Madame Bovary's Daughter Read online

  Before she could stop herself, Berthe kicked at the corner of her mother’s casket so hard she felt a sharp flash of pain from her foot all the way up to her head. And then the tears came. Hot, angry tears.

  “Berthe, shame!” exclaimed Madame Homais.

  Her head began to pound and she gasped for breath. For a moment everything went dark and she thought, I must be dying, too. I’m only twelve years old and I’m dying. But she wasn’t. She was alive and alone. She missed her parents terribly, for despite themselves they had been the center of her universe.

  “Why are you staring at me?” her mother would say as Berthe watched her brush her long black hair. “Go out and play.”

  “I have no one to play with, Maman.” It was true. Even though the Homais children allowed Berthe to tag along with them they never really included her in their secret games.

  “Please, find something to amuse yourself. You’re big enough to do that.”

  The days were all the same. Her mother would read in the morning, visit the town square, the shops, and the market in the afternoon, and continue reading until dinner. Most days when her mother went out Berthe would stay home and study her reading and writing with Félicité, or sit in front of the fire and sew. She would spend hours looking out the window, waiting for her father to return from his long days of visiting patients. But when he finally came home he was too tired to even speak to her.

  Berthe stumbled forward and caught herself against the wall of the mausoleum. The cold marble was slick with dampness.

  “Are you all right?” Monsieur Homais asked, grabbing her arm.

  “Of course she’s not all right. She’s an orphan. She’s lost everything,” said Madame Homais.

  “Shhh,” he said to his wife.

  “Mon Dieu, it’s not as if she doesn’t know.”

  Berthe wished she had died first, a painless but pitiful death. She pictured her own funeral. So young, so sad. She imagined her parents sobbing, clinging to each other in their grief. Our only daughter. Gone. If only we could have a second chance to show her how much we adored her. This is God’s punishment for a life of selfishness. Oh, Berthe, our beloved baby girl. And in this, her funeral fantasy, she would rise up from her coffin (exquisite but practical mahogany with solid gold fittings) and her parents would cry with joy and gratitude and vow never again to take their precious daughter for granted. And Berthe would forgive them everything.

  Leaving the cemetery with the Homaises, Berthe looked up at the evening sky. Here she was the mourner, not the mourned. And because there was no one to cry for her, the tears she shed were for herself.

  Monsieur Homais was a small, squat man who was many inches shorter than his wife. He had a trim little mustache, which he continually twirled into two fine points. He was forever imparting information that no one but he was interested in, on every imaginable topic. On and on he would lecture about the effect of spinach on one’s bowels, or the correct temperature at which to soak one’s feet in order to reduce the pain of gout. Madame Homais listened to him without listening. Monsieur Homais was the master of the house, but it was Madame Homais who ruled the roost. An enormous woman with a bosom so vast it seemed as if she might tip forward from the weight of it, she smothered her family with kisses and hugs and cuffed them about whenever they even thought of disobeying her. She was the mother Berthe always wanted and theirs was the family she longed to be part of. But it was not to be. Apparently, it had all been decided. She was to live with her grand-mère Bovary.

  “But why? Why can’t I live with you?” She wrapped her arms around Madame Homais’s ample hips as if she were about to be swept away by some unseen force. Her eyes flooded with tears and her nose began to run in sympathy.

  “Dear child, she’s your grand-mère,” said Madame Homais, wiping Berthe’s face with her vast white apron. “You must go to her.”

  “She has a farm. Just think of all the fruits and vegetables, the fresh milk and cheese. How healthy you will be,” said Homais, rubbing his stomach as if to demonstrate the good meals she would receive, which to him was equivalent to a perfect life.

  “I hate fruits and I hate vegetables. And I hate cheese,” she said, more tears spilling onto her hot cheeks.

  “She has no one to keep her company in her old age. You are her one and only granddaughter. She loves you with all her heart,” chimed in Madame Homais.

