by Linda Urbach
“By all means, think it over, mademoiselle,” said Monsieur Bobergh, quickly escorting the young woman out. He returned within seconds. “That is the fourth applicant that you’ve managed to insult this week,” he said. “You had better settle on someone soon or you will run out of prospects.”
“Oh, monsieur, I could do that job. I would be very good at it,” Berthe said, surprising even herself at her audacity.
Worth looked at her and smiled indulgently.
“You are too young, too inexperienced, and too undressed.”
“But I could learn. You yourself said I had a flair for fabrics. Please, monsieur, if you would just give me a chance.”
“Why not, Charles?” put in Bobergh, clearly relieved that here was someone willing to work with Worth.
“I don’t mean to assault you, mademoiselle, but it is a question of class. My patrons are wealthy, demanding women. One has to be able to withstand their artichoke.”
“After Madame Rappelais, I can withstand anyone’s ‘artichoke,’ ” she said. “Please, if you aren’t happy with my work, you can fire me.”
“Why not fire you now and save myself the aggravation?” joked Worth.
“Monsieur, please. You won’t be sorry, I promise you.”
He removed his skullcap and rubbed his head.
“All right, we’ll give you a trial. You will start next week.”
Berthe was ecstatic. To work in Monsieur Worth’s beautiful atelier, helping women select fabrics and trims for his wonderful gowns, to actually be paid for something she loved doing was a dream come true.
“How much will my pay be?” she asked, holding her breath.
“Shall we say twenty francs a week?” said Worth, looking at Bobergh, who nodded his head happily in agreement.
Berthe thought for a moment.
“But you offered the other girl forty francs a week,” she finally said. She could feel the perspiration collecting underneath her bonnet.
Monsieur Worth looked at her.
“Oh, so she has a head for numbers, as well as an eyeball for fashion,” he said to Bobergh. “I better watch out. Pretty soon she will be taking over my business.” He turned to Berthe. “All right, mademoiselle, forty francs it is.”
“Oh, sir, thank you, thank you,” said Berthe, clasping his hands and shaking them vigorously. She wanted to cry or laugh, she didn’t know which.
“Be careful of The Instruments,” he said, pulling his hands away and holding them up as if they were those of a concert pianist. “And perhaps later, if you work out, we will add a small commission. Is that agreeable with you, Monsieur Moneybags?” he said, turning to Bobergh.
“As you wish, Monsieur Masterpiece.” Both men laughed uproariously.
Berthe had started daydreaming about the first gown she would create. She thought of the illustration she had carried around with her for so many years. She could modernize that once adored dress, keeping the basic structure but removing the roses, leaves, and crystals and replacing them with simple lilies of the valley. Intead of spotted tulle trimmed in velvet she would use a double layer of plain silk tulle. But for now she would keep her designs in her head. Clearly Worth was not looking for someone to challenge his control over what was produced in his studio.
“You wanted the name of a supplier of serge de Nîmes?” Worth reminded her.
“Oh, yes, please,” Berthe said, coming back to reality. “My friend will be grateful. I think it is just the fabric he needs for what he has in mind.” She completely put aside her alternative plan to go to America. I am much better off here in Paris without the Indians to worry about.
Worth wrote down the address of a wholesale dry goods company that would give her a sample and, ultimately, a fair price on a large order of serge de Nîmes.
Berthe took a sample of the fabric back to the boardinghouse to show Monsieur Strauss. He was in his room about to partake of a meal of bread and cheese on top of his bed.
“I see your appetite is back, Monsieur Strauss. You must be feeling better.”
“I can’t take any chances with Madame’s cuisine. I will be taking all my meals in my room until I leave.” He held out a piece of bread. “May I offer you something, Mademoiselle Bovary?”
“Thank you, no. But I have something for you.” She unwrapped the package and held out the fabric to him.
“And what is this?” He fingered the material, then held it up to his nose to smell.
“It’s serge de Nîmes, a fabric that is made in the town of the same name. As you can see it’s quite soft but very durable. Our farmers wear it for its sturdiness. This is what you should be making your overalls from.”
