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

something for you,” she said, handing him a jar of strawberry preserves and a cheese wrapped in muslin that she had hidden away in her apron.
    â€œYou don’t have to feed me,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I’m not starving.”
    â€œIt’s just a gift. From my grand-mère,” she added.
    He raised an eyebrow.
    â€œYour grand-mère would kill you if she knew,” he said seriously.
    â€œNot if I kill her first,” she declared. He laughed.
    â€œYou talk like a hooligan.”
    â€œYou would know how a hooligan talks,” she said. He pulled at her hat strings and she hit him lightly on the arm. Suddenly all her shyness was gone. He took the preserves and cheese and gave her a smile so wide it caused his blue eyes to sparkle with pleasure.
    She continued to take small items from the pantry, one or two at a time. Renard accepted them willingly. She felt certain he enjoyed the idea that they were putting one over on her grand-mère even more than the treats. But one day Grand-mère Bovary grabbed Berthe as she was going out to the barn to do her morningmilking. She reached into Berthe’s apron pocket and pulled out a piece of pâté wrapped in cloth.
    â€œWhere are you taking this?” she demanded.
    â€œIt’s for my lunch, Grand-mère.”
    â€œPâté for your lunch? Who do you think you are, Marie Antoinette? Stealing food right under my nose. I should have known. A thief! Like mother like daughter. If your mother could have taken the food from your poor father’s mouth, I have no doubt she would have. Oh, there was no end to that woman’s avarice. She stole everything from him. His pride, his ambition, his reputation. Yes, even his life. Thank heavens, he had no gold teeth, she would have yanked them out of his head.” She dragged Berthe by the arm into the pantry. “Everything that you see here I have saved and scrimped and worked for.” She slammed the wrapped pâté down on the shelf. “You think pâté and cornichons and fresh eggs grow on trees? You think you are entitled to more, more, more?”
    Berthe shook her head, clutching her apron tightly.
    â€œAre you your mother’s daughter? Are you?” Berthe didn’t know how to answer the question. She nodded. “No, you are not. Not anymore. From now on you are your grand-mère’s charge and you will act accordingly.”
    â€œYes, Grand-mère.” Berthe felt tears well up in her eyes.
    â€œYour mother’s father spoiled her terribly. I have no doubt that was where she learned her wastrel ways. I only pray to God that it’s not too late for you.
    â€œMy son Charles just wanted to be a good doctor and lead a simple life. He spent so much money on your mother that first year. Moving from one town to another because she was bored. Buying new curtains and furniture when there was perfectly good furniture in the house already. And the hats and dresses.And the gloves. How many pairs of gloves does one woman need? Oh, it makes me want to cry when I think of the waste,” she said.
    Berthe realized her grand-mère was right. She remembered all the expensive things her mother had purchased from Monsieur Lheureux when they could barely pay the mortgage. And her poor father. How hard he had tried to provide for his beautiful wife. The long hours he worked, the many miles he traveled, and for what? The few francs he managed to scrape together were nothing compared to the enormous debt his wife had incurred.
    And then the awful day when the men came to collect the furniture. Berthe had been awakened by the sound of a crowd in the square. She looked out the window. A group of people had gathered around a large yellow notice nailed on to one of the posts. She saw Félicité rip the notice off the post, stuff it in her bodice, and run back toward the house. Berthe hurried down into the kitchen, where she found