by Linda Urbach
“Monsieur, I know just what your salon needs,” Berthe announced to her patron a few weeks later.
“Another pair of hands, another set of eyes, another brilliant mind like mine.” He was working on a new gown for the Empress, using one of his models for a fitting. “But alas, there is no one like me in all the world.” He sighed. “So many bosoms and bottoms, so little time.”
“You need to elevate your salon to the level of your genius.”
She had his attention. “Go on,” he said. “I don’t have all day to stand and chew.”
“I propose you have a mural painted. A work of art that celebrates your art. On that wall over there.” She pointed to an area just inside the entrance to the atelier. “So that when your customers walk in they are immediately made aware of the fact that they are entering not just a dress salon, but a museum of art. Your museum.”
He needed no further convincing. She recommended Armand, and Monsieur Worth readily agreed. He remembered the Rappelais mural and had been impressed with the painter’s skill.
Berthe was thrilled. If she could find Armand permanent work, then perhaps they could eventually afford a house, get married, raise a family. To think, only six years ago I was struggling to learn how to milk a cow. Looking back, she began to see a theme not just of survival but of great progress. It was only two years since she walked out of the Rappelais home with no job, no home, and no idea of how she would earn her living. And now she was gainfully employed, even highly respected by Monsieur Worth. She was earning an excellent salary with the confidence of more to come. She was eighteen years old, and for the first time in her life she envisioned a future filled with promise and great success.
Her stomach did a nervous dance. Why did that worry her? Why did she continue to have the feeling of a hovering shoe about to drop?
“I don’t need you to peddle my wares,” Armand said angrily that evening. Berthe was taken aback.
“Oh, no. Of course not,” she said sarcastically. “You’re doing so well on your own. Look at this wonderful gallery you use to show your work. People are lined up on the dingy stairway just for a viewing.” She opened the door and shouted down the stairway, “Messieurs and mesdames, the De Pouvier studio will be open shortly. Please be patient and have your money ready.”
She wasn’t sure who was more surprised by her outburst, Armand or she. But he was the first to laugh.
“All right, all right, I’ll talk to the great Monsieur Worth. But no copies of a Titian.”
“No, no,” she assured him. “Monsieur Worth will want something totally original, completely your own creation.”
“This is what I have in mind,” said Monsieur Worth, stroking his beard. “I want Titian’s Venus here.” Worth waved his hand as if he were conducting an orchestra. “Only instead of her lying naked, I want her to be dressed in one of my newest gowns. I will show you which one.” Berthe put her hand on Armand’s arm, but it was too late.
“Clothing the naked Venus! Are you out of your mind?” Armand practically spit.
Worth seemed to ponder this as if it were a question that required an answer.
“I think you misunderstood, Monsieur Worth,” said Berthe evenly. “Monsieur de Pouvier doesn’t just paint Venuses by Titian. His real strength is in his own original work.”
“I don’t know,” said Worth, taking off his skullcap and rubbing his head. “All I have seen of his work was what he did for Madame Rappelais.”
“I would think you, of all people, would want something unique, something that was an emblem of your genius,” Berthe gently reminded him.
“Emblem sounds more expensive to my trained earlobe,” said Worth, frowning.
“It will be a fair price, I assure you,” said Armand.
“In that case, the two of you decide what to paint. I have too much originality on my brain as it is.” He returned to his work, leaving Armand and Berthe grinning at each other.
Berthe took Armand to the nearest café, an elegant establishment on the corner of the rue de la Paix, where the price of a café au lait was what she had not very long ago spent on room and board for a week. “My treat, to celebrate,” she told him. It was late afternoon and the café was almost empty. They sat at a linen-covered table by the window.
Berthe came up with a plan that she thought would satisfy both men.
“You know those sketches you did of women walking along the Seine? Why not turn them into a painting, but have them wearing dresses that have been designed by Worth?”
“But that’s absurd. He designs nothing but ball gowns. What would women be doing walking along the Seine in ball gowns?” Armand downed his coffee in one gulp and set the cup down in the saucer with a clink.
“No, you’re wrong. He creates visiting dresses and walking dresses. He designs scarves and hats. He has even created a fragrance.”
“I can’t paint a fragrance,” said Armand, throwing up his hands in frustration.
“Of course not. But don’t you think it’s a good idea? Your wonderful women strolling along in his beautiful designs.”
“I think it’s crass and commercial, and I would not call it art. It’s nothing more than an advertisement for Charles Worth.”
“Not to mention an advertisement for yourself.”
Despite himself, Armand finally smiled. He reached across the table and ran his finger along her cheek.
Monsieur Worth approved the sketch for the mural immediately. And he had another idea.
“At the end of the year, you can paint new dresses on the ladies. So that the mural keeps up with the fashion. What say you?” Armand considered this. “Of course I will be happy to put you on a handsome retainer. But you must not do this for any other dressmaker. It will be exclusive to my salon. Do you agree?” Armand continued to ponder the proposition, as if he were deciding what to have for lunch. Berthe gave him a push.
