by Linda Urbach
“What kind of drawings?”
“I’ll bring some tomorrow and show you. But what about you, Mademoiselle Bovary? You must have a special talent. I mean beyond taking such good care of Céleste.”
“I like to sew,” she said simply. “But I don’t believe it’s a talent. Everyone can sew. It’s just a skill one learns.” She shrugged her shoulders.
“The difference between a skill and a talent is in the eyes of the beholder.” Groaning, he got up from his stool and handed her a piece of the heavy paper. “Here, you sit and draw for a change. I’m getting too old for this, I fear.”
“Draw what?” she asked, looking up at him.
“Whatever comes into your pretty head. Just not the cow. I’ve had enough cows for one day.”
She closed her eyes and saw a field of flowers and over it the crosshatching of the homespun. She quickly sketched what she had seen in her mind’s eye and handed it to Monsieur Millet.
“Ha! I knew it. You do have an eye. And that, my dear Berthe, is a talent.”
The next day Monsieur Millet brought a small black portfolio with him.
“These are some of the drawings I spoke of.” He untied the black ribbons that held the case closed. Inside was a stack of rough sketches. They were drawings of women in various poses without a stitch of clothing. Berthe quickly closed the portfolio, her face flushed with heat.
“Don’t be embarrassed, mademoiselle, they’re just sketches.” He chuckled.
“But the women are naked!” she said.
“That’s how the artist studies the human body,” he explained.
“But this is not how people walk around,” she said. “Decent people wear clothes.”
“It has nothing to do with decency.” He laughed. “When I draw peasants working in the field I have to know how their legs support their bodies, how their arms work, how their backs lean into the labor. The human form is the foundation of everything I paint. I must be intimately acquainted with its workings. You see a naked figure. I merely see shapes and shadows.”
She nodded her head. As he explained them, the nude sketches made sense. Still, it had been a shock to see so many different naked bodies. She thought of her mother. How she used to study herself in the full-length mirror, turning this way and that as if to reassure herself that she was still beautiful. It seemed to Berthe that her mother’s loveliness had brought her nothing but heartache.
“I want to sketch you this way, Berthe.”
“Without any clothes? Oh, no, monsieur, I couldn’t.” She ducked her head down so that he wouldn’t see her beet-red face.
“I understand your shyness. I won’t force you to do anything you don’t want to. But this is art, Berthe. And I will be happy to pay you,” he said.
She lifted her chin. “Pay me, not my grand-mère?”
“You.”
“In sketches or in money?” she asked, her serious expression relieved by a small smile.
He had already given her two rough sketches: one of her milking Céleste and another of her sitting at the spinning wheel pretending to spin. But whereas Berthe loved his sketches, she desperately wanted, needed, prayed for the money. Because she knew money, if not spent, could beget money. Money could grow. Money could become a way out of this life and through the front door of a fabulous new life. She had seen how money worked. She had watched as Monsieur Lheureux had taken her mother’s money and put it in his pocket. And his store on the rue Forchette had grown and prospered. She remembered walking by his once-humble shop with Félicité the maid. He had taken over the house next door and doubled the size of his business and his adjoining living quarters.
“Hmm, I see Monsieur Lheureux is putting your family’s money to good use,” Félicité had remarked.
Monsieur Millet ran his fingers through his thick beard and stared down at her through narrowed eyes.
“My, my, I have a bargainer to boot. Yes, mademoiselle, I will pay you in real money.”
“How much?” she asked too quickly.
He thought a moment and then said, “Twenty francs. That is what I pay in Paris for professional models.”
“I don’t know …” She chewed on the end of her braid.
Berthe had grown to trust the artist. He spoke to her in a kind and patient way that her own father never had. He made her feel as if she mattered in the world. But it was her body that gave her pause. Recently she felt as if her body wasn’t her own anymore. Was she prepared to now hand it over to the world of art? She remembered the miniature painting her mother had shown her so many years before. The woman in Une Odalisque had no clothes but she hadn’t seemed naked at all.