  Who were they talking about? Berthe wondered. Her grand-mère was a woman who did not gladly suffer people, most especially granddaughters. In the few visits she had made to her son’s house she had said precious little to Berthe except to ask the same pointed questions:

  “Are you doing well at your studies?”

  “Do you say your catechism faithfully every day?”

  “Do you remember to push back your cuticles?”

  It seemed to Berthe that in her grand-mère’s view of the world, catechism and cuticles carried the same import. The pain of a torn cuticle seemed equivalent to burning in hell.

  “Your mother truly detests the idea of being a grand-mère,” Berthe once heard Emma Bovary say to her husband. “She likes to think of herself only as your mother.”

  It was true. Berthe’s grand-mère treated her son as if he were still a young boy.

  “Charles, comb your hair. You look like a derelict,” she would say.

  “Yes, Maman,” he answered, as if he were ten years old.

  “Don’t make such noises with your soup,” she would scold him at the table.

  “Sorry, Maman,” he would reply.

  The idea of living with this cold, critical woman filled Berthe with dread.

  “Oh, please,” she begged Madame Homais, “let me stay with you. I won’t be any trouble.”

  “Dear child.” She laughed. “Where would I put you?” She gestured helplessly around the cluttered family room where indeed there were already two narrow beds set up for the youngest Homaises. The two bedrooms upstairs had long ago overflowed into the downstairs living quarters.

  “Perhaps we could make her a bed on the roof,” joked Monsieur, dunking a piece of bread into his morning bowl of café au lait. “Sleeping outdoors can be very good for one’s health. The fresh air is particularly beneficial for young developing lungs.”

  “Don’t tease the poor child. Can’t you see she is serious?”

  “Please,” Berthe renewed her entreaties. “Please, I’ll work for my keep. I’ll help Madame Homais in the kitchen. I’ll mix medicine for Monsieur’s customers. I’ll watch the babies.”

  “It’s just not possible, chérie,” Madame Homais said.

  Berthe grew quiet. She vowed never to beg for anything again. Not if she could help it. It hurt too much to be refused.

  “The house is going to be sold,” said Madame Homais. “You had better take one last look and make sure there’s nothing that’s been missed.” Berthe had no desire to revisit the home she’d grown up in, but she did as Madame Homais instructed. It was empty of everything. Every chair, every cushion, every painting, even the curtains had all been taken away by her father’s creditors. The only things that were left were the pallets she and her father had slept on. How sad the small house looked. How sad and how poor. Only the outlines of furniture in the dust on the floor gave evidence to the fact that anyone had ever lived here. And yet this house had been her whole life. It was through these small paned windows that she first made sense of the world. It was on the worn wooden steps that led upstairs where she learned to walk, holding on to the railing, taking one step at a time. Her tiny room had been a haven from her mother’s moods and her father’s distance.

  And how she had loved the kitchen where Félicité had created the most delicious aromas out of nothing more than a dollop of butter, mushrooms, and onions. Berthe inhaled deeply. The only smell now was that of dust and something else: mouse droppings. The mice had taken over the house.

  Well, let the mice have it. Let the creditors fight over the crumbs. One day she would hav
e her own home, a beautiful house with sparkling windows, a huge kitchen hearth that never went cold, and a marble staircase that led to a ballroom big enough for fifty waltzing couples. She would fill the mansion with brocade couches and satin cushions, and paintings in real gold frames. She would have armoires … no, entire rooms filled with gowns made of the costliest fabrics. Satins and silks, velvets and chiffons. And she would have a long sloping lawn and flowered gardens. And acres of meadows with many, many horses so that she could choose a different one to ride each day of the month. She would build a high wall around the house with a big iron gate fitted with a lock so that no one would be able to get in unless she wanted them to. And no one could ever take her house away from her. Ever.

  She suddenly stopped and yanked hard at her single braid as if to chastise herself. She had been infected with the same delusional thinking as her mother. It was all those books, and that poetry; her mother’s often repeated story of the grand ball at Vaubyessard. I won’t fall into the same trap. I won’t. She would monitor herself very carefully. Whatever she gained in life, horses or houses or beautiful gowns, they would all be real. Most important of all, she would have what her mother never had: the love of someone she loved in return.