“I’m sure he agrees, don’t you, Armand?”
Armand nodded his head.
“I like you,” said Monsieur, slapping Armand on the shoulder. “You are as imperious as I am. We arrogant artists must fasten together.”
It took Armand three months to complete Worth’s mural, and it was a huge success. Portrait commissions from Worth’s customers began pouring in. Armand was able to move to a bigger, brighter studio on the rue Bonaparte. One morning Berthe woke up before dawn and decided to surprise Armand with breakfast in bed. She stopped at the bakery on the corner of rue Bonaparte, where they were just taking the bread out of the oven. She bought a baguette and hurried up the stairs of his apartment house. She wanted to make him coffee before he woke.
As she entered the apartment she looked at him from across the room. His mouth was open, his head thrown back. His long narrow foot stuck out from under the covers. She felt tears well up. She never knew she could be so happy or feel so full of love. And then as she watched him it suddenly hit her: He wasn’t breathing. He’s dead!
He had died during the night. All the hard work and late hours had taken their toll. His poor heart had given out; he was gone, leaving her forever alone.
She fell to her knees at the side of his bed and pressed her ear against his chest. She heard the clear strong beat of his heart. You silly fool, she said to herself. He’s not dead. He’s only sleeping. He opened his eyes and smiled at her. It was then that she knew for certain. She wanted to spend her life with this man. “Are you my dream or am I awake?” He pulled her into bed with him and began kissing her.
“It’s a dream.” She laughed. “You must wake up now and go to work. Fame and fortune await you.”
“Let them wait,” he said. “First I have to ravish someone in my dream.” And he proceeded to make slow, sleepy love to her. Afterward, he fell promptly asleep again. She lay there filled with happiness, and sheer joy. Armand had come back into her life because she had wished for it and dreamed of it. And now he loved her. It was what she had wanted from the very beginning. They belonged together.
Carriages lined the street outside the shop on rue de la Paix from early morning until late at night. Every day Worth attracted more and more clients. They were women of the very highest status. All of society it seemed was attracted to the salon. Women would wait for hours in the second salon for a chance to confer with the master on either a new dress or his predictions for the forthcoming fashion season. They hung on Worth’s every word and seemed to welcome his rather sharp criticism. Gossip abounded as the ladies gathered each afternoon, and that was how Berthe came to hear about Le Petit Manoir on the avenue Bois de Boulogne.
“It is such a pity about the Gautiers. They’ve lost everything. His ship not only didn’t come in, it sank in the Bay of Biscay,” said Madame DuPlesse, carefully choosing a chocolate from a box on her lap.
“They owe millions to their creditors. They’ve fled the country,” said the wasp-waisted Madame Filet, who held out her hand for the box of chocolates. Madame DuPlesse appeared not to notice, so intent was she on making the right choice.
“Their home is in foreclosure. The bank has taken it over,” added Madame DuPlesse. Madame Filet turned her attention to her nails, admiring each one as if she had just grown them that day. When Madame DuPlesse finally offered the box of chocolates to her, she pretended she was no longer interested.
“What a shame!” said Madame Filet. “A lovely home. Not a grand château but it has its charms.”
“An excellent location,” agreed Madame DuPlesse. “I talked to Georges about buying it for our youngest. It is a veritable steal. But he thinks the garden too small.” Berthe was no longer listening. Early the next morning on her way to work she made a detour and stopped by the small house on the avenue Bois de Boulogne near the park. There was a sign posted on the front door:
FORCLUSION. Par Banque de Paris.
She felt a great wave of pity for the people who once lived in this house. She remembered the day the bank had foreclosed on her parents’ house, taking away every piece of furniture. To lose a house was to Berthe second only to the loss of a parent. It was like forfeiting your place in the world.
Le Petit Manoir, by far the smallest house on the street, was situated on a lovely square. It was three stories high, built of granite. The French windows were graced by intricate wrought-iron railings and the mansard roof was trimmed with copper. She walked around to the back of the house. A gardener was cutting back some of the ivy that threatened to close in on the windows.
“Do you know how much they are asking for this house?”
The man put down his shears, wiped his brow, and looked Berthe up and down.
“All I knows is there ain’t no takers. No one in this neighborhood is interested. It’s too small for them that could afford it and too big for the likes of you, mademoiselle.”
She looked around at the garden of roses and wildflowers, planted between rows of Belgium block. The garden was not at all too small for her. And it was right here in the heart of Paris. With a house like this, she would be safe from the wolf she always imagined about to knock at her door. She had lost her home so many times in her young life; a house like this would provide her and Armand with a safe haven. Owning her own house would finally give her the security she longed for.
She began to decorate it in her mind as though she already lived there. She started with apple green and white striped curtains for the parlor. No, first things first. She placed a huge wing chair in front of the fireplace in the parlor, and in it she put Armand with his feet up on a hassock and a sketchbook on his lap. No, no, he would work on the top floor where the light was so much better. She moved him up there and placed him next to his large easel and table full of paints. There, that’s perfect.
