Madame Bovary's Daughter

by Linda Urbach

  “Aha! So you finally got sacked as well!” said Hélène. She flung herself down on the velvet love seat. Her skirt rose up, revealing soft kid boots with gold buttons.

  “Actually, I quit,” said Berthe.

  “Oh, and that makes you better than me, I s’pose?” said Hélène, removing her kid gloves one finger at a time.

  “I didn’t say that.” Berthe shook her head.

  “And what are you gonna do now?”

  “I’m not completely sure.” She twisted the ribbons of the bonnet on her lap. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Don’t fret, my friend. I just might have an opening for you in my business,” Hélène said, giving Berthe’s hand a little pat.

  Hélène’s business hadn’t changed. She was still stealing, but now she was focusing only on the big Parisian department stores. She had become very clever at how and what she stole. She disguised herself in wigs and different costumes and concentrated on the smallest, most expensive, most easily fenced items: jewelry, silk scarves, gold-framed eyeglasses, pearl collar studs.

  “No more haulin’ away iron birdbaths in the middle of the night,” Hélène said with a laugh.

  In addition, she occasionally employed the services of twelve-year-old Yvette, the daughter of the landlady. Hélène predicted that Yvette would one day enjoy a career on the stage. “Wait till you see her,” she said. “She has a true talent, she does.” According to Hélène, Yvette was well practiced in the art of temper tantrums, epileptic fits, and other small dramatic pieces designed to draw attention away from Hélène’s shoplifting. “But the biggest boon to my business is those crazy kleptomaniacs,” she said. “You can always spot ’em. They have a glazed look in their eye. And the clerks and guards in the store know ’em by sight. Poor things. So I puts myself next to one and wait for her to make her clumsy move. They have no skill at all. And, o’ course the clerks have to bend over backward so as not to offend ’em, while at the same time they got to guard the merchandise. The kleptos are all from good families who can well afford to buy their luxuries. Oh, it all makes me laugh.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of getting arrested, of having to spend the rest of your life in jail?” said Berthe. The very word conjured up visions of steel bars, stone floors, rats and rat droppings.

  “Of course not. I’m too fast for the likes of them.” Berthe had no desire to join Hélène’s gang of two. It might be Hélène’s idea of making a living but it certainly wasn’t hers. She was determined to find a position where she could use her mind and her eye for design and fashion. Hadn’t Messieurs Worth and Rappelais said that she had a real talent? And she did. She knew she did. The problem was, she didn’t know where to begin.

  “Well, I’m going to get a real job,” Berthe said.

  “What real job? You gonna be some other fancy lady’s personal slave?”

  “I’ll never be a lady’s maid again.”

  “How do you plan to pay your rent, then? And don’t be lookin’ to me; I got me own expenses.”

  “I’ll have a job within the week,” Berthe said with more confidence than she felt.

  “Oh, then maybe you can hire me to be your lady’s maid.” Hélène laughed.

  Berthe joined in the laughter. After everything that had happened in the last two years, it felt wonderful to be free again. She had forgotten how much she liked being with Hélène. Her energy and humor were contagious. Berthe began to feel alive and untarnished once more.

  The only thing that was missing was Armand. Strange how she had known him for just a short time and yet his absence left a huge hole. Where in Italy was he? What was he doing? Was he thinking of her? She was certain he must have forgotten all about her, yet she ached to see him again. She wanted to find out if there was truly something between them or if it was all just a fantasy. But at this point in her life, a fantasy was better than nothing.

  “Where are your clothes and such?” Hélène asked, jolting her back to reality. Berthe pointed to the small satchel at her feet. “Still the pretty little pauper, I see. Well, you can share my room until you get your job. And I’ll lend you a proper dress. But I have to warn you, Madame Laporte will make you pay even though you’re just sharin’ the same room. Do you have any money at all?”

  How could she have forgotten? Everything she had managed to save from her salary was in a little box underneath her bed in that horrible house. She couldn’t go back. Besides, she felt even the money earned from the Rappelaises was dirty.

