Madame Bovary's Daughter

by Linda Urbach

  “Mesdemoiselles, is this a tea party you’re having?”

  “No, madame,” said Hélène. “We’re just talking, catching up on old times.”

  “Hélène, you still have your chores downstairs and you, Mademoiselle Bovary,” she said, underlining Berthe’s surname, “I realize your duties are confined to Madame’s needs, but I’m sure there is something more constructive you can do besides chatting with your friend in the middle of a workday.” She gave them a look that said I know you’re up to no good. I don’t know what exactly, but trust me, I’ll find out sooner or later.

  “I were just telling my dear friend how grateful I am for this wonderful position,” said Hélène. She twisted a piece of her loose red hair and refastened it under her white cap.

  “You’re going to have to do better than that, mademoiselle. I don’t believe a word that comes out of your mouth. Perhaps your friend here can give you lessons in lying.” Berthe started to protest and then thought better of it. “Madame Rappelais has a wonderful habit of picking up strays and installing them in her household. I, for one, have never understood it.”

  “And wasn’t you also one of the strays, Madame DuPoix?” asked Hélène with an air of innocence. Madame DuPoix narrowed her eyes and then turned to leave. “Get back to work, girls.”

  While Madame was taking her nap or away visiting friends, Berthe split her time between keeping an eye on Hélène and sneaking looks at the painter’s progress. She wasn’t the only one who had developed an interest in art. The entire household seemed drawn to the young artist as to a fireplace on a cold winter’s day. Whenever Berthe visited the ballroom it appeared someone else had already been there, evidenced by empty dishes, glassware, and remnants of food that had clearly been brought by the other staff to curry favor with the young man. Once, she came upon Monsieur Rappelais sitting in one of the upholstered balloon-back chairs sipping tea as he watched the painter paint.

  “Takes my breath away,” said Monsieur.

  “Yes, it’s going to be a beautiful mural,” agreed Berthe.

  “I meant the painter, not the painting.” He laughed.

  De Pouvier continued painting without looking down from the scaffold. But Berthe saw that the back of his neck had turned red at the comment—either with embarrassment or anger, she couldn’t tell which. She wished that he would acknowledge her, if only so that she could tell him she knew how he felt about unsolicited compliments.

  Another time, Berthe came upon Madame Rappelais sitting in the very same chair. She’d thought her mistress was out visiting but apparently Madame had come home early. She was still wearing her cape, bonnet, and gloves. She stared up at the mural and didn’t turn her head when Berthe entered the room.

  “What a gift this is,” she said dreamily, “the joy of witnessing the artist in action; of seeing my vision become a reality. I could sit here all day. I think, Monsieur de Pouvier, that when you are done with this I shall commission you for a mural in my boudoir.”

  “As you wish, madame,” he said stiffly.

  Berthe couldn’t help but feel empathy toward De Pouvier, who seemed to be in the same predicament as she was—forced to endure the flirtations of Madame Rappelais in order to keep his job and his livelihood. She vowed to break through his coldness by engaging him in conversation, and one morning, emboldened, she began another onslaught of questions.

  “May I get you something to eat, to drink?”

  “When did you first learn how to paint?”

  “How do you know how to mix the colors correctly?”

  “How long does it take for the paint to dry?”

  She remembered this same need to ask questions of her father when he was busy studying his medical texts or writing up a patient’s case. There had been something about her father’s intense preoccupation with other things that seemed to spur her on and on.

  “Papa, do I stop breathing when I sleep?”

  “Why do you cut people to make them feel better?”

  “Does that big thing growing on Madame Cornier’s neck hurt?”

  “Does it hurt to die?”

  He was always too busy or too tired to answer her, but still she couldn’t stop asking the questions. Invariably, he would lose his temper as she knew he would.

  “Berthe, for heaven’s sake, leave Papa alone! Can’t you see I’m busy?” She would cry and he would console her, patting her shoulder as he gently pushed her out of the room. It was that final caress that vaguely reassured her that he might, indeed, love her, after all.

