by Linda Urbach
“Say, ‘Thank you, monsieur, you saved my life.’ ” She repeated his words. “Now, give me your hand.” She held out her palm. Something firm and silky and warm was laid in it. Renard cupped his hand over hers and guided it up and down. Up and down. Suddenly, the thing in her hand jerked and exploded into a sticky wetness. She wanted to look and yet didn’t want to see at the same time. After a few moments, Renard pulled away and lifted the skirt of her dress off her face. She looked up at him. His cheeks were flushed and he was buttoning his breeches.
“Did you like the game?” he asked. She nodded.
“Good, we’ll do it again, soon.”
Berthe stood, wiped her hand on her kerchief, and shook the straw out of her skirt. She looked over at Céleste, who was munching away at her feed, ignoring them.
From that moment on, Renard took up residence in Berthe’s mind. He seemed to fill a need, for someone or something that she had had as long as she could remember. She spent every waking moment thinking about him. No matter where she was or what she was doing, she was preoccupied with visions of him and of them together. She would have said it was love but wasn’t she too young to be in love? She was not too young, however, for romantic fantasies.
Instead of saying her prayers at night she created scenes of herself and Renard in her imagination: walking hand in hand through the fields, wading in the river, sharing a lunch of apples and cheese, dozing in the summer sun, riding Jean-Luc, the huge Percheron, into the sunset and away, far away from her grand-mère and Renard’s family. She imagined a beautiful cottage at the top of a hill, Céleste grazing among the wildflowers and a pantry filled with all of Renard’s favorite foods. And she conjured up a big wide feather bed covered with a soft white duvet. In her ever-expanding fantasy, the cottage grew into a country mansion with many rooms and tall windows opening onto fields of sweet mowed grass. She fell asleep decorating each of the rooms of her grand home. It was all so innocent. Her romantic imagination was something she had inherited from her mother—a dangerous legacy of hopeless love.
Some days later as she was posing for Monsieur Millet she caught sight of Renard coming across the field, the sun glinting off his golden hair. Her stomach twisted in a knot and her heart began to beat faster.
Even Monsieur Millet seemed to notice the change in her.
“Mademoiselle Bovary is dreaming.” He was sketching Berthe in the act of using the long-handled baling rake to pull the hay into a bundle for tying. The artist always insisted on authenticity.
“Why can’t I just pretend to be raking?” she asked, growing weary from the continual pulling.
“Because I need to see the body in motion,” he said. “Now slide your hand further down the handle. There, that’s it. And stop dreaming of your boyfriend,” he said, nodding in Renard’s direction. “Concentrate on the work at hand.”
How did he know she was dreaming of Renard? she wondered. Did her thoughts actually show on her face? She bowed her head and began to rake with exaggerated sweeping movements.
“All right, Berthe, you can put down the tool. This is apparently not your day to be my muse. Come, it’s time for me to show you the results of your labor. We will tell your grand-mère I am taking you to my home in Barbizon.”
Berthe was surprised when her grand-mère agreed to let her accompany Monsieur Millet to Barbizon, which was over an hour away. As they bumped along in his dogcart he pointed out the fields and workers.
“Look over there.” He pointed off to his left. “What do you see?”
“Nothing,” she replied. For, in fact, they were passing by empty fields. It was after the harvest and the harvesters had finished building the huge haystacks that stood in the early afternoon sun. Sheep grazed in the stubble that was left of the fields. Beyond the flat mowed plain she could see the red rooftops of the village of Barbizon.
“Art is everywhere, my dear. Unless we have the ability to see it, this is nothing more than an empty hay field on a warm autumn day.” They drove on for a long time in silence. She squinted her eyes trying to see the haystacks and the surrounding fields as he did. “You understand, Berthe, the artist’s life is a thankless one.” He sighed. “I work in a world of ignorance and indifference. Nobody sees and nobody cares. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother.”
“Because you love it?” she volunteered. He laughed, put his arm around her shoulders, and gave her a squeeze.
“As good an answer as any,” he said.