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure I’ll have a position quite soon,” Berthe said confidently.

  “There she goes again with the ‘position.’ Just get yourself a bloody job, dear girl, and make it soon.”

  That very afternoon she went to Maison Gagelin on the rue Richelieu. All her hopes for a paid position rested on her connection with Monsieur Worth. She knew he had opened up his own establishment, but she wasn’t sure where it was.

  “Can you tell me where I can find Monsieur Worth?” she asked a short, balding man dressed in a brocade smoking jacket and velvet pants whom she took to be Monsieur Gagelin himself.

  “Why do you ask?” he said, eyeing her up and down.

  “I want to ask him about a job.”

  “Well, you are not in luck, mademoiselle. I understand that Monsieur Can’t-Speak-a-Word-of-French has gone off to England with his chèr ami and benefactor, Monsieur Bobergh. I hope I’ve seen the last of him, the big arrogant Englishman. Good riddance to bad taste.”

  Berthe’s heart sank. Worth had been her one chance. “Could you, perhaps, give me the address of Monsieur Worth’s home?”

  “It won’t do you much good, but here it is,” Monsieur Gagelin said.

  When she inquired at Monsieur Worth’s home she discovered that, indeed, he was in England with his wife and business associate and would not be back for at least a month. She couldn’t possibly wait that long. She needed money and a job immediately. She wrote a note to Monsieur Rappelais asking him for help in obtaining a position in one of the many dress shops he did business with. The reply came back within the hour.

  “My chère mademoiselle, Unfortunately, due to my home situation, I am unable to assist you at this time.” Berthe tore the paper into shreds. How gutless could a man be? She knew Rappelais liked her and admired her talent with fabrics, and yet his fear of his wife was so great that he didn’t have what little courage it would take to even write her a short reference.

  She spent the next several days walking up and down the dingy streets of the Sentier in the 2nd arrondissement where many of the dress manufacturers were located. She applied for seamstress jobs, modeling jobs, clerking jobs, anything that was available. But without references and with no evidence of experience, she was turned away again and again.

  Finally, she swallowed her pride and went in search of a position as a lady’s maid. Applying at Première Placement Domestique, the largest establishment in Paris, she was told that a career as a lady’s maid was closed off to her forever.

  “Mademoiselle, I acknowledge the fact that you have the experience, but you also have the mauvaise réputation.”

  “What?”

  “Madame Rappelais, although kind enough not to report you to the police, has notified us in no uncertain terms that you are a thief and not to be trusted in a home which contains things of value. That, of course, would include every single one of our clients.”

  Berthe was furious.

  “I am not a thief,” she said, feeling the heat rise up her neck. “Madame has no right to say that.”

  “Are you calling your former employer a liar?”

  “Oh, I could call her many, many more things,” Berthe said, “but I don’t have all day.” She turned and marched out the door, holding her head as high as she could manage without falling backward.

  Because she didn’t have the rent for Madame Laporte, Berthe had avoided mealtimes at the boardinghouse. She hadn’t eaten a decent meal since leaving the Rappelaises. She was
starving and she was growing more fearful every day. How was she going to live? She had no other choice but to join Hélène in her shoplifting enterprise.

  “Good,” said a delighted Hélène. “I’ll take you to my favorite store tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 29

  A Shopping They Will Go

  BERTHE ALLOWED HÉLÈNE TO SELECT HER COSTUME FOR THE morning foray to Le Bon Marché, the largest department store in Paris. The store was located at 24, rue de Sèvres on the Left Bank. In all her time in Paris, Berthe had never had a chance to visit the famous store.

  “Ferme la bouche,” said Hélène as they climbed down from the carriage and walked toward the entrance. “You’re gawking.” It was true. She stared at the stone with her mouth ajar. The outside of the huge building was encased in a beautiful metal framework, as if it had been gift-wrapped in wrought iron.

