Madame Bovary's Daughter (35 page)

“Oh, but, Monsieur Millet, you are not so old,” ventured Berthe. The words were out of her mouth before she knew it. Everyone laughed at her comment. But this time they were laughing with her, not at her. She took another sip of wine. Perhaps the evening would not be a complete disaster.

“Je suis désolée,”
said Madame Rappelais, sulking. “I had so wanted to have a depiction of Greek mythology on the ceiling. I
have seen something similar in Madame Chanteloix's house on the rue d'Arbre.”

“Scenes of Greek mythology are definitely not my milieu.” Millet chuckled. “However, I do have a young apprentice I can recommend to you. He has great talent. I am sure he can create a beautiful mural for you.”

“I suppose one must learn to accept compromise in these things,” sighed Madame Rappelais.

“I shall send him to you tomorrow. His name is Armand de Pouvier.”

“Do you think he can have it done in time for my birthday in two months' time?”

“Aside from being greatly skilled, he works very quickly,” Millet assured her.

“You can't work too quickly for my dear wife,” said Monsieur Rappelais. Madame shot him a look and then laughed her delightful laugh, fanning herself repeatedly with her black ostrich fan. Berthe marveled at her charm and sociability.

“Monsieur Millet, may I ask you something about your wonderful work which has been troubling me?” said Worth, popping a chocolate truffle in his mouth.

“Why, of course, ask away.” Millet rubbed his hands over his silk brocade vest as if making sure it still covered his expanding belly.

“Why do you dress your subjects in such pitifully ugly rags? Their apparel is devoid of color, style, and beauty.”

“But Monsieur Millet's paintings show the beauty of the countryside,” explained Berthe. By now she had consumed three full glasses of wine. She was caught up in the conversation and forgot, for a moment, that she was only there as a novelty. Again, she was the recipient of one of Madame Rappelais's warning glances.

“Thank you, my dear,” said Millet. He turned to Worth. “I am painting peasants, monsieur,” said Millet. “These are the poorest of the poor, the lowest of the low. They barely have money to eat, let alone worry about what they put on their backs.”

“But you paint the countryside and its people so beautifully. Why can't their clothes have a little more stool?” persisted Monsieur Worth in his questionable French. “What harm is a bow here, a touch of lace there, a bit of color, for heaven's sake? Isn't it the role of art and the artist to create beauty wherever he can? You do an admirable job of reflecting poverty. But I'm not sure I myself would want to have poverty hanging on my wall. It's so very depressing.”

Millet took a sip of his wine and wiped his mustache. Berthe noticed that his wife had put her hand on his as if to restrain him. Finally, he said, “Well, Monsieur Worth, it's a good thing I don't have to rely on you for my livelihood. I am well aware that art and beauty are in the eye of the beholder.”

Worth lifted an eyebrow and another truffle. “I hope you didn't take offense, monsieur. As a fellow artist I know that many times we are at the mercy of our critics.”

“And what kind of art do you do?” Millet asked.

“Ah, well, you are looking at two excellent examples of my work,” Worth said, indicating Madame Rappelais and Berthe. Millet seemed confused. “Oh, not the ladies,” Worth said with a laugh. “The gowns they are wearing.”

“You are a seamstress?” asked Millet, barely able to disguise his contempt.

“Ho, no, not a seamstress. I am a creator of gowns. A couturier. An artist whose medium is the finest silk and satin, the most exquisite lace and ribbon. My work immortalizes the female farm.”

“Oh, yes, Monsieur Worth is an artist in his own right,” Berthe said, nodding vigorously. Madame Rappelais glared at her, but somehow Berthe didn't care.

Millet snorted. “You sew dresses. That makes you a seamstress, monsieur. You are not an artist. You are a purveyor of goods. And gaudy ones at that,” he said, indicating both the women's gowns in one sweep of his arm. “I take umbrage, sir. You sully the name artist.”

“My gowns are works of great beauty. In fact, I am planning a show of my first complete collection,” said Worth haughtily. “Women will come from all over France, from all over the world, to see it, to commission one of my pieces for themselves, and to pay greatly for the privilege. Therefore, I ask you, in what way is what I do any different from what you do?”

