Madame Bovary's Daughter (16 page)

She was afraid to ask and afraid not to.

“I was wondering if in exchange for posing and helping Madame Millet around the house and with the children, I could perhaps come and live with you.”

“What a splendid proposition! I don't see why not, do you, Mother?” he said, smiling broadly. A frown brought Madame Millet's eyebrows together in one uninterrupted line.

“Are you mad? We already have nine mouths to feed,” she said, her arms folded across her chest.

“And what is one more?” the artist said, shrugging his shoulders.

“One more is ten, you idiot!” she snapped.

“Ah, what a clever woman I have! You see, Berthe, that is why she keeps the accounts and I just do the painting.” He laughed and leaned over to kiss his wife on the cheek. She merely scowled and moved away.

“And I had to marry an artist. To think, at the time I thought it was just a passing phase,” she said.

“You did not, you wicked woman,” he said, patting her on the bottom.

Madame Millet went over to the window and peered out. “Oh, Monsieur Boulanger is here!” As she hurried to greet him,
Berthe frantically searched the room for another way out. Her heart was beating as hard as if she were running a race. She had trouble catching her breath. There was only the one door. She moved into a dark corner of the room hoping Boulanger wouldn't see her.

“I don't like to have a canvas moved before it dries,” Millet said. “These art collectors are always in such a hurry to collect their art. As if it will spoil if they don't get it hung in time.” He had already lost interest in Berthe and her plight.

Boulanger entered and went immediately over to the easel. Berthe was relieved that he hadn't so much as glanced in her direction. Holding his chin, he stood and gazed for a long time at Millet's latest painting.

“I'm not completely happy with the sky,” said Millet, approaching the painting with an upraised paintbrush.

“Leave it,” said Boulanger. “It is perfect. My friend will be delighted, I assure you.”

“I just don't know,” said the artist, shaking his head and twirling the paintbrush in both his hands.

“It's one of the best paintings you've done,” countered Boulanger.

“Really?” said Millet, one eyebrow raised.

“You are a genius, Monsieur Millet,” said Boulanger, slapping the artist on the back.

“You are too kind, sir,” said Millet, smiling broadly.

As the two men studied the painting, Berthe inched toward the door. She wanted to avoid Boulanger at all costs. She was almost out of the room when Monsieur Millet seemed to remember her.

“Ah, Berthe, where are you going?” Berthe felt as if she had been caught stealing. All the air went out of her. Millet turned back to Boulanger. “Monsieur Boulanger, we seem to have a
problem on our hands. Perhaps you can be of assistance. It appears that Mademoiselle Bovary here has found herself in a difficult situation. As you may or may not know she has not only just lost her grand-mère but it seems her home as well. Unfortunately, as my dear wife points out,
chez
Millet is already bursting at the seams. But I had a thought,” he said, tapping his head as if to indicate the area in which his thought took place. “Is it possible that she could obtain room and board from you, in exchange for housework of some kind?” As Boulanger turned his hooded gaze toward her, Berthe felt a chill run through her entire body. He shook his head and smiled as if she were an errant child who had somehow managed to get herself into yet another fix.

“Why, what a splendid idea,” he said. “She would be most welcome. I'm sure my housekeeper can find some useful work for her.”

“How very generous you are, monsieur,” said Madame Millet, who had been hovering in the doorway. “She is a very lucky girl.”

“No!” Berthe said, louder than she meant to. She clamped her hand over her mouth.

“What?” Madame Millet exclaimed. “Where is your gratitude? Beggars can't be choosers.”

“I am not a beggar!” Berthe shouted.

“But, child, certainly there are worse things than living under Monsieur Boulanger's very gracious roof,” Millet said soothingly. “This is the perfect solution to your dilemma, is it not?”

“I think Mademoiselle Bovary is afraid of me for some reason.” Boulanger chuckled. “Rest easy, mademoiselle, I do not devour young girls.”

Without another word Berthe turned and fled.

“Come back, you ungrateful little wench!” she heard Madame Millet call after her.

As she walked quickly down the road that led from Millet's house, she heard the sound of a horse cantering behind her. She knew without turning around that it was Monsieur Boulanger. She took a deep breath and told herself not to panic, not to run, and not to act afraid.
He can't hurt you
, she said to herself, but she didn't believe a word of it. For of all the misfortunes that befell Emma Bovary, it was letting this man in her life that finally killed her in the end.

Boulanger trotted past her on the road, then stopped and turned the horse in front of her, blocking her way. She looked up, heart pounding. The sun was behind his head and she couldn't see his face. He dismounted quickly and grabbed her arm before she could get away.

“You are being very silly, mademoiselle. How do you imagine you are going to manage without a home?”

“Leave me alone,” she said, trying to pull away as he squeezed her arm tighter.

“You know I loved your mother very much,” he said, more kindly than she expected.

“Did you?” she asked, remembering the note in the basket of apricots, her mother's red eyes, and the months she spent suffering from her broken heart. “Then why did you leave her?”

“But, dear girl—” He laughed. “I fear you are too young to understand. She was a married woman with a family. A young daughter. It was impossible. Let us get back to the problem at hand. You have no place to go. I offer you my home with no strings attached. Don't be a ninny,” he said, bringing his face within inches of hers. Berthe kicked him hard in the shin, wrenched her arm out of his grasp, and ran into the thickest part of the woods.

“You foolish, foolish girl,” he shouted after her. “You're just like your mother.”

