Madame Victoria by Catherine Leroux

Author:Catherine Leroux
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Biblioasis
Published: 2018-07-30T17:05:40+00:00

Victoria in Love

First, I light a fire. There’s always sufficient dry wood; I’m the one who goes to fetch it in the evening so it can dry overnight. I like to stack the logs and fit them together just so, with the bark turned skyward. I like to run my thumb over the patterns etched on them and afterwards to sniff my finger. The scent is always the same, at once young and old, sap and fungus.

Then I put the water on to boil. The two big kettles ring like church bells when I fill them up. One kettleful will serve to make tea for Madame, a thick soup, hardboiled eggs, and to wash the dishes. With the other I’ll do the laundry, using the soap that burns your hands. Every day I soak the sheets, shirts, underpants, handkerchiefs, rags, and bonnets. Saturday, I wash my own clothes, to get them clean for Mass. My petticoats are riddled with a thousand tiny holes that make pictures no one else can see.

After the water comes the bread baking. I knead the dough and let it sit through the night; next morning I just have to slip that pretty ball inside the oven’s mouth. But first I press my forefinger down on it, and when I lift my finger I feel the mass of dough wanting to follow, to float up to me like a chubby angel. I pray for the bread to rise well. It’s a childhood habit—I was flogged whenever I botched the bread. That was during the war.

The sun comes up; Madame rings. I climb the stairs to her bedroom and let the light in, prop up her pillows, serve her tea. She’ll have her bread and eggs later, downstairs. She’s copied this routine from the English. I still don’t understand which things are fit to be copied from the English and which ought not to be shared with them, so I never talk about it. I empty Madame’s chamber pot. Sometimes there’s blood, but less and less. I like the smell of blood. It reminds me of my mother.

Bertaud, the hired man, arrives early and I serve him his porridge. He can’t speak. He’s big as an ox and his breath smells of melted snow. His voice and thoughts go astray in that large, cavernous body of his and they never get out. Madame says the doctor dropped Bertaud on his head while pulling him out of his mother’s womb, and it’s kept him simple. I’m quite fond of him, myself. He’s strong and kind and regards everyone with the same fearful gentleness. He draws no distinction between masters and slaves, just as he can’t tell the difference between dogs and foxes.

Once breakfast is done and Madame has dressed, while the laundry is soaking and the soup is on the simmer, I clean house. Broom, feather duster, brush, rag; bedrooms (thoroughly), boudoir (carefully), library (quickly), dining room (vigorously). In winter, the slush marks in the front hall must be removed.

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