by Linda Urbach
“A raise? A raise? I pay you forty francs a week. That is a very generous salad for a girl your age,” he finally said. It was just as she feared. He was very, very angry. But at that moment, she had the strangest sensation: She opened her mouth and someone else’s words came out. A braver, bolder, more businesslike someone else.
“Not as generous as eighty francs,” she said.
“Eighty francs? A week? Are you trying to bankrupt me? Do you think I am made of molasses?” he cried.
And now what are you going to do, you greedy girl? Return to the cotton mill? Beg Madame Rappelais to take you back in any position she chooses? There were the two voices: the one inside her head, growing more hysterical and fearful by the minute, and the other that was busy negotiating better terms with her employer.
“Not molasses, monsieur, but certainly money. Yes, I think you are made of money and have a good and generous nature.”
Despite himself, he was pleased by this latter. “Yes, I am a generous man. And you are a bad girl to take advantage of me like this.” He shook his ringed finger at her.
“And, monsieur, one more thing,” she said.
“What now?”
“A commission on dresses I help you design.” You idiot. Now you’ve really gone too far.
“A what? A commission! My ears cannot believe what they are seeing! Is she serious? Now she is a designer who deserves a commission? From me, God’s gift to French fashion? Me, who taught her everything she knows? Oh, I think I am going to have a cat!” With great dramatic flair, Worth pulled a lace handkerchief from the sleeve of his smoking jacket, drew it across his brow, and stumbled back into a chair, whereupon he immediately collapsed, closing his eyes as if in pain.
Despite her fear, she stood firm, and in the end, fuming and muttering, repeatedly asking for “smelling sugar,” he agreed to raise her salary to eighty francs a week plus a commission. “If she happens to be lucky enough to sell any of her so-called designs.”
Berthe’s innovative choice and use of fabrics for Cora Pearl created a stir in the French press, which was exactly what both the actress and Berthe wanted.
“Madame Cora Pearl made a great splash at the Café Vendôme wearing a tea dress of striped silk in vertical red and blue stripes, embroidered with silken tassels at the sleeves and a bodice of black lace tapestry. Her chapeau was composed of the same stripes but set in a horizontal design.” This did not go unnoticed by Parisian society. As Worth’s business grew, so did the demand for Berthe’s expertise. Her commissions grew accordingly.
“I am raising you to one hundred and fifty francs a week, but don’t let it go to your foot,” said Worth, patting her on the shoulder.
“Thank you, monsieur.”
“And since you are earning such a nice large sum I would like to do away with the commission. According to Bobergh, there is too much beekeeping involved.”
“No, monsieur, given the choice, I would rather do away with the salary and keep the commission.”
“As you wish.”
“But given your generous nature, I think you would like me to have both.”
“Ach, there it is again, my fatal ‘generous nature.’ ”
They both laughed. Berthe was able to send substantial checks to her great-aunt Charlotte and to her grand-mère’s old friend Madame Leaumont.
She was earning more money than she had ever dreamed possible. And she was fulfilling her fantasy of creating beautiful things. Wasn’t that all she had ever wanted? Yes, but still she was alone and lonely. There was no one to love and no one to love her. Perhaps this was the trade-off, she thought. Lucky in work, unlucky in love. She felt the sadness of not having anyone to share her good fortune with.
She sat at the small writing table in her bedroom at Madame Laporte’s house and gazed out the window. If only her mother could see her now. Wouldn’t she be surprised? Wouldn’t she be proud? Berthe imagined showing her around Monsieur Worth’s atelier. Then she would take her into the fabrics room and let her pick out her favorite material. Monsieur Worth would make up a special ball gown. It would be simple and very elegant, showing off her mother’s ivory skin and dark satiny hair. Berthe knew just the fabric her mother would have picked. Monsieur Rappelais had brought it in the day before: a midnight-blue silk embroidered throughout with wine-red roses.
Berthe shook her head. What was she doing? Designing a dress for a woman who had been dead these many years?
