Madame Bovary's Daughter (13 page)

Berthe was fascinated by the wonderful intricacy of her mother's outfit. She reached out to touch the fabric of the skirt. It was smooth and silky.

“So many clothes,” Berthe sighed.

“Yes, I'm already exhausted”—her mother laughed—“and I have yet to get on the horse.”

“When I go riding will I have a riding outfit?” Berthe asked, looking up at her mother.

“I doubt that you'll need a riding outfit as you are minus the horse. And I doubt that your father will be purchasing one for you anytime soon.” She smoothed the veil under her chin.

Berthe heard hooves on the cobblestones outside. Monsieur Boulanger had arrived astride a huge black horse, leading a lovely dapple-gray mare behind. Emma Bovary took a final look in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes flashed with excitement. She was so beautiful at that moment that Berthe wanted to reach up and hug her, but Emma was in too great a rush and moved out of her daughter's reach.

“Wish me luck! Your mama is going riding.” Picking up the leather crop from the top of the bureau, she hurried out of the room, her long riding skirt sweeping the floor behind her.

Berthe ran to the window and looked out. Monsieur Boulanger got off his horse and tied it to the post. When her
mother came out he put his two hands together so that she could step into them and onto her horse.

Berthe had never seen her mother so happy. She waved frantically but her mother didn't see her. Instead she smiled down at Monsieur Boulanger, who was tightening the girth on her horse's saddle.

That was the first of many rides. And they did seem to have a curative effect on her mother's health. Her cheeks took on more color; her hair and eyes took on a new luster; and she began to eat with an increased appetite.

“I told you the riding would do you the world of good,” Charles Bovary said. He was very pleased with her improvement.

When her mother wasn't out riding with Monsieur Boulanger, she was shopping. She spent long hours at Monsieur Lheureux's shop. She came home with all sorts of lovely things: the softest leather gloves, embroidered chemises, rose-scented soaps, and silk stockings.

It was during these times that Berthe felt closest to her mother. She would sit at her mother's feet as they went through her purchases.

“Just feel this chemise. Have you ever felt anything so soft?” her mother said. Berthe ran her fingers over the delicate white fabric. It was edged in intricate lace and threaded with pink satin ribbons.

“It's beautiful, Maman.” Berthe held it up to her nose. “It smells like roses.”

“One always keeps a perfumed sachet with one's under-things,” her mother explained. She showed Berthe how to put on kid gloves by gently working them on one finger at time. How to use tissue paper to keep dresses from wrinkling. How to tell if a dress has been properly made.

“Look at the buttonholes.” Berthe gently poked her little finger through one of the buttonholes. “They must be stitched all around with good silk thread, and the hems must be finished with silk binding,” her mother continued.

Whereas some children remember a mother's kisses, Berthe held in her mind the memories of a mother's dresses. Emma Bovary would read to her daughter from the pages of
La Corbeille
, her favorite fashion journal, as if it were a much-adored fairy tale. In many ways, for her it was.

“ ‘A dress of gray silk with three narrow pinked flounces at the bottom. Each flounce is edged with a row of blue pinked silk just peeping below the gray,' ” she read in a dreamlike tone. “ ‘There is a broad band of blue silk which is sewn next to the top flounce. The sleeves are trimmed in blue silk and the body of the dress is buttoned to the throat with blue buttons.' How perfectly lovely,” she murmured.

For winter, Madame Bovary preferred soft shawls made of cashmere, and for summer fine merino or grenadine, embroidered with tiny flowers and decorated with finely stitched bands of silk. And then there were the satin undergarments and peekaboo lace corsets that her husband probably never laid eyes on. He barely noticed what his wife was wearing on any given day. Had he opened her armoire he would no doubt have been stunned by the vast array of garments he found inside.

Berthe loved to sit inside her mother's armoire and feel swaddled in the soft muslins and summer satins. She thought this must be what heaven was like, surrounded by clouds of fragrant fabrics. She understood that beautiful things made you feel beautiful and therefore somehow lovable. Silks could wrap you in loveliness, kid gloves caressed your hands, combs swept your hair up in soft folds, earrings not only graced your ears but they
lit up your eyes as well. People could move in and out of your life. But beautiful things would stay forever. Or so it seemed, until her mother lost everything.

