Madame Bovary's Daughter (7 page)

The elder Madame Bovary's best and, in fact, only friend was Madame Leaumont, a widow who lived in a small house a few miles away. She was as cheery as Berthe's grand-mère was dour. Her face had been ravaged by the pox, but she had beautiful brown eyes and a smile so easy and warm that one soon forgot her terrible scars. Berthe liked her very much and was always glad when she dropped by for a visit.

“Will she be going to school, your granddaughter?” Madame Leaumont asked one morning in August.

“She already knows how to read and write,” Berthe's grand-mère answered.

Berthe was churning butter. She felt her grand-mère's eyes on her.

“Not that she's going to need reading and writing for anything,” the old woman added. “Berthe, fetch more cake for Madame Leaumont.”

“Oh, no, I couldn't,” Madame Leaumont demurred, holding out her plate to Berthe and smiling. “She is already growing into quite a pretty thing,” she commented, as if Berthe were not there.

“Pretty is as pretty does,” Grand-mère Bovary shot back.

“You are very hard on her,
chère amie
,” said Madame Leaumont.

“I am only getting her ready for the life she has in store: no money, no family, no property. This farm, thanks to her father and spendthrift mother, is mortgaged beyond what I can ever
hope to repay. When I go, it goes, too. And I won't live forever,” she said with the confidence of someone who actually thinks she might.

Berthe felt a sudden, cold panic. This was the first she had heard of the farm going when her grand-mère was gone. Was she going to lose her home yet again?

“What about marriage?” said Madame Leaumont.
At least Madame Leaumont seems to care about my future
, Berthe thought.
You'll see. I'll make something of myself. I'll be rich and have the most beautiful château in all of France. And you, you wicked old woman, will be begging at the gate. And I'll let you in and I'll serve you tea from a silver pot in a gold-rimmed cup and when you ask for cream, I'll say, Cream? Oh, no, we have no cream. Do you think cream grows on trees?

“People around here know all about her mother,” her grand-mère said. “What guarantee is there that the apple does not fall far from the tree?”

Berthe couldn't keep still any longer.

“At least my mother didn't hide me up in a dusty attic and make me wear painful, ugly shoes all day.”

“Berthe!” The old woman stood up. “How dare you criticize me in front of Madame Leaumont!”

Madame Leaumont put her hand on Madame Bovary's arm in an effort to calm her, but Berthe's grand-mère shook her off. “Do you see what I have to put up with? She is a devil, that girl. I give her a home and she treats me with such disrespect. What have I done to deserve this?” She turned to Berthe. “Where is my broom? Where have you hidden it?”

Berthe picked up the broom that was leaning by the door and calmly handed it to her. Her grand-mère pulled her outside and began thumping her on the legs and backside with the wooden handle. Berthe kept her head turned and stared out at
the fields as if this wasn't happening to her. She wanted to cry but refused to let the tears come. She wanted to push her grand-mère away, but kept her arms frozen at her sides. When the old woman had finally exhausted her rage Berthe stumbled toward the barn. As soon as she was inside the barn, she laid her head against Céleste's warm flank and let the tears fall. She didn't notice Renard standing under the hayloft.

“What's the matter?” he asked, setting his pitchfork against the siding.

She shook her head, embarrassed by her tears. “Nothing. Just my grand-mère trying to beat manners into me.”

Renard took her hand and made her sit beside him on the big pile of hay. He put his arm around her shoulders.

“I'm all right,” she said, angrily wiping her face with her apron. “She didn't really hurt me. She's not that strong.”

“Do you want me to teach your grand-mère a lesson? I will.” He pointed to the pile of manure in the corner of the barn. “I'll take all of that manure over there and dump it on her kitchen floor. And I'll tell her the next time she decides to beat you she will have me to deal with.”

Berthe laughed. “She would just make me clean it up, you fool.”