  “This is the first time a metallic framework has been used in a building of this size,” said Hélène, sounding every bit like a tour guide. “See, it’s much lighter and stronger than stonework. It was designed by Monsieur Gustave Eiffel, an engineer who is a bit of a fanatic when it comes to metal structures.”

  “Where did you get all this information?” asked Berthe.

  “I ain’t a complete dolt, you know,” said Hélène, reverting to her normal speech mode. “I make it me business to learn such stuff.”

  She pushed Berthe through the door. Sweeping staircases led up to the mezzanine that bordered the main floor. A ceiling bejeweled with fifty glittering chandeliers gave everything a festive and fanciful glow. The store was crowded with well-dressed women in huge bell-shaped skirts, who glided from one display to another almost as if they were on skates. The array of goods took Berthe’s breath away. As she looked around from one counter to the next, she felt almost dizzy. The joy of seeing all this beauty and luxury momentarily lifted the weight off her mind. She drank in the sights and the fragrant scent of expensive perfumes. She had the strangest feeling that she was looking at this extravagant scene through her mother’s eyes. The customers moved from one display to another, chattering excitedly to each other. Who were these women and what were their worries? Certainly not where they would get their next meal nor where they would find enough money to rent a roof over their heads. No, their minds were on the newest lace from Belgium, the softest Italian kid gloves, the latest look in bonnets.

  Berthe had tried to make an honest living, and where had that gotten her? She promised herself that she would find a legitimate way to support herself. But first she had to survive. And if surviving required stealing, then so be it.

  Hélène seemed very much at home in the opulent store. She gave a small wave of her hand to a distinguished middle-aged gentleman who stood in the corner. He was dressed in a beautifully tailored velvet jacket and well-cut wool slacks. He returned her greeting with a smile and quick nod of his head.

  “Monsieur Proiret, the store manager,” Hélène explained. “He’s the one who helps defray my expenses. Come on, I want you to meet him.”

  Berthe squeezed her hands together to calm her nerves, and followed Hélène down the aisle.

  “Monsieur Proiret is not only the manager of this grand establishment, he is also my very dear and special friend,” said Hélène with her newly acquired gentility. “Monsieur Proiret, this here is my dear friend, Mademoiselle Bovary.”

  “Enchanté.” Picking up Berthe’s hand as if it were a delicate flower, Proiret bowed low and placed a kiss on her fingers. He was a short pinkish man in his forties with a pleasing well-fed look about him. He sported a tidy mustache and well-trimmed beard. His black hair glistened with pomade and he wore a pince-nez on the end of his upturned nose. Berthe noticed that he smelled strongly of bay leaves.

  “Have you been to Le Bon Marché before, mademoiselle?”

  “No, I haven’t,” said Berthe.

  “Where in heaven’s name do you do your shopping?” he asked, lifting one eyebrow.

  “I’m afraid I’m not much of a shopper, monsieur.” She smiled.

  “That’s probably just as well,” said Monsieur Proiret, “since your friend Hélène more than makes up for you.”

  Hélène gave him a playful tap on the shoulder with her lace fan.

  “But since this is your first time here, it is incumbent on me as the manager of Le Bon Marché to impart a few important facts to you.”

  Hélène placed her gloved hand over his mouth and proceeded to recite the following facts:

  “Monsieur Boucicaut, the owner of Le Bon Marché, is the most brilliant of men. Among the many innovations he started are: the first store to offer free delivery; the first store to have prices clearly marked on every piece of merchandise; the first store to offer a catalog from which customers can order; and the first-ever white sale. Every January sheets and linens are reduced in price.”

  Monsieur Proiret removed Hélène’s hand from his mouth and added, “He got the idea for the white sale from looking out one morning in January and seeing the rue de Sèvres covered in snow. He said, ‘Each January we should have a special sale on sheets. And call it a white sale.’ Brilliant, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Ma chère, the day is slipping away from us. We got much shopping to do,” said Hélène, pulling Berthe along.

  “I don’t understand. Doesn’t he suspect what you are up to?” Berthe asked as they made their way to one of the crowded jewelry counters.

  “He knows all about it,” said Hélène with a smile.