“You will think about it?” Millet asked. She nodded.
She felt a trill of anticipation mingled with fear. This is what models did, she reasoned. They took off their clothes and let famous artists capture their images for all time. Remembering Renard’s words, she knew that Millet would not ask someone ignorant and ugly to model naked.
In fact, he made it sound like an honor. It was an honor, wasn’t it?
The next afternoon Berthe drove the geese down to the river. Monsieur Millet found her there. It was a sweltering hot September day and the water looked cool and inviting. She sat on the riverbank and watched as the geese swam about.
Millet sat a way off, sketching quietly.
“Do you have a family?” she asked.
“Indeed I do. I am the proud papa of nine children.”
“And where are they?” She threw a stone into the river. It barely missed one of the geese, who honked indignantly. She was stalling for time. What had seemed like a perfectly fine idea a day before now seemed more than a little threatening. She didn’t want Millet to think she was a silly, naïve girl. She desperately wanted to keep modeling for him even if it meant having to do something that wasn’t entirely comfortable.
“They are all at home with my wife,” he said. “I have a home not far away, in Barbizon.”
“You are able to feed such a large family with your painting?”
“Almost,” he said, chuckling. “My wife is very good at making the soup stretch.”
“Is she beautiful, your wife?” Her cheeks burned. She felt jealous of a wife and family she had never even met.
“My Catherine is the most beautiful woman in the world,” he said, getting off his stool. He rummaged around in his bag. “Here, I have a drawing of her.” He took out a small sketchbook and showed her.
She saw a woman with a sweet, soft face; she looked too young to be the mother of nine children. Her thick dark hair was parted in the middle and held in a loose chignon. She had long lashes, thick eyebrows, and a small upturned nose. Her mouth was soft and small with an upper lip that protruded slightly over the lower.
“She looks very nice,” Berthe said, shoving the sketchbook into his hand.
He laughed. “Oh, I would never describe her as ‘nice.’ She has a terrible temper, my little Catherine,” he said, as though it was something that brought him pride. “So, Mademoiselle Bovary, have you thought about my proposition?”
“No,” she lied. She had thought about nothing else since he first asked her. “If you pay me I will be a professional model?” she added abruptly.
“Mademoiselle Berthe, I believe that you will be whatever it is you make up your mind to be,” Monsieur Millet said, smiling.
“Then, in that case, I will be your model.” She squared her shoulders.
She rose and went behind the nearest tree. Once there, she quickly took off her skirt and blouse, her pantaloons and chemise before she could change her mind. She left the blue kerchief on her hair. For a moment she stood, letting the warm summer air caress her skin. Never in her life had she been totally naked outdoors. She looked down at her body. It was as if it belonged to someone else. She had breasts. What had been the mere beginnings of growth a few months before were now bona fide breasts with large pink nipples. She suddenly realized that she had all the makings of a woman�
��s body. She felt as surprised as if she had suddenly sprouted wings. For a minute she forgot to be shy and looked down with pride at her new body.
“Come, Berthe, the light is fading,” Monsieur Millet called. She stepped out from behind the tree.
“Lovely,” he said. No one had ever used that word to describe her.
Suddenly she was overcome with shyness. She quickly sat down by the water’s edge, holding her legs close to her chest. She hid her face in her arms. If she couldn’t see him, she reasoned, then he couldn’t see her. She thought about how Renard had caught her with her shirt off that day in the courtyard and here she was sitting in front of Monsieur Millet without a stitch on. Why didn’t she feel the least bit of shame?
“Very good,” he said in a quiet voice. “Just hold that pose, if you will.” He hummed as he sketched. And after a long while she began to relax. She looked up and she saw that he was totally engrossed in what he was doing. Every now and then he would glance at her. But it was as if he wasn’t really seeing her. She was just a form, a figure of shadows and shades.