He took the small piece of cloth over to the window and held it up to the light, pulling it this way and that. It seemed like so many years ago that Monsieur Millet had done the same thing with the homespun cloth as he demonstrated the importance of texture. She felt as if she had grown threefold since that girl in the pasture.
Monsieur Strauss pulled at the fabric with all his strength.
“This is marvelous. You have performed a great service to my family and me, mademoiselle. A very great service indeed.” Berthe gave him the name of the dry goods store where she had obtained the sample.
Two days later there was a knock on her door. Monsieur Strauss stood in the hallway, twirling the brim of his hat round and round.
“Mademoiselle Bovary, I am planning to travel to Nîmes to negotiate the best price for this new fabric,” he said. “But before I go, I have a proposition for you. Come to America with me. I will give you an important position in my company. You have already made an enormous contribution. I want you to continue to prosper with us.” He looked up at her with his sad brown eyes.
For a moment she felt a giddy surge of pride. In a short time, she had received two excellent job offers. Other people were willing to pay her for her knowledge, for what Monsieur Worth had called her “flair for fabrics.” It had nothing to do with her youth, or her beauty, or her body. Monsieur Strauss wasn’t interested in those things. And Worth was too involved with himself and his creations. It was the first time Berthe truly believed that she could not only take care of herself, she could succeed. But now she had to choose. Should she go to California with Monsieur Strauss? She could leave the legacy of her mother, the tragedy of the Bovary name far behind. Or should she stay in Paris and work for Monsieur Worth?
Out of nowhere, an image of Armand’s long arms reaching up to paint the mural on Madame Rappelais’s ceiling came back to her. Oh, those arms, those deep-set blue eyes. She shook the vision from her head. She couldn’t afford to dwell on what she didn’t have.
“Are you completely sure?” asked Monsieur Strauss when she told him her decision. “I cannot say anything that will change your mind?”
“No, monsieur, my future is here. But thank you, truly, for your kind offer.”
“It is not kind, mademoiselle. I am a businessman. I don’t make business decisions from the heart.” He took her hand. “And I repay my debts.”
“You don’t owe me anything, monsieur.”
“I don’t. But Levi Strauss and Company surely does. May I write to you?”
“Oh, please do! I will be happy to hear news of your venture.”
Monsieur Strauss returned to America loaded down with several thousand yards of serge de Nîmes while Berthe began work at the House of Worth.
CHAPTER 32
A New Chapter
WITH HER NEW SALARY, BERTHE WAS ABLE TO AFFORD HER OWN room at Madame Laporte’s. She didn’t want to stay a minute longer in Hélène’s room; she was afraid that at any time a gendarme could come knocking at the door looking for stolen goods. And she knew that half the merchandise from Paris’s department stores lay hidden underneath her friend’s bed. As a gesture of grudging goodwill, Hélène gave Berthe a lovely frock to wear to her new job.
“And don’t be forgettin’ where that come from,” said Hélène.
“
From you, my dear friend.”
“No, from Le Bon Marché.”
As she settled into her new employment, Berthe found herself in a constant state of excitement and awe watching Monsieur Worth create his art. He never seemed to stop thinking of new ideas. The atmosphere at the atelier was alive with his creative energy.
Often, the models just stood around in their cage crinolines, bell-shaped frameworks formed from a series of horizontal hoops and suspended with tapes from the waist, that made it difficult to sit. Worth, meanwhile, dashed from one model to the next, draping and undraping fabric, attaching trim, standing back, squinting his eyes, removing his skullcap, and scratching his head. Nothing seemed to please him.
On one such day, finally, one of the models said, “My feet are killing me.” Sitting down suddenly on one of the small side chairs, her crinoline rose up, exposing her bloomers. Everyone laughed except for Worth.
“Genius is having a brainstorm!” he said, clapping his hands. “We are going to do away with the underskirt. The time has come for me to use my brilliant idea. Yes, this is the moment.” He instructed one of the girls to put on a dress without the crinoline cage. Then he draped and pinned the fabric in the back, thereby creating a whole new silhouette.
