by Linda Urbach
The more she thought about the house, the more she imagined how she and Armand would fill it with a family. She began to think seriously about children, many children—four, six, eight—enough to ensure that even with the occasional inevitable infant death she would never be alone or feel like an orphan again. She had a vision of herself surrounded by all these beautiful, happy children whom she and Armand would dote on.
How many bedrooms did the house on avenue Bois de Boulogne have? Not enough for her brood. She could put several small children into one nursery, but ultimately they would have to move to larger quarters. Suddenly, she had to laugh at herself; Armand was barely speaking to her and she already had him installed in a new house surrounded by their offspring.
“Why must you toil so?” Armand asked her one night. “You act as if you are in danger of starving to death. I have enough money for both of us.”
“You forget, I love my work,” she said.
“Yes, it’s quite clear. You love your work more than you love anything, including me.”
“Who said I loved you at all?” she said in an attempt to be playful. He gave her a long look. Was he hurt? Was he angry? Had she gone too far? Then he lunged for her.
“You love me. Admit it.” He pulled her over his knee and began spanking her.
“I’ll admit nothing,” she said, laughing.
“It’s not natural.” He pulled her up. “You work like a man.”
“Do I feel like a man?” she said, taking his hand and slipping it down the front of her dress.
“Let me see.” He ran his fingers lightly over her nipple until it became hard and erect.
Soon, they began to make love. “Isn’t this better than all the money in the world?” he whispered when they were through. She took his face in her hands and held it a few inches from hers.
“The money I work so hard for is for us, for our house, our home. Our family.”
“What? What house? What family?” He pulled back, alarmed.
“Of course there’s no family. Not yet. But there is a house,” she said, excited to finally be sharing this with him, “I have been wanting to tell you that I do have my eye on a place. After we are married—”
“Married? Who ever said anything about marriage? And a house? Why, you are full of little surprises. And big ideas.” He clucked his tongue at what he obviously thought to be a ridiculous notion. “So, my darling Berthe longs to be a homeowner.” He laughed.
“It’s not a joke,” she said.
Suddenly he grew serious.
“You have great ambitions for one so young and so female. Be careful that they don’t get the best of you.” He slipped his hand between her legs.
“What do you mean by that?” She pulled his hand away.
Armand gently pushed her hair back off her face.
“Just don’t let your dreams take the place of reality. A house is a nice dream,” he said, placing her hand on his erect penis. “But this is reality.”
“It may be your reality, but I prefer mine to be a bit larger and better built.” Armand tried to turn Berthe over his knee again but she stood and faced him, her eyes flashing. “And what about marriage? Is that just a nice dream as well?”
“Suddenly everything has gotten so very serious. Aren’t we happy just as we are? Aren’t we having a wonderful life? What more can you want?”
She looked at him for a long moment. How could she tell him she had almost completely paid for their dream home when he wasn’t even considering the idea of a house, or marriage, or a family?
“I’m late for work,” she finally said, feeling completely defeated. On her way to Worth’s that morning the house loomed large in her head. In her mind’s eye moving men carrying various pieces of furniture were stopped in their tracks. They looked at her, awaiting further instructions. Move in? Move out? Just tell us where to put all these things. She sighed. How could her good news have turned so bad?
That evening Berthe left Worth’s and bought a roasted duck, a loaf of fresh bread, a wedge of Camembert, and an expensive bottle of Beaujolais. Then she hurried to Armand’s studio. She would surprise him with a picnic on the floor in front of the fireplace. They would make love and he would come to realize how much he adored her and how he wanted to spend the rest of his life and have a family with her. And once he came to this realization she would tell him that she had nearly finished paying for the house. She would be patient and give him time to come to the obvious conclusion—that it was where they were meant to be.
Carrying her packages and hurrying up the stairs to his studio, she knocked on the door with her foot. There was no answer. Perhaps he was sleeping. She put down her purchases and tried the door. It was unlocked. She turned the knob and entered the large, dark room.
“Armand?” He wasn’t there. Where could he be at this time of evening? she wondered. She busied herself putting the food on the table and starting a fire. Then she lay down on his bed and before she knew it she was asleep.
She woke to the sound of someone bumping into a piece of furniture. She turned up the lamp at the side of the bed. It was three in the morning. Armand was leaning against the table, devouring a drumstick. Duck fat covered his hands and chin. He had a silly grin on his face and she could see that he was drunk.
“Where have you been?”
“Painting. Where else would I be?”
“Painting at this time of night?” She felt her face grow hot. “Who were you painting?”
“The Mona Lisa.” He stumbled across the room, fell on the bed, and immediately began to snore.
Berthe spent the rest of the night lying awake, trying to quell her anger. By the time the sun came up she had decided that her best course of action was to act as if nothing had happened. For nothing had, had it? She sat in a chair waiting for him to awaken. She studied him as he slept. She loved the way his thick lashes shuttered his eyes. His strong chin was thrust up in the air, his mouth was ajar, and his hair, which seemed to grow in so many different directions, was a black tangle against the white pillowcase. His face had all the innocence of a child. She could imagine him as he must have been as a little boy, a bundle of energy, his body a series of sharp angles always in motion. His mouth moved in his sleep as though he were finishing the last of a delicious meal. She felt she could live her entire life exploring that mouth. She loved how quickly his whole face could change from dark and brooding to bright with humor and mischief. She admired his intensity, his energy, and his ambition—and how they drove him.
