by Linda Urbach
Armand began cleaning his brushes so violently it was as if he were trying to pull the bristles from the wooden handles. Seeing his frustration, her anger evaporated. She felt a sudden tenderness toward him, knowing he was hurting and wishing she could fix the damage between them. Wanting to ease his pain, she put her arms around him. She was desperate for him to see things her way.
“Oh, Armand, think of what we can do with this money.” She was about to tell him about the house.
“It’s your money. You earned it. Do with it what you will. I want no part of it.” He turned away from her.
That night they didn’t make love. She lay awake all night wondering how such good fortune could turn so quickly into such devastation. She worried about the wisdom of sinking all the money into a house. And then she began to be concerned about how Armand would react to the whole idea of a house in the first place. Not just the house, but their home, their family, her plan for their happy future. She tried to reassure herself. Money was only a means to an end. It couldn’t change one’s heart, could it?
She arrived early at the atelier and busied herself straightening the ribbon sample books. She tried to shake her feelings of dread. She and Armand had argued before and they had gotten through it. He would soon realize his jealousy was ill-founded. He would begin to see how much the money would mean to them and their future. Just give him time, she thought. But the fear in her stomach felt all too real.
Monsieur Worth bounded into the office.
“Good morning, my little cauliflower,” he said cheerily. He unwound the long scarf from his neck and peered down at her. “Why, mademoiselle, you have suitcases under your eyes. You look as if you haven’t slept in a week. Am I overworking you?”
“No, monsieur.” She forced a smile, determined to act as though her life were not crumbling around her.
“Then I must try harder,” he said, chuckling to himself. “I see Monsieur Rappelais has not arrived for our appointment. That man is always late. Well, the early bird gets the serpent.”
Worth’s huge success had reversed the roles of the two old friends. Rappelais now brought his swatches and samples to Monsieur Worth’s salon for him to choose. They still enjoyed a warm, albeit one-sided, relationship. Rappelais was happy for his friend’s enormous popularity and stature in the world of fashion. Worth, on the other hand, seemed to forget what part the Rappelais fabrics had played in the success of his clothes. He tended to give much more credit to Berthe and her new designs than he did to his friend. Monsieur Rappelais bore it all in good humor—until Worth went too far.
“My dear friend, what has happened to your taste?” Worth said, pushing aside the books of new swatches Rappelais had brought in. “These fabrics aren’t fit for a pedestrian.”
“You mean a prostitute?” said Monsieur Rappelais, his eyes narrowing.
“Stop inserting words into my mouth. But yes, I mean a prostitute. Mademoiselle Bovary, tell me honestly, what do you think of these hideous brocades?”
“I think they’re quite lovely. If used with some of the new trims they would make beautiful gowns. For instance this trimmed with this,” she said, holding a piece of black lace trim against a yellow and white brocade, “could be stunning.”
“Perhaps, perhaps.” Monsieur Worth studied the example she had laid before him. “But still, Rappelais, I think you are losing your touch. My customers don’t want these big shouting designs anymore. They want new ideas. You must open your eyes, keep up with the times. Mademoiselle Berthe, show this man some of your work.”
She showed Rappelais a series of sketches she had been working on that utilized elements of the simple country life she had experienced at her grand-mère’s farm, but in very elegant and sophisticated patterns: morning glories twined around slender ribbons, Queen Anne’s lace dotted with golden bumblebees. One of her more striking designs featured geese afloat on a background of vivid blue.
“What is this, fabric goes to the farm?” asked Monsieur Rappelais.
“I think the fusion of commonplace elements with your most sumptuous fabrics will catch on,” she said.
“Very nice. I always welcome Mademoiselle Bovary’s ideas, but I remind you, dear Charles, that my hideous fabrics are what have sold your ridiculously expensive dresses.” Berthe had never seen the elderly gentleman so angry. His face had turned the color of his red cravat.
“You would do well to remember, dear friend: Pride goeth before a fumble,” misquoted Worth.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Worth. You’ve been in this country for fifteen years. Isn’t it time you learned the language?”