“Monsieur Millet, I have to move,” she finally said. “I am getting quite stiff.”
“Oh, my apologies. Of course. Just change to whatever position is most comfortable for you.”
She extended one leg out so that her foot rested in the water. She bent the other leg and leaned back on both her arms. Her entire body was now exposed to the sun, the air, and Monsieur Millet’s Conté crayon.
There was a cool breeze blowing off the water. She looked down at her nipples, which had become hard and pointed. It seemed so odd that these pink nubs were meant for nursing babies. She felt a strange ache between her legs, a sudden pull that made her want to touch herself there. She wondered if the artist could tell that she was feeling these sensations. Had he noticed that her nipples had suddenly grown points? She glanced over at him, but it was almost as if she didn’t exist. She was simply a part of his landscape.
He spent four days sketching her. Each day she grew more and more comfortable in her posing. “I will make a beautiful painting from these sketches,” he said, late one afternoon. “One day you will hang in a museum.”
“Oh, no,” she exclaimed. “What will Grand-mère say?” The thought of her grand-mère seeing her naked granddaughter hanging in a public viewing place threw her into a panic.
“She will never know. I promise you. No one will know it is you.”
“I guess it’s a good thing that you are not very skilled with likenesses,” she observed. Millet chuckled.
The sun was beginning to set and there was a chill in the air.
“I’m getting cold, Monsieur Millet,” she said finally.
“Just a few more minutes,” he said. It was almost dark by the time he put his sketches away. She got dressed, hating the feeling of the rough, heavy material against her skin. In a matter of minutes she had gone from artist’s model back to farm girl.
“You are a very good model, Mademoiselle Berthe.”
“I’m late. My grand-mère will kill me,” she said as she hurried on ahead of him. She still had Céleste to milk and the dinner to make.
“Don’t worry,” he said, following behind her. “I’ll take care of your grand-mère.”
Once indoors, he made a big show of putting four five-franc pieces on the kitchen table. “Your granddaughter earned every centime,” he said. Berthe’s fingernails dug into her palms. That is my money, she thought. What are you doing?
“Oh, Monsieur Millet, you are far too generous,” Grand-mère Bovary simpered. Berthe could tell she was counting the money from where she stood six feet away.
“Consider it but a small tribute to you and your lovely granddaughter.” Millet winked at Berthe.
Her grand-mère swooped down and picked up the four coins, putting them in the Quimper vase that stood on the oak sideboard. This was where she kept the money she earned from selling eggs and cheese.
“But, Grand-mère, that’s my money. I earned it.” Berthe’s voice trembled.
“And your room and board? When was the last time you paid anything for that?” She turned and smiled at Monsieur Millet. “Your work is going well, monsieur?”
“Yes, I believe I am almost done with this series,” he said.
Why doesn’t he say something? Berthe wanted to scream. He told me he would pay me, not her.
“Perhaps I may see some of your sketches,” Grand-mère said, smoothing her hair.
“They are still too rough for your cultivated eye,” he said.
Berthe couldn’t sleep. She felt betrayed by the man she had learned to trust. In the middle of the night, she crept down to the kitchen. She couldn’t stop thinking about the money her grand-mère had stashed away. It’s not really stealing. It’s my money. I earned it. And if she only took some of it her grand-mère might not even notice. At least not right away. She tiptoed over to the sideboard and slipped her hand inside the Quimper vase. It was empty. Her grand-mère had taken the money and hidden it somewhere else. Did she think somebody was going to steal it? Of course; she was that somebody.
The next day the skies opened up and the rain came down in sheets. Berthe realized that the bad weather would keep Millet away and she felt a great disappointment. She needed to see him and ask him about the money. Berthe’s grand-mère had gone into town in the covered wagon with Madame Leaumont. To spend my modeling money, Berthe thought. After finishing her house chores she went into the barn to clean out Céleste’s stall and spread fresh hay. Renard ran in after her. He took off his leather hat and shook it at her, showering her with water.
