Madame Bovary's Daughter

by Linda Urbach

  “You’ll get what you earn and not a penny more or a penny less. And if that’s not good enough for you, well, there are plenty of others waiting for work.”

  It was almost dark by the time Berthe arrived at 17, rue de la Côte, a large six-story stone house on a street with similar houses. There was no light coming from any of the windows and Berthe wondered if anyone was home. She rang the bell and waited several minutes. The blustery wind blew up her skirt and her toes ached with cold. She kept one hand under her shawl but the other one holding her small valise felt frozen on the handle. Finally, a small door opened. An extremely fat woman stood in the doorway.

  “Yes, my dear. What can I do for you?”

  “Madame Lisette?” asked Berthe.

  “The very one,” boomed the woman.

  “I am here for a room,” Berthe said, handing Madame Lisette the slip of paper. The woman studied the paper and then looked up at Berthe, her small eyes squinting through the darkness.

  “Get in here so I can better see you,” Madame Lisette said, opening the door wider.

  The door opened onto a courtyard and Berthe was immediately assaulted by an all-too-familiar smell. The entire courtyard was covered with high mounds of manure. She felt as if she were back in the country.

  “My dowry,” said Madame Lisette, laughing loudly. “Have you never seen dung before?”

  “I come from my grand-mère’s farm,” explained Berthe.

  “Good, then you are used to it. My boy Lucien collects this from the streets and sells it to farmers for fertilizer. I’m never one to turn up my nose at a little supplemental income.” She led Berthe through another door and they were inside a large kitchen with two long wooden tables set end to end. A small but very hot fire was burning in the fireplace. Hanging over the fire was a huge iron kettle of what Berthe assumed was soup. It smelled slightly of cabbage, carrots, and dirty feet.

  “Welcome to the house of busy hands,” said Madame Lisette grandly. “You’re very fortunate. Tonight is special soup night. Dinner is served every evening at ten P.M. If you’re late you don’t eat. No exceptions. The privy is in back of the house. This, as you can see, is our kitchen.” There was an old gray cat asleep on top of the table. At first Berthe thought she was dead until she lifted her head and looked at Madame Lisette through half-closed amber eyes.

  “And here is our grand salle à manger,” she said, opening the door of another room. It was dark and dingy and smelled of rotten onions and cat urine. The room was long and narrow with most of the space taken up by two more rough pine trestle tables, the kind that were used for outdoor picnics. “Now, follow me and I will show you to your boudoir. The dormitory rooms are all full but I have a nice spot on the fifth floor. You’ll be with Hélène. She’ll show you the ropes. But take care, chérie, she is a terrible thief.”

  Berthe followed the woman’s broad bottom up five flights of stairs. Madame Lisette had to stop every few steps to catch her breath. On the top floor, she pushed open a door and moved her large frame aside so that Berthe could see the room. It was no bigger than a closet. There were two wood plank beds lined up inches apart from each other. Bags and boxes were stashed away underneath one of the beds. Both beds were covered with a jumble of clothes and gray woolen blankets. More clothes hung from hooks on the walls. The room was freezing. They had left what little heat there was five flights below.

  Berthe suddenly longed for the clean country air and her grand-mère’s immaculate farmhouse. She felt suffocated by the smells, intimidated by her new surroundings. Who were these people she would be forced to share a roof with? She had difficulty understanding Madame Lisette. Was she joking or serious? Was the girl she was to share a room with really a thief?

  “I like my guests to keep things neat,” Madame Lisette said. She bent down and with both arms gathered up a huge pile of clothes and dumped them on the bed with the bags and boxes stashed beneath it. Then she separated two woolen blankets from the pile, folded them neatly, and placed them on the foot of the empty bed. Berthe noticed that the sheets and pillowcase were either dirty or gray from the lint of the blankets. “The rest of our little family is at work. You will meet them all soon enough. Rent is four francs a week payable every Friday. But you don’t have to worry about it. The mill takes it out of your wages and pays me directly. The cost includes a hearty supper pail to take to work and a hot dinner every night,” she added as if to justify the amount.