“Women are fickle. Fashions change. Silks fade. Brocades fray. My art is for all times. More important, I paint truth. I paint the peasants who labor in our fields, the soul of the common man. I celebrate the humble and hardworking! I honor the homespun! I stand for the common man and his endless labors on this bountiful earth!”

“Poppy poop,” said Worth. “And how much did Madame Rappelais pay for this common man's vision of a naked nymph by the riverside?” Madame smiled weakly. “More than for one of my frocks, I would venture to say. You, my dear Monsieur Millet, claim a higher moral ground, a more elevated art form. You look down your nostril at my silks and satins. You are a purveyor of paint. Nothing more. Your work makes rich people feel superior to your poor painted folk. My work actually makes my patrons
look
superior. You hang your art on the walls of the wealthy. I hang my art on the walls of wealthy women. What is the difference, pray tell?” Worth twirled the ends of his mustache.

“But don't you see? Both of you are right,” exclaimed Berthe, again forgetting herself and earning another of Madame's sizzling looks. She had failed to notice that she was the only one of the women participating in the conversation.

“Impossible!” both men answered at once.

“What a fascinating conversation we are having,” said Monsieur Rappelais, lifting his wineglass in salute to the two men. “What would our dear Louis-Napoléon have to say about all this?”

“
Your
dear Louis-Napoléon, certainly not mine,” snapped Millet. And therein followed a heated argument about the pros (Worth) and cons (Millet) of the Emperor Louis-Napoléon and his industrialization of France.

“You and yours have caused the death of the poor farmer!” shouted Millet finally.

“I have murdered no one. My feet are clean,” said Worth, again reverting back to his uncertain French and raising his palms upward. “Let the peasants come to the city. They might as well starve here as in the country.”

“Mark my words, there will be an uprising of the common man. Your beautiful art, as you call it, will end up torn, in useless tatters.”

“Haven't we already had the uprising?” whispered a worried Madame Worth.

“Wait. We have here an opportunity to put this argument to rest. Mademoiselle Bovary happens to have come from humble beginnings in rural France to seek her fortune in Paris. Let's ask
her
what
she
thinks of all this,” said Worth.

All eyes turned to Berthe.

“Well, mademoiselle, what think you?” said Monsieur Rappelais, trying to inject a bit of levity into what had turned into a cantankerous evening. “Can you shed some light on this discussion?”

Berthe took a deep breath and then, despite her previous fears, spoke her mind. “I think there is a tendency on all three of your parts to underestimate what you call the ‘common man.' As if people of little means can't possibly understand the value of a fine painting or, for that matter, a well-designed gown! We understand quality and beauty just as much as those born to a grander lifestyle.” Berthe clamped her lips shut and felt her eyes widen. Was it the wine? What else would have prompted her to speak so boldly?

“My, my,” said Monsieur Rappelais, one eyebrow raised.

“Just look at you, young lady,” Millet said, wagging a finger at Berthe. “All beribboned and besmirched in that ridiculous gown. You have abandoned everything I taught you. You have forsaken the homespun and the humble.”

“But, Monsieur Millet, where is your homespun coat this evening? And look at your lovely wife. I see she is not wearing the rough woven material of the peasant woman,” Berthe said, smiling sweetly, though she now knew for certain that she had gone too far—she could see it in Madame's eyes.
Why, oh why, couldn't I have kept my mouth closed
?

“Excellent point,” said Worth. “Millet, you want everyone dressed in rags because it makes you feel both superior and holier-than-thou. Holier than thou. Holy, as in full of holes. Yes, you are definitely holier than
moi
.” He laughed at his own pun. “That's very good, isn't it, my dear Marie?” His wife touched his arm with her petite hand and smiled at him.

Berthe swallowed heavily. “May I be excused, madame?” She started to stand.

“Stay,” commanded Madame Rappelais, not looking at her.

The men, still debating, adjourned to the study for cigars and brandy. Loud voices could be heard coming through the closed double doors.