I am not just like her
, Berthe thought as she pushed her way through the thick branches.
I would never let you hurt me like you did her
.

She had run out of options. She could not go back to the Millets'. And she certainly didn't want to take the chance of ever running into Monsieur Boulanger again. The money Millet had given her for modeling was not enough to pay for room and board indefinitely. She realized suddenly that Millet had used her just like everyone else. He had gotten all the sketches he wanted out of her and she was left with nothing but one hundred francs.

As a last resort, she called upon her grand-mère's friend. She sat in a rickety chair in Madame Leaumont's dingy kitchen. The evening was growing cold and Madame Leaumont had put the last leg of a broken side table into the fire. Berthe drank weak tea from a chipped cup. This was the first time she had been to Madame Leaumont's house. She had never realized how impoverished she was.
However does this old woman survive?
Berthe had known the minute she entered the kindly woman's home that there would be no help forthcoming from this poor widow.

“Oh, dear, I would take you in if I could, my child,” the old woman said, “but I barely have enough to feed myself. Your grand-mère was always so generous with me, giving me milk and cheese whenever I needed it. I had no idea she was in such poor straits; otherwise, I would never have taken anything from her.”

The old woman hesitated and then tapped her chin with the tip of her crooked forefinger.

“There is someone. Your grand-mère has an older sister who lives in Lille. They had a falling-out and haven't spoken in years, but I'm sure she would welcome you. She is a Bovary, after all.”

Berthe packed her few things. With the money she had
earned from Millet she was able to pay for her transportation to the town of Lille, where her father's aunt, Charlotte Bovary, lived. It was a day's journey by train. She didn't bother to write her great-aunt that she was coming. She was, after all, Berthe's only recourse. Why write to ask for permission when she had no place else to go? she reasoned.

Following in the Bovary family tradition, Great-aunt Charlotte was living in a pauper's shack, having had a reversal of fortune many years before.

“You say my sister left you nothing? And her son, the great doctor? Nothing?” she asked only minutes after Berthe introduced herself. She was a woman in her seventies or eighties, almost bent double with age, and Berthe had difficulty seeing her face. She had to address her comments to the top of her great-aunt's white head.

“There was nothing to leave,” Berthe said. The old woman shook her head sadly. She seemed unsurprised. Berthe looked around the single dismal room and saw that there were three narrow beds lined up side by side, in addition to an old table and chairs. Berthe's great-aunt followed her gaze.

“My tenants,” she explained. “They pay me a paltry sum but it's what I live on.” She gave Berthe a cup of tea and apologized for having no milk or sugar to go with it.

“Unfortunately, as you can see, I am in no position to even offer you a bed.” She wrapped her thin, torn shawl tightly around her shoulders and tilted her head back to peer up at Berthe. Her eyes were sad and watery and the wrinkles on her face had wrinkles of their own.

First her mother, then her father, next her grand-mère and Madame Leaumont, and now this poor distant relative. Was there nowhere she could turn?

“I will find work,” Berthe said, with far more confidence than she felt.

“Ah, yes.” Her great-aunt brightened visibly. “There is plenty of work at the cotton mill. They are always looking for strong young girls. And they will give you a place to sleep and meals. I'm so sorry, my dear, that I cannot be of more help.”

“Don't worry, I'm sure I can find something,” said Berthe, a tremor in her voice. “I'll be fine.”

“I know you will be. And if you think of it, dear, you might send something extra to your old auntie from time to time.”

Berthe bit her lip, then she saw the expression on the old woman's face. She was actually looking at Berthe with a hopeful smile. She truly expected her to go out into the world and make a success of herself.

The old woman laid a wrinkled hand on Berthe's face and patted it gently. Suddenly, Berthe felt a surge of real confidence. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders.

She was thirteen years old, certainly old enough to make her own living. Now that she was on her own, maybe her life would get better. She knew it could not get any worse.

B
ERTHE WAS DIRECTED BY A STRANGER TO
R
APPELAIS ET
F
ILS
, which was situated next to the river at the very edge of town. The town itself seemed like a city compared to Yonville. The four- and five-story buildings were squeezed tightly next to one another as if huddled against the cold. There were no yards, no grass, not even the sign of any soil, just street after street of rectangular cobblestones. To see the sky, Berthe had to tilt her head and look up. People, dressed in warm clothes and good leather boots, hurried by as though they all had somewhere very important to go.

As she walked along the winding narrow streets she began to grow excited about her new life. It seemed fitting that she would end up working in a mill that made fabrics. She thought of her mother and how proud she might be to know her daughter could actually earn a living working with cotton, the soft material they both loved. Berthe knew she had a talent for sewing and needlework, and she had no doubt that the mill owners would recognize that and give her a job that fit her abilities. She didn't know how a mill operated but she assumed they would have a
need for a seamstress or an embroiderer or certainly someone with “an eye,” as Monsieur Millet had said. She tried to remind herself not to dream up things that hadn't yet happened, but she couldn't stop herself. This did seem like the whole new beginning of a much better life.

At the end of the street was a river, and sitting alongside it was an enormous brick building that appeared to Berthe to be as long as a train. Its many large windows were opaque and seemed to be coated on the inside with thick dirt. The entranceway to the mill led into an open courtyard. Draft horses stood waiting patiently by two wagons filled with bales of cotton.

“Excuse me,” Berthe said to a man who carried a huge bale of cotton on one shoulder, “I am looking for the
patron
. I am interested in acquiring a position,” she said in her best formal French.