“Isn’t it time you learned not to bite the hand that feeds you?”
“Finally, he gets the words right but the man all wrong. I’m finished with you, you arrogant tailor. You can find your fabrics elsewhere.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Berthe said. She hated to see the two old friends fight.
“He’s no gentleman,” said Worth. “He’s a … a …” He struggled to find the right word.
“You see. You can’t even call me names. You have the vocabulary of an idiot,” sneered Rappelais.
“Tell me when he’s gone,” Worth said to Berthe. “I will be in my studio sketching.” He turned his back and marched out of the room.
Monsieur Rappelais sat down in one of the dainty slipper chairs and buried his head in his hands.
“Now I’ve gone and done it. What an idiot I am. I had to pick a fight with him, today of all days when I desperately needed to ask a favor.”
“What favor, monsieur?”
“A new gown for my wife.”
“Oh, Monsieur Rappelais, you know how busy he is—”
“But she must have something soon. It will be her last gown.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m afraid Madame is quite ill. She wants Worth to create the dress she is to be buried in. She has selected the fabric. She has talked of nothing else for the past month.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
The two men made up that very hour. When Monsieur Worth heard of Madame Rappelais’s illness he put aside his other work and set out immediately to design a new gown for her.
Two weeks later, when the gown was finished, Berthe decided to deliver it herself. Enough time had passed since she last laid eyes on her former mistress that she no longer felt the anger toward her that she once had. Madame Rappelais had, after all, taken Berthe under her wing, and that had set her on the path to working with Charles Worth. The fact that she had taken her in far less desirable ways Berthe was now willing to forgive.
There was another part of her that wanted to show Madame Rappelais how well she was doing, how far she had come from being a mere lady’s maid. She hoped to have a chance to tell her that she had even found Armand again.
Madame DuPoix answered the door. She looked as if she had aged twenty years. Her glossy chignon was faded with gray. Berthe looked down. There on her hands and knees, scrubbing the marble floor, was Michelle Gossien, the young girl from Lille who had taken Berthe’s place as Madame Rappelais’s maid. She, too, seemed to have aged. Gone was the peach complexion. Her hair underneath the blue kerchief was dry and dull.
“Mademoiselle Gossien, is it?” said Berthe. The girl looked up. Her eyes were filled with sadness. Berthe’s heart went out to her. “You are no longer Madame’s maid?” The girl shook her head. “Well, I suppose this is better than the cotton mill.”
“Oh, I could never go back there,” said the girl. “I lost my brother to the mill, and my four younger sisters suffer there still.”
“What was your brother’s name?” Berthe asked.
“Antoine. He was just a baby. But he was so proud to have a job.”
“I believe I knew him,” Berthe said, remembering the horrible accident. “I was there when he was killed.”
“Enough, Gossien. Back to work, if you please,” snapped Madame DuPoix.
Berthe heard a terribl
e scream coming from the upstairs bedroom and she flinched. Who was it? What was it? Perhaps she had best just leave the dress and go. But before she could get out the door, Madame DuPoix spoke.
“She is waiting for you. Go on up, but please don’t tire her. Although that seems impossible. She goes on and on. The madness seems to fuel her.”
Berthe trudged slowly upstairs. When she caught sight of her former mistress, she froze in the doorway. Gone was any evidence of Madame’s beauty. Her golden hair was now a sad, colorless beige. It lay spread out on the pillow like old harvested hay. Her skin was almost the same color as her hair: sallow, yellow, interrupted by blotches of red at her neck and under her eyes. Saliva was leaking from both corners of her mouth. It seemed as if she was almost choking on it. To Berthe’s horror, Madame Rappelais leaned over and let the saliva run into a basin that had been placed at her side. She had great difficulty speaking. Her swollen tongue made it hard for Berthe to understand her.
“Ah, Berthe, my beautiful Berthe, come closer. Here, sit on the bed. You see this,” she said, indicating the half-filled basin. “I am making a perfume of my own. You must tell Monsieur Worth about it. I will call it L’eau de l’esprit. He can sell it in his salon. We will make millions.”