“Monsieur Lheureux extends credit to Madame Bovary like a spider extending the hospitality of its web,” Félicité muttered as she put away her mistress's recent purchases. Berthe didn't know what credit was but she certainly knew what spiders were. She was deathly afraid of them. Someone once told her that the bite of a spider could kill. She felt a momentary fear. But then she thought Félicité was just being silly. How could her mother's beautiful purchases hurt her?

One day Berthe's mother brought home a riding crop with an elegant silver top.

“Oh, Maman, how beautiful,” Berthe said, caressing the intricately engraved handle.

“Shhh,” Emma said, “it's a surprise.”

“For Papa?” Berthe asked, her eyes widening.

“No, for a special friend.” Her mother smiled. It made Berthe uneasy. It was as if her mother were a stranger with a secret that her daughter would never know.

But Berthe knew who the special friend was. Everyone but her poor papa knew. Her father was too busy trying to keep up with her mother's growing expenses. He was gone all day and on call at night for emergencies that took him many miles away. Sometimes his work took him as far as his mother's farm and he was forced to spend the night there. He was much too tired to pay attention to what his wife was up to.

Berthe, on the other hand, never stopped paying attention. Her mother was an endless source of fascination to her. One beautiful blue summer day she even followed her out the back door, across the grass meadow, over the cow bridge into the
woods on the other side of town. She stayed far behind her. If Emma Bovary had known her daughter was following her, Berthe would have received a sound thrashing.

Over her arm her mother carried a large wicker basket which Berthe thought must be a picnic lunch. The girl kept well back and hid behind the occasional bush or the trunk of a tree until her mother stopped at the edge of the stream. There she stood for a moment as if waiting for something. Berthe found a lovely resting place among soft grass and lilies of the valley, where she could lie and watch her mother without being seen.

Suddenly there was a sound in the thicket. It was Monsieur Boulanger leading his huge black horse. Berthe wondered where her mother's horse was. Weren't they going riding? she wondered. He tied his horse to a branch and walked slowly up to her mother. The smile on her face was one that Berthe had never seen before. Then Emma slowly leaned her body against his as if she couldn't stand on her own. They put their lips together. Berthe saw Monsieur Boulanger slip his tongue into her mother's mouth. She gasped, then quickly clamped her hand over her mouth lest she cry out again and risk embarrassing both her mother and herself. She had never seen her parents kiss like that. Never. Then she closed her eyes. Somehow she knew this was something she was not supposed to see. But she couldn't keep them closed. She couldn't stop staring. This was the most wonderful, awful, exciting, and terrifying thing she had ever witnessed.

Boulanger lifted up the skirt of Emma Bovary's summer frock, and Berthe was stunned to see that underneath her many petticoats her mother was naked. The sun shining through the trees dappled her pale white thighs. She held up her skirts while Boulanger ran his hands lightly over her smooth, round bottom. His hand moved around to her front, and he began to touch her
with his fingers. Berthe heard her mother moan. She thought he was hurting her, but then she saw the look on her mother's face. Her eyes were closed and she looked blissful.

Berthe stumbled out of the wood, heart racing. What was her mother doing? Why did she seem so happy? In her confusion she ran headlong into a tree, scratching her forehead on the rough bark.

“You naughty, naughty girl. Where have you been?” Félicité asked, shaking her roughly. “And what in heaven's name did you do to your face?”

“I was with Madame Homais,” Berthe said. Lies came easily to her even then. “Please, please, don't tell Maman,” she begged. But of course she knew Félicité wouldn't, for fear of getting into trouble for having let the girl out of her sight.

That night she lay in bed and the unsettling thoughts about her mother and Monsieur Boulanger returned. Why had her mother forgotten to wear her underwear? And why had she smiled at such an invasion? It was Félicité who finally told her the truth about Monsieur Boulanger after Madame Bovary screamed at Félicité one morning.

