by Linda Urbach
“It’s beautiful, Maman.” Berthe held it up to her nose. “It smells like roses.”
“One always keeps a perfumed sachet with one’s under-things,” her mother explained. She showed Berthe how to put on kid gloves by gently working them on one finger at time. How to use tissue paper to keep dresses from wrinkling. How to tell if a dress has been properly made.
“Look at the buttonholes.” Berthe gently poked her little finger through one of the buttonholes. “They must be stitched all around with good silk thread, and the hems must be finished with silk binding,” her mother continued.
Whereas some children remember a mother’s kisses, Berthe held in her mind the memories of a mother’s dresses. Emma Bovary would read to her daughter from the pages of La Corbeille, her favorite fashion journal, as if it were a much-adored fairy tale. In many ways, for her it was.
“ ‘A dress of gray silk with three narrow pinked flounces at the bottom. Each flounce is edged with a row of blue pinked silk just peeping below the gray,’ ” she read in a dreamlike tone. “ ‘There is a broad band of blue silk which is sewn next to the top flounce. The sleeves are trimmed in blue silk and the body of the dress is buttoned to the throat with blue buttons.’ How perfectly lovely,” she murmured.
For winter, Madame Bovary preferred soft shawls made of cashmere, and for summer fine merino or grenadine, embroidered with tiny flowers and decorated with finely stitched bands of silk. And then there were the satin undergarments and peekaboo lace corsets that her husband probably never laid eyes on. He barely noticed what his wife was wearing on any given day. Had he opened her armoire he would no doubt have been stunned by the vast array of garments he found inside.
Berthe loved to sit inside her mother’s armoire and feel swaddled in the soft muslins and summer satins. She thought this must be what heaven was like, surrounded by clouds of fragrant fabrics. She understood that beautiful things made you feel beautiful and therefore somehow lovable. Silks could wrap you in loveliness, kid gloves caressed your hands, combs swept your hair up in soft folds, earrings not only graced your ears but they lit up your eyes as well. People could move in and out of your life. But beautiful things would stay forever. Or so it seemed, until her mother lost everything.
“Monsieur Lheureux extends credit to Madame Bovary like a spider extending the hospitality of its web,” Félicité muttered as she put away her mistress’s recent purchases. Berthe didn’t know what credit was but she certainly knew what spiders were. She was deathly afraid of them. Someone once told her that the bite of a spider could kill. She felt a momentary fear. But then she thought Félicité was just being silly. How could her mother’s beautiful purchases hurt her?
One day Berthe’s mother brought home a riding crop with an elegant silver top.
“Oh, Maman, how beautiful,” Berthe said, caressing the intricately engraved handle.
“Shhh,” Emma said, “it’s a surprise.”
“For Papa?” Berthe asked, her eyes widening.
“No, for a special friend.” Her mother smiled. It made Berthe uneasy. It was as if her mother were a stranger with a secret that her daughter would never know.
But Berthe knew who the special friend was. Everyone but her poor papa knew. Her father was too busy trying to keep up with her mother’s growing expenses. He was gone all day and on call at night for emergencies that took him many miles away. Sometimes his work took him as far as his mother’s farm and he was forced to spend the night there. He was much too tired to pay attention to what his wife was up to.
Berthe, on the other hand, never stopped paying attention. Her mother was an endless source of fascination to her. One beautiful blue summer day she even followed her out the back door, across the grass meadow, over the cow bridge into the woods on the other side of town. She stayed far behind her. If Emma Bovary had known her daughter was following her, Berthe would have received a sound thrashing.
Over her arm her mother carried a large wicker basket which Berthe thought must be a picnic lunch. The girl kept well back and hid behind the occasional bush or the trunk of a tree until her mother stopped at the edge of the stream. There she stood for a moment as if waiting for something. Berthe found a lovely resting place among soft grass and lilies of the valley, where she could lie and watch her mother without being seen.