Berthe could see that her arms and her chest were covered with red sores. With great difficulty, she turned toward Berthe, lifting herself up on one elbow.
“This damned mercury treatment is worse than the disease. But it’s working wonders.” She spewed out more saliva. “Yes, it is working. I will be up and about in no time. All those gossips who have gotten so much pleasure talking about how Madame Rappelais contracted the great scourge will be mightily surprised.” She extended a dry hand toward Berthe. “Here, help me up so that I may try on the … what is the word for it? I cannot for the life of me remember.”
“The gown,” said Berthe, thinking how terribly sad this was, and yet how just.
“Ah, yes, the gown. My beautiful gown.” Berthe helped her stand. “Ooooooh,” she screamed. “It hurts so to move.”
“Perhaps you should try it on when you are feeling better, madame,” Berthe said, trying to hold her old mistress upright.
“No, now. I must get ready for the ball. The Empress is coming. She is jealous of me. Always has been. When she sees me in my beautiful dress, she will certainly kill me.” She sat down on the edge of the bed as if waiting to gather her strength before attempting to rise again. Suddenly she raised a finger to her lips.
“Shhh. Open the wardrobe. Quickly, quickly. Someone is hiding there. Open it.” Berthe did as she was told. The wardrobe was stuffed with gowns of every color, overflow from Madame Rappelais’s dressing room.
“There is nothing here.” She pushed aside the dresses to demonstrate. “Nothing but your gowns, madame.”
“Who are you?” Madame Rappelais said. Her eyes were wide with fear.
“It’s Berthe, madame.” She felt another wave of pity for the woman.
“Oh, Berthe, come sit with me. I have the most terrible taste in my mouth. Did you bring me any chocolate?” Berthe shook her head. “Well, no matter. Let me put on the gown.”
The dress that Worth had created for her was one of his new bustle designs in a rich cranberry-red silk. It was meant to be worn without a crinoline. Row upon row of pleats, ruching, and frills created the fullness in the back. Berthe helped Madame remove her robe, and saw with horror that her entire body was covered in the red sores. Madame Rappelais supported herself by holding on to one of the bedposts while Berthe stood behind her buttoning the many buttons that ran up the back of the dress. It hung loosely on her bone-thin body.
“It fits perfectly,” said Madame Rappelais. “He is still a genius, I grant him that.” She turned to gaze at herself in the mirror. The red of the dress just made her pallor all the more ghastly. “Am I not a vision?” she said, and then she slowly crumpled to the floor.
Appalled and terrified, Berthe bent down to help her up.
“Get away from me,” Madame Rappelais screamed. “Help, help, I am being raped. The devils are after me. Someone help me.” The cords on her neck stood out like ropes. Berthe struggled to get her on the bed, but the woman’s arms flailed about and her elbow struck Berthe’s head so hard that she saw stars.
Madame DuPoix was suddenly at her side. She held Madame Rappelais firmly in her arms.
“Hush, madame, it is only Mademoiselle Bovary with your ball gown. No one will hurt you.”
“They are crawling inside me. I can feel it. Please, please, make them stop.” She twisted and cried in Madame DuPoix’s embrace. “I’ll be good, I promise. No more. No more.” Suddenly she raised her head and screamed at Berthe. “How dare you! I am not a whore! I am not your whore!”
Madame DuPoix turned to Berthe.
“It is better if you go now. Leave her to me; I know how to calm her,” she said.
Berthe couldn’t move. She stood staring at Madame Rappelais.
“It’s so sad,” she said. Madame DuPoix looked up at her.
“Why do you care? She never did anything for you.”
“I don’t know,” said Berthe. But she did know. It was her mother all over again. All the horror of that time came back to her. All the feelings of fear, loathing, and even love. Madame Rappelais had once been the center of her life, just as her mother had been. She had wielded enormous power over Berthe and inflicted terrible pain. But there was no power here. Only illness. There was no beauty. Only the ugliness of a wasted life. She felt a great pity for this woman, as she did for her mother. She leaned over Madame Rappelais and gently kissed the top of her head.