“You're right. I know. I'll just go in and explain to her that she should never hit you because you are far too pretty to beat.” He picked up her braid and held it between his fingers as if it were some rare and wondrous thing. “Mademoiselle of the Copper Hair.” He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. She laughed again, brushed her face with her hand, and slowly stood. He looked up at her and grinned.

“What are you afraid of? I won't bite.”

“I'm not afraid,” she said, feeling a hot blush spread to the roots of her hair. “Besides, I would just bite you back.” She
turned away from him, lowered her sore bottom to the stool, and began milking Céleste. She was glad of the cow's haunch so she could hide her red face. After a few moments Renard left the barn.

When Berthe finished the milking she wandered out to the small orchard in the field behind the barn. A dozen apple trees were laden with fruit. She picked up one of the golden apples that lay on the ground and took a bite. It was so bitter she immediately spit it out. She heard someone laugh. It was Renard. He was sitting on one of the lower branches of a nearby tree. He swung himself down to the ground.

“Those apples are not for eating,” he said. “They are for drinking.” He took a small jug out of his lunch basket and handed it to her. “My mother gives me this to ward off the cold.”

“But it's summertime,” she said, taking the jug.

“I know.” He laughed again. “Go on, take a drink.”

Berthe tilted the jug and drank a small amount of the liquid. It was terrible. It made her eyes water and her throat burn. It tasted far worse than the apple she had bitten into. She began coughing and quickly handed the jug back to him.

“Take another sip. You'll get used to it.”

“It tastes like poison.” As soon as she uttered the word she immediately thought of her mother and the deadly arsenic she had taken to end her life.

Renard held the jug out to her. “It won't kill you, I promise,” he said, as if reading Berthe's mind. After the second sip it didn't taste as bad, and she understood why Renard's mother said it would keep him warm. She felt as if the sun were shining inside of her as well as outside. For the first time in months, she felt almost happy.

“Did you know my mother took poison and it killed her?” she asked.

“I heard the story,” he said. Berthe was not surprised. Word traveled quickly from town to town. Especially tales about the disreputable woman married to the only doctor in the region.

“It's not a story. It's true,” she said, drinking again from the jug. “She was very unhappy.”

“It's a sin. She's probably in hell,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Don't say that,” she replied angrily. She tipped the jug and took another long drink.

“They say your mother was in love with love.”

“Who said that?” She was beginning to feel dizzy.

“Everybody. Your mother was much talked about in these parts. Are you like your mother?”

“No, I'm not. Not even a little.”

“Give me a kiss. Let's see if you have a taste for love.” He reached for her but she pulled out of his grasp.

“Go kiss a cow.” She twirled away, but he reached around and yanked the jug out of her hands.

“That's enough. Pretty soon you'll be reeling all over the farmyard and your grand-mère will sack me for getting you drunk.”

“I'm not drunk,” she protested. “What is this called?” she asked, pointing to the jug.

“It's called drinking too early in the day.” He grinned, taking a big swig for himself. Swallowing, he said, “Calvados. It's the only thing those sour apples are good for. It is drunk during the meal to help with digestion.”

“I thought your mother gave it to you to ward off the chill.”

“I lied,” he said. “I stole it from the pantry before my father could finish it off.”

Berthe laughed. Renard was a kindred spirit. He lay down on the ground, folded his arms behind his head, and stared up at her through half-closed eyes. She had a tremendous urge to crawl into his arms. He was older and stronger and seemed ever so much wiser. She felt a wave of gratitude for the fact she had found him in the middle of the lonely countryside. It suddenly didn't matter that her grand-mère hated her. She had Renard and he would be her friend. And that made her feel warm all over.

I
T WAS A STEAMY HOT DAY WHEN
B
ERTHE TOOK
C
ÉLESTE FOR A
cool drink by the small river behind her grand-mère's house. As Céleste drank her fill, Berthe dipped her feet into the stream. The cold water felt wonderful on her hot, blistered feet. She hitched up her skirt and tied it with her apron strings so that she could get her legs completely wet.