“And because you are well paid for it,” she added, fixing him with a stern gaze.
“Ah, she brings up the subject of money, my little goose girl. I know, you are angry that I gave your grand-mère your modeling money. Don’t worry. That was just to pacify the old woman. Here.” He reached in his vest pocket and handed her a small pouch of coins. She emptied them out in her hand and counted them—one hundred francs. Closing her fist around the coins, she smiled broadly.
She expected Monsieur Millet’s family to live in a grand house with many rooms surrounded by manicured gardens. Consequently, she was surprised when they stopped in front of an ambling laborer’s cottage at the edge of town. A plump, pretty woman emerged from the low doorway. Berthe recognized her from the portrait the artist had shown her. It was his wife, Catherine.
Monsieur Millet jumped out of the dogcart and threw his arms around her as if he hadn’t seen her in weeks. She cuffed him playfully on the head.
“Don’t play the grand lover with me, monsieur. You cannot expect a meal in the middle of the day when you told me you would be gone until sunset.”
“Ah, Catherine, my Catherine, I could not bear to stay away from your soft embrace any longer.” He began nibbling on her neck. Berthe felt suddenly and painfully jealous.
“And who is this?” Catherine asked, looking over his broad shoulder at Berthe, her brown eyes glinting.
“Don’t you recognize my muse, my milkmaid, my newest inspiration?”
“All your muses look the same to me, Monsieur Chef d’oeuvre. Come, don’t just stand there. Bring her in.” They entered the cottage. It was as humble on the inside as it was on the outside. There were three low-ceilinged rooms: a studio, a kitchen, and a bedchamber. How could nine children fit in this humble shack? Berthe wondered. As if reading her mind, Monsieur Millet opened a door in the far corner of the bedroom and showed her a narrow hallway that led to the rooms he had added to accommodate his huge family.
“Back here is where we keep the herd penned,” he said. “And speaking of them, where are mes enfants?” he asked his wife.
“Your youngest is sleeping in the kitchen, in case you didn’t notice, and the others are out in the back laying waste to the fields.” She gave Berthe a sharp look. “Jean, give the poor girl something to drink. She must be thirsty after being dragged through the dusty countryside.” Monsieur Millet obeyed his wife as if she were his mother and he were one of her many children. He poured Berthe a mug of cold water from an earthenware pitcher, then tilted the pitcher and drank down the rest of the contents.
“Jean,” his wife scolded, “you have the manners of a pig.”
“I know.” He laughed and then, snorting like a pig, he grabbed at her skirt. She moved easily out of his reach. For some reason, the sight of their obvious happiness made Berthe want to cry. “Now I will give Mademoiselle Berthe Bovary the honor of a private showing of one of my masterpieces.” He beckoned to Berthe. “Come, and bow your head. You are about to enter the hallowed halls of a great genius.”
She followed Millet into his studio. The large room was very bright, with many windows that faced south and looked out onto the fields. She saw Millet’s “herd” of children, all sizes and ages, playing on a haystack. The studio smelled of oil paint and turpentine. Canvases leaned against the wall, their painted sides hidden from view. On an easel in the corner stood a large unfinished painting of three peasant women picking up the sparse remnants of harvest. It was a beautiful picture composed of soft blues, rosy pinks, golden sun
-drenched fields.
“Well, mademoiselle. What do you think?”
“It’s quite … quite beautiful. And very sad,” she said, tilting her head.
“Beautiful and sad. Very good. You understand what I’m trying to say in my painting.”
Madame Millet stood in the doorway, her hands on her ample hips.
“All that is well and good, but you neglected to tell your muse how profitable this painting is. My impoverished painter can sell this for five thousand francs,” she announced proudly.
“Five thousand francs,” Berthe gasped. “For a painting?” She couldn’t believe her ears. The painting wasn’t even framed.
“Who knows? If people keep buying Jean-Francois’s work, perhaps one day we can give up this hideous life and go back to Paris.”
“And what would I paint there?” he asked. “Ladies with big hats and little dogs?” He made a face. “You know I can’t do that, Catherine. My inspiration is here in the country. I would die in Paris.”
