Free Madame Bovary's Daughter by Linda Urbach Page B

distress. Then he walked out of the room without uttering a word. How was she to know that the patient had developed gangrene and lost his entire leg to amputation?
    â€œYou are able to create your own world,” Berthe said to Monsieur Millet. She suddenly felt very bold and bright.
    â€œThat is exactly it, Mademoiselle Berthe. How well you understand. We all have the ability to create our own world,
n’est-ce pas
? Which is probably why I became an artist in the first place. But one doesn’t have to be an artist to accomplish this. One need only have the gift of a rich imagination.” He looked at her for a long moment, then turned back to his sketch. He took his thumb and softened the edges of the largest cow. “I actually prefer drawing to painting. Drawing seems to free my imagination. The only reason I paint is so I have something to sell. No one will spend good money on mere drawings. But I believe that one day my drawings will be more appreciated than anything I paint.” He straightened his back with a groan. “Ah, I think that’s enough art for one day. Tomorrow then, mademoiselle?”
    â€œYes, tomorrow.” Berthe smiled over her shoulder as she pulled Céleste after her. She felt as if tomorrow were an eternity away. How wonderful it was to be able to take your imagination out of your mind and put it on paper. In Berthe’s fantasy Monsieur Millet would hire her away from her grand-mère and she could spend the rest of her life modeling for him and discussing questions of art and creativity.

    Monsieur Millet became Berthe’s shadow, and she grew used to him following her everywhere with his bag of art materials and his stool.
    One day he stopped her on the way into the house. She was carrying two heavy pails of water she had just filled at the well.
    â€œWait, stay there,” he said, grabbing his sketch pad and a Conté crayon from his shoulder bag.
    â€œBut, monsieur,” she protested, “these are heavy. Can’t I empty the water from them?”
    â€œThat is exactly what I want to capture: the weight of the water, your arms straining, the painful look on your face.
The Peasant Labors
,” he said, as if to give his drawing a title right then and there.
    â€œI cannot hold these any longer,” she said, lowering the pails to the ground so quickly that half the water spilled out.
    â€œOh, I am sorry. How thoughtless of me,” he said. He put his sketch pad on the ground and laid his crayon on top of it. “Here, let me ease the ache.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and began gently kneading the muscles. It felt strangely soothing and yet she pulled away. “My apologies. Was I being too rough, mademoiselle?”
    â€œNo, no,” she said, lifting the pails again. “I’m fine.” Her face was burning but he didn’t seem to notice.
    â€œYou are a wonderful model, Mademoiselle Berthe.”
    â€œBut I don’t understand, monsieur. Why do you only make sketches of me doing boring chores?”
    â€œAh, but there is great dignity in your labor. Don’t you see that?”
    She shook her head. She thought him slightly mad. This was a life of drudgery she longed to escape, and here was this man devoting his very considerable talents to capturing it on paper.
    â€œMy father and grandfathers were farmers,” he said. “I wassupposed to take over the farm in Gruchy.” He had a faraway look in his eyes. “The soil there gave forth more stones than it did wheat. In the end, they gave me their hard-earned savings and off I went to study art. And I never returned to the land. So I paint the country and the people as a way of honoring my origins and repaying my family.”
    Berthe liked the idea of doing work that had dignity. It certainly made her feel better about the blisters and sore muscles she had developed since coming to her grand-mère’s farm. She liked the way the