She had to have this house. She had a job; she had considerable savings from the many commissions she had earned. She took one last look at Le Petit Manoir. She feared it wouldn’t stay ownerless for long, so she headed straight for the bank.
“How much is the small house on avenue Bois de Boulogne?” she asked the banker, who glanced up briefly before returning to his ledger.
“I am afraid it would be beyond your means, dear young lady,” he said.
“I am an employee of Monsieur Charles Frederick Worth and he has bade me inquire the price. However, if you are not interested in selling it …”
The man looked up with sudden interest. “Oh, well, in that case.” He shuffled through a pile of papers. “Number eighteen, avenue Bois de Boulogne … oh, this is truly a bon marché. Be so kind as to tell Monsieur Worth it could be his for just fifty thousand francs.”
Berthe swallowed hard. Though far beyond her savings as the figure was, there was great relief in knowing the actual number. It was real and it wasn’t in the millions. Still, it was more than twice what she had.
“Thank you, monsieur.” She started to leave and then turned back. “And does one have to pay the entire amount at once?”
“Oh, no, a down payment of twenty percent is all that is required. We will gladly arrange a mortgage with the proper person.” A mortgage. That wasn’t something she had considered. It was a huge financial burden. She thought of her mother’s disastrous indebtedness and how it had cost her family everything. A mortgage meant that she wouldn’t fully own the house. If she lost her job again before she’d paid it off, the house might be repossessed. No, if she was going to buy a house, she wanted to own the house.
For the next several days, she thought of nothing but the pretty little place on avenue Bois de Boulogne. The house represented the life she wanted for herself and Armand. Wasn’t that worth the risk? At the same time, she felt it was crucial that the house be her responsibility, that she not ask Armand to help pay for it. He was only finally starting to earn a real income from his art. In fact, she wouldn’t tell him about the house at all—it would be a surprise. Gradually, she came up with a plan to put all her savings toward the house. But she vowed that if she wasn’t able to come up with the rest of the money, she would walk away. Was this the kind of insane thinking her mother had indulged in? No, this was very different, she reasoned. For one, she wasn’t relying on a man to take care of her. She was taking responsibility for her own dreams.
“I thought it was Monsieur Charles Frederick Worth who was interested in the house,” said the banker when she presented her proposition.
“No, in fact it’s me, monsieur.”
“And what does your husband do, may I ask?”
“I’m not married.” Berthe took a deep breath. “But I hope to be soon.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong. You are an unmarried woman and you are putting your life’s savings toward a partial, albeit considerable, payment on a house that you may never be able to afford. Forgive me for saying this, mademoiselle, but you could lose everything. I strongly suggest you instead make a minimal down payment and take out a mortgage for the rest, thereby protecting your assets.”
“Rest assured, monsieur, I will have the balance of the money, I promise you.”
“Well, it’s your neck, mademoiselle.”
“No, monsieur, it’s my life and I plan to live it in Le Petit Manoir.”
He sighed. “The payment you are proposing will suffice to hold the house for a period of twelve months.”
“Then the house is mine?” Berthe could barely catch her breath.
“For twelve months. Then if you haven’t
secured the rest of the money for the full payment, it will revert back to the bank.” He raised his eyebrows and looked at her grimly over his spectacles. “You will forfeit everything.”
Despite the banker’s warnings, Berthe floated on an air of joy and anticipation for several days; she was confident that soon the house would be hers. But eventually the old familiar cloud of impending doom returned. She began to worry in earnest about losing the house, losing her money, and losing Armand’s love. She felt anxious, tense, and afraid.
So when Rodolphe Boulanger appeared in the foyer of Worth’s salon one evening Berthe thought, This must be the terrible thing that I’ve been dreading. The other employees, including Monsieur Worth, had left an hour before. It was almost dark outside. Her heart began to pound and she had difficulty breathing. She started to run to the back room and then she stopped. He wouldn’t dare try anything here, would he? They were in plain sight of the passersby strolling up and down the rue de la Paix. If he tried to attack her someone would see or hear. Taking a deep breath and hiding her trembling hands behind her back, she turned and approached him.
“Monsieur Boulanger, what brings you to the House of Worth?”
“Ah, my chère Mademoiselle Bovary.” He looked her up and down with a leer that made her shiver. “What else, but you? My good friend Madame Rappelais told me I might find you here. And here you are, even lovelier than ever.”
“I’m afraid I cannot show you any of our gowns as the models are not here, but you may want to look at Monsieur Worth’s collection of fashion accessories. However, I must warn you, it is almost closing time.” She kept her voice firm and steady. She prayed that Boulanger wouldn’t realize she was alone in the shop.
Boulanger began to remove his gloves. “I want to tell you, mademoiselle, that I am a man with few hobbies and even fewer interests. I have grown tired of the opera. I no longer play chess. I have collected all the art I care to. In the summer I hunt. In the winter I travel to the south. But you, Mademoiselle Bovary, continue to hold my interest. I believe I have turned you into an obsession. As I told you once before, a woman who says no is a woman I can never forget. Your mother and I were very much alike in this way.”
