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Authors: Linda Urbach

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BOOK: Madame Bovary's Daughter
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Monsieur Millet became Berthe's shadow, and she grew used to him following her everywhere with his bag of art materials and his stool.

One day he stopped her on the way into the house. She was carrying two heavy pails of water she had just filled at the well.

“Wait, stay there,” he said, grabbing his sketch pad and a Conté crayon from his shoulder bag.

“But, monsieur,” she protested, “these are heavy. Can't I empty the water from them?”

“That is exactly what I want to capture: the weight of the water, your arms straining, the painful look on your face.
The Peasant Labors
,” he said, as if to give his drawing a title right then and there.

“I cannot hold these any longer,” she said, lowering the pails to the ground so quickly that half the water spilled out.

“Oh, I am sorry. How thoughtless of me,” he said. He put his sketch pad on the ground and laid his crayon on top of it. “Here, let me ease the ache.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and began gently kneading the muscles. It felt strangely soothing and yet she pulled away. “My apologies. Was I being too rough, mademoiselle?”

“No, no,” she said, lifting the pails again. “I'm fine.” Her face was burning but he didn't seem to notice.

“You are a wonderful model, Mademoiselle Berthe.”

“But I don't understand, monsieur. Why do you only make sketches of me doing boring chores?”

“Ah, but there is great dignity in your labor. Don't you see that?”

She shook her head. She thought him slightly mad. This was a life of drudgery she longed to escape, and here was this man devoting his very considerable talents to capturing it on paper.

“My father and grandfathers were farmers,” he said. “I was
supposed to take over the farm in Gruchy.” He had a faraway look in his eyes. “The soil there gave forth more stones than it did wheat. In the end, they gave me their hard-earned savings and off I went to study art. And I never returned to the land. So I paint the country and the people as a way of honoring my origins and repaying my family.”

Berthe liked the idea of doing work that had dignity. It certainly made her feel better about the blisters and sore muscles she had developed since coming to her grand-mère's farm. She liked the way the artist spoke to her as an equal. She assumed this was because he knew nothing of her mother's reputation.

Monsieur Millet sketched Berthe endlessly. Milking Céleste, churning the butter, carrying water from the well, herding the geese to the river, and resting against a haystack during the heat of the day. He even came by one evening to sketch her while she did her mending by lamplight. She missed him when he wasn't drawing her.

Her grand-mère, who didn't like Berthe to spend two minutes alone with Renard, had absolutely no problem with the fact that she spent many hours each day with Monsieur Millet. The fact that he was paying her handsomely for Berthe's time certainly helped overcome any objections she might have had. And then there was the man himself. Her grand-mère was not immune to his dark good looks and his considerable charm. Making the acquaintance of Monsieur Millet had somehow changed Madame Bovary's opinion of art in general. Every morning when he arrived at the farm she would engage him in conversation.

“Ah, Monsieur Millet, how goes the painting?” she said, straightening her apron with one hand while she smoothed away the stray ends of her hair with the other.

“It goes well, madame,” he replied each time, not bothering to explain to her that he was sketching, not painting.

“And Berthe, she is behaving herself?”

“She is the perfect model,” he responded.

“You let me know if she gives you any trouble. She has a temper, that one. She gets it from her mother.”

“I can always take a stick to her,” Monsieur Millet said, with a wink in Berthe's direction.

Her grand-mère didn't appear to know if he was joking or not. Fortunately, she let the matter of Berthe's behavior drop.

“If you ever need a more womanly figure to pose for you, I might be persuaded,” her grand-mère said coyly.

“Thank you, Madame Bovary, I may well ask you to do just that.”

Grand-mère Bovary smiled happily.

A few weeks later Monsieur Millet made good his word to Berthe's grand-mère. He arrived early one morning and stood in the kitchen doorway. Berthe was throwing grain into the courtyard for the chickens and geese. It was already quite hot. Mist rose from the fields. The smell of hay and pigs and apples all mixed together in the wet morning air.

“Madame Bovary, I want to avail myself of your generous offer,” he said to her grand-mère.

