Madame Bovary's Daughter (17 page)

“A position! A position!” The man laughed, spraying Berthe with saliva. He wiped his eyes and face with a dirty rag with one hand. Then he indicated a small wooden door in the side of the building. “Ask for Monsieur Roucher. He's the one to see about a position. And while you're at it ask him for a nice hot meal and a bath. Let me know what he says.”

Berthe entered the building. It was dark and musty; the air was filled with white particles. She could hear and even feel through the soles of her feet the movement of machinery somewhere in the mill. It took a minute for her eyes to adjust, and then she spotted a closed doorway. The sign on the door read
Office
. She knocked.

“Come in and it better be important,” called a voice from inside.

Monsieur Roucher was a thin bent man in his fifties. The skin on his face was stretched tightly; his cheekbones were
prominent and hard-edged. He was seated at a tall desk making notes in a thick ledger. Berthe cleared her throat. He looked up.

“What do you want? I'm busy,” he snapped.

“I'm looking for a position in your mill, sir,” Berthe said.

“We have no positions here. We only have work. Hard work,” he said, scowling.

“I'm used to hard work, sir. I'll be happy to do any job you have for me,” said Berthe, lifting her chin.

“Oh, you will, will you? We shall see about that.” He got up from his stool, took Berthe by the shoulders, and turned her slowly around as if to make sure she had all her working parts. Then he pulled a slip of paper from a pile on his desk and handed it to her.

“Take this and give it to Madame Lisette, the owner of the boardinghouse at seventeen, rue de la Côte. This will tell her that you are to be provisionally employed by Rappelais et Fils. She will give you a bed and a meal. The money for your room and board will be deducted from your wages. Make sure you are back here Monday morning at six sharp. Don't be late on your first day or you will start off with a beating. And there won't be a second day. Now off with you.” He turned back to his desk.

Berthe prepared to leave and then stopped.

“Excuse me, sir.”

“What is it now?”

She took a deep, shaky breath.

“What will my pay be?” she asked. He looked down at her over his half glasses as if he couldn't comprehend her words. She was anxious to start her savings. She had already planned what she would buy with her first pay. She longed for a pair of real leather boots like the kind she had seen people wearing on the
streets of Lille. Winter had arrived and the air was cold and damp. Her feet felt like blocks of ice in her wooden clogs.

“You'll get what you earn and not a penny more or a penny less. And if that's not good enough for you, well, there are plenty of others waiting for work.”

It was almost dark by the time Berthe arrived at 17, rue de la Côte, a large six-story stone house on a street with similar houses. There was no light coming from any of the windows and Berthe wondered if anyone was home. She rang the bell and waited several minutes. The blustery wind blew up her skirt and her toes ached with cold. She kept one hand under her shawl but the other one holding her small valise felt frozen on the handle. Finally, a small door opened. An extremely fat woman stood in the doorway.

“Yes, my dear. What can I do for you?”

“Madame Lisette?” asked Berthe.

“The very one,” boomed the woman.

“I am here for a room,” Berthe said, handing Madame Lisette the slip of paper. The woman studied the paper and then looked up at Berthe, her small eyes squinting through the darkness.

“Get in here so I can better see you,” Madame Lisette said, opening the door wider.

The door opened onto a courtyard and Berthe was immediately assaulted by an all-too-familiar smell. The entire courtyard was covered with high mounds of manure. She felt as if she were back in the country.

“My dowry,” said Madame Lisette, laughing loudly. “Have you never seen dung before?”

“I come from my grand-mère's farm,” explained Berthe.

“Good, then you are used to it. My boy Lucien collects this
from the streets and sells it to farmers for fertilizer. I'm never one to turn up my nose at a little supplemental income.” She led Berthe through another door and they were inside a large kitchen with two long wooden tables set end to end. A small but very hot fire was burning in the fireplace. Hanging over the fire was a huge iron kettle of what Berthe assumed was soup. It smelled slightly of cabbage, carrots, and dirty feet.