Suddenly there was a sound in the thicket. It was Monsieur Boulanger leading his huge black horse. Berthe wondered where her mother’s horse was. Weren’t they going riding? she wondered. He tied his horse to a branch and walked slowly up to her mother. The smile on her face was one that Berthe had never seen before. Then Emma slowly leaned her body against his as if she couldn’t stand on her own. They put their lips together. Berthe saw Monsieur Boulanger slip his tongue into her mother’s mouth. She gasped, then quickly clamped her hand over her mouth lest she cry out again and risk embarrassing both her mother and herself. She had never seen her parents kiss like that. Never. Then she closed her eyes. Somehow she knew this was something she was not supposed to see. But she couldn’t keep them closed. She couldn’t stop staring. This was the most wonderful, awful, exciting, and terrifying thing she had ever witnessed.
Boulanger lifted up the skirt of Emma Bovary’s summer frock, and Berthe was stunned to see that underneath her many petticoats her mother was naked. The sun shining through the trees dappled her pale white thighs. She held up her skirts while Boulanger ran his hands lightly over her smooth, round bottom. His hand moved around to her front, and he began to touch her with his fingers. Berthe heard her mother moan. She thought he was hurting her, but then she saw the look on her mother’s face. Her eyes were closed and she looked blissful.
Berthe stumbled out of the wood, heart racing. What was her mother doing? Why did she seem so happy? In her confusion she ran headlong into a tree, scratching her forehead on the rough bark.
“You naughty, naughty girl. Where have you been?” Félicité asked, shaking her roughly. “And what in heaven’s name did you do to your face?”
“I was with Madame Homais,” Berthe said. Lies came easily to her even then. “Please, please, don’t tell Maman,” she begged. But of course she knew Félicité wouldn’t, for fear of getting into trouble for having let the girl out of her sight.
That night she lay in bed and the unsettling thoughts about her mother and Monsieur Boulanger returned. Why had her mother forgotten to wear her underwear? And why had she smiled at such an invasion? It was Félicité who finally told her the truth about Monsieur Boulanger after Madame Bovary screamed at Félicité one morning.
“You’ve torn my best chemise. Just look at it. This can’t be repaired. I will have to throw it away.” She waved the garment in Félicité’s face.
“But, madame, this is your oldest chemise. Look, the cotton is worn thin. I can’t help it if it tears easily.”
“You have the hands of a field worker, Félicité.” The maid snapped her mouth shut and didn’t say another word for the rest of the day. As she was putting Berthe to bed that night she finally spoke.
“Your mother has no right to talk to me that way. Who does she think she is? Having an affair in broad daylight. She’s nothing more than a wicked adulteress.”
Before Berthe could ask what an adulteress was, Félicité explained. “She allows Monsieur Boulanger to have his way with her without regard to her reputation or the reputation of her poor husband.” Whatever that meant, Berthe was convinced it was a sin.
One day Berthe was playing behind the water trough in the courtyard. She looked up and saw her mother in the upstairs window. She watched as Emma placed a small piece of paper in the shutter and then disappeared from view. Berthe felt a wave of excitement run through her. Was it some sort of signal? Every so often her mother would reappear in the window. She was looking for someone.
Suddenly, Monsieur Boulanger appeared in the courtyard. He threw a small pebble up at the window. Within moments her mother rushed out the door and into his arms. Neither one of them coul
d see Berthe sitting on the ground behind the trough.
“Take care, someone might see,” he told her mother, gently pushing her away.
Berthe was stunned at the sight of her mother crying, her shoulders shaking with huge sobs.
“I can bear it no longer!” she cried.
“What do you want me to do?” Boulanger said, looking down at her.
“Take me away,” she beseeched. “Carry me off … I beg of you!” She pressed her lips against his mouth.
“But …” he began.
“But what?” her mother cried, holding on to the lapels of his coat.
“Your little girl! What about your child?” said Monsieur Boulanger. There was a long silence and then Berthe heard words that she never imagined she would hear from her mother’s mouth.
“We’ll take her with us, of course.” Berthe wanted to run out and throw her arms around her mother. She wanted to bury her face in her mother’s skirt and never let go. Her mother did love her after all!