  “But …” Berthe frowned.

  “Oh, look, there’s a kleptomaniac now. Watch,” said Hélène, pulling at Berthe’s sleeve.

  An elderly woman dressed in widow’s weeds was trying on gold necklaces. While the clerk fastened one necklace on her neck she picked up another and placed it in her reticule. The clerk saw the whole thing and signaled to a man standing nearby.

  “She comes here every day. Never pays for nothing,” said Hélène. “They always stop her, just as she is leaving, and gently remove the items. The place is crawlin’ with women like her. As Monsieur Proiret says, ‘It is a veritable epidemic.’ And they are all amateurs. In fact, I think they want to be caught.”

  “I feel sorry for the poor woman.”

  “Don’t waste your tears. She’ll never see the inside of a jail. It looks like the jewelry counter will be a good place for you to start. Me, I got a craving for expensive fountain pens today. I’ll meet you back at the main entrance in thirty minutes.”

  “I don’t have a watch.”

  “Well, steal one, silly girl.”

  Berthe tried on pair after pair of earrings—dangling crystal, gold filigree, pearl studs. She held up a mirror to examine each one. Then she selected various necklaces and bracelets to go with the earrings. Finally, as if nothing had quite met her satisfaction, she wandered away. Hélène was waiting for her at the front entrance.

  “Well?” said Hélène. “How did you do?”

  “I didn’t. I couldn’t. I don’t want to do this,” Berthe said.

  “Oh, you want to starve in the streets instead?”

  “No, of course not. I just didn’t plan on spending my life as a thief.”

  “You’re forgettin’ you’re the one who first talked me into stealing from department stores.”

  “That was when we were desperate.”

  “And you ain’t desperate enough now? Come with me,” Hélène said, dragging Berthe back to the jewelry counter. “Now get on with it. Either you pay your way or you can look for another place to live.”

  Under Hélène’s watchful eye, Berthe managed to slip several pairs of earrings, a crystal necklace, and a mother-of-pearl pince-nez into a pocket hidden within the deep folds of the huge skirt Hélène had lent her.

  “That’s more like it,” said Hélène as they were leaving the store. “You got the gift, you might as well use it.” Berthe thought about her “gift” for fashion. She could say good-bye to that forever. She was back where she had started, sc
raping by, stealing, not knowing how she would survive from one day to the next. Tears of disappointment welled up and she turned her head away so that Hélène wouldn’t see them.

  Hélène treated them to a carriage ride home. She reached into her long sleeve and pulled out half a dozen gold and enamel fountain pens, a solid gold letter knife, and a mother-of-pearl card case.

  “I don’t understand. If Monsieur knows you are a professional shoplifter, how can he let you into his store? Why does he turn a blind eye to your stealing?” asked Berthe.

  “He don’t let me get by with anything. I’m well punished, I am. He likes to see me take things ’cause he knows there’ll be a spanking later.”

  “He spanks you?”

  “Oh my, yes. He loves spankin’ me, don’t he? That’s the whole point. You should see how excited he gets.”

  “I don’t think I care to,” said Berthe, closing her eyes.

  “And o’ course I steal from other stores, ones that he has nothing to do with. I do know how to take care of me own self.”

  Hélène’s relationship with Monsieur Proiret certainly gave her a leg up in her shoplifting venture. Maybe jail wasn’t in their future, after all. Berthe tried to relax a little, but her stomach was still tied in knots.

  Unlike Hélène, who seemed to think therein lay her fortune, Berthe knew that ultimately she would come to a bad end if she continued along this path. And being gifted with a vivid imagination, she could easily visualize just what that end might be: a dark cell with only the smallest barred window, the floor covered in grime; the bed, a wooden plank; and a blanket chewed by a large gray rat. And speaking of rats, she could see their eyes glowing from the dark corners of the cell. She pictured herself shivering and coughing beneath the thin blanket, wishing she had never embarked on a life of crime. Which was when one of the rats ventured forth to nibble her cold, bare foot.