Berthe walked slowly to the door. She felt as if there was something she had to say but could not find the words. She glanced back in time to see Madame DuPoix gently stroking Madame Rappelais’s forehead.
“Shhh, ma petite, it’s all right. I’m here. No one will hurt you.”
“How do I look, DuPoix?” said Madame Rappelais.
“Beautiful as always, my darling girl.”
As Berthe slowly descended the stairs of the Rappelais house, a scene from her childhood came back to her—something she hadn’t thought about in years. Her mother, as usual, had been busy trying to cover her shopping debts before her husband discovered them. She had taken to selling her old clothes, hats, gloves, even the silver dessert spoons her father had given the Bovarys for a wedding present. On this particular afternoon Berthe found her mother on her knees before an old trunk in the attic. She was sorting through pieces of lace and lengths of ribbon, holding each item up to the light to see if it was in good enough condition to merit selling. There were dust motes swirling around her head. Her usually smooth coiffure had come loose and a sheen of perspiration covered her worried face.
Berthe was old enough to understand what was going on. She sometimes accompanied her mother and had heard her trying to convince various merchants of the value of what she was trying to sell. She had seen the looks of scorn on their faces as her mother extolled the qualities of this moth-eaten cape or that misshapen bonnet. She remembered the anger she felt toward her mother at the time. Anger and shame.
Now, remembering all this, a swell of emotion suddenly hit her. It was so strong she had to stop and grab hold of the banister. The feeling started in her stomach and moved to her chest and up to her throat. She felt her jaw slacken and her face collapse. And then the tears began, pouring down in unchecked streams. At that moment she felt a tremendous longing for her mother. Is this where her heart had been hiding all along? Had she stuffed the feelings down so far that she couldn’t even recognize them for what they were? Had she been that afraid of loving her mother? She wiped her face with her hands and gulped for air.
It was then that she finally let go of all the anger and began to understand. Her mother had only been trying to get through life, to give herself what she thought she needed to be happy. Berthe knew how lucky she was to have found a trade, to be good at what she did. Her talents a
nd skill were real. The money she earned was real. The ability to take care of herself—it was all real. No one and nothing could take that away from her. And as for her love for Armand? She thought of her old friends, the Homaises. Their love, their home, their family, for all its clutter and chaos, was as solid as a city sidewalk. That was what she wanted with Armand and that was what she would work for.
Berthe wasn’t surprised when word came to her two weeks later that Madame Rappelais had died. She made one last visit to the house at 11, rue Payenne, whereupon she met with Madame DuPoix.
“I am taking Mademoiselle Gossien away.”
“Oh, and pray tell what do you plan to do with her?” Madame DuPoix’s eyes were red and swollen as if she had been weeping for days.
“I am offering her a position as my housekeeper,” Berthe said, neglecting to mention that she had yet to own a house that required keeping.
“The girl is not capable of that.” Madame DuPoix laughed. “Why, she can barely make a bed, let alone run a household.”
“I will train her,” said Berthe.
She took the girl by the hand, and when they arrived at the boardinghouse she put her to work performing small duties for Madame Laporte. When she cashed her commission check, she gave Mademoiselle Gossien the ten thousand francs.
“Oh, no, mademoiselle, I couldn’t …”
“Send this home so that your sisters no longer have to work in the mill,” Berthe insisted. Only for a moment did she worry that this was the money for her house. Then she remembered that, business being what it was, there would be plenty more where that came from.
CHAPTER 37
Love and Work
MONSIEUR RAPPELAIS, EVER THE LOYAL HUSBAND, FOLLOWED his wife to her grave within weeks. Their home was boarded up, awaiting the return of the Rappelais fils when they came of age; the boys had been shipped off to a distant cousin in England.
Meanwhile, Berthe continued putting all her energy into her work. Her subsequent commission checks sat locked in a box in her desk. Armand’s contempt for her income had kept her from completing the remaining payment with the bank. She wanted to move carefully, to make sure he knew that her efforts were for both of them. But first she had to give him time to get over his irrational anger. No amount of explaining was going to work when he was in this kind of state. She had learned from experience to let his storm blow over.