“You need only say the word, Monsieur Millet.” Berthe hated the idea of her grand-mère taking her place as Monsieur Millet's model. She kicked at the dirt with her heavy clog. The chickens and geese scattered in alarm.

“I need two more figures for a drawing I am working on. Perhaps you and your friend Madame Leaumont would accommodate me?” Berthe threw down the empty feed bucket. Her grand-mère was too taken with Monsieur Millet to notice this show of temper.

“I cannot speak for Madame Leaumont, but I'm sure she will consent. And I myself would be honored. What should we wear?” she asked, tilting her head in an almost coquettish manner.

“Just wear your plainest, most comfortable clothes,” he answered. “You will speak to Madame Leaumont for me?” He picked up his drawing materials.

“Of course.”

“Shall we say the day after tomorrow?” He tipped the brim of his straw hat.

“As you wish, monsieur,” she said, making a small curtsy.

Two days later Berthe's grand-mère and Madame Leaumont stood in the farmyard awaiting the arrival of Monsieur Millet. They were dressed in their very finest clothing. Madame Leaumont wore a blue satin dress with a lavish bow-trimmed bodice, and a matching bonnet trimmed in black velvet with a jaunty black plume affixed to the side. Berthe's grand-mère was wearing what looked to be a crimson ball gown. It had a huge hoopskirt decorated with jet beads and scallops of black lace. The bodice was so tight she seemed to have difficulty taking a deep breath. Instead of a hat she wore a feather headdress with a curled upsweep. She had donned black lace gloves, and kept her skirts slightly lifted to avoid the manure and soiled hay that covered the ground. Where in the world had they acquired these gowns? Berthe wondered.

“Berthe, fetch a broom and clean this up,” her grand-mère said, indicating the area where she stood.

Berthe opened her mouth to say something but thought better of it. What was she going to say? This was her grand-mère's house, her grand-mère's world for that matter. And now she was stealing her granddaughter's only pleasure.

“Isn't this exciting?” enthused Madame Leaumont. “We're going to be in a famous painting.”

When Berthe returned with the broom, Monsieur Millet was standing by the front gate shaking his head and laughing.

“Oh, my dear ladies, this will never do. No, I'm afraid it won't do at all.”

“What's the matter?” demanded Berthe's grand-mère. “This is my very best frock.”

“Exactly the problem,” he said. “I said to wear something plain and comfortable. You hardly look comfortable, my dear lady. Although I must say, you both look extremely elegant. Far too elegant to appear in my humble sketches.”

“But we are to be painted, are we not?” protested Madame Bovary.

“First the sketch, then the painting,” explained the great artist. “If you please, go and change into the plainest dresses you own, and, Berthe, if you will, fetch some soiled linens and washing paddles.”

Berthe fought hard to keep the smile off her face. Monsieur Millet, in his constant quest to capture the hardworking countryside, was about to sketch laundry day. She expected her grand-mère to refuse to change, and was surprised and more than a little disappointed to see that she was going to comply with the artist's request.

Madame Leaumont borrowed an old dress from her friend and both of them changed and dutifully followed Monsieur Millet down to the river. He carried the washing paddles and his bag of art supplies. Berthe came after, carrying a huge basket of laundry.

She could see that her grand-mère was already beginning to worry about what the “modeling” entailed. Madame Leaumont, being of cheerful nature, just followed along, happy to be included in this new adventure. When they reached the edge of the river Berthe dropped the heavy basket of laundry.

“Good, good. Now, ladies, if you will please do the laundry while I capture your noble exertions for all time.”

Grand-mère Bovary opened her mouth to protest and then closed it. His phrase “for all time” caught her imagination and she no doubt pictured herself hanging in the Louvre in Paris.

They made a glorious picture: the three of them laboring over the laundry in the river. Berthe's grand-mère was making a valiant effort of beating the sheets against a rock, her face red, her breathing labored, and sweat soaking the top of her homespun dress. Poor Madame Leaumont struggled to keep up. And Berthe had the most enjoyable hour since first arriving at her grand-mère's house.