“
Bonjour
, mademoiselle,” a voice said. She looked up, startled. A huge man with a thick beard and long, dark curling hair leaned against an oak tree several feet from where she sat. He was about thirty-five or forty years of age and his beard and mustache were so thick she could not see his mouth. He had strong, stern brows and intense gray eyes above a prominent nose. He wore a blue tunic and a floppy straw hat, and carried a canvas bag over one shoulder. Suddenly, he smiled and his whole face changed. His mustache turned upward, his beard quivered, and his eyes gleamed warmly.

“
Bonjour
, monsieur,” she said.

“The water feels fine?” he asked, staring at her bare feet and
legs. She suddenly felt very self-conscious but struggled to conceal it.

“
Oui
, monsieur, it is very refreshing.”

“Do you live nearby, mademoiselle?”

She hesitated. “Yes, I live with my grand-mère over there.” She pointed to the house through the trees.

“Perhaps you will take me to see her.” He put down his bag and, drawing a handkerchief from his pocket, he removed his straw hat and wiped his brow. He must have seen the question in her eyes. “I would like to ask her permission to draw you,” he explained.

“To draw me?” she asked, pulling her feet out of the water and quickly yanking down her skirt so that it covered her wet legs.

“You and your beautiful cow. What is her name?”

“Her name is Céleste.” For some reason the fact that he wanted to draw Céleste as well as her made her laugh. She liked that he thought Céleste was beautiful.

“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Jean-François Millet. I am an artist,” he said, extending his hand. She stood and shyly offered hers in return. His hand was huge and strong. It felt as if it was capable of crushing walnuts, but he held her hand as gently as if it were a newly hatched bird.

“I am hopeful your grand-mère will consent to have you and Céleste pose for me. What, may I ask, is your name?”

“My name is Berthe Bovary,” she said. “What do you mean, pose?”

“I will sketch you for a painting that I will complete later.”

A drawing, a painting, an artist. It all sounded very exciting.

“I don't think my grand-mère will consent. She doesn't believe in art. She says it's a waste of time.” Berthe sighed.

Monsieur Millet laughed. He had a wonderful laugh that came from deep inside his chest. Just hearing it made her smile.

“She may very well have a point. But come, show me to her house. Perhaps I can convince her to let me steal you away for a few hours even if it is all a waste of time.”

“I'm sorry. She would never allow it. She would probably beat me for even talking to you.”

Berthe picked up Céleste's wet lead rope and pulled her away from the water and up the grassy slope. Once on higher ground she quickly glanced back at the artist, giving him a shy smile before hurrying away.

Madame Leaumont came bursting in the next day with exciting news.

“There is a famous artist who is painting our countryside,” she said, her gray hair spilling out of her bonnet. Her pitted cheeks were flushed with the exertion of walking quickly up the road. “A famous artist. Here! Isn't it thrilling?”

Berthe felt a rush of anticipation, wondering if this was the man she'd met yesterday. Perhaps she would get a chance to watch him paint. She remembered how her mother had returned from one of her many trips to Rouen and had been filled with chatter about art. She had shown Berthe a miniature copy of a painting by an artist named Ingres. It was called
Une Odalisque
.

“I have been told that this painting resembles me. Isn't that absurd?” her mother had said, studying the painting.

Berthe looked at the small painting. It was of a pale naked woman whose back was turned to the viewer. Berthe didn't think it resembled her mother at all.

“Artists are people of great passion and vision,” her mother continued. “My friend, Monsieur Léon, has the soul of an artist even though he is just a clerk.”

“Does this painting belong to him?” Berthe asked.

“Only the truly wealthy can afford to have great art on their
walls. Monsieur Léon can barely afford curtains,” her mother said with a laugh.

“But, Maman, we have paintings,” Berthe said.

“You silly girl, those are only poor, pitiful copies,” said her mother.

“And who is this famous artist?” Grand-mère Bovary asked. She was sitting at the kitchen table repolishing the silver that Berthe had just polished that morning.

“Monsieur Jean-François Millet.”

“I've never heard of him,” Grand-mère said, as if she carried a list of famous artists in her head.