  “But, madame, I’m not even sure what I’m getting paid at the mill.”

  “They didn’t tell you?” Madame Lisette turned to look at her, hands on her hips.

  Berthe shook her head.

  “How old are you, dear?” the woman asked.

  “Fourteen,” Berthe said.

  “Ah, good. You will probably get about seven francs a week. I believe the beatings are free.” Berthe felt a wave of fear run through her. Madame Lisette threw back her head and laughed and laughed. Finally, she caught her breath and wiped her eyes with a lace hanky she had pulled from her sleeve. “You can hang up your gowns in the armoire,” she said.

  “What gowns?” Berthe asked, confused.

  “What armoire?” Madame Lisette answered back, again roaring with laughter. Her bosom shook so much Berthe thought it would slide off her chest onto the floor.

  “One has to keep laughing. There is too much in this life to cry about,” the woman said, chortling to herself as she left.

  Berthe took her small valise and placed it on the empty bed. A smoking oil lantern dimly lit the crowded room. She opened her bag and unwrapped the picture of the beautiful white tulle dress, which she’d carried from her home in Yonville to her grand-mère’s, and from her grand-mère’s to here. She examined the details, analyzing how the seams were put together, how the flounces were attached. She wondered if pearls might not have been more elegant than the crystals. The woman in the illustration was standing in a beautiful ballroom, glancing over her right shoulder as if someone was approaching. Was she waiting to be asked to dance? What kind of music was playing? This was certainly a gown that called for a waltz.

  What a joke. What a fool you are. Dreaming of dresses and dancing in ballrooms while you’re living in a smelly hovel.

  She looked out the small window. There were tile roofs and chimneys of all shapes and sizes as far as she could see. She had never experienced a view like this. The panorama gave her a feeling of being both above the city and part of it at the same time.

  For a moment her fears were forgotten and she was infused with a new energy. The sky was tinged red-orange with the last light of the setting sun. This wasn’t a town, it was a city. And despite feeling cold and frightened, she was filled with a great excitement. She had a job. She would be earning a living. She would be working with fabrics, beautiful fabrics, the kind her mother pored over at Monsieur Lheureux’s shop. And if she worked hard enough perhaps they would increase her salary. No, not perhaps, for certain. She had no idea what her job would be but she was sure she would excel at it. She would be the best worker in the entire mill. And they would see her value and the seven francs would grow to fourteen and then twenty and soon she would be the proud owner of soft leather boots and a new dress with braid around the collar and jet buttons … and a bonnet with black ostrich feathers.

  She yawned then, overcome with a great fatigue. She had traveled a long way in a very short time. She lay down on the bed, closed her eyes, and within moments drifted off to sleep. She was awakened by the sound of heavy footsteps pounding up the stairway.

  Berthe opened her eyes. Once they adjusted to the dim light she could see the figure of a very tall, very broad-shouldered girl standing over her bed. Berthe sat up and backed into the corner of the bed.

  “What do you think you’re doing in my room?” demanded the girl.

  “I’m supposed to share it with you,” Berthe shot back. She fought hard to keep her voice steady and strong.

  “Sez who?” asked the girl, leaning in c
loser, bringing her face to within inches of Berthe’s. Her breath smelled of onions.

  “Madame Lisette.” Berthe sat up and swung her legs over onto the floor.

  “And what is this?” the girl asked, snatching at the drawing of the dress on Berthe’s bed.

  “That’s mine,” said Berthe, reaching for it. “Give it back.” There was something about Berthe’s tone that made her comply.

  “Who wants your filthy drawing,” she said, dropping it on the floor. “And what are you doing with a picture like that?”

  “It’s one of my mother’s dresses.” Berthe carefully folded up the drawing.

  “Oh, and who’s your mother, the Queen of England?” Clutching her stomach, the older girl doubled over with guffaws. Suddenly she stopped. “You touch any of my things and I’ll kill you.” She shoved aside a pile of clothes and sat down on the opposite bed. Her rust-colored eyes were the same color as the freckles that exploded across her face, and she had blood-red hair that seemed to want to fly away from her head. It was barely restrained by the single fat braid that hung down to the middle of her back. Her legs were so long and skinny her stockings rumpled around her ankles. She wore a tattered gray dress that came to her knees and an apron of the same color over it. Her large hands were bruised and covered with welts.