  She slowly pushed open the door to her mother’s bedroom. She always thought of it as belonging only to her mother even though her father certainly shared it. The small space had been crowded with all her mother’s favorite things. A four-poster bed made of silken rosewood, a heavy damask bedspread, a matching rosewood dressing table, a blue and red Oriental rug, a velvet-covered chaise longue, and a freestanding gilt-framed mirror. With everything gone, the room seemed even smaller. She opened the wall cupboard not expecting to find anything. There, on the very top shelf, was a page torn from one of her mother’s fashion books. It was an illustration of a woman in a ball gown. Berthe read the description at the bottom.

  An evening dress of white tulle, trimmed with twelve narrow tulle flounces edged with rows of tiny crimson roses and garnished with crystals to replicate dewdrops. A tunic of spotted tulle is trimmed with a broader velvet, a long wreath of velvet roses, verdant leaves, and crystals. The sleeves are trimmed to correspond with the skirt. The hair is in Grecian braids. Note the wreath is of velvet leaves with festoons of crystals to match the skirt.

  Berthe’s chest felt tight as she gazed at the gown in the picture. It was the most beautiful dress she had ever seen: one that would diminish an entire ballroom full of gowns. Why had this one piece of paper been the only thing left behind? Was it just to serve as a reminder of her mother’s lavish, foolish tastes? Had Madame Bovary actually been planning on ordering this dress to be made? And if so, where was she going to wear it? In front of the long mirror in her bedroom? Walking the narrow streets of Yonville, infuriating the residents even more? Perhaps this was the dress in which she wanted to be buried. Berthe choked down a sob. This gown represented all the beauty her mother had ever yearned for. Taking the picture, she carefully folded it in half and placed it in her apron pocket.

  It took only two weeks for the house to sell. After all her father’s debts were paid, including the one to Monsieur Homais, who seemed both relieved and surprised, Berthe received a total of twelve francs and seventy-five centimes. Not enough to live on, but more than enough to send her off to what she thought of as a fate worse than death: life with grand-mère Bovary.

  She waited with Madame Homais for the morning coach. She had no idea what lay in store for her. She had lived her entire life in one house, in one small town, with the same two people. And now she was moving to a whole new place. She felt as if she were falling off the edge of the earth and there was no one and nothing to catch her. She wanted to cry, but crying seemed a feeble reaction to falling into an abyss. Screaming would have been more appropriate. But Berthe was not one to make a scene. That was more her mother’s domain.

  CHAPTER 2

  Her Grand-mère’s House

  AS THE COACH TOOK BERTHE FARTHER AND FARTHER AWAY FROM Yonville, the fields became bigger and the houses fewer and farther apart. The road grew quite rough. She had to sit forward on the leather seat so that her head didn’t bump against the wall of the coach.

  There was only one other passenger in the coach that day: an elderly gentleman who was so fat he took up the entire seat across from her. His vest was unbuttoned and his dusty black coat barely fit around him. He began eating his lunch as soon as the horses started up. He chewed on thick slices of garlic sausage and cheese, washing them down with long swigs from a bottle of wine. Madame Homais had packed a lunch for Berthe but she had no appetite.

  “You are very young to be traveling alone.” Each word he uttered carried with it the strong smell of garlic. “And very pretty,” he added.

  He belched loudly, closed his eyes, and fell into a deep, rumbling sleep. After a few minutes, Berthe felt his knee press against hers. She moved away. He continued to sleep but his outstretched leg kept moving closer and closer until she was squeezed as far into the corner of the coach as she could get. Finally, she lifted the heel of her shoe and stomped it down hard on his foot. He snorted awake, looked around as if trying to remember where he was, closed his eyes, and promptly fell asleep again. She gazed out the coach window in order to avoid looking at him.

