by Linda Urbach
She had a sudden insight. In art, fame meant money and money meant one was free to follow one’s passion and make even more money. But the point was, you had to have the passion in the first place. And then it hit her: She did have the passion. She knew it. Bolts and bolts of beautifully designed fabrics, dress after exquisite dress hung in the showroom of her mind. She realized she was back in a fantasy, but she didn’t care. Because without a dream, she was without hope, and without hope she was dead. And death had no value except perhaps to the mausoleum builders, and museums. Success was possible only if fueled by passion. You just had to make sure you stayed alive to enjoy it.
Berthe burst into the ballroom. Catching her breath, she stood just inside the doorway and watched Armand paint. He lay on his back on the scaffolding, adding touches of purple to the dark sky. “I saw the Venus de Milo and Venus and Adonis, and wall after wall of beautiful paintings and statues. Why is Venus such a much-painted figure?” she asked breathlessly. Armand said nothing.
She could barely contain herself. She turned in circles, gesturing with her hands as she spoke.
“Why does one have to wait to die before you can become a famous artist? Why are there so many paintings of people fighting and horses being stabbed and women being dragged off to goodness knows where by their hair?” She was fairly bouncing up and down waiting for him to respond.
He sat up, gathered his brushes, and climbed down from the scaffolding. He studied the mural for a long time and then finally turned to look at her.
“So many questions. I gather you enjoyed the Louvre?”
“It was wonderful.” She sighed happily. “I never imagined such beauty. Perhaps one day your art will hang there.”
He frowned. “Not at the rate I’m going,” he said, staring up at his unfinished work. “Besides, I am still just a student. I have much to learn. My dream is to go to Italy to study more.”
Berthe’s stomach twisted. “Why Italy? France is filled with artists.”
“Italy understands and appreciates artists in a way France never has. Besides, the light is better in Italy. And who knows? Perhaps I could find my own Lorenzo de’ Medici there.”
He cleaned his brushes and rolled them up in a clean cloth, setting them inside an old leather case. Two minutes passed while both of them maintained their silence as they gazed at the mural. Finally, she couldn’t stand it any longer and she said, “Do you think Monsieur Titian would be pleased with your work?”
“As long as Madame Rappelais is pleased that’s all that matters, isn’t it?” he said.
“You don’t care one way or the other? You have no—what does Monsieur Millet call it—artistic integrity?”
“What do you, or Millet for that matter, know about artistic integrity?” he snorted, wiping his hands on a rag and throwing it on the floor.
“I suppose I know nothing since I am but an ignorant maid, but I thought you must have great respect for Monsieur Millet. Why else would you be an apprentice to him?” She felt her ears grow hot.
There was a long silence. And when he did finally speak she couldn’t have been more surprised by his words.
“I’m sorry,” he said in a quiet voice. “Please forgive me. I have spent so much of my life copying other people’s art, especially Monsieur Millet’s, that I suppose I have developed a resentment. Call it jealousy, if you will. I want so desperately to do my own work. I envy these great artists for being able to perfect their technique, to pursue their artistic visions. The luxury of being able to be original is one I fear I will never experience.” He ran his hands through his hair and looked straight into Berthe’s eyes.
“But they all had to start somewhere. The great masters must have been poor artists at the beginning.”
“Poor artists with rich patrons or wealthy wives to support them. No, the painter’s life is not for the lowly born.” He walked over to one of the tall windows and looked out.
“Then what made you pick this profession?” She stared at his back.
He turned and laughed. She thought she had never seen anything quite so beautiful as the sight of his smile. It was like the sun coming out after many days of bad weather.
“I didn’t pick it,” he said ruefully. “It picked me. Once I started drawing as a young boy I was powerless to stop. I had my first paying customers when I was only eight years old. So, you see, it was my profession before I was old enough to realize what I was getting into.”
“You started selling your art at such a young age?” she said, not quite believing him.