  “Why would I want to touch your dirty things?” said Berthe. The girl seemed to think this over.

  “Make sure that you don’t,” she said, swinging her legs up on the bed. “Just remember, this was my room first.”

  Berthe had no idea what possessed her to talk back to the bigger, older, and angrier girl, but somehow she sensed that if she didn’t assert herself now she would be very sorry later. She took a deep breath and said, “Well, now it’s our room, isn’t it?” The other girl glared at her.

  There was the faint sound of the dinner bell and without a word the tall girl rose and clomped downstairs. After a few minutes, Berthe followed her.

  Her first impression of the people seated at the long trestle tables was that they were asleep. They sat with their heads bowed or resting on their hands while bowls of soup were distributed. Berthe guessed that most of the residents were around her age—anywhere from twelve to sixteen—though some seemed as young as ten. There were a half dozen older women and men as well. Madame Lisette stood at the head of one table ladling soup out of the big pot.

  “Ah, mes enfants, tonight I have outdone myself. This is my most superb soup yet. However do I do it, you ask? How does one spin gold out of hay? The recipes for all my soups shall remain a secret. They will die with me.”

  “Now, that will be a day to celebrate,” someone whispered.

  “Who would want the recipe for this swill?” another mumbled.

  Madame Lisette paid no heed. She looked up at Berthe in the doorway. “Ah, here is our newest member. Hélène, introduce your sister to her new family.”

  “She’s no cursed sister of mine,” snarled the redheaded girl from her seat at the far end of one of the tables. She was squeezed in between two smaller girls who never looked up from their bowls.

  “Sit here next to Monsieur Ratatouille. He will take good care of you.” Madame Lisette indicated a spot next to a young boy whose face was almost buried in his soup bowl. When he glanced up, it took everything Berthe could do not to gasp. She understood why Madame Lisette had called him ratatouille. His face was a mass of painful-looking red eruptions. He quickly looked down again.

  “Bonsoir,” said Berthe, picking up her spoon. The boy didn’t answer. She peered down at the bowl of soup in front of her. She touched her spoon to the surface and a film of grease parted to reveal strange pieces of what appeared to be vegetables with a few chunks of what might have been sausage. It smelled abominable. But she was famished and she couldn’t afford not to eat. At the far end of the table in front of Hélène was a basket of bread. Berthe summoned up her courage.

  “Pass the bread, s’il vous plaît,” she called out.

  Hélène ignored her. One of the girls sitting next to her started to lift the basket. Hélène’s hand came down hard on the girl’s wrist.

  “Girls, girls,” sang Madame Lisette. “Please let’s not squabble. There’s plenty of food to go around. More soup anyone? Don’t be shy. I have half a full pot here.”

  “You’re welcome to give it to the pigs,” the boy next to Berthe whispered.

  Berthe was more than a little intimidated by Hélène. But she knew from her experience with her grand-mère that she couldn’t let the girl bully her, especially when it came to getting enough to eat. She stood, walked down to the end of the table, reached over, and tried to pick up the basket of bread. Hélène’s hand held it down. A silent but serious tug-of-war ensued until with her other hand Berthe knocked over a pitcher of water. The water ran off the table and directly onto Hélène’s lap.

  “Why, you little snake!” Hélène shouted. She jumped up and brushed the water off her lap. Berthe picked up the breadbasket and returned to her place at the table. All eyes were upon her.

  “Now you’re in for it,” the boy with the bad skin mumbled into his soup.

  “She doesn’t scare me,” said Berthe. But her hand was shaking as she picked up a piece of hard bread.

  Immediately after the meal she went straight up to bed. She lay there for a long time afraid to shut her eyes for fear she would be attacked in her sleep. But finally, the hot soup and the long hours of travel did their work and she drifted off to a dreamless slumber.