“Do you love me?” she whispered. “You know I cannot live without you. I would die without your love. You are my heart, my soul. I love you, Armand. Don’t ever leave me.”
“What?” He yawned, his long lashes flickering open. He stretched his arms above his head. He seemed to have difficulty focusing. “What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
And then he smiled and said, “I’ll never leave you.”
She realized with a pang that she had spoken aloud her love and her need for him, and he had heard her. And now he knew how she felt. Worse, she knew how she felt.
How many times had her mother’s heart been broken by a need so great that no man could fill it? Berthe had vowed never to fall into the same trap. But that was before this man. This tall, lean, beautiful man with his mirrored eyes, his long lashes, his beautiful mouth and tongue.
For the first time, she understood the powerful pull a man could have on a woman. She began to see how her mother could forget everything while under Boulanger’s spell. Berthe could begin to understand Emma’s obsession, but still she couldn’t forgive it. For it was during the time of Boulanger that her mother was the most dismissive of her daughter.
She got up and began to tend the fire. She would pretend she hadn’t said anything. That was the best way, the safest way. She knew those words and feelings could ruin her. It was poison, this terrible passion. She was determined to be light and carefree. And yet despite her resolve th
e next thing out of her mouth was the last thing she should have said.
“And so,” she said, stirring the embers in the fire, “who were you painting last night?”
“Your friend Cora Pearl.” He swung his legs out of bed.
“I thought you had finished her portrait weeks ago.” She unwrapped the cheese she had bought the night before and put it on a plate.
“This is a new one. A nude portrait,” he said, splashing water on his face. Berthe suddenly felt nauseated. Was it the smell of the Camembert so early in the morning?
“Oh?” She tried to match his casual tone but she felt her whole body stiffen with tension. “And how goes it?”
“It’s boring work.”
“Painting Madame Cora Pearl in the nude? That doesn’t seem boring to me.” She laughed but it sounded brittle even to her own ears.
“She talks and talks—never runs out of words. She goes on all night. It’s exhausting.”
“Do you think she has as beautiful a body as everyone says?”
He shrugged. “It’s a body. It’s no different from any other woman’s body.”
“That’s not true. Her breasts are enormous. I know. We have a terrible time fitting her bodices.”
“Why are you asking me all these questions? If you want to see what she looks like, ask her yourself. She has no difficulty taking off her clothes. She does so without a moment’s hesitation. In fact, you don’t even have to ask.” He wiped his face with a towel and threw it on the floor.
“I want to know what you think of her, that’s all.”
Stop it, Berthe, she scolded herself. You’re making a fool of yourself. But she couldn’t stop. “Do you find her beautiful?”
Armand shut his eyes as if trying to remember Madame Pearl’s face.
“Of course I find her beautiful. She is beautiful. She’s famous for her beauty.”
“Do you think about making love to her?” Her mouth felt dry.
“That’s all I think about. When I’m painting her, I think to myself if only I could get my brush on her bare flesh instead of this dry canvas. If only I could …” His eyes flashed and his mouth tightened into a thin line. He sat down on the bed and pulled on his boots.
“Armand …”
“Wait,” he said with a sharp laugh. “I know your next question before you even ask it. Do I find her more beautiful than you? More desirable? More the woman I want to be with?” He threw up his arms in a gesture of exasperation. “Why, of course I do. I am just biding my time until she forsakes everything for me.”
She knew he was toying with her, but still anger boiled inside her. With shaking hands she put the cheese and bread on the small table. She filled the kettle with water from the jug and put it on the fire. Every move was an effort designed to steady herself before asking the only question that really mattered to her.
Finally, she turned and asked in a voice tense with emotion, “Did you sleep with her?”
His eyes sparkled with thinly disguised amusement and his lips twisted into the mischievous grin she loved.
“Bien sûr, I slept with her. Everyone sleeps with her. That’s what she’s for. In fact, ma chère, I have smuggled her into my room. She is under the bed right now, waiting for me to make love to her again as soon as you leave.” He invited her to have a look for herself.
As if by magic, her anger dissolved into relieved laughter and she fell upon him, pummeling him with her fists.
“Stop it. You’re teasing me. You’re being cruel.”
“Yes, my little fool, I’m teasing you. I can’t help it. I get too much pleasure out of it.”
Somehow his teasing told her she had nothing to worry about. And that he did love her. And that perhaps, just perhaps, it was safe to love him back.
The next night Armand dropped in unexpectedly at Worth’s workroom, which was located on the top floor of the salon.
“Come, I will take you out to supper,” he told Berthe.
“She is not going anywhere,” said Monsieur Worth. “Not until she finishes helping me select the fabrics for my spring collection.”
