Free Madame Bovary's Daughter by Linda Urbach

cow,” he said in a soft voice.
    â€œThe cow is mine,” Madame Bovary said, obviously not wanting to miss a chance to claim ownership. “And Berthe has many chores and responsibilities. She has no time to pose for pictures.”
    â€œI will gladly pay you for her time,” Monsieur Millet said, winking at Berthe. She smiled and ducked her head. It was as if they had a special secret between them. Although she wasn’t quite sure what it was.
    â€œOh? And how much will you pay?” asked her grand-mère, her voice rising a notch.
    â€œWould three francs a day be acceptable?”
    â€œThat’s six days a week?” Madame Bovary asked, taking up her pen to calculate. Monsieur Millet nodded. “That comes to eighteen francs a week. But it is quite absurd. Why would you want to paint her? She is just a peasant girl.” Berthe felt as if she had just been slapped. Her cheeks grew hot.
    â€œThat’s exactly why,” explained Monsieur Millet. “Peasants are what I paint.”
    â€œAnd you sell these paintings, monsieur?” Grand-mère Bovary asked, not bothering to conceal her skepticism.
    â€œYes, thankfully. Although, to be honest, my formal portraits have been more in demand. But my great passion is the countryside and the people who toil here.”
    â€œWell, Berthe must finish her chores before she does any posing for you,” the old woman said, narrowing her eyes at Berthe.
    â€œOh, I will not interrupt her chores. In fact, that’s what I want to capture: Berthe doing her usual work around the farm. Here,” he said, taking a money pouch out of his vest pocket, “let me pay in advance.”
    â€œLeave us, Berthe,” her grand-mère ordered. An unusual smile brightened Madame Bovary’s face.
    Berthe returned to her chores. She was sure that as soon as she left, her grand-mère would try and bargain with Monsieur Millet and he would change his mind about painting her.
    A short time later, Monsieur Millet came out of the cottage. “Tomorrow we begin.” He looked closely at her. “You know, mademoiselle, that you are quite beautiful. Even more than your captivating cow,” he said, tipping his straw hat. Berthe blushed. No one had ever told her this before. It had always been hermother who was beautiful. It was her mother’s beauty that had taken up so much space in their homely little house—almost as if it were another child. It had to be bathed, pampered, and dressed and, most of all, noticed.
Beautiful
was not a word Berthe would ever have used to describe herself.
    Monsieur Millet was smiling broadly and Berthe’s stomach did a corresponding flip of excitement. She turned her back to him and bent to pick up a stone. She was so nervous that she lifted the stone to her mouth and was about to bite into it when she realized it wasn’t an apple. She hurried into the barn in an effort to escape her embarrassment.
    â€œ
À demain
,” Monsieur Millet called out after her.
    Berthe was surprised to see the artist waiting in the courtyard first thing the next morning when she went out to milk Céleste. He had a small canvas stool with him which he set up in the corner of the barn. He took out a sketchbook and a box of charcoal and immediately began to sketch her.
    â€œWhere are your paints?” She had assumed that being a famous painter he would of course be working in paint. She had already envisioned her image surrounded by a beautiful gilt frame. She thought of the few elaborately framed copies of paintings her parents had owned before her father’s creditors took everything. She remembered the frames being almost more beautiful than the pictures they held.
    â€œThese are just sketches,” Monsieur Millet explained. “The painting happens much later.” Berthe was disappointed, particularly when she looked over his shoulder at what he had drawn. It was a series of rough lines