  She awoke late the next morning and looked over at the other bed. It was empty. Hélène was nowhere to be seen. Where had she spent the night? And then Berthe had a wonderful thought: Perhaps the girl was as afraid of Berthe as Berthe was of her.

  It was Sunday. She had the whole day before her. There was nothing to do until she started work early Monday morning. Berthe squirmed underneath the gray blankets. She desperately needed to urinate. She leaned over and looked under the bed. There was no chamber pot. She would have to go down all five flights and out the back to the privy in order to relieve herself. She just hoped she could hold it until then.

  She dressed quickly, putting on the few clothes that she hadn’t slept in. The water in the pitcher had a thin sheet of ice. She broke the ice with the handle of her hairbrush and poured the water into the washbowl. Then she wet the corner of her flannel and quickly scrubbed her face.

  Madame Lisette met her at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Ah, off to church, Mademoiselle Bovary?” she asked.

  “No, madame. To the privy,” said Berthe. Madame Lisette laughed.

  “Well, sometimes nature calls even before God,” she said. “The cathedral is down the street on your left. You’ve missed the early mass but the next one is at ten o’clock.”

  “Thank you, madame.” Berthe didn’t care to explain that she had no interest in church, that her parents had never taken her, and that the only so-called religious instruction she had ever received was from Félicité, whose version of the Eighth Commandment was revised to read: Thou shalt not steal unless when absolutely necessary.

  “Of course this is my day of rest as well,” Madame Lisette said, “so my family have to fend for themselves when it comes to supper. We’ll have a nice hot Sunday soup tonight. There is a boulangerie across from the church. Their prices are not too dear.” Just hearing the word boulangerie caused Berthe’s mouth to water. She remembered the meal from the night before and realized her stomach was empty. She had one franc fifty in her purse left over from her train ticket. But that would have to last until she received her first wages.

  After her visit to the privy, she left the boardinghouse and walked down the street toward the church. Before she had gone a few steps her feet began aching. Her toes were so stiff she felt they were about to snap off. There was an old newspaper in the gutter. She picked it up, folded a few pages, and stuffed the paper inside her clogs. But within minutes her feet were as cold as ever.

  Across the s
treet, warm lights and irresistible smells were coming from the boulangerie. Berthe crossed over and stood for a long time gazing at the window. Doily-covered plates held pastries: mille-feuilles oozing with custard, tiny jeweled tartlets topped with gleaming raspberries and peaches, a mountain of Chantilly cream studded with chocolate profiteroles, and a majestic towering glazed croquembouche. She inhaled the delicious aromas: toasted almonds, vanilla, and cinnamon. She had never in her life seen such an array of delicious desserts. In the corner of the window, almost hidden like plain stepsisters, were the freshly baked baguettes, brioche, and flaky croissants. Berthe swallowed hard. The woman inside beckoned to her.

  Berthe entered, knowing she couldn’t afford to spend even a small sum on such treats.

  “What can I offer you, mademoiselle?” said the woman behind the counter.

  “Oh, nothing, madame,” said Berthe. “I was just admiring your display.”

  “Come now, my pastries cannot be admired merely with the eyes. They are made to be eaten. Try one.”

  “I’m not hungry, thank you, madame. I just had my breakfast,” said Berthe, trying to swallow the saliva that kept gathering in her mouth. Get out of here before you drool all over the woman’s floor.

  “Here, have a slice of my tarte aux pommes. I’ll cut you a small piece. People swear it is the best they’ve ever had.”

  She handed Berthe a thin wedge of the tarte on a piece of paper. It was in her mouth before she knew it. Berthe wanted it to last forever. But the pastry was so light and so perfectly baked that it melted away. The creamy rich custard slipped down her throat followed by the tender cinnamon-laced apples and light flaky crust. Berthe practically swooned from the richness of it.

  “Good, yes?” the woman said. Berthe nodded, still savoring the sweetness. “I normally charge ten centimes for that. But it is a slow day. I will let you have it for five.” Berthe felt the tart start to come back up. She coughed.