As soon as they had left, Madame Rappelais tried to encourage conversation between Madame Worth and Madame Millet, but it was like trying to tighten a fat woman's corset into a twenty-four-Inch waist. Fashion was the first subject she introduced, but the two women seemed to be afraid to tread on that already dangerous ground. Finally, she turned the talk to their children and the ice was broken. The women traded stories of their offspring with ease and animation, seeming to forget Berthe entirely. She wondered why Madame Rappelais had insisted on her remaining. Her head was spinning from all the wine, and she desperately wanted to go to bed.

“They say children should be seen and not heard. I say they shouldn't be seen either,” Madame Millet was saying. “I prefer they appear when they are fully grown and well married.” The two other women laughed.

“Then why, in heaven's name, do you all have so many children if they are just things to be ignored?” Berthe burst out. “Isn't the whole point of being a mother to offer love and care to a helpless being? Do you have any idea what it's like to grow up with a mother who cares nothing for her child? One thing is certain: You don't deserve the children you've given birth to!” She jumped up from her seat. The three women stared at her, speechless, as she burst into tears and stumbled out of the room.
I'm through, done for, finished
, she told herself.
From the grande fête table back to the gutter
.

Once in her room, she tried to calm herself, to no avail. She had sealed her fate. She would be fired, if not tonight then certainly first thing in the morning. Where would she go now? This was what she got for thinking she had opinions that mattered, for mixing up the fantasy of who she wanted to be with the reality of who she was.

She cleaned the stains from the gown and hung it in
Madame's armoire. Then she turned down the bed. She heard her mistress's footsteps. She closed her eyes and held her breath, waiting for the inevitable ax to fall. She opened them in time to see Madame Rappelais fall upon the bed, her huge skirt rising a foot as she did so.

“Artists,” Madame groaned. “Heaven spare us.” And with that, her mistress promptly fell asleep.

M
ONSIEUR
M
ILLET KEPT HIS PROMISE AND SENT HIS YOUNG
apprentice two days later to discuss the painting of a mural for Madame Rappelais's birthday ball. Berthe was called to the ballroom, where Madame Rappelais was speaking in a highly animated voice to a tall young man facing away from Berthe. He stood with his legs apart and his hands clasped behind his neck.

“Ah, Berthe, you're here,” said Madame.

The young man turned. He had dark curly hair that fell over his forehead, halfway down his strong neck, and over the white collar of his shirt. His face was all angles; the jawline seemed almost sculpted. He was clean-shaven but with a bluish tint indicating a heavy beard. His nose looked as if it had been broken at one time. It had a slight but somehow alluring crook in it. His bright blue eyes were wide-set, rimmed in dark lashes and shaded by heavy brows. He looked to be no more than nineteen or twenty, but he had a quiet reserve, an intensity about him that made him seem much older.

Berthe had seen handsome men before but he was different.
Something about his sheer physical presence pulled at the most inner part of her—his hands, with their long, strong, capable fingers; his height and breadth, the way he took up space in the room. It was odd, but all the furniture around him seemed to be slightly reduced in size.

Madame Rappelais was all atwitter, which made the young man's calm and quiet striking by comparison. The more silent he was, the more she seemed to feel the need to talk and explain her commission.

“I want you to hear this, Berthe, so if there are any questions from Armand here, you will be able to answer them in my place. Armand, this is my maid, Mademoiselle Bovary.” Armand didn't so much as glance in Berthe's direction. His full attention was on Madame Rappelais.

“How do you do?” said Berthe, curtsying. His eyes barely flickered toward her. Berthe felt a flash of anger; she hadn't felt this ignored since she was a child sitting with her parents in the parlor.

“Armand—what did you say your surname was?” asked Madame Rappelais.

“De Pouvier, madame.”

“Armand de Pouvier.” She pronounced his name as though tasting each syllable and, as she did, she pushed her lips out provocatively. “Well, Monsieur de Pouvier, are you familiar with
Venus and Cupid with a Partridge
, painted by Titian?”

“Yes, madame, I have seen it in the Louvre.”

“Well, that is what I want and there is where I want it,” she said, pointing to the domed section of the ceiling from which the chandelier hung. “And I want it to be completed by my birthday, which is in two months' time. Can you do that?”