by Linda Urbach
Eyes suddenly blazing, Berthe hissed, “Don’t you dare speak of my mother!”
Boulanger ignored her. “Furthermore, I am determined to get my way no matter what it takes. By flattery or, if necessary, by more force. Which shall it be?” he asked pleasantly, as if he had just offered her a choice of after-dinner liqueurs. He smiled his awful smile and waited for her response. It took everything in her not to scream. She found his perfect calm and composure absolutely terrifying. She walked over to a table at the end of the room, opened a drawer, removed a pair of twelve-inch seamstress scissors, and pointed them at Boulanger.
“Which shall it be? These scissors buried in your neck, your eye, or your precious manhood?”
“Quel courage!” He laughed. Then he lunged forward and grabbed her wrist, twisting her arm behind her back until she had no choice but to drop the scissors. She tried to knee him in the groin but her full skirts made the attempt useless. He bent her backward over the table and pressed his body hard against hers. His mouth forced her lips open and it felt as if his tongue was thrust halfway down her throat. She gagged. Her heart was pounding so frantically she thought for a moment she might actually faint from fright. She struggled to keep calm, to think, to find a way to escape what seemed inescapable. She fought him with all her strength but it was no use. And then, in the middle of her panic, she thought of her mother’s feelings for Boulanger, and the way he had rejected her, and an idea came to her.
She suddenly stopped struggling and forced her body to relax. Wasn’t this the way she dealt with difficult customers—to give them what they thought they wanted? She wrapped her arms around his neck. As he ground himself against her, she moaned and returned his kiss. His tongue retreated in surprise.
She spoke the words she remembered hearing her mother say, that day in the woods. “Oh, Rodolphe,” she breathed. “Kiss me, love me. I am yours.”
He pulled back and looked at her, chuckling nervously.
“Well, well, you do surprise me, mademoiselle,” he said.
She traced her fingers lightly along his cheek.
“I can no longer lie to you or myself. I want you. Desperately,” she said, sighing. “Please, Monsieur Boulanger, if you only knew how I’ve dreamed of this moment.” She wondered if she was overdoing it. Would he realize this was just an act?
“Stop it, mademoiselle. You forget yourself,” he said, pulling out of her grasp. She saw the hesitation creep into his eyes.
“But I’ve never forgotten you. Ever since I was a little girl, when I watched you take my mother riding, I wanted you for myself. I’ll live with you and you’ll take care of me. We’ll be married!” She threw herself against him and began covering his face and neck with kisses.
“Enough.” He shoved her away and retreated several steps. “Wh-what in heaven’s name has gotten into you?” he stammered.
“My dear monsieur, don’t you understand? You have inflamed me, just as you inflamed my mother. Can’t you see? I am not unlike her. I want what she wanted,” she said, reaching for him. With a horrified look on his face, he backed away from her. Quickly wrapping his cloak around him, he turned and fled before she had a chance to utter another word. As Boulanger rushed through the door he bumped into Armand, who stood there, fury and outrage darkening his handsome face.
CHAPTER 35
Old Friends, New Money
BERTHE RAN TO ARMAND BUT HE PUSHED HER AWAY.
“You little whore!”
“Wait!” Berthe said. She grabbed his arm but he yanked himself out of her grasp. “Let me explain.”
“Explain what, that you were making love with a man twice your age? There’s nothing to explain. I have eyes, you know.” He paced back and forth, his hands running through his hair as if he were trying to pull it off his head.
She burst into tears. “He was my mother’s lover … he found me when I was working for the Rappelaises.” She forced herself to say what she had dreaded telling him all this time. “The night of Madame’s birthday ball—he raped me,” she said, rushing to get the words out. “He came here tonight and tried to seduce me again. The only way I could think to escape was to turn the tables on him.”
“And you expect me to believe that?” He refused to look at her.
“Of course I expect you to believe it.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve never lied to you. Because … I love you,” she said, reaching out to touch his arm.
He moved out of her reach. She could see there was a part of him that wanted to believe her, and a part of him that would find it hard to trust her again. He is the son of a prostitute. Of course he believes the worst of women. She knew there was nothing more she could say. She had told him everything. He stared at her for a long moment, his jaw clenching and unclenching. And then, without another word, he turned on his heel and left. She ran to the door, opened it, and called down the street. “Wait. Armand. Please!” But he had already turned the corner.
As the months passed, they formed an uneasy alliance. Although no longer angry, Armand remained distant; his lovemaking became less passionate. At the same time, his reputation as an artist continued to grow. Most of his day was taken up with painting portraits of wealthy women, with the occasional dog or child as a prop. He wasn’t happy in his work, but he was well pleased with his improved fortune.
Berthe threw herself into her work. It seemed more important than ever to earn enough money to buy her home. She would surprise Armand with it. It would be proof of her love, of her commitment to him. With a home, marriage, and hopefully, in time, a family, their rift would be nothing more than a bad memory.
Meanwhile, Berthe was growing more and more indispensable at the House of Worth. She not only helped select fabrics but she was now designing them as well. There was a continued demand for one-of-a-kind fabrics to be used in Monsieur Worth’s gowns.