“You've torn my best chemise. Just look at it. This can't be repaired. I will have to throw it away.” She waved the garment in Félicité's face.

“But, madame, this is your oldest chemise. Look, the cotton is worn thin. I can't help it if it tears easily.”

“You have the hands of a field worker, Félicité.” The maid snapped her mouth shut and didn't say another word for the rest of the day. As she was putting Berthe to bed that night she finally spoke.

“Your mother has no right to talk to me that way. Who does
she think she is? Having an affair in broad daylight. She's nothing more than a wicked adulteress.”

Before Berthe could ask what an adulteress was, Félicité explained. “She allows Monsieur Boulanger to have his way with her without regard to her reputation or the reputation of her poor husband.” Whatever that meant, Berthe was convinced it was a sin.

One day Berthe was playing behind the water trough in the courtyard. She looked up and saw her mother in the upstairs window. She watched as Emma placed a small piece of paper in the shutter and then disappeared from view. Berthe felt a wave of excitement run through her. Was it some sort of signal? Every so often her mother would reappear in the window. She was looking for someone.

Suddenly, Monsieur Boulanger appeared in the courtyard. He threw a small pebble up at the window. Within moments her mother rushed out the door and into his arms. Neither one of them could see Berthe sitting on the ground behind the trough.

“Take care, someone might see,” he told her mother, gently pushing her away.

Berthe was stunned at the sight of her mother crying, her shoulders shaking with huge sobs.

“I can bear it no longer!” she cried.

“What do you want me to do?” Boulanger said, looking down at her.

“Take me away,” she beseeched. “Carry me off … I beg of you!” She pressed her lips against his mouth.

“But …” he began.

“But what?” her mother cried, holding on to the lapels of his coat.

“Your little girl! What about your child?” said Monsieur Boulanger. There was a long silence and then Berthe heard words that she never imagined she would hear from her mother's mouth.

“We'll take her with us, of course.” Berthe wanted to run out and throw her arms around her mother. She wanted to bury her face in her mother's skirt and never let go. Her mother did love her after all!

Just then Félicité called from the kitchen window.

“Madame, have you seen the child?”

Her mother quickly pulled away from Monsieur Boulanger and ran into the house. Berthe stayed behind the trough for a long time until she knew it was safe to come out.

She hugged herself, thrilled beyond belief. They would go off with Monsieur Boulanger, travel the world in beautiful clothes. But then she thought about her poor father. He would miss his wife and perhaps his daughter as well. However, what with his work, he seemed to have so little time for either of them, she reasoned.

Over the next few weeks her mother radiated a beauty and happiness Berthe had never seen before. Berthe was happy, too. Knowing that her mother loved her enough to take her away with her filled her days with untold joy.

Her mother became totally preoccupied with preparing for their trip. She spent even more time with Monsieur Lheureux.

One rainy afternoon the shopkeeper brought a new style-book and swatches to show to her mother. Berthe played quietly in the corner with her doll while he and Emma discussed her wardrobe.

“And I need a traveling costume,” she said.

“Ah, very good, madame,” replied Monsieur Lheureux, taking out his leather order book.

“I want it done in blue-gray velvet,” she said. “The jacket must be fitted to a point in the center with closing hooks and eyes. I want satin piping along the seams. And a lace collar. The sleeves should be tight on the upper arms but fuller at the bottom.”

“Excellent. A pagoda sleeve.” Monsieur Lheureux nodded, busily taking notes.

“Yes, exactly,” said Emma, appearing pleased that her sleeve had such an exotic-sounding name. “As for the cloak,” she continued, “it must be a light color and trimmed in the same blue-gray and lined in gray silk. And oh, yes, it must have a hood.”

“A burnoose style,” said Monsieur Lheureux, ever the authority on the very latest fashions.

Emma Bovary smiled and nodded. “And I need to purchase a small trunk.”

“So, Madame is going on a trip,” Monsieur Lheureux said, one eyebrow raised.

“No. But I have never had a proper traveling costume or luggage. A lady must have luggage,” said Berthe's mother, fanning herself with her ostrich feather fan. “Oh, and tell the luggage maker to be sure and line the trunk.”