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

Madame Leaumont continued, “the curious thing is what he is painting.”
    â€œAnd what is that?” Grand-mère Bovary asked, showing as much disinterest as she could and still keep the conversation going.
    â€œOh, odd things like peasants cutting hay and sowing seeds, and taking naps in the field. He even did a drawing of René Laforge’s old horse spreading manure.”
    â€œI never heard of anything so ridiculous.” Grand-mère Bovary threw down her polishing rag.
    â€œAnd René said that the artist has paid him handsomely for his time,” Madame Leaumont said, picking up the cake cover to see if there was anything to nibble on.
    â€œIf he’s so important what is he doing painting peasants and old horses? Why isn’t he in Paris painting with the other famous painters?”
    Madame Leaumont had no answer.
    â€œWhat a waste of time! Art is for the rich and they are welcome to it,” Grand-mère Bovary said, swiping at a fly with her dish towel. And then as if noticing Berthe for the first time, she said, “Don’t just stand there; get Madame Leaumont something to drink. She must be thirsty after her long walk.”
    â€œOh, I’m not thirsty,” responded Madame Leaumont. “But if you have a bit of cheese and bread, I’ve eaten nothing since early morning.” She patted her round belly as if it were a favorite pet.
    â€œWhen you’re done fetching Madame Leaumont something to eat you might want to take notice of the dust in my bedroom. It is so thick that I woke up in the middle of the night half choking to death,” instructed Berthe’s grand-mère.
    Why stop at half?
Berthe gave a deep sigh and picked up her dust rag. She wished she hadn’t even heard about the artist and his great paintings. It was just a reminder of how drab and dull her life was as the days stretched out before her in gray dust.
    As she was sweeping the courtyard the next morning, the geese kept getting in the way and Berthe grew frustrated with having to sweep around them.
    â€œGo away, you silly birds,” she said, brandishing her broom.
    â€œBut I have just arrived, mademoiselle.” She looked up. Monsieur Millet had appeared out of nowhere. She blushed and straightened the kerchief on her head.
    â€œOh, monsieur, I didn’t expect you.” For a big man, he was very quiet.
    â€œMay I help myself to some water? The day is already quite hot.”
    â€œOh, yes, by all means,” she said, handing him the well dipper. He leaned over the well, which stood in the center of the courtyard, and inhaled deeply. “Ah, the smell of good clean country water.”
    Through an open window Berthe could see her grand-mère sitting at the kitchen table tallying figures in her accounting ledger. She hated to be disturbed when she was doing her books, as she called it. Berthe went to the window and cleared her throat.
    â€œI’m busy,” the old woman said without looking up.
    â€œGrand-mère, Monsieur Millet is here to make your acquaintance,” Berthe said, twisting the broom handle.
    â€œAnd why should I care?” she said, still not looking up.
    â€œMonsieur Millet is the famous painter that Madame Leaumont spoke of.”
    Madame Bovary put down her pen. Berthe could see that despite herself she was impressed, art or no art.
    â€œWell, don’t leave him out there to melt in the hot sun. Show him in.”
    â€œAh, already we are making progress,” Monsieur Millet said. He smiled, touched her on the shoulder, and then followed her into the house.
    â€œAnd what may I do for you, monsieur?” her grand-mère said after Berthe had introduced them.
    Monsieur Millet took off his hat and held it in his hands. He may have been a famous artist but Berthe could see he was quite skilled in handling women like her grand-mère.
    â€œI would like your permission to sketch your granddaughter and her