“How many unique fabrics can I come up with?” complained Monsieur Rappelais. “There is an end to originality. A fleur-de-lis is after all still a fleur-de-lis.”
“Don’t worry, Monsieur Rappelais, I will have some new fabric designs for you,” said Berthe.
“I fear I am far too old for this business,” Rappelais said.
“Of course you are,” said Monsieur Worth. “But that’s what we have Mademoiselle Bovary for. We will feed upon her brain.”
“There is a woman here who says she is a good friend of yours,” said Monsieur Worth one afternoon when Berthe had returned from lunch. “She is looking at accessories in the blue room.” Berthe hurried out to find Hélène trying on shawls while her husband, Monsieur Proiret, stood watching her, a smile on his face.
“Bonjour, my dear Berthe. You remember my darling husband, Monsieur Proiret, don’t you?” Hélène kissed Berthe on both cheeks.
“Of course. Hello, monsieur,” said Berthe, extending her hand.
“Well, we are here to say hello and, of course, to shop.” Hélène smiled in the direction of Worth, who had followed Berthe into the room.
“I don’t know if you’ll find anything you’ll like here,” said Berthe, desperate to get her thieving friend out of her place of employment. “Perhaps you’ll find something in one of the shops down the street.”
“What? Your friend’s money is too good for the likes of me?” said Monsieur Worth. “Try this one, madame, it suits your clavicle.” He draped a rustred and gold paisley shawl around her shoulders.
“And how goes the dress business?” asked Monsieur Proiret, pulling Worth aside.
Berthe didn’t want to lose sight of Hélène, who she knew could not be trusted around the expensive accessories. But then, she was a married woman now, so perhaps she had turned a new leaf. How lucky Hélène was to be enjoying the security of marriage to this dull but dependable man.
Berthe watched her old friend as she moved casually among the displayed goods. Surely Hélène couldn’t be up to her old tricks, could she? Before Berthe could react, Hélène lifted a silk scarf, s
tudied it in the light, and then quickly stuffed it down her bodice.
“Hélène!”
“What?” said Hélène, looking for all the world like an innocent. She turned her back and quickly picked up a pair of gloves. Worth was busy expounding on the importance of using machine-made lace when Berthe pulled Proiret over to the window.
“Monsieur, you must take her away from here,” she whispered. “This is my place of employment. I can’t have her stealing Monsieur Worth’s merchandise. He will take it out of my pay.”
“Not to worry, Mademoiselle Bovary. I am opening an account here and you will be so kind as to put her ‘purchases’ on it.” Then he turned to Hélène and said, “Come, chérie, I see what you are doing. You are a bad, bad girl. I am taking you home immediately.”
“Yes, Papa. Please don’t be angry,” she said, smiling. Worth turned just in time to see Hélène stuffing one last item down her already lumpy bodice as she and her husband hurried out the door.
“What is going on here?” Worth said to Berthe. “This woman is supposed to be a friend of yours and you are allowing her to steal me naked?”
It was a measure of Worth’s trust in her that he was able to accept her explanation of Hélène and her strange relationship with Monsieur Proiret.
“Well, charge them an additional ten percent. Call it handling charges,” he said finally.
Berthe made yet another payment toward the house on avenue Bois de Boulogne, but the deadline for the remainder of the principal was fast approaching. She thought about asking Monsieur Worth for an advance on her salary, but she knew what he would say: “A woman owning a house in her own name? What an extraordinarily odd concept!”
It was on this same morning that Cora Pearl approached Berthe just as the salon was opening at eleven.
“What am I doing up at this ungodly hour?” she said, readjusting her hat in the mirror. “I never dreamed there were actually people in the streets at this time of day.”
“Are you here for your fitting? Your gown isn’t ready,” said Berthe.
“No, I am here for my portrait.”
“Your portrait?”
“Your precious artist has refused me. He claims he is too busy to do my portrait now. I must wait in line like everyone else? Impossible. This is to be a birthday gift for the duc de Graisville. He is turning seventy in a few months. He won’t live out the year. The poor dear has done so much for la Perle. I have promised him. You must speak to De Pouvier. I beg you, and you know I never beg anyone for anything. This is a sincere plea from my heart.”
That night in bed Berthe tried to convince Armand to paint Cora Pearl’s portrait.
“Just because she’s your friend doesn’t mean I should drop everything to paint her.”
“Why not?”
“It’s interesting. When I first met you, you were a sweet and obliging maiden. And now you have become as demanding as any of your rich and spoiled clientele,” he snapped. She turned her back to him, pulling most of the quilt with her.
“Oh, now I have offended la demoiselle.”
She said nothing.
“Do you love me?” he asked, twirling a piece of her hair around his finger. She had told him that so many times since the Boulanger incident. But no amount of reassurance seemed to convince him.
“Do you? Do you love me?” he repeated.
“No,” she said finally, exhausted by his constant interrogation and knowing that nothing she said would be enough.
“You’re lying. You’re a liar. Dear God, I’m in love with a liar,” he joked.
She jumped out of bed.
