Madame Bovary's Daughter by Linda Urbach Read Free Book Online Page A

source of warmth.
    â€œLucky to sleep three to a bed? Lucky that my father is so poor I have to work on four different farms in order to earn my keep? Lucky if I get a decent supper by the time I return home at night because they have eaten what little there is?”
    â€œI’m sorry,” she murmured. She reached out and touched his arm and then withdrew her hand quickly.
    He kicked at the dirt once again, his face red.
    â€œWhy should you be sorry? It’s not your fault.” He hitched up his pants, grabbed his pitchfork, and walked toward the fields. This time, he didn’t look back.
    She thought of Renard going hungry at the end of a hard day’s work, and that night when she had finished scrubbing the kitchen she took some food from her grand-mère’s pantry to give to him. The old woman frequently traded her cheeses for delicacies from other farms. Her pantry was filled with all manner of good things: smoked hams hanging from hooks, jars of strawberry preserves, tiny cornichons, and boiled sweets lining the shelves. Food was something they had more than enough of. Berthe reasoned her grand-mère would never miss what she took.
    Berthe had stolen only one thing as a child. She had coveted many things that had belonged to her mother: a single silver hair comb, an embroidered handkerchief, a velvet ribbon, a cut-glass rouge jar. From time to time, she would “borrow” these small treasures, play with them, and return them before her mother was any the wiser. Until the paisley shawl.
    Monsieur Lheureux, the draper, seemed to become more and more of an enticing presence to her mother. One day, whenBerthe was around six years old, he brought a dozen of his finest silk shawls for Madame Bovary to choose from.
    â€œThey come from around the world,” he said, laying them out on her mother’s bed. “Some all the way from China. Look at the patterns: Are they not exquisite? Choose one. Choose two.”
    â€œI have no use for such a thing,” Emma Bovary said, pretending disinterest as she fingered the one nearest her.
    â€œIt is not a question of use,” said Monsieur Lheureux, “it’s a matter of obligation. You owe it to yourself to have one of these. They are too beautiful to sit hidden away in a dark drawer in my shop.”
    Her mother spent the whole week narrowing down her selection. One afternoon she spread the shawls over the settee and turned to Berthe, who was sitting on the floor practicing her needlework. “Pick one. The prettiest,” she said. Her mother had never asked her opinion before.
    Berthe chose a shawl of the palest peach, with an intricate design of delicate blue and green leaves. Seeing which one her daughter preferred, Emma Bovary chose another, a deep red and purple paisley that she wore for a day over her cashmere dressing gown.
    Some months later Berthe found the shawl on the bottom of her mother’s wardrobe and took it for herself. She hid the shawl underneath her mattress. Félicité found it later while turning the bed.
    â€œAnd what is this, pray tell?” Félicité asked, holding it in front of Berthe’s face.
    â€œIt’s mine,” Berthe said, reaching up to pull it away from her.
    â€œOh, we shall see.”
    Moments later, her mother swept into the room.
    â€œI’ve been looking everywhere for this,” she said. “Whatwonderful news. My daughter is turning into a thief. As if I don’t have enough to deal with.” She thrust the shawl in Berthe’s face. “Here, if you want it so badly, you may have it.”
    Berthe took the shawl and laid it on top of her pillow. She loved having something of her mother’s to sleep with every night. But one day the shawl disappeared. And as her mother sold off her belongings one by one, Berthe never saw it again.
    The following afternoon when Renard was about to leave, Berthe motioned him into the barn.
    â€œI have