Just then Félicité called from the kitchen window.
“Madame, have you seen the child?”
Her mother quickly pulled away from Monsieur Boulanger and ran into the house. Berthe stayed behind the trough for a long time until she knew it was safe to come out.
She hugged herself, thrilled beyond belief. They would go off with Monsieur Boulanger, travel the world in beautiful clothes. But then she thought about her poor father. He would miss his wife and perhaps his daughter as well. However, what with his work, he seemed to have so little time for either of them, she reasoned.
Over the next few weeks her mother radiated a beauty and happiness Berthe had never seen before. Berthe was happy, too. Knowing that her mother loved her enough to take her away with her filled her days with untold joy.
Her mother became totally preoccupied with preparing for their trip. She spent even more time with Monsieur Lheureux.
One rainy afternoon the shopkeeper brought a new style-book and swatches to show to her mother. Berthe played quietly in the corner with her doll while he and Emma discussed her wardrobe.
“And I need a traveling costume,” she said.
“Ah, very good, madame,” replied Monsieur Lheureux, taking out his leather order book.
“I want it done in blue-gray velvet,” she said. “The jacket must be fitted to a point in the center with closing hooks and eyes. I want satin piping along the seams. And a lace collar. The sleeves should be tight on the upper arms but fuller at the bottom.”
“Excellent. A pagoda sleeve.” Monsieur Lheureux nodded, busily taking notes.
“Yes, exactly,” said Emma, appearing pleased that her sleeve had such an exotic-sounding name. “As for the cloak,” she continued, “it must be a light color and trimmed in the same blue-gray and lined in gray silk. And oh, yes, it must have a hood.”
“A burnoose style,” said Monsieur Lheureux, ever the authority on the very latest fashions.
Emma Bovary smiled and nodded. “And I need to purchase a small trunk.”
“So, Madame is going on a trip,” Monsieur Lheureux said, one eyebrow raised.
“No. But I have never had a proper traveling costume or luggage. A lady must have luggage,” said Berthe’s mother, fanning herself with her ostrich feather fan. “Oh, and tell the luggage maker to be sure and line the trunk.”
She was in such a happy mood that Berthe summoned up the courage to speak.
“Maman, can I please have a travel costume, too?”
Her mother glared at her.
“What in the world do you need a travel costume for? You’re not going anywhere, you silly girl.” She turned back to Monsieur Lheureux. “She’s such an acquisitive thing.”
Berthe felt a sharp ache in her throat. She realized her mother had lied to Boulanger. She was going away with him but leaving her daughter behind. Despite all her preparations, all her mother’s late-night needlework, adding cross-stitching and drawn-thread work to her linens and nightgowns, she had never once taken out any of Berthe’s garments to have her mend them or make them more beautiful.
Berthe wanted to cry out. She wanted to beg her mother to take her, just as her mother had begged Monsieur Boulanger weeks before. But somehow she knew it was useless.
It was not long after that Rodolphe Boulanger’s servant delivered a beautiful basket of the largest apricots Berthe had ever seen. In the basket was a letter with Emma Bovary’s name on it. Berthe’s mother saw the basket, quickly snatched the letter, and disappeared upstairs into the attic. Félicité gave Berthe one of the apricots to eat. Beautiful as it was to the eye, the flesh of the fruit was pulpy and strangely without flavor or sweetness.
Moments later, they heard a loud thump. Something had fallen over in the attic.
“Stay here,” Félicité commanded and ran up the stairs. Berthe heard her knocking on the attic door.
“Madame, madame, are you all right?” There was no answer. It was not until hours later that Emma Bovary came down the stairs. Her hair was disheveled and her eyes were red and swollen. Bloody scratches ran up and down her arms. Berthe was frightened at the sight. How had she come to injure herself so?
At that moment her father arrived home. He smiled, delighted to see the basket of apricots on the kitchen table.
“From Monsieur Boulanger’s orchard?” he exclaimed. “How very kind. And what perfect fruit. Here, my dear,” he said, extending one of the apricots to his wife. “Have one.” Shaking her head violently, Emma Bovary drew back as if he were offering her a rat. Then she put her hand up to her brow and simply crumpled to the floor. Berthe knelt by at her mother’s side and began to cry. Her father, too, was alarmed.