“Oh, Armand, can you wait, please? Just a little while.”
“I’ll be in the showroom, flirting with the models,” he said.
Berthe was under a great deal of pressure. As Worth grew more and more popular, the demands on her grew greater. On this particular night she was experiencing something few Victorian women ever had to face: the struggle between her job and her family. For that was how she thought of Armand. He was the beginning of her long-awaited family. And Monsieur Worth was the means by which she would be able to provide her family with a home. So while she worked to finish the fabric selections with Worth, her mind was in the room below with Armand.
Two and a half hours later, she put on her cloak and bonnet and hurried down to the salon.
Armand was gone.
She rushed to his studio to find him working on a new painting. He was working in a style she had never seen before, using colors that were totally different from his usual palette. Purples, reds, and oranges gave the painting a garish, almost ghoulish effect.
Berthe was stunned by the violence of the picture. A spasm of fear gripped her stomach. A woman was lying on a bed, while a man stood over her with a knife. The woman’s mouth was wide open as if in mid-scream. The man had a sweet, almost loving smile on his face and he held the raised knife above the woman’s naked form. There were already several red stab wounds in the woman’s white breast.
“What do you think? It is part of my new dramatic series,” Armand said. He took a long drink from the bottle of wine at his side.
“I hope you don’t plan on trying to sell it. It’s grotesque.”
“You don’t know anything about it,” he said angrily. “You think those pretty pictures I paint of rich women are art? This is art. This is me. I believe this is my best work yet.” He finished off the last of the wine.
“Yes, well, I’m just not sure anyone would want to hang it in their parlor,” she said, trying to keep the conversation light. He threw the empty bottle across the room. “Armand!” she screamed, frightened by his sudden burst of temper.
“That’s all you think about: selling things, making money. You have no real sense of what is beautiful or meaningful in life.”
Now she was angry and she turned on him, her eyes flashing.
“You call that beautiful and meaningful?” she said, pointing to the painting. “A woman getting stabbed to death? And who is that poor woman supposed to be?”
“It’s a painting of my mother.”
His mother? She felt as though she’d been punched in the stomach.
“How lovely. You’re murdering your mother. Is this one of a series? Will you be murdering me in another painting?” Why was she so angry?
“Actually, I am planning a painting of your mother. She was just as much a whore as mine was.”
She slapped him hard across the face and left.
Armand appeared outside of Worth’s the next day with an armful of flowers.
“Oh, Berthe, Berthe, my beautiful Berthe,” he sang loudly to the tune of a popular love song.
She came rushing out of the store.
“Stop it. You’re making a scene.”
“I know. That’s what mad artists do. We make scenes.”
“Go away. I have customers.”
“Not until you forgive me.” He began to sing again. “Berthe, Berthe, my beautiful Berthe.” He had a terrible voice. And he still had the odor of alcohol about him. He looked as if he hadn’t slept at all.
“Please, can’t we talk about it later? People are staring.” Fashionable passersby were, in fact, staring at them.
“Accept my apology. My mother was a whore. Yours was not.”
“And you are an idiot,” she said, frowning.
“And I am an idiot,” he said, holding out the flowers to her and bowing low.
CHAPTER 38
The Other Shoe
> BERTHE HAD ONLY ONE WEEK TO PAY THE REMAINDER OF WHAT she owed at the bank. She wanted this house for herself—with or without Armand’s help. She loved him, but she didn’t trust her love. She had seen for herself that the harder she worked at her profession, the more she learned and the greater were the rewards. But the same principle didn’t seem to apply to love. She understood now that having a house didn’t guarantee a haven, love, or a family.
Berthe paid a visit to the bank shortly before the last payment was due. She knew that completing the purchase and moving into Le Petit Manoir without resolving things with Armand could tear them apart forever. She just needed a few more days to convince him.
“I am earning an excellent living. I have the money. But there is a personal issue … I just need more time.”
“A contract is a contract, mademoiselle. May I suggest that perhaps, as a single woman, you have gotten in over your head.”
“What then? I am to lose my money and the house?” she asked, her eyes filling with tears.
The banker shook his head.
“You have until the end of the week. But that is as much as I can do, mademoiselle. If you don’t have the rest of the money by that time, the property will be put on the market. And I must warn you, I have a couple who is already very interested.”
As she walked back to the boardinghouse, Berthe was suddenly overcome by nausea. She vomited into the gutter, wondering what was wrong with her. She hadn’t felt right for the past few days. Any strong smell bothered her. She hadn’t been sleeping, which she’d chalked up to stress. As she hugged herself, she realized that her breasts felt unusually tender as well.
The knowledge moved through her like a wave of awe: She must be pregnant. Suddenly she was swept up in so many different emotions she didn’t know what to think or how to feel. She was stunned, humbled, amazed, and terrified. But most of all, she was happy. She felt a strange and sudden satisfaction—a feeling of rightness unlike anything she had ever experienced in her life. This is our baby, our love. A sign that we belong together, forever.