“I had a very particular subject matter, and what one might refer to as a built-in clientele.” He smiled, and she felt brave enough to walk over and join him by the window. Standing next to him she noticed for the first time how much taller than her he was. Her head came only to his shoulder.
“My mother was a young and beautiful girl,” he continued. “Too young and too beautiful and too ignorant in the ways of city men, having been brought up in the country. She came to Paris to work in the shops, was discovered by the wealthy son of a wine merchant, got pregnant, had me, and went into ‘the profession’ as the only way of supporting us.” He recited this as if it had all happened to a character in a novel and not his own mother.
“The profession?” repeated Berthe.
“She was lucky enough to find a place in one of the city’s better houses of prostitution. Only the most elite clientele frequented Madame Tourneau’s establishment—men of great standing and considerable wealth. So I grew up surrounded by beautiful, half-clothed women. And they were my first subject matter.” He turned and looked at her. Berthe had never seen such sadness in anyone’s eyes.
“Many of the gentlemen who saw my drawings encouraged me and went so far as to commission certain poses for their own private collections. Even with Madame Tourneau taking her rather substantial cut I was able to earn enough to pay my way through art school. Madame bought several of my drawings herself and had them framed; as far as I know, they still hang on the walls of her brothel. They are considered, by those in the know, to be very fine pornography. You see, I benefited from an early and unusually intensive training in life drawing.”
“Oh” was all Berthe could think to say. She turned her face from the window.
“Are you blushing, mademoiselle?” he asked, peering closely at her.
“I wasn’t,” she said, “but if you keep looking at me like that I am afraid I will start.”
After seeking his attention for so long, she now found herself uncomfortable beneath his gaze. His blue, thick-lashed eyes held hers as though he was trying to read something in them that was somehow obscured.
“I’ve never told anyone this story before,” he said.
“And your mother, is she still alive?” Berthe asked, studying her shoes.
“I had many mothers, but the one who gave birth to me died when I was ten.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, touching his arm.
He shook his head. “Don’t be. She had a hard life and a quick death.”
The death of Berthe’s mother came back to her in a flash. She remembered the prolonged agony of the arsenic tearing away at her mother’s innards, and she felt her eyes filling up.
“Please don’t waste your tears on my mother. She chose her life,” he said, reaching out to put a hand on hers.
“I wasn’t thinking of her. I was thinking of my own mother and her death. She didn’t have an easy one. But that was her choice, too,” said Berthe, blinking hard, embarrassed by her sudden show of emotion. And in a rush of words she told him the story of her mother’s sad life.
“It seems that our pasts are not so very different,” he said, leaning closer.
“My mother was not a whore,” she said, wiping her eyes. She looked up at him. “Oh, no, I’m sorry … I didn’t mean …”
“It’s all right. I meant we both had difficult childhoods, as it were,” he said, smiling.
“Yes, I suppose you are right.” She no
dded. “But we did survive.”
“And of that, I am very glad.” Armand picked up her hand and slowly turned it over as if it were a small, fragile animal that he didn’t want to alarm. He bent his dark head and softly kissed the inside of her wrist. She stopped breathing. From that one soft kiss, a current passed between them that erased every cross word, every misunderstanding they had had. Without letting go of her hand, Armand lifted his head and whispered, “Do you know that you are very, very beautiful, Mademoiselle Bovary?”
She closed her eyes, luxuriating in the sensation. She was so caught up in the tenderness of Armand’s touch that she didn’t hear any sound until it was too late.
“And is this what I am paying for?” Madame Rappelais stood in the doorway wearing her cape and bonnet. Her mouth was pressed into a thin, angry line; her eyes blazed. “Mademoiselle Bovary, I’m quite sure there is something else that needs your attention other than holding the hand of my very costly artist-in-residence,” she said coldly.
“We were just talking, madame,” Berthe said, turning quickly and tightening the strings on her pinafore.
“Leave us,” ordered Madame Rappelais, turning to glare at Armand.
With one last glance at Armand, Berthe hurried from the room.