“Oh, fool. You wouldn’t die. You would just be rich, your children would get a decent education, and I, well, I would be able to rest my poor overworked back for once.” She glared at him before turning to leave. Monsieur Millet seemed not to be bothered by his wife’s angry outburst. It was obvious he had heard it all many times before. He continued to gaze with great satisfaction at the painting of the three peasant women. He pointed to the bent figure in blue that dominated the right side of the canvas.
“Now that, my dear Berthe, is an overworked back,” he said. “One can feel her pain.”
Berthe studied the figure. It was true. From the curve of her back and the way she leaned over to rest the weight of her upper body, Berthe could almost feel the pain and stiffness even in her young bones.
“I call it The Gleaners,” Millet said. “Do you know what a gleaner is?”
She shook her head.
“A gleaner is the poorest of the country poor. The person who picks the field after the harvester is gone. Theirs is the most meager of livings. They live off the charity of those who are too poor even to be charitable.” He directed her attention to a stack of sketches of the same three figures in slightly different poses. “I have been drawing them for years.”
She thought about what Madame Millet had said. Why in the world would one choose this depressing subject matter when you could paint beautiful ladies in big hats? she wondered. She stole a glance at Monsieur Millet. He was staring at his painting as if looking for something hidden in the brushstrokes.
“You know, I may not sell this after all,” he said finally. “I do believe it is my very best work. I’m not sure I can ever surpass it.” He pulled at his thick beard.
“Won’t Madame Millet be very angry if you don’t sell it?” Berthe asked.
“Oh, yes.” He laughed. “I should say she would be. She has these strange notions about children needing to eat. Can you imagine?” He gave her one of his big smiles in which the ends of his mustache tipped upward.
“But, Monsieur Millet, how lucky you are. Someone wants to give you large amounts of money for something you made with your own hands. I can’t imagine anything better,” Berthe said, hugging herself.
At that moment, Madame Millet rushed into the studio. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement.
“Monsieur Boulanger is here to look at your work. He rode the whole day from Yonville. That’s over eighty kilometers,” she whispered, quickly untying her apron.
“Who is that?” Monsieur Millet asked.
“Where is your head? I told you. He wrote you weeks ago. He is very rich and very eager to buy one of your pieces. Perhaps more than one. And now he is here. Surely you can bear to part with one of the thousands you have sitting here gathering dust.” She turned on her heel and hurried out of the room.
“My wife worries too much about commerce. She has a difficult time understanding the artist’s needs. If only we hadn’t had quite so many children,” he sighed.
It was difficult for Berthe to pay attention to what he was saying. The name Boulanger was suddenly ringing in her head. This couldn’t be the same Monsieur Boulanger who came on his huge black horse to take her mother riding every afternoon for months. The Boulanger who had lifted her mother out of her dull, routine existence and filled her with something like fire. The man who had broken her mother’s heart. He couldn’t possibly be the same man. Could he?
CHAPTER 6
Monsieur Boulanger
BERTHE WAS SEVEN YEARS OLD WHEN RODOLPHE BOULANGER entered the Bovary home and her mother’s life. He was a tall, handsome man in his early thirties with dark, deep-set eyes, thick eyebrows, and very curly black hair, which he wore tied back with a grosgrain ribbon. His skin was very white and although he was clean-shaven, the blue of his beard shadowed his cheeks. He had brought his manservant for Berthe’s father to treat.
“I have no idea what ails the fellow. He has been poorly for the past two weeks,” he explained to Dr. Bovary.
“I will bleed him and soon he’ll be right as rain,” her father said. Berthe had seen bleeding done a few times before and thought nothing of it. She sat on the hearthstone watching as her father made a small cut on the inside of the man’s arm. Deep red blood ran down the servant’s arm into a porcelain basin. The poor man began to grow faint and Berthe’s father called out for his wife to assist.
