Madame Bovary's Daughter (34 page)

Does she want to humiliate me in front of everyone? She can't be that cruel
. “But, madame, I don't belong—”

“And you think I do?” Madame Rappelais laughed harshly. “You have no idea where I come from, do you? I was born outside Lille. My father was a dairy farmer who lost all his cows to disease. I went to work in the mill just as you did. And like you, I caught the eye of Monsieur Rappelais, who at the time was married to the first Madame Rappelais. When she died he brought me to Paris, dressed me, educated me, impregnated me twice, and has kindly left me alone ever since. The question of whether I
belong
has never come up.”

“I had no idea, madame.” Berthe was taken by surprise. She marveled that this woman had the ability to keep her always off balance.

“Why would you?” she said, smoothing her upsweep.

“But, madame, I can't …” She twisted the skirt of her apron, feeling powerless.

“Don't you dare spoil my evening,” Madame Rappelais said sharply, her eyes flashing. And then, as if a storm had cleared, she smiled sweetly. “When the time comes we'll find you something nice to wear.”

W
HEN
M
ONSIEUR
R
APPELAIS HEARD ABOUT THE PAINTING, HE
studied it for a long time then exclaimed, “
Merveilleux!
Painted by Millet himself.” He turned and looked at Berthe. Her face was scarlet. “Why, you're famous, my dear girl. Of course this calls for a celebration. Mademoiselle Bovary will be our guest of honor. How perfectly delightful. I shall invite Monsieur Worth as well. The two artists should get along swimmingly. It will be a veritable
grande fête.
”

Berthe was almost more terrified of the Rappelaises'
grande fête
than of anything she had encountered in her life. She had no idea what went on at a formal dinner. She had helped Madame DuPoix set the table on one occasion and couldn't believe the amount of cutlery and the number of glasses each person required. With which fork or spoon did one begin? Did one actually eat or just pretend to eat? And far worse than not knowing the proper etiquette, she realized she was being paraded out as a novelty, a piece of entertainment. She felt sick to her stomach with nervousness as the night of the dinner drew
near. She hoped and prayed that the painting would stay in Madame's room.

“I feel quite ill, madame,” she said, holding her stomach an hour before the dinner was to begin.

“I don't care how you feel,” said Madame Rappelais with a hard, bright smile. “You look beautiful and that's all that matters.” She had dressed Berthe in one of her own gowns, a lovely pale blue silk. The skirt had a pattern of full-blown roses and foliage and the long tight sleeves were trimmed in lace. Madame had combed Berthe's hair into a simple upsweep and given her a pair of sapphire earrings.

Madame glanced at the gold pendant watch pinned to her breast. “Oh my, look at the time. Now we must get me dressed and ready. We can't have the lady's maid outshine the lady, can we?”

When the guests arrived at exactly eight o'clock they were ushered immediately into the dining room and the double doors were closed.

“Stay here and wait until I announce you,” Madame Rappelais whispered to Berthe in the hallway. “It will be a lovely surprise.”

“Oh, madame, please don't make me. I don't want to be a surprise.” Ignoring her pleas, Madame put a finger to her lips and then swept into the dining room.

Hélène was helping to serve. When she caught sight of Berthe dressed in Madame Rappelais's beautiful gown she could hardly keep her eyes in her head.

“Mon Dieu,”
Hélène exclaimed. “What are you doing? If you're gonna steal it, don't parade around in it first, for heaven's sake. They'll throw you in jail, you little fool.”

“Madame Rappelais has loaned me this dress for tonight,”
said Berthe, nervously fingering her earrings as she waited for her cue.

“What? Why?” Hélène's mouth fell open.

“I am to be a surprise guest at her dinner party,” Berthe said with a sigh.

“This is too perfect! You can steal the silverware!” said Hélène, clapping her hands. “I helped Madame DuPoix set the table. There is so much silver they'll never notice a few spoons here and there. Does this dress have pockets?” She pulled at the full skirt.

“Hélène! You've lost your mind. I'm not stealing anything.” But Hélène wasn't listening.

“There are also tiny salt and pepper shakers by each place. Or wait, I have a better idea—the silver napkin holders! No one will miss those.” Suddenly, Madame DuPoix appeared. She wore a starched white serving apron over her black dress.