After thirty minutes of scrubbing, washing, and rinsing, Berthe's grand-mère straightened, dropped a sheet into the water, and said, “I hope you have your sketch, Monsieur Millet. Come, Claudine.” She turned to Madame Leaumont. “That is enough of this … this … art.” Leaving the wet laundry, the two women climbed the slope to the house.

At supper that night Berthe's grand-mère was so furious she could hardly eat.

“Who in the world will want to buy a painting of women doing laundry in a river? I believe that Monsieur Millet must be slightly demented. If it weren't for the fee he is paying me for your time I would tell him to take his sketches and go elsewhere.”

“Why are you letting that old man follow you around?” Renard asked Berthe one morning as she poured Céleste's milk from the bucket into the copper jug. She lifted her chin and flung her gold braid over her shoulder as though it were a fine feather boa.

“I pose for him,” she said. “He is an artist and I am his model. Besides,” she added, “he's not that old.” She wiped the outside of the jug with the corner of her apron.

“He must be at least forty,” Renard said. He knocked a piece of loose shingle off the wall of the barn.

Berthe ignored him, hoisting the copper jug onto her shoulder and steadying it with the leather strap. Renard walked over to Céleste, draped his arm around the cow's neck, and whispered in her ear.

“Céleste, can you tell me why she likes an old man better than me?”

“Don't talk to him, Céleste. He's a stupid boy.” Renard laughed. He pulled a piece of straw from Céleste's bundle and, walking behind Berthe, tickled her neck with it. She brushed it away with her free hand, taking care not to dislodge the milk jug.

“If I were an artist I would paint grand ladies. I wouldn't follow a poor farm wench around while she does her stupid chores,” he said. His smile had disappeared.

“You don't know anything about it,” she said, narrowing her eyes. She liked that he seemed jealous. It made her happy.

“He's not interested in you as a model. He wants something else,” said Renard, staring at her intently.

“What are you talking about?” She turned quickly and some of the milk sloshed onto her arm. “It's art, and you're too ignorant to understand.” She pursed her lips in a show of disdain.

“You're the ignorant one. Ignorant and ugly.”

She was stung by his words. They were friends—why was Renard being so cruel?

Holding back tears, she turned and stomped out of the barn without another word. She didn't want to show him that he could so easily hurt her. The happiness she had felt only moments before had vanished.

C
HAPTER
5
Homespun

R
ENARD WAS SPREADING MANURE OVER HER GRAND-MÈRE'S SMALL
vegetable garden when Berthe and Monsieur Millet returned from an early morning sketching session. Berthe was still smarting from Renard's cruel comments of the day before.

She had so wanted him to like her, to be her friend. But she had let down her guard and he had taken advantage of it. Suddenly she had an idea. She would show Renard just who was ignorant and ugly. She pulled the artist aside and whispered in his ear.

“Monsieur Millet, wouldn't Renard make a wonderful subject for you?” She knew that Millet loved the humble farmer, and who looked more humble at that moment than Renard, ankle deep in cow dung?

“Brilliant,” said Millet. He set down his stool and bag of art materials and, being careful not to step in the manure, approached the working boy.

“Excuse me, young man,” he said, wiping his brow with his
handkerchief. Renard pretended not to hear him and continued working his rake.

“A moment of your time, kind sir,” the artist said.

Renard looked up, scowling.

“What is it?”

“Will you allow me to sketch you?” The artist pulled at his beard, waiting for a reply. Berthe turned away so that Renard would not see her smiling. She knew he was about to become Monsieur Millet's next model.
Oh, how he will hate that
. “I will be happy to pay you for your time. All you have to do is continue what you're doing.”

“You want to draw me shoveling
merde
?” Renard said.

Monsieur Millet nodded. To Berthe's great disappointment, instead of being offended Renard threw back his head and laughed long and loud.

It was a beautiful drawing. Monsieur Millet captured Renard's strong body leaning against a pitchfork as he seemingly dreamed the day away. In the background, the artist sketched just the barest indication of sapling trees and two bowed figures turning over the soil to work in the manure. The drawing had such a feeling of reality that Berthe could almost imagine one of the figures yelling,
Renard, stop your dreaming and get back to work
.

BOOK: Madame Bovary's Daughter
3.18Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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