“Welcome to the house of busy hands,” said Madame Lisette grandly. “You're very fortunate. Tonight is special soup night. Dinner is served every evening at ten
P.M
. If you're late you don't eat. No exceptions. The privy is in back of the house. This, as you can see, is our kitchen.” There was an old gray cat asleep on top of the table. At first Berthe thought she was dead until she lifted her head and looked at Madame Lisette through half-closed amber eyes.

“And here is our grand
salle à manger
,” she said, opening the door of another room. It was dark and dingy and smelled of rotten onions and cat urine. The room was long and narrow with most of the space taken up by two more rough pine trestle tables, the kind that were used for outdoor picnics. “Now, follow me and I will show you to your
boudoir
. The dormitory rooms are all full but I have a nice spot on the fifth floor. You'll be with Hélène. She'll show you the ropes. But take care,
chérie
, she is a terrible thief.”

Berthe followed the woman's broad bottom up five flights of stairs. Madame Lisette had to stop every few steps to catch her breath. On the top floor, she pushed open a door and moved her large frame aside so that Berthe could see the room. It was no bigger than a closet. There were two wood plank beds lined up inches apart from each other. Bags and boxes were stashed away underneath one of the beds. Both beds were covered with a jumble of clothes and gray woolen blankets. More clothes hung from
hooks on the walls. The room was freezing. They had left what little heat there was five flights below.

Berthe suddenly longed for the clean country air and her grand-mère's immaculate farmhouse. She felt suffocated by the smells, intimidated by her new surroundings. Who were these people she would be forced to share a roof with? She had difficulty understanding Madame Lisette. Was she joking or serious? Was the girl she was to share a room with really a thief?

“I like my guests to keep things neat,” Madame Lisette said. She bent down and with both arms gathered up a huge pile of clothes and dumped them on the bed with the bags and boxes stashed beneath it. Then she separated two woolen blankets from the pile, folded them neatly, and placed them on the foot of the empty bed. Berthe noticed that the sheets and pillowcase were either dirty or gray from the lint of the blankets. “The rest of our little family is at work. You will meet them all soon enough. Rent is four francs a week payable every Friday. But you don't have to worry about it. The mill takes it out of your wages and pays me directly. The cost includes a hearty supper pail to take to work and a hot dinner every night,” she added as if to justify the amount.

“But, madame, I'm not even sure what I'm getting paid at the mill.”

“They didn't tell you?” Madame Lisette turned to look at her, hands on her hips.

Berthe shook her head.

“How old are you, dear?” the woman asked.

“Fourteen,” Berthe said.

“Ah, good. You will probably get about seven francs a week. I believe the beatings are free.” Berthe felt a wave of fear run through her. Madame Lisette threw back her head and laughed and laughed. Finally, she caught her breath and wiped her eyes
with a lace hanky she had pulled from her sleeve. “You can hang up your gowns in the armoire,” she said.

“What gowns?” Berthe asked, confused.

“What armoire?” Madame Lisette answered back, again roaring with laughter. Her bosom shook so much Berthe thought it would slide off her chest onto the floor.

“One has to keep laughing. There is too much in this life to cry about,” the woman said, chortling to herself as she left.

Berthe took her small valise and placed it on the empty bed. A smoking oil lantern dimly lit the crowded room. She opened her bag and unwrapped the picture of the beautiful white tulle dress, which she'd carried from her home in Yonville to her grand-mère's, and from her grand-mère's to here. She examined the details, analyzing how the seams were put together, how the flounces were attached. She wondered if pearls might not have been more elegant than the crystals. The woman in the illustration was standing in a beautiful ballroom, glancing over her right shoulder as if someone was approaching. Was she waiting to be asked to dance? What kind of music was playing? This was certainly a gown that called for a waltz.

What a joke. What a fool you are. Dreaming of dresses and dancing in ballrooms while you're living in a smelly hovel
.

She looked out the small window. There were tile roofs and chimneys of all shapes and sizes as far as she could see. She had never experienced a view like this. The panorama gave her a feeling of being both above the city and part of it at the same time.

