés.
Berthe was surprised to see that the house was well maintained, with brass door fittings that had recently been polished and windows hung with clean lace curtains.
The landlady was a pretty, middle-aged woman with thick dark hair parted in the middle and worn in two large buns covering each of her ears. She was dressed in a blue silk dress with a clean white collar and cuffs.
“Ah, you are a friend of Mademoiselle Du Croix? I am so happy to meet you. She is out but will be back momentarily. Make yourself comfortable in our parlor.” Berthe was surprised at the landlady’s warm reception. Hélène must be doing well for herself. At least she must be paying her rent on time, Berthe thought.
The parlor was furnished with velvet couches, needlepoint side chairs, fringed table lamps, gilded mirrors, and a fine, slightly faded Persian carpet on the floor. Twenty minutes later, Berthe heard a rustle at the door.
“Bonjour, Madame Laporte, comment ça va?” Berthe immediately recognized Hélène’s husky voice.
“You have a visitor in the parlor,” said the landlady.
Hélène swept into the room bringing with her a waft of gardenia. Berthe could hardly believe her eyes. If it hadn’t been for the red hair she would have had a difficult time recognizing her old friend. She was dressed in a blue-gray striped jacket with turned-back pagoda sleeves trimmed in black braid and a matching blue-gray skirt. Underneath the jacket she wore a sparkling white blouse with long sleeves that hung down over her lower arms. She looked every bit the elegant young lady out for a day of shopping.