That night as Berthe was turning down Madame’s duvet and spraying the sheets with lavender scent, her mistress called to her from the dressing room.
“Berthe, come and help me with this wretched corset.”
She smiled over her shoulder as if she had forgotten her anger that afternoon. With shaking hands, Berthe untied the lacing in the back of the corset that held Madame’s slender waist to an even smaller circumference. Her mistress’s change of mood made her terribly uneasy.
“Ahhhh, that’s ever so much better,” breathed Madame Rappelais as the sateen corset fell away. She raised her arms so that Berthe could lift the thin cotton under-chemise over her head. Then she turned to face Berthe, who lowered her eyes so she wouldn’t have to stare at Madame’s naked form or see her inevitable wrath.
“You are young and inexperienced and of course I forgive you for that,” said Madame Rappelais. “But it is important for you to be aware that there is a certain type of man who is not to be trusted, whose main objective in life is to take advantage of young, innocent girls. I am speaking specifically of Monsieur de Pouvier.”
“He didn’t take advantage of me,” protested Berthe.
“That’s because he didn’t have the time, my dear. And now I have seen to it that he won’t have the chance.”
“What do you mean?” Berthe dropped the under-chemise to the floor.
“I dismissed him this afternoon.” Suddenly Berthe felt all the air go out of her lungs.
“But he did nothing wrong, madame. And his work, your mural, it isn’t finished.” She feared she would begin crying at any moment. She forced herself to try and stay calm.
“I will get someone else to finish it. Any half-decent artist can do it. It is, after all, only a copy.” She looked at Berthe closely. “What is the matter with you? You look as if you are about to burst into tears.”
“Nothing is the matter, madame.” Her face reddened in an effort to stifle her emotions.
“Why don’t you come and lie down for a bit? I can make you feel ever so much better.” She reached for Berthe’s hand.
Berthe pulled back as if the touch had burned and began busily folding her mistress’s clothing.
“As soon as I’ve finished here, I’ll bid you good night,” said Berthe. Her voice was shaking. Did Madame Rappelais even recognize the irony of having dismissed Armand for his advances when she herself was the one who had made a habit of seducing her young, innocent maids?
“Suit yourself. You know I will never force you to do anything you don’t want to do,” Madame said, smiling as she slipped into her bed. Her smile sent a chill through Berthe’s entire body.
CHAPTER 26
Dreams and Reality
NOT ONLY HAD ARMAND BEEN DISMISSED, BUT THAT SAME WEEK Berthe experienced another great loss.
She was walking outside during a rare break, trying to take her thoughts off what had happened with Armand, when a few blocks from the Rappelais house she passed a street with a number of small shops: a dress shop, a charcuterie, a pâtisserie, and a pawnshop. Something in the window of the pawnshop caught her eye. It was a Frenais Winged Sphinx butter dish, identical to the one that she had discovered underneath Hélène’s bed only weeks before. It couldn’t be the same one, could it? How could Hélène be so brazen, or so stupid, as to take it out of the house and sell it to the nearest neighborhood pawnshop? She hurried home, anxious to confront her friend before the theft was detected.
She heard loud voices coming from the kitchen. She was just in time to witness Madame DuPoix screaming at Hélène.
“Did you think no one would notice as one piece of silver after another disappeared from this household? Do you think I am blind?”
On the kitchen table were six silver napkin rings. Hélène stood in the corner of the kitchen, her arms folded, her attitude one of complete indifference. Madame DuPoix’s usual cool demeanor had been replaced by hot rage. Her small white hands were clenched into fists. Berthe thought she might strike Hélène at any moment.
“What do you have to say for yourself, you ungrateful thief? Where is the butter dish and all the other things you’ve taken?”
Hélène merely shrugged her shoulders as if she were in the classroom and had been asked a question about a text that she had not yet read.
“I know where the butter dish is,” Berthe said, hoping against hope to defuse the woman’s anger and possibly avoid a disastrous outcome. Madame DuPoix whirled around and glared at her. “I just saw it in the window of the pawnshop on the corner.”