  The more silent the artist was, the more questions she asked. She knew she was annoying him but she resolved to prove to him that she was nothing like the patrons for whom he worked. She was determined to win him over.

  “How did you meet Monsieur Millet?”

  “Do you always work in oils?”

  “Is French your native language?”

  “Aren’t you afraid of the scaffolding collapsing?”

  “What happens if you make a mistake? How do you correct it?”

  “Is it difficult to get your brushes clean?”

  He climbed down from the scaffolding and looked up at the ceiling. It was as if she had never spoken. As he studied the mural, he wiped his brush upon the paint-stained rag that hung from his back pocket. Berthe watched the slow, measured movement of his hands. Blue, red, and green paints were all smeared on the rag, and on his smock. There was a streak of blue paint on one cheek, as if he’d brushed at a fly without being aware that he held a brush in his hand. He was totally absorbed in what he was doing. Berthe had certainly never felt that way while polishing her mistress’s shoes or making her bed. What did it feel like to paint like him, to be totally immersed in your work? The only time she had experienced that lately was when looking at fabrics with Monsieur Rappelais.

  She was brought back from her reverie by the sound of De Pouvier’s voice.

  “Don’t you have anything else to do, mademoiselle?” he said without looking at her. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  “Oh, I see that you’re busy,” she said, pleased that she had managed to get him to speak. “But are you so busy you can’t answer one question?”

  “Yes,” he said. He turned and continued to scrutinize the mural. His eyes narrowed as he studied the painting. Was he looking at something he liked? Was it something he didn’t like? She longed to be able to see things through his eyes.

  Finally, unable to evoke a response, she said, “I must say, monsieur, you are very arrogant for someone so young.”

  That did it. “And you are very irritating for someone so very … so very …”

  “So very beautiful?” she offered. She found herself unable to keep quiet. “So very brilliant, perceptive, charming, talented, kind?”

  Despite himself, he grinned. “So very irritating,” he finally said. He climbed back up the scaffolding and began painting again. With her skirts swirling around her, she swept from the room, holding her head as high as her neck would allow.

  She found herself thinking about Armand constantly. She lay awake at night picturing his long strong arms as they quickly sketched out the mural and how the cords on his neck stood out as he worked. She became more and more absentminded in her duties. One morning as she was pulling aside Madame’s bedroom drapes, her mistress said, “Berthe, isn’t there something you’ve forgotten?” Madame Rappelais was sitting up in bed, her arms crossed and a quizzical look on her face. Berthe shook her head in confusion.

  “What, madame?”

  “My bath.”

  “Sorry, madame. I’ll run it right away.”

  “Your mind isn’t on your work, my dear. That just won’t do, will it?” Madame said, yawning.

  “No, madame.” It was her first warning. But despite all her efforts, her mind continued to wander back to thoughts of the young artist.

  She felt drawn to him and yet hesitant, remembering how she had been so hurt by the farm boy, Renard. But Armand was older—and she was o
lder, too. Did that change things, did it make it easier to trust someone? She liked to think that she had learned from her experience, but then she thought about her mother. She had a memory of Emma Bovary standing at the upstairs window for hours at a time, waiting for Monsieur Boulanger to arrive on his big black horse. When would he come? Would he come at all? What if he never came? She had a sense of her mother’s whole life being one long wait for someone to come, for something to happen. Her mother had certainly not learned from her mistakes.

  A few days passed and Berthe found herself again in the ballroom regardless of her promises to herself to stay away from Armand.

  “Is Titian your favorite artist?” she asked, looking up.

  “Why in heaven’s name would you think that?” He stopped painting and looked down at her. She was startled for a moment that he’d answered her.

  “I … I suppose you would have to admire him in order to make such an excellent copy of his work,” she said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

  “I am merely copying a second-rate work of art. Titian is not someone I admire.” He wiped his brush on a paint-covered rag and turned back to his work.