  Just because I’m alone doesn’t mean I’m afraid. If you try to touch me I’ll bite through your big fat hand. But she was afraid. She was trapped in a small carriage with a big greasy sausage of a man, and if he made another move toward her she wasn’t quite sure what she would do.

  It was early June and the sun was high in the sky. She saw peasants walking along the side of the road carrying farm tools on their way to or from work in the fields. Herds of brown and white Normandy cows grazed on the sweet spring grass. Small birds darted between the cows’ legs, feeding on stray seeds. Everything seemed so simple and serene. She began to relax and forget her fears. She felt cheered by the beautiful countryside. She was, by nature, an optimistic child, who was greatly influenced by the physical world around her. As a little girl she would sit on the edge of the bottom stone step in front of her house and study the clouds. Closing her eyes and lifting her face to the sun’s warmth, she savored every small shift in the breezes that blew in from the nearby Rieule.

  Peering out at the pink-edged clouds now she felt, if not happy, at least hopeful. And that small bit of hope lifted her spirits and gave her a new energy.

  She thought about her grand-mère. She must be very sad losing her only son. But at least she has me. She began to imagine a new relationship with the old woman. The cold, critical woman disappeared and in her place appeared a loving grand-mère thankful for a second chance to show her granddaughter that she was capable of affection. They would start fresh and learn to love each other. After all, it was just the two of them left in the world. Madame Homais was right. All they had was each other. Her grand-mère would make up for all the love and attention Berthe had never received from her own parents. Theirs would be a close and cherished relationship. She couldn’t wait for the old woman to throw her arms around her, perhaps even cry the tears that had been stored up for years. It was with these positive thoughts that she rode the rest of the way to her grand-mère’s house.

  Berthe half expected to see a run-down shack. On her infrequent visits to Yonville the elder Madame Bovary had pleaded desperate poverty. To hear her tell it she barely had enough to keep body and soul together. She always made a point of scolding her daughter-in-law for her wasteful ways.

  “Emma, my dear,” she said to Berthe’s mother one afternoon at tea, “do you really need to use so much sugar? These berries are sweet enough.”

  “Perhaps to your taste, Mother-in-law, but I find them quite sour,” Emma said with a tight smile.

  “How can that be? The berries I am eating come from the same patch as the ones you are eating.” The older woman popped another into her mouth as if to demonstrate its sweetness. “Mmm, like candy. Here, Berthe, h
ave a berry and tell your mother how wrong she is. She’s using expensive sugar when it’s not needed.” Berthe was always being put in the middle whenever her grand-mère tried to make a point. Of course, she knew where her loyalty lay. She ate the strawberry, made a face, and offered her humble opinion.

  “Oh, Grand-mère, it’s quite sour,” she said.

  “You and your mother will drive your father into the poorhouse,” the old woman retorted. “By the way, Emma, is that a new dress?” she asked sharply.

  “No, Mother-in-law,” the younger Madame Bovary lied, “I’ve had this for years. I just put new lace on the bodice.”

  Berthe thought if her grand-mère only knew how much time and money her mother spent shopping she wouldn’t quibble over a little sugar.

  “I myself have not had a new frock in over fifteen years.” Grand-mère Bovary sniffed. “I must make do with what I have. I am, after all, a poor widow.”

  So Berthe was quite surprised upon arriving at the poor widow’s house to discover a large, neat structure, built half in stone and half in timber like many of the houses in the region. The front was covered with crossbeams painted a pretty pale blue. A small barn sat some yards from the house. The barn and the house occupied a spacious courtyard, in the center of which was an old stone well. Everything looked clean and in excellent repair. Her grand-mère was waiting on the doorstep, her arms crossed as if Berthe was late. Her black hair was pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Her skin was very white and quite smooth for a woman her age. She studied her granddaughter with deep-set black eyes that never seemed to blink. The contrast between this, her real grand-mère, and the warm figure Berthe had begun to create in her mind was like a bad joke.