“Ah, I should have known.” Madame DuPoix’s eyes narrowed and she leaned in so close to Hélène that their noses almost touched. “Your friend is in on this as well. No wonder you came with her high recommendation. You are both members of the same thieving gang. Madame will be so pleased to hear her precious maid is nothing but a common criminal.”
“She had nothing to do with it. She don’t have the nerve or the skill it takes to be a thief,” Hélène said, laughing. “Just look at her face. She thinks the whole idea disgusting. Don’t you, Miss Too-Good-to-Be-True?” Sarcasm dripped from her voice.
“Is that true, Berthe?”
Berthe shook her head then nodded, at a loss as to how to answer. Suddenly Madame DuPoix reached for a large butcher knife that had been lying on the wooden cutting board and pointed it at Hélène. Berthe screamed, fearing she was going to stab Hélène in the heart.
“Madame, please, put down the knife!”
“Let’s just see where your loyalty lies. Go and fetch a gendarme,” Madame DuPoix told Berthe. “I’ll keep her here until you return.” She held the knife at arm’s length with the point only inches away from Hélène’s apron-covered chest.
“If you stab me you’ll get blood all over your perfect kitchen floor,” said Hélène, wide-eyed, as she slowly backed toward the door.
“Stop! Stay where you are,” said Madame DuPoix, following her with the pointed knife. Then Hélène did the worst thing possible: She began to laugh again. “Why you brazen little slut!” Madame DuPoix shouted, and she lunged with the knife just as Hélène jumped out of the way. Madame DuPoix lost her balance and fell to the floor, her black skirts ballooning around her. With one last guffaw, Hélène was gone, hurrying out the kitchen door.
Trembling, Berthe bent down to help the housekeeper to her feet.
“Leave me alone,” she said, pulling away from Berthe. “It’s all your fault. Bringing that garbage into this house. I will inform Monsieur and Madame. Now go and fetch a gendarme so I can report her.”
There was always a gendarme standing on the corner of rue Payenne and rue Rivière. Berthe took her time as she made her way there.
“Your money or your life.”
She turned. Hélène was standing in an alleyway not far from the house, a grin spread across her freckled face.
“I would think you would want to put more distance between you and the scene of your crime,” said Berthe, scowling.
“I still have some things under my bed. Will you get them for me?”
Berthe shook her head. “I’ve been ordered to fetch a gendarme, and that’s what I’m trying to do. I’m going to walk very slowly, so if I were you I’d use the opportunity to vanish from this arrondissement.”
“Ah, you’re angry at me. I’m the one who should be fumin’, by all rights. Who asked you to be so bloody helpful? Oh, you’ll find your precious butter dish at the pawnshop on the corner,” she said in a poor imitation of Berthe’s voice.
“I asked you not to steal from the Rappelaises. Now I’m sure I’ll get into trouble for bringing you into the house.”
“And they will forgive you. Their perfectly lovely lady’s maid. Well, it’s your life and you’re welcome to it. It ain’t for the likes of me.”
“What are you going to do? How will you live?” Berthe forgot her anger, suddenly concerned for her friend.
“I’ll do what I always done. I’ll steal. And how will I live? In this city full of wonderful treasures, I’ll live very, very well. You’ll see.”
“I fear you’ll come to a bad end,” said Berthe, touching her friend’s arm.
“No need to worry ’bout me. But you take care. You’re the one living in the den of sin, ain’t you? I heard about that witch sackin’ your lover, the mural man.”
“He’s not my lover,” Berthe shot back.
“Not yet.” Hélène laughed. “But I can tell you’re hopelessly in love with him.” Berthe started to protest but Hélène dismissed her with a wave of her hand. “I’ll write and tell you where I’m livin’ so when Madame Rappelais finally kicks you out you can come join me in my life of crime and luxury.” And with a toss of her red hair, she was gone.