“Hélène. To the kitchen! It is time to begin service of the meal.” Madame DuPoix's eyes narrowed as she regarded Berthe dressed in the elegant gown. “I understand from Madame that you are to be seated at dinner. Mind your manners—what few you possess,” she hissed.

Just then the dining room doors opened and Madame Rappelais announced in a bright voice, “And now, for the guest of honor: our very own, very original Goose Girl.” She pulled a reluctant Berthe into the room. Monsieur Millet stood up.

“
Incroyable
. It is! My goose girl, all dressed up!” he exclaimed, holding out his huge hands. His beard and mustache were as thick and shaggy as ever. His wife, seated next to him, peered over her pince-nez as if trying to place Berthe.

On the other side of the long table sat Monsieur Worth and his swan-necked, elegant wife, Marie. Both smiled broadly at the
wonderful surprise. Monsieur Millet rushed over to Berthe, clasped both her hands, and kissed her four times on each cheek.

“My beautiful Mademoiselle Bovary, how you've grown. And even lovelier than I recalled. You remember Mademoiselle Bovary,” he said to his wife.

“Ah, at first I didn't recognize her dressed,” said his wife, setting aside her pince-nez. Everyone laughed and Berthe turned an even brighter shade of red. She could feel herself perspiring under the heavy gown. She looked first at Madame Rappelais and then at Monsieur, pleading with her eyes to be excused.

Instead Monsieur Rappelais stood and pulled out a chair for Berthe. But Berthe continued to stand, still hoping for a last-minute reprieve.

“Sit,” commanded Madame Rappelais, as if speaking to a dog.

“Yes, please, mademoiselle, sit down,” said Monsieur Worth. “It's not often we have the honor of dining with the subject of a famous painting.” That was when Berthe noticed that the painting of her hung above the long mahogany buffet. She felt doubly exposed, having the painting of her there for all to examine: her young breasts, the beginning of her pubic hair, her naked body. Added to that was the agony of wearing a dress that wasn't hers, in a room in which she didn't belong, with people who were far above her in social standing. She wanted to die, to disappear.
Maybe I could faint or have a fit
. If she had an eye-rolling, mouth-foaming, limb-thrashing fit it would distract from her shame and embarrassment. But then she realized that the fit would only bring her new shame and embarrassment. So she sat down and began to count the minutes, hoping the evening would soon be over and she would be safe back in her room.

“How very nicely you've developed since I painted this,
mademoiselle,” Millet said, standing by the painting. He ran his forefinger along the breasts to prove his point. Everyone laughed.

Berthe flinched as if she herself had been touched.

“Yes, I would say the development merits another portrait,” said Madame Rappelais, smiling wickedly at Berthe.

“Madame Rappelais is right. You must come and model for me again,” said Millet. “I have a studio on rue Jacob.”

“But how will you paint her without all the poultry,
mon chèr
?” asked Catherine Millet with a gleam in her eye. Again everyone laughed.

“My wife was a model as well,” Monsieur Worth offered. “That was how I met her.”

“But never with geese, and never ever without my clothes,” chimed in Madame Worth. To Berthe's continued humiliation, the room exploded into guffaws. She hated being the object of ridicule, particularly in front of Monsieur Worth. She had hoped one day to impress him with her willingness to learn about the world of fashion and the creating of beautiful gowns. Now even his elegant wife was making fun of her.

It seemed to Berthe that the whole idea of a dinner
à la russe
was to use as many dishes and as much glassware as possible. To begin, there were six different glasses and nine pieces of flatware at each place. She realized that, with the exception of Hélène, Madame DuPoix had hired a new staff to serve. It was certainly not the first time the servers had managed a dinner of this magnitude. They moved in and out of the dining room like a well-rehearsed dance company, never missing a step or soiled plate. The food was always served from the left and removed from the right, the drinks poured from the right and removed from the right.

Berthe felt as if she were onstage in the middle of a ballet performance surrounded by a corps de ballet waiting for her to make the first graceful
jeté
. And there she stood, or rather sat, never having taken a ballet lesson in her life.