She cried then for a mother who was gone, whom she had never really had in the first place. She cried because she had no one to be proud of her, to say, “That young woman is my daughter; see how well she has turned out?” Stop it, she told herself, angrily brushing away tears. I’m proud of you and that is quite enough.
Cora Pearl continued to monopolize her time and applaud her talents. Berthe knew that her future earnings were sewn directly to Madame Pearl’s satisfaction with her.
“I want a dress just like the one Worth designed for the Empress,” Cora Pearl said one day in late November. The dress she spoke of was one the Empress planned to wear to the December Ball. It was a magnificent pink tarlatan gown with a huge double skirt. The upper skirt was looped with large bows of black velvet ribbon. The tarlatan sleeve plaited into the armhole was topped with a black velvet epaulette. “I want this very same dress, only disguised as something slightly different.”
“Is that wise?” asked Berthe, worried that copying Empress Eugénie’s dress could be foolhardy to say the least.
“Silly girl. You know I don’t wear ‘wise.’ Besides, no one will notice. Their eyes will be on the Empress. Who would look at me?” said the woman whom all of Paris followed with obsessive curiosity.
Berthe reasoned that this was a golden opportunity for her. The Empress’s ball was the ideal venue to show off her talents. To prove that she was capable of making a gown every bit as beautiful as Monsieur Worth’s. Once that was proven she could ask for yet another raise. How could he refuse her?
Berthe found a crimson damask, which she trimmed with heavy drapery cords and tassels instead of the black velvet. The result was a dress of a similar design but, she thought, a totally different effect.
The day arrived and Berthe was a bundle of nerves. Her fingers shook as she made the final adjustments to Madame Pearl’s gown moments before the ball was to begin.
“Please, madame, don’t flaunt yourself or your gown in front of the Empress, I beg of you,” said Berthe, worried that perhaps she had gone too far in copying Monsieur Worth’s original.
Madame Pearl looked down at Berthe, who was tacking up a bit of the hem which had come undone.
“Of course not. Do I look like a fool?”
“No, actually, you look quite beautiful,” said Berthe, standing up and admiring her handiwork. In her opinion, Madame Pearl had never looked lovelier.
The ball was held at the Élysée Palace. Berthe was too anxious to stay home. She knew that there was an anteroom where ladies’ maids and manservants could get a view of the festivities, so she put on her best dress and watched the attendees gather for the reception line and the arrival of the Empress Eugénie and Napoléon III. There were rows and rows of women in the most exquisite and elaborate gowns. She spotted Cora Pearl making her way to the front of the line.
No, no. What are you doing? Not the front row! Berthe anxiously bit her nails, something she hadn’t done since she was five years old.
Suddenly there was a hush as the lovely Empress Eugénie made her entrance, followed by her less-than-lovely husband.
Berthe heard the excited titters from the ladies’ maids around her.
“Do you see? Madame Cora Pearl is wearing the same dress as the Empress!”
“No. It can’t be!”
“But she is! The nerve!”
“The gall!”
The Empress stopped, looked Cora Pearl up and down, and, frowning ever so slightly, floated on.
Berthe went home in despair. She didn’t sleep a wink the
entire night.
“Are you crazy?” Charles Worth screamed the next day. “Are you trying to ruin me? It is my name over the door, not yours. All of Paris thinks I have tried to make a fool of our beloved Empress. That’s it! You are flambéed!” His face was purple with anger. He pointed to the door. “Never darken my window again.”
And just like that she was fired from her beloved dream job.
For the first time in what seemed like ages she had no work to go to in the morning. She felt empty, as if she didn’t quite exist. She lay in bed listening to the rain on the slate roof. How had everything gone so wrong so suddenly? The truth stabbed at her: She had wanted too much too quickly. She had wanted to enhance her reputation, to increase her income, to have more things. She had recently started thinking she might even begin saving for a house. A house! Was she really any different from her mother? It seemed the Bovary women knew only how to destroy the things in life that mattered most.