“Well, that’s your problem, isn’t it? Next time you’ll have to choose better.” Her cheeks were flushed with anger. How could he so strongly affect her feelings with just a few words? She had given him this power, and now she wanted to take it back.
“Unfortunately, there won’t be a next time,” he said, smiling sadly up at her.
“Why unfortunately?”
“Because I’m afraid that you, my temperamental wench, are it.” He stretched his arms above his head and sighed. “I should have fallen in love with a rich woman. Someone who could be my patron so I would never have to take on another commissioned portrait again.”
“Well, why don’t you?” she said through clenched teeth.
“Now she’s calling my bluff. How does one deal with a woman like this?” He tilted his head, addressing his question to some unseen authority figure.
Berthe stood with her hands on her hips, glaring at him. “You’re still passably handsome. And there are hundreds of women to choose from. I see many of them in the shop. There are even some women who don’t care about character or intelligence. I could introduce you.”
Suddenly, his jesting tone was gone.
“Could you?” he said, his voice now tightly controlled and as cold as she had ever heard it. “That would be very kind.” She saw the fury on his face and she realized that she had gone too far.
“Of course. And at the same time I can tell them that you snore like an asthmatic goat,” she added. His face began to soften. The glimmer of a smile began to form. He tried to fight it. Finally he laughed, despite himself.
“No, I don’t. Take it back.” He pulled her down onto the bed and began making snoring sounds in her ear. “Take it back or suffer the consequences.” He bit her softly on the side of her neck.
“I won’t,” she said, her anger melting away and a warm wave of desire taking its place. He unloosed her hair and ran his fingers slowly through it, as though caressing the finest silk. Holding her gaze in his, he slowly lifted her arms, raising them high above her head and removing her nightgown.
“Don’t move,” he said. He began kissing the inside of her thighs. He worked his way around and around her inner thighs and stomach until the throbbing desire was more than she could bear. Finally, when she thought she would scream in frustration, he put his mouth between her legs and slipped his tongue into her most private parts. And then she did scream, only this time in pure ecstasy.
“Shall I stop?” he said.
“No, don’t stop,” she moaned.
His tongue worked away at her until spasms ran up and down her body and she cried out. He looked down at her and smiled.
“Can I move now?” she whispered.
“I will move you.” He raised her legs up and onto his shoulders. “I’m the artist, remember? And this is my art.” And with that, he plunged his smooth hardness into her again and again until she thought she would die from too much pleasure.
She lay in his arms exhausted, and relieved that their anger had been transformed into passion. But she knew this wouldn’t be the last storm on their horizon. At least she was reassured that the intensity of their fighting was well matched by their lovemaking.
And Armand had agreed to start Cora Pearl’s portrait the next day.
CHAPTER 36
A New Gown
THE FOLLOWING WEEK, BERTHE RECEIVED A COMMISSION CHECK from Monsieur Worth for the dresses she had sold in the previous six months. She gasped. It totaled over ten thousand francs.
“Don’t spend it all in one place,” cautioned Worth.
“That’s exactly what I plan to do,” she said when she finally caught her breath. She put it in her reticule. With this check, she had enough to purchase the house on avenue Bois de Boulogne, the home where she and Armand could live and start a family. Armand would no longer have to work for the patrons he disliked and could do what he loved: paint for the joy of painting.
She knew she was treading on dangerous ground. Women were not supposed to have their own money and certainly not their own ideas about what to do with it.
She would not let finances poison her relationship with Armand. He would never feel the burden of responsibility toward her. She would never have to beg him for anything. If he needed her to support him while he pursued his art and his fortune, then she would do it gladly. Theirs would be a love unfettered by obligati
on. And she would have her home—a home that no one could take from her, ever. She would finally be able to have a family, the family she had lost so long ago. Then, perhaps, she would find the security and abiding happiness that had always evaded her.
Berthe spent a sleepless night planning exactly how to share the news with Armand. She decided to tell him everything the next day.
She rushed over to his studio that evening after work. She would show him the latest check, watch his face light up with surprise and joy, and then tell him about the house.
“I don’t understand. What is he paying you for?” he asked, his eyes narrowing as he studied the check.
Berthe explained about her commissions.
“This is a huge sum of money.” He shook his head.
“I know,” said Berthe, delighted.
“A man doesn’t pay a woman this much money to work for him,” he said, flinging an empty canvas against the wall.
She was stunned by his reaction. And then she was angry. “Well, this man does,” she said, folding her arms over her chest.
“There’s more to it than that. You were his lover. You are his lover.” He grabbed her arm and yanked her to him.
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
“Why are you so afraid to admit it? Just as you were afraid to admit that Boulanger was your lover. Tell me the truth.”
She pulled away.
“And why are you so afraid to accept the fact that I have contributed greatly to Worth’s business? Do you think I’m only good for what I can do in bed?”
“No, but …”
“You don’t believe that a man can respect and value me for my skill and knowledge?” He seemed somewhat mollified by her anger.
“It’s a lot of money,” he said again.
“Yes, he gave me this check and many others because of the mad passionate love we make on the cutting table while the clients are changing into their gowns.”