First came the soup course with sherry carefully poured into each cut-glass goblet. The soup plate, soupspoon, and sherry glass were removed and the fish course came next, a pale poached salmon on a fish plate with a fish fork, a fish knife, and white wine. The first entrée, the terrapin course, followed in a pot accompanied by a terrapin cup and lid, a butter plate, and a terrapin fork. The second entrée was a ramekin course with ramekin fork and plate. Berthe suddenly remembered her meager dinners at Rappelais's cotton mill. Her fingers had been her only utensils, a tin pail her dinner plate.

As luxurious as the food was, she was far too nervous to eat or certainly to speak. She felt dazed by the constant arrival and removal of food, wine, and utensils. Things moved along smoothly enough until she saw Hélène slip a serving spoon in her apron pocket. Berthe sat forward suddenly, knocking her glass of claret onto the floor.

“Oh, I'm so sorry!” She watched helplessly as the wine soaked into the Persian rug.

“Don't be sorry,” said Madame Rappelais, clearly annoyed. “Just don't let it happen again.”

Hélène had paused at the swinging door which led into the kitchen as if to say,
Thank you for the excellent distraction
. Just at that moment Madame DuPoix came through the door carrying a large bowl of puréed peas and carrots. The door hit Hélène hard on the side of the head and she let out a yelp. Luckily, DuPoix managed not to drop the bowl of purée. She glared at Hélène, who fled the dining room holding the side of her slightly bleeding head.

“Tell us about your latest work,” Monsieur Rappelais said, turning to Millet. Berthe, in an effort to show great interest, turned toward the artist, placing her chin in her hand and her elbow on the table. Unfortunately, her elbow landed in the middle of her puréed peas and carrots. She quickly extracted her arm, but not before Madame Rappelais shot her a venomous look. Berthe hid the soiled sleeve in her lap. Then she looked down and saw with horror that the stain on the sleeve had soiled the skirt of Madame's elegant gown. She fruitlessly swiped at the stains with her napkin.

“Leave it, Berthe,” Madame hissed. Berthe took a long drink of her wine.

Then came the sherbet course with sherbet spoon, and the game course with new plates, utensils, and new wine.

Berthe realized, with the sort of insight that only comes too late, that unknowingly Madame Rappelais had given her the chance of a lifetime: to meet with Monsieur Worth across a dinner table, to have him view her as something more than a lady's maid, perhaps to see her as someone who might be worthy of hiring one day. But so far Berthe had failed miserably. She looked down. Hélène was at her feet soaking up the spilled claret with a serviette.

“Keep up the good work,” Hélène whispered, reaching up and slipping a set of miniature salt and pepper shakers into her pocket.

The asparagus course was served. Then the cheese course. New flatware was brought and new wineglasses were put out. The table was cleared and crumbs were swept away to make room for the sweet course: chocolate mousse and ice cream. Was this finally the end? wondered Berthe. No, apparently not. There was still the fruit with fruit knife and fork, fruit plate, and new wineglass. And last, but not least, the finger bowl, followed by
coffee. Berthe could only imagine the condition of the scullery maid Jeanine's hands after tonight.

She tried to take a deep breath, but the stays of Madame Rappelais's borrowed corset cut deep into her sides. By this time, the novelty of Berthe's presence had worn off and she was thankful to be ignored as the other guests conversed.

Madame Rappelais exuded enough charm for the entire room. When she turned her attention to Millet, Berthe began to relax and enjoy her wine.

“Monsieur, it is such a great honor to have you sitting at my table. I have admired your work for a long time.”

“I assure you, madame, the pleasure is mine,” said the artist, bowing his head modestly.

“I am planning a grand ball for my birthday, and I would dearly love for you to paint a mural in my ballroom in honor of the occasion. Needless to say, I would pay whatever you ask.”

“My dear Madame Rappelais, I regret I am not a mural painter. I find it far too time-consuming and I need to conserve my energies for my paintings.”

“He fails to mention the condition of his decrepit back,” added his wife.

“It's true, as my wife so ungallantly points out: Murals are a young man's work.” Millet smiled lovingly at his wife. He seemed to welcome any kind of attention from Madame Millet, even of a negative nature.