Berthe desperately needed cheering up, so she forced herself out of bed and went to see Hélène, who was now living with Monsieur Proiret in a sunny apartment on the rue Malebranche. Hélène had left the boardinghouse and married her benefactor some months before.
“You can go back to lifting,” said her friend, holding a fine china demitasse, her little finger pointing skyward. “You always had a talent for that, even if you didn’t want to admit it.”
“Thank you, no. I have learned a legitimate trade and I want to earn my living doing what I know I’m good at.”
“Earn your living? You call workin’ fourteen hours a day living? What you need is a man to marry you. Someone like my dear Proiret.” She lifted the china pot and offered Berthe more coffee, seeming every inch the perfect lady.
“So have you finished with stealing?” Berthe asked, slumping down in the velvet-covered couch.
“Let us say, I is semi-retired,” said Hélène, tucking a stray curl into her coiffure.
“Does he still spank you?”
“Oh, yes.” She laughed. “But he does it so sweetly, don’t he? It’s a small price to pay. You could do worse yourself, my dear.” She pulled Berthe off the couch and walked her over to the gilt-framed mirror on the wall. “Look at yourself. You’re young and beautiful. Don’t let it go to waste by workin’.” She said the word with such distaste that Berthe had to laugh. “I’m serious.”
“I’m not going to marry someone just so I can be taken care of,” Berthe said, turning away from the mirror.
“Oh, what? You’re going to wait for love to come and sweep you away? Don’t tell me you’re still pinin’ for that starving artist.”
“And what if I were?”
“And I always thought you was the one with the brain in her head. If I recall, his pockets was as empty as yours. Only thing he owned was his good looks.” Berthe didn’t answer. “And where is the lucky fellow now?”
“I believe he’s in Italy,” Berthe said, sighing.
“Well, that don’t do much for you in your time of need, do it?”
She spent the week trying to find work in other dress shops and fabric houses. At Madame Touquet’s Dresses for the Discerning Woman on rue Tabac there was actually a sign in the window:
Help Wanted. Inquire Within.
She was able to catch the proprietress herself just as she was opening the shop.
“I would like to apply for the position,” Berthe said.
Madame Touquet studied her approvingly. Berthe was well dressed in a gray silk and cashmere day dress that had been returned by one of Worth’s clients for lack of payment.
“And do you have experience working in a dress shop?”
“Why, yes, madame. I have, until recently, been employed by Monsieur Charles Frederick Worth.”
Madame Touquet raised a rose-colored kid glove to her lips.
“Oh, no! You’re the one who caused the ruckus at the Empress’s ball. For shame, embarrassing the great master like that!” She gave a little smile. “Not that he doesn’t deserve a comeuppance, the arrogant little Englishman. Well, my dear, I certainly wouldn’t hire you. Nor, I imagine, would anyone else in Paris. Oh, no, I have enough business problems of my own without adding one to our employ.”
At Chavet’s House of Silk and Fine Fabrics she met with the same amused rejection.
“Why, it’s little Miss Fashion Forgery.”
She noticed the salesgirls separating huge bolts of silk at long tables. They looked at her and then proceeded to giggle and whisper among themselves. She thought about going to Monsieur Rappelais and begging him for a job in one of his mills. But she knew it was no use. He was too tied in with Worth’s business to risk helping her, and besides, Madame Rappelais would never allow it. No one would hire her after her fiasco at the Empress’s ball. She began to worry in earnest. How long would her savings last? Would she have to go back to stealing to survive? And she knew where that would eventually lead: to prison, rats, disease, and death.
Early one morning less than a week later there was a loud banging on her door.
It was Charles Worth. His face was crimson and wet with perspiration. His skullcap had slipped off to the side of his head. He almost fell into the room when she opened the door.
“Come back at once! The orders are snowing in. They are lined up down the street. They want copies. They want originals. They want anything with my name on it. I need you. I forgive you. I cannot revive without you.” Surprised, Berthe was at first overcome with relief. But the relief was quickly replaced by something strange and new: a wonderful feeling of confidence.