  “But wasn’t Titian considered a great master?” She felt herself growing annoyed again, but then Armand rewarded her with a thoughtful expression that made her heart beat quicker. His dark hair fell forward into his eyes, and he brushed it away, leaving yet another smear of paint on his forehead. She smiled her most charming smile.

  “No one would question the genius of his technique,” he said finally. He studied the half-finished mural through critical eyes. “He revolutionized the way oils were done at the time. His brushstrokes were among the boldest and most sweeping. He was the first to work in small patches of color that are best viewed from far away. From a distance his subjects appear alive. But Titian did not have the soul of an artist. He had the mind of a merchant. He was a greedy man who would pretend poverty in order to promote the myth of the starving artist. And he always claimed to be much older than he was. Thinking he would soon die, his patrons were manipulated into paying higher prices for his work.”

  “Is he dead now?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes.” He laughed, displaying charming dimples. “For almost three hundred years, the rogue.”

  “Then why are you so angry at him?” she said. He frowned, as though confused.

  “I hate having to copy his work,” he finally said. “I want to be painting my own art. I resent the fact that Titian is revered just because he painted reverential subjects. Though he did, in my opinion, paint one masterpiece. Are you familiar with his Venus and Adonis?”

  Now it was Berthe’s turn to be silent. She was suddenly aware of how dismally ignorant and uncultured she was. She shook her head, embarrassed for having lured him into a conversation that was totally beyond her comprehension.

  “I’m afraid not,” she finally said. Armand looked down at her in surprise.

  “It’s quite famous. Have you never been to the Louvre?” With one paint-covered hand, he pushed back the curls of his dark hair.

  She shook her head again and felt herself blushing.

  “You live in Paris and you’ve never been to its most famous museum? Quite possibly the most famous in the world.”

  She felt utterly humiliated. She wanted to tell him that she had been exposed to art, that she had even been the sometime subject of his very own master’s celebrated paintings, clearly something he didn’t know. But she sensed that he would not have been the least bit impressed.

  “I am just a lady’s maid after all,” she snapped. “I know nothing except how to repair lace collars, polish boots, replace ribbons on bonnets, and run the bath for my mistress. I have no time for your precious paintings or famous museums.” And with that she turned on her heel and, fighting back tears, rushed out of the room. Even as she left, she felt she had made this embarrassing exit one too many times.

  CHAPTER 25

  A Visit to the Louvre

  ON ONE OF BERTHE’S RARE DAYS OFF SHE VISITED THE LOUVRE for the first time. If Armand had a favorite painting of Titian’s she wanted to see it, to try to understand him better. His derisive “You’ve never been to Paris’s most famous museum?” echoed in her thoughts. I’ll show you; I’m not a complete dolt. She waited nervously outside for the Louvre to open in the Palais Royal; she untied and retied the ribbons of her bonnet so tightly that she had difficulty swallowing.

  Are we all doomed to go through life desiring what we can never have? She pictured Armand working from his scaffold—literally above her, completely out of reach. How she admired the fact that he still held on to the dream of creating his own work instead of copying the work of others. She could see that this passion drove him. What exactly was driving her?

  In 1852 Napoléon III had proclaimed himself Emperor of all of France. And wasting no time, he immediately turned his substantial energies to the “Nouveau Louvre.” Over the next fifteen years, he would raze the last city structures within the Louvre-Tuileries precincts and finish the north gallery, effectively enclosing the Tuileries and Carrousel gardens. Later, at great expense, the imperial architects Louis Visconti and Hector Lefuel doubled the size of the wings of what was originally called the Cour Napoléon. This was the imposing structure that Berthe entered that day.

  She felt as if she had suddenly been dropped in the middle of a foreign country where she didn’t speak the language or understand the customs. But she refused to let her intimidation stop her. She was on a mission.