“The lady’s bottom is now the new royalty,” he proclaimed. “And here is where we put the crown.” He added a large bow to the bunched up fabric. “I christen you the Bustle. Write this down,” he said to Berthe. “From here on out, all great dress designs will focus on two places: the bustier and the derrière.”
One morning Berthe arrived to see Worth rushing around gathering swatches. He was in an even higher state of agitation than usual.
“The Empress is coming! The Empress is coming!” he announced. “Find me some silk. In blue. No, burgundy. No, saffron.”
“The Empress is really coming?” asked Berthe.
“Did I not say so? Now hurry. Gather up the most gargantuan of our fabrics.”
An hour later, the Empress Eugénie herself arrived. She was one of the most beautiful women Berthe had ever seen. She had wide-spaced violet blue eyes, a small straight nose, and the smallest rosebud mouth. Her hair was worn in a simple chignon at the back of her long white neck. Her arms were graceful and beautifully plump and her hands were so tiny they looked as if they belonged to a child. She was cold and aloof, as befitted an empress. Berthe wondered why she had come to the shop. She could have easily had Worth call upon her at the palace.
She soon explained. “I wanted to see what all the fuss was about, and to view all of your dresses, Monsieur Worth.”
“All of them?” he said, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
She didn’t even bother to nod her head. He clapped his hands loudly and called out: “Girls, girls, quickly. Gown yourselves.” What followed was to be known thereafter as the world’s first fashion show. After much commotion, Worth’s models came out one by one, dressed in his most recent creations. One after another bowed and then turned slowly, according to Worth’s direction, in order to show off every angle. The Empress sat unsmiling. Worth fluttered about, describing each gown in his flawed French, pointing out and praising various details.
“As you can see, Your Exaltedness, I have created a new sleeve in this visiting dress. I call it the Polonaise.”
The Empress had no comment.
“And you will notice my new silhouette. I have christened her the Bustle.”
Again not a word from the Empress.
“The fabric you are fingering is called … I forget the French term. What is it called, Mademoiselle Bovary?”
“Velours de peluche,” Berthe said, flattered to be called upon in the presence of the Empress Eugénie.
“I know what plush velvet is, monsieur,” said the Empress, lifting her chin to an even more regal angle.
When every last dress had been paraded, Monsieur Worth rubbed his hands, waiting for some reaction from the Empress. Berthe stood in the corner, a notebook readied to write down her special instructions.
“Tell me, Monsieur Worth, your honest opinion of what I am wearing.” Empress Eugénie stood up and turned around. She was wearing a walking dress of mustard-colored brocaded silk. The sleeves hung down to her wrists, from which cuffs of muslin peered out. Over the dress she wore a double cape of red velvet with a lace flounce trimmed in a line of velvet ribbon. Covering her dark hair was a bonnet of matching mustard-colored velvet with a white plume. Berthe thought that both the color and the style were terribly unflattering.
Worth stood back, his chin in his hand, studying the whole effect.
“Well, Your Majestiness, I can honestly say that this is the ugliest ensemble I have ever opened my eyelids to.”
Berthe gasped. The Empress lifted the edge of her cape and studied it. Finally, she looked at Worth and said, “Exactly my feelings, monsieur. Let us begin. We obviously have much work to do.”
As Worth led the Empress toward his inner sanctum, Berthe followed, almost breathless with excitement. Perhaps I could help them with the color choices. She knew what color she would choose first: a pale peach to complement the Empress’s lovely complexion.
At that moment, there was a loud ringing of the doorbell. Monsieur Worth turned to Berthe.
“Whoever it is, tell them to come back tomorrow. I have all I can chew on now,” he whispered. He escorted the Empress into the fitting room. With a sigh, Berthe made her way to the entrance of the atelier. She could hear someone shouting from the street.
“Wake up! Wake up! Where is everyone? La Pearl has arrived.”
Berthe opened the door a few inches. There, standing on the steps, was the most notorious woman in Paris, the courtesan and actress Cora Pearl. Berthe had read about her in the papers, as had everyone else in the country.