“Call Homais,” he shouted to Félicité.
The chemist came at once. He opened a small bottle of strong-smelling liquid and Berthe’s mother revived. Her father breathed a huge sigh of relief, but Berthe couldn’t chase away the feeling that something awful had happened that morning, something she couldn’t quite grasp. She bit down hard on her lower lip, hoping she could make it bleed, hoping someone would take notice.
“Oh, my darling one, you are all right,” her father said, clasping her mother’s hand. “How you frightened your daughter. Here, give her a kiss.” He thrust Berthe toward her mother. Berthe stretched out her arms to embrace her, but Emma pushed her away.
“No. No, I want no one,” she cried, turning her face aside.
There followed a long period of illness. Emma took to her bed, had the curtains drawn, and all but stopped eating. Her father was beside himself. He couldn’t determine the cause of his wife’s sickness. He thought that perhaps the apricots had somehow caused her sudden collapse. Monsieur Homais seemed to concur, explaining that some people were very sensitive to certain foods. Perhaps Madame Bovary was allergic to the fruit. Between these two men of science, it was a wonder that Berthe’s mother didn’t perish right then and there.
Winter came and her mother hadn’t improved. Berthe was sent to stay in the house of her old nurse, Madame Rollet. When she returned in the spring she discovered a stranger, a mother she barely recognized. Emma Bovary wore her black hair in a simple chignon, and she was dressed in a dark gray cotton dress and cotton stockings without a hint of decoration. She looked for all the world as if she were the housemaid, not the mistress of the house. And her demeanor had gone through an even more startling transformation.
She had lost her spirit, her energy, and her passion for life. She spent a great deal of time praying every day, something her daughter had never seen her do before. Neither she nor her husband had been churchgoers. Monsieur Boulanger was not seen again, but Berthe knew without a doubt that he was the cause of her mother’s great sadness. It was only much later that his name was even mentioned, and that was only when her mother was desperate for his help. Help that never came.
And here was Rodolphe Boulanger, eight years later. The very same man with the same thick, curly hair, but now with a touch of gray at the temples. The sam
e dark eyes that stared both at you and through you. The same lopsided smile. Berthe kept her head lowered for fear he might recognize her. How she hated him. She hoped that Monsieur Millet would refuse to sell him a picture and send him away. Show him that his wealth doesn’t mean anything. Make him feel small just as he made my mother feel.
Monsieur Boulanger removed a thick leather wallet from his coat. “Well, Monsieur Millet, I come prepared to buy. I just pray you won’t take advantage of the fact I am so enamored of your work.”
“I regret, Monsieur Boulanger, I have nothing to sell,” said Millet, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his smock. Berthe almost laughed out loud. She turned her head so that they wouldn’t see the smile spreading across her face.
“What? Your wife wrote me that you had many paintings.” Boulanger’s gaze took in the entire studio and the canvases stacked against the walls.
“My wife sometimes gets carried away with her desire to increase my sales, promote my reputation, and fill our coffers.”
“But what about that one?” Boulanger said, pointing to the painting of The Gleaners that stood on the easel.
“Oh, I’m afraid that has already been spoken for.”
“You have others,” Boulanger said impatiently. Clearly, he was a man used to getting his way.
“My paintings are not for sale at this time,” Millet said with a sweet stubbornness. “But I would be more than happy to sell you some of my sketches.”
Berthe thought about her mother. How happy she would be if she could see the great Boulanger being denied something he desired. She wanted to throw her arms around the artist for not falling prey to the wishes of this entitled man.
“I don’t want sketches. How can I hang sketches in my gallery?” said an exasperated Boulanger. “I have traveled all day to pay my respects and any amount of money for one of your paintings. How can you deny me?”
“Dear sir, it is very difficult for me to part with my paintings. They are like children to me. I look at them as being in a state of growth. In constant need of correction and improvement.”