  She walked quickly past one elaborate, gilt-framed painting and tall, imposing sculpture after another, until at the end of the long hall she came to an abrupt halt. A huge white marble sculpture of an armless woman stood in front of her. She gazed up at it, her mouth open. Where were her arms? Without arms she was unable to cover her breasts or reach down and grasp the drape that seemed to be slipping off her hips. Even though she was half clothed, she seemed more naked than naked. She appeared powerless and at the same time, incredibly powerful.

  “She is something, n’est-ce pas?” a voice behind her said. Berthe turned to see a uniformed museum guard. He smiled, twirling the ends of his mustache as if he were a dandy about to ask either Berthe, or the statue, to honor him with the next dance.

  “What happened to her arms?” Berthe asked.

  The guard chuckled. “Ah, that is always the question. You’re not the first person to ask.” He cleared his throat and said, “In 1820 the beautiful lady was discovered on the island of Melos by a Greek farmer who found her while plowing a field. She was in two pieces. In her left hand was an apple, while her right hand held her robe from slipping further. Both hands were badly damaged, as was her petit nez, as you can see. A few days later the farmer told a French naval officer, a Monsieur d’Urville, about the statue. But the officer’s captain wasn’t interested in old pieces of marble. D’Urville, obviously an art lover, made sketches and upon arriving in Constantinople showed his sketches to the French ambassador, the marquis de Rivière, who sent a ship to buy it for his country. However, after fetching the lost lady there was a scuffle between the French sailors and some Greek bandits, who had suddenly decided the statue must be worth something. In the midst of the fight the statue was dragged across rocks to the ship, breaking off both arms. The sailors refused to go back and search for the pieces. And voilà, there you have it: the most famous armless woman in the world.”

  She tore her eyes away from the statue.

  “Can you tell me where I may find the work of Titian?” she asked.

  “Go down that hall,” he said, pointing. “Turn right and keep walking for several miles until you get to the end of the long corridor, then turn left.”

  Berthe stood some distance away from Titian’s Venus and Adonis and studied it for a long time. Unlike the romantic Venus and Cupid mural that Armand was replicating on the Rappelais ceiling, there was something about this work that made her feel as if she were intruding on a private sc
ene. She recognized the figure of Venus, who was, as seemed usual in the world of art, totally naked. But it was Adonis who dominated the painting. Dressed in a rich orange tunic and holding on to three enormous hunting dogs and a staff, he looked as if he was far too busy to be bothered with the naked figure who clung to him. Venus was clearly begging him not to go hunting, to stay with her, to do with her whatever he had in his close-cropped curly head to do. The sun streamed down through thick clouds onto the far-off hills. In the background, asleep under a tree, was a very plump Cupid. His bow and arrow hung high off an adjacent tree. Was that why Venus was unable to entice Adonis to stay with her instead of following his dogs? Berthe wondered. Was it because Cupid was asleep on the job? The expression on Adonis’s face was not one of love but impatience. Leave me alone, let me be, he seemed to be saying. I have dogs to hunt with, things to slay. I cannot be bothered with this naked, fleshy, needy woman.

  She walked on, studying one painting after another, trying to understand what made each one worthy of being hung in this great museum. By the end of the day she felt both exhausted by the intensity of the works and inspired by the potential of art to provoke thought and emotion. On her way out of the Louvre she stopped by another guard and asked, “Which way to the paintings of Monsieur Jean Millet?”

  “Millet?” He scratched his head. “I’ve never heard of him. Is he dead?”

  “Oh, no. He’s still very much alive and painting.”

  “He has to be dead a long time before his paintings will be considered great enough to hang in the Louvre, mademoiselle.”

  “But people pay a lot for his paintings,” she said.

  “That may well be. But it is a pittance compared to what the works that hang here are valued at. By the time an artist arrives at the Louvre no one can afford to buy his paintings.”

  Berthe wondered if Armand was aware of the economics of art. Probably he hoped to achieve the same level of success as Millet, who could sell his paintings for enough to keep his large family happy, comfortable, well fed, and clothed. But even Millet was nowhere near achieving museum status, being a healthy man still in his forties.