“I have an appointment with Monsieur Worth. Where is he?” she said, pushing past Berthe.
“I’m so sorry, madame, but he is occupied at the moment.”
“Occupied? But I am supposed to choose the fabric for my opening night gown today. I am in rehearsals every day. I have no other time.” She spoke French fluently but with an English cockney accent.
Her high cheeks were flushed with frustration. She was a pretty woman—not beautiful, but she exuded a sweet sexuality, an irresistible combination of innocence and intrigue. Her thick auburn hair was worn in a casual upsweep. Her soft full mouth was pushed out in a rosy pout.
“Perhaps I can help you, madame.”
“And who are you, may I ask?” the actress said, one eyebrow arched.
“I am Monsieur’s assistant. I can show you some fabrics until he is free.”
“Well, I suppose there is nothing else to be done.” The actress followed Berthe into the room where long tables were stacked with bolt after bolt of fabric. Immediately she saw something she liked. “What about this?” Madame Pearl said, running her fingers along a heavy brocade. “I love this. Wouldn’t it make a stunning gown?”
The fabric she’d chosen, of brocaded lampas and silk, was a copy of a tapestry woven for Catherine the Great. The medallions enclosed alternating pairs of peacocks and swans. It was better suited to an upholstery fabric, Berthe thought. But how could she redirect the woman away from the horrid material? Should she flatter Madame Pearl’s taste or tell her the truth? She remembered Worth and the Empress and how he had spoken his mind without fear of disapproval from the most powerful woman in France. She took a deep breath.
“I’m afraid a dress made out of that would make you look like a chaise longue.” She had followed Worth’s example, but he was Charles Frederick Worth and she was nobody. Had she gone too far?
There was a long silence as Cora Pearl studied Berthe closely. To Berthe’s great relief, Madame Pearl finally threw back her head and laughed boisterously.
“A chaise longue? Something to lie upon? That’s not such a bad idea.” She patted Berthe on the cheek. “I like you. You tell the truth. How very refreshing. Well, mademoiselle, since you are so
wise, you tell me which fabric I should select. And make sure it’s not one of Monsieur Worth’s most expensive or I will begin to suspect you of collusion.”
Berthe selected two fabrics: an embroidered silk brocade of gold and white, and a silver lamé with embossed fleurs-de-lis. “I can’t decide. What do you think?” Madame Pearl asked, holding up each to her chin.
“Why not use both in one dress,” suggested Berthe. “You could have a bodice of the gold and white, and carry it over with insets in the silver skirt.”
“Won’t that cost me twice as much?”
“I will have to speak to Monsieur Worth.”
“Has anyone combined these two fabrics in one dress before?”
“No, not that I know of, madame.”
“Well, let’s do it, then. Hang the price,” said the actress, clapping her hands.
To Berthe’s amazement, she became a great favorite of Cora Pearl’s—so much so that whenever the woman came to order new dresses she asked to see Berthe first.
“The little one understands the need not just to look beautiful but to make a statement as well,” she said to Monsieur Worth. Berthe was counting on the fact that Worth would appreciate her efforts and ultimately reward her with a raise in salary. But as time went on and it became apparent that he was not going to offer an increase, she decided to ask him herself. What would happen if he was so angry at her for asking that he fired her instead? She was very nervous. But she knew she had proven herself. She had to take the chance.
“Monsieur, are you satisfied with my work?” she asked one day.
“I am as happy as an oyster,” he said, ripping a flounce off the bottom of a new black silk gown. “Why do you ask?”
“I would like an increase in my pay.” He looked at her as though she had just asked him if he minded if she poked him in the eye with a pair of pinking shears. She immediately began to lose her nerve. You had to open your mouth. Now see what you’ve done. You’ll be out on the street again. There was a long silence. She had never experienced a silent Worth before. She longed for his fractured French chatter. She wanted to take back her request, but instead she pressed her lips together and clasped her hands behind her so that he wouldn’t see them shake.
