Belle Epoque (15 page)

Then someone grabs my arm, wrenching me from my thoughts. I turn to find the countess’s face inches from mine. “Don’t waste the duke’s time, Maude.” She smiles at another guest walking past, but her grip betrays her anger—it is firm, not friendly.

“But—” I begin to explain.

“Don’t bother trying to account for your carelessness,” she interrupts, then turns to lift a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter. She takes a sip and seems to calm down.

“Distract