For a moment her fears were forgotten and she was infused with a new energy. The sky was tinged red-orange with the last light of the setting sun. This wasn't a town, it was a city. And despite feeling cold and frightened, she was filled with a great excitement. She had a job. She would be earning a living. She
would be working with fabrics, beautiful fabrics, the kind her mother pored over at Monsieur Lheureux's shop. And if she worked hard enough perhaps they would increase her salary. No, not perhaps, for certain. She had no idea what her job would be but she was sure she would excel at it. She would be the best worker in the entire mill. And they would see her value and the seven francs would grow to fourteen and then twenty and soon she would be the proud owner of soft leather boots and a new dress with braid around the collar and jet buttons … and a bonnet with black ostrich feathers.

She yawned then, overcome with a great fatigue. She had traveled a long way in a very short time. She lay down on the bed, closed her eyes, and within moments drifted off to sleep. She was awakened by the sound of heavy footsteps pounding up the stairway.

Berthe opened her eyes. Once they adjusted to the dim light she could see the figure of a very tall, very broad-shouldered girl standing over her bed. Berthe sat up and backed into the corner of the bed.

“What do you think you're doing in my room?” demanded the girl.

“I'm supposed to share it with you,” Berthe shot back. She fought hard to keep her voice steady and strong.

“Sez who?” asked the girl, leaning in closer, bringing her face to within inches of Berthe's. Her breath smelled of onions.

“Madame Lisette.” Berthe sat up and swung her legs over onto the floor.

“And what is this?” the girl asked, snatching at the drawing of the dress on Berthe's bed.

“That's mine,” said Berthe, reaching for it. “Give it back.” There was something about Berthe's tone that made her comply.

“Who wants your filthy drawing,” she said, dropping it on the floor. “And what are you doing with a picture like that?”

“It's one of my mother's dresses.” Berthe carefully folded up the drawing.

“Oh, and who's your mother, the Queen of England?” Clutching her stomach, the older girl doubled over with guffaws. Suddenly she stopped. “You touch any of my things and I'll kill you.” She shoved aside a pile of clothes and sat down on the opposite bed. Her rust-colored eyes were the same color as the freckles that exploded across her face, and she had blood-red hair that seemed to want to fly away from her head. It was barely restrained by the single fat braid that hung down to the middle of her back. Her legs were so long and skinny her stockings rumpled around her ankles. She wore a tattered gray dress that came to her knees and an apron of the same color over it. Her large hands were bruised and covered with welts.

“Why would I want to touch your dirty things?” said Berthe. The girl seemed to think this over.

“Make sure that you don't,” she said, swinging her legs up on the bed. “Just remember, this was my room first.”

Berthe had no idea what possessed her to talk back to the bigger, older, and angrier girl, but somehow she sensed that if she didn't assert herself now she would be very sorry later. She took a deep breath and said, “Well, now it's
our
room, isn't it?” The other girl glared at her.

There was the faint sound of the dinner bell and without a word the tall girl rose and clomped downstairs. After a few minutes, Berthe followed her.

Her first impression of the people seated at the long trestle tables was that they were asleep. They sat with their heads bowed or
resting on their hands while bowls of soup were distributed. Berthe guessed that most of the residents were around her age—anywhere from twelve to sixteen—though some seemed as young as ten. There were a half dozen older women and men as well. Madame Lisette stood at the head of one table ladling soup out of the big pot.

“Ah,
mes enfants
, tonight I have outdone myself. This is my most superb soup yet. However do I do it, you ask? How does one spin gold out of hay? The recipes for all my soups shall remain a secret. They will die with me.”

“Now, that will be a day to celebrate,” someone whispered.

“Who would want the recipe for this swill?” another mumbled.

Madame Lisette paid no heed. She looked up at Berthe in the doorway. “Ah, here is our newest member. Hélène, introduce your sister to her new family.”

“She's no cursed sister of mine,” snarled the redheaded girl from her seat at the far end of one of the tables. She was squeezed in between two smaller girls who never looked up from their bowls.