“I’ll need a raise in my commission, monsieur.”
“A raise? How can you talk about money at a time like this?”
Berthe simply stared at him, careful to reveal nothing in her face.
“Besides, if my memory serves me correctly, I’ve already given you a raise or two. Or three. Not to mention a generous commission. Why are you being so fattening?”
Berthe turned around and, keeping her back to him, fluffed the feather pillows and straightened the coverlet on her bed as if she were alone in the room.
“This is ridiculous. A woman earning this much money.” Berthe did not respond.
“All right. All right. I’ll increase your commission to ten percent.”
“Twenty percent.”
“Fifteen percent,” countered Worth.
Berthe put on her bonnet and cape and opened the door to leave.
“Wait. Wait. All right. Twenty percent commission. Not a centime more.”
Berthe was dizzy with joy. She had gone from the depths of despair to a commission of twenty percent on every dress she helped design and sell. Anything was possible. She could see that Monsieur Worth, despite his protests, was as happy as she was. Flushed with victory, she pushed her advantage.
“And I want an official position in the business.”
“Position? What position?”
“I want to be an assistant designer.”
“You can be whatever you want, dear girl. You can be queen of the commode.” He sighed. “Just come back. We have too much business and it’s giving me sunburn.”
Berthe’s popularity continued to grow. Charles Worth had more clients than he could handle, and he welcomed her success as long as it didn’t take away from his name. She created many innovations for which he took credit.
For the wedding dress of the daughter of the comtesse d’Arbe she selected a fine white muslin trimmed with Valenciennes lace edging. No one had ever used something as simple as muslin for a society wedding.
For Madame Estienne, a cousin of the Empress, Berthe chose a steel-colored silk, a color never seen in an evening dress before. It served as the perfect background for the heavy point lace edging.
Madame Fouret, a wealthy widow of advanced years, was displeased with her new opera dress. “Too boring. I am not dead yet,” she said. Berthe repeated her trick of draping a light silk tulle over the solid color satin, giving the gown a gauzy, cloud
like effect.
But her greatest contributions were to the ever-expanding ego of the master himself.
“They come, they demand, I create, they go away happy, and I am left with what? Nothing, nothing. They just use me up like an empty sock!” he cried.
“But you are the most famous, most revered couturier in all of Paris,” said Berthe.
“What is that, a couturier? I am nothing more than a tailor to rich women.”
“You are an artist,” said Berthe. “What you create are not just gowns; they are works of art. You should sign them, like artists sign their paintings.”
“My little genius!” He pinched her on the cheek. He immediately designed a label with his name which was to be sewn into every dress that left his shop. And not stopping there, he created his own coat of arms, featuring a stylized cornflower with a snail, which was mounted over the entrance to the rue de la Paix store as well as inserted into the wrought-iron gates of his country home in Suresnes. “Let your Monsieur Millet sign all the canvases he wants. I’ll wager I now have my name on more pieces of art than he does,” he said. And finally, he even created a fragrance in his name. Parfum de Worth sold at his salon for the exorbitant price of one hundred francs per ounce.
One day Berthe received a letter from America. It was a short note from Monsieur Strauss.
Chère Mademoiselle Bovary, I just wanted you to know that the streets in my new country are certainly paved in gold. And my overalls are now riveted in copper. My partner Mister Davis and I have patented our design. U.S. Patent 139,121. My everlasting gratitude goes to you for your help.
Enclosed was a picture of a newspaper advertisement showing two horses chained to a pair of overalls in an attempt to rip them apart—proving how sturdy the serge de Nîmes fabric was. Berthe felt nothing but happiness for the little German. It seemed to her that success came to everyone if they worked hard and long enough.
Madame Pearl continued to be a devoted client of Berthe’s, but as much attention as her wardrobe attracted in the press, her lack of wardrobe created even more of a sensation.