It was a hot day in August and Berthe’s mother wore a pale yellow dress with three flounces. The tightness of the waist offset the wide skirt. As she bent down to put the basin of blood underneath the table, she caught the dress with her knee and it pulled the fabric down, exposing the top inches of her ivory bosom. Monsieur Boulanger could not seem to tear his eyes away from her neckline.
“Your wife, sir, is quite beautiful,” Boulanger remarked to Berthe’s father when her mother left the room.
“I am sorry to say that she is not feeling herself these days. She is pale and without energy.”
“She should ride,” pronounced Boulanger. “I find the exercise very beneficial.”
“Unfortunately, we have no proper mount for her.”
“Allow me to offer one of my horses,” said Boulanger.
Later at dinner, when Berthe’s father mentioned Monsieur Boulanger’s offer, her mother demurred.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” she said. “Besides, I have no riding habit.”
“Then you must have one,” Charles Bovary answered. And that was that. A riding habit was immediately ordered from Monsieur Lheureux, the draper.
A few weeks later, Berthe watched her mother dress for her first ride with Monsieur Boulanger. Getting ready to go riding turned out to be a very involved process. First came the corset, which Félicité fastened loosely. Then cotton socks. Then a pair of very ugly cotton drawers, the kind that boys wore. Over the drawers her mother put on a pair of black equestrian tights that reached all the way to her ankles. Then the black calfskin riding boots with buttons that fastened on the outside to prevent chafing, Emma explained.
She buttoned up a white cotton shirtwaist with an ascot stock that fastened with a pretty gold pin. And then finally the riding habit itself. It was made of a heavy material of dark forest green. The jacket was single-breasted and tightly fitted. The skirt, which opened in the back, was long and meant to drape down so that only her boots showed. She donned a black derby that was held around her chin with a strap of elastic. Attached to it was a veil which she lowered over her face. Finally, she pulled on a pair of soft black calfskin gloves which fastened on the side with two clasps.
Berthe was fascinated by the wonderful intricacy of her mother’s outfit. She reached out to touch the fabric of the skirt. It was smooth and silky.
“So many clothes,” Berthe sighed.
“Yes, I’m already exhausted”—her mother laughed—“and I have yet to get on the horse.”
“When I go riding will I have a riding outfit?” Berthe asked, looking up at her mother.
“I doubt that yo
u’ll need a riding outfit as you are minus the horse. And I doubt that your father will be purchasing one for you anytime soon.” She smoothed the veil under her chin.
Berthe heard hooves on the cobblestones outside. Monsieur Boulanger had arrived astride a huge black horse, leading a lovely dapple-gray mare behind. Emma Bovary took a final look in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes flashed with excitement. She was so beautiful at that moment that Berthe wanted to reach up and hug her, but Emma was in too great a rush and moved out of her daughter’s reach.
“Wish me luck! Your mama is going riding.” Picking up the leather crop from the top of the bureau, she hurried out of the room, her long riding skirt sweeping the floor behind her.
Berthe ran to the window and looked out. Monsieur Boulanger got off his horse and tied it to the post. When her mother came out he put his two hands together so that she could step into them and onto her horse.
Berthe had never seen her mother so happy. She waved frantically but her mother didn’t see her. Instead she smiled down at Monsieur Boulanger, who was tightening the girth on her horse’s saddle.
That was the first of many rides. And they did seem to have a curative effect on her mother’s health. Her cheeks took on more color; her hair and eyes took on a new luster; and she began to eat with an increased appetite.
“I told you the riding would do you the world of good,” Charles Bovary said. He was very pleased with her improvement.
When her mother wasn’t out riding with Monsieur Boulanger, she was shopping. She spent long hours at Monsieur Lheureux’s shop. She came home with all sorts of lovely things: the softest leather gloves, embroidered chemises, rose-scented soaps, and silk stockings.
It was during these times that Berthe felt closest to her mother. She would sit at her mother’s feet as they went through her purchases.
“Just feel this chemise. Have you ever felt anything so soft?” her mother said. Berthe ran her fingers over the delicate white fabric. It was edged in intricate lace and threaded with pink satin ribbons.