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you,” he explained.
    â€œTo draw me?” she asked, pulling her feet out of the water and quickly yanking down her skirt so that it covered her wet legs.
    â€œYou and your beautiful cow. What is her name?”
    â€œHer name is Céleste.” For some reason the fact that he wanted to draw Céleste as well as her made her laugh. She liked that he thought Céleste was beautiful.
    â€œAllow me to introduce myself. My name is Jean-François Millet. I am an artist,” he said, extending his hand. She stood and shyly offered hers in return. His hand was huge and strong. It felt as if it was capable of crushing walnuts, but he held her hand as gently as if it were a newly hatched bird.
    â€œI am hopeful your grand-mère will consent to have you and Céleste pose for me. What, may I ask, is your name?”
    â€œMy name is Berthe Bovary,” she said. “What do you mean, pose?”
    â€œI will sketch you for a painting that I will complete later.”
    A drawing, a painting, an artist. It all sounded very exciting.
    â€œI don’t think my grand-mère will consent. She doesn’t believe in art. She says it’s a waste of time.” Berthe sighed.
    Monsieur Millet laughed. He had a wonderful laugh that came from deep inside his chest. Just hearing it made her smile.
    â€œShe may very well have a point. But come, show me to her house. Perhaps I can convince her to let me steal you away for a few hours even if it is all a waste of time.”
    â€œI’m sorry. She would never allow it. She would probably beat me for even talking to you.”
    Berthe picked up Céleste’s wet lead rope and pulled her away from the water and up the grassy slope. Once on higher ground she quickly glanced back at the artist, giving him a shy smile before hurrying away.
    Madame Leaumont came bursting in the next day with exciting news.
    â€œThere is a famous artist who is painting our countryside,” she said, her gray hair spilling out of her bonnet. Her pitted cheeks were flushed with the exertion of walking quickly up the road. “A famous artist. Here! Isn’t it thrilling?”
    Berthe felt a rush of anticipation, wondering if this was the man she’d met yesterday. Perhaps she would get a chance to watch him paint. She remembered how her mother had returned from one of her many trips to Rouen and had been filled with chatter about art. She had shown Berthe a miniature copy of a painting by an artist named Ingres. It was called
Une Odalisque
.
    â€œI have been told that this painting resembles me. Isn’t that absurd?” her mother had said, studying the painting.
    Berthe looked at the small painting. It was of a pale naked woman whose back was turned to the viewer. Berthe didn’t think it resembled her mother at all.
    â€œArtists are people of great passion and vision,” her mother continued. “My friend, Monsieur Léon, has the soul of an artist even though he is just a clerk.”
    â€œDoes this painting belong to him?” Berthe asked.
    â€œOnly the truly wealthy can afford to have great art on theirwalls. Monsieur Léon can barely afford curtains,” her mother said with a laugh.
    â€œBut, Maman, we have paintings,” Berthe said.
    â€œYou silly girl, those are only poor, pitiful copies,” said her mother.
    â€œAnd who is this famous artist?” Grand-mère Bovary asked. She was sitting at the kitchen table repolishing the silver that Berthe had just polished that morning.
    â€œMonsieur Jean-François Millet.”
    â€œI’ve never heard of him,” Grand-mère said, as if she carried a list of famous artists in her head.
    â€œOh my, yes. He’s very celebrated. His paintings sell for thousands,” enthused Madame Leaumont, clearly happy to have one over on her friend. Berthe kept scrubbing the same spot on the floor over and over. She didn’t want to miss a word. “But,”