“Stop it,” she cried, tossing her head. “You’ve got me all wet.”
“You won’t melt,” he said, collapsing onto a pile of new straw. “Come, sit down beside me.” He patted the space next to him.
“I have my chores to do.” She picked up the pitchfork and began removing the soiled straw from Céleste’s stall.
“You have time. Your grand-mère’s not even here. I saw her drive into town with Madame Leaumont.” His blue eyes seemed to attract all the light.
“And don’t you have work to do?” she asked, her hands on her hips.
“Not on a day like this,” he said, smiling. “Come, we’ll play a game.”
“What game?” she asked.
“First, lie back and close your eyes.” She did as she was told. “Now, take off your pantaloons.”
She sat up abruptly. “What?”
“Why are you being so shy? You took off everything with Monsieur the Artist.”
“You saw me?” Her face burned.
“Of course I saw you. I saw everything,” he said, grinning.
“But that was for art,” she protested.
“And this is for fun. Come, Berthe, I won’t hurt you. I promise.” His voice was soft and pleading. He gently tugged at her skirt. “You’ll like this game, you’ll see.”
“Why do I have to take off my pantaloons?”
“It’s part of the game. I am a physician and I’ve come to cure you,” he said. For some reason the idea of Renard being a physician made her laugh loudly. Renard stood to leave.
“You care more about that hairy old artist than you do me. I can see you are in love with him,” he said angrily.
“I am not,” she shot back. Berthe was confused. She didn’t want him to leave. Had he spoken the truth about Monsieur Millet? The artist paid her such fine attention. He had said she was lovely. She did feel affection toward him, of what sort she wasn’t sure. But at the same time, she hadn’t meant to hurt Renard’s feelings. She liked him, with his thick corn-colored hair and summer-blue eyes. Perhaps she even loved him a little as well.
“Wait, Monsieur le docteur. Please, what is my ailment?” she asked. He turned and smiled.
“I won’t know until I complete my examination,” he said, using a deep authoritative voice. “Now lie back and be still.” He reached under her skirt and unbuttoned her pantaloons.
“Y
es, monsieur,” she said, trying hard not to giggle. Her heart was racing.
He lifted the skirt of her homespun dress and pulled it over her head.
“I can’t see,” she protested.
“Ah, but I can.” He spread her legs apart with his hands. “Madame, you should have come to me sooner. This is very serious. Very serious indeed.” She continued giggling. She was glad the skirt covered her face. Renard placed his fingers on either side of her sex. She thought of Monsieur Millet and how wonderful it felt to have him look at her and call her lovely.
“Oh, but you are so pretty,” Renard whispered. She wondered how anyone could think she was pretty down there.
Then he began touching her lightly with one of his fingers. Up and down and up and down. The same pull between her legs that she felt when she was posing for Monsieur Millet came back, only much stronger. It was a sweet, strong ache in the very center of her being. It made her want to cry and laugh, all at the same time.
“Do you like this?” he asked. She nodded, afraid to speak. “Tell me you like it.”
“I like it.” Her voice sounded strange to her ears, soft and far away. For an instant a picture of her mother standing in the woods with her lover, her skirts raised above her hips, flashed before Berthe’s eyes.
“And do you like this?” He pushed the tip of his finger inside her.
“That hurts,” she said sharply, trying to push his hand away.
“I’m sorry,” he said, but pushed his finger in a little farther.
“Stop.” And he did. She immediately regretted asking him to stop. He began rubbing her sex lightly again with his fingertip. She felt as if she were magically divided into two halves, such was the sensation of his touch. The top half covered by her dress was having no part of this game. But the bottom half exposed to the cool, rain-wet air and to Renard’s probing, playful fingers was experiencing a new and urgent pleasure.
“Does this feel good?” She nodded. “Say it,” he demanded.
“Yes,” she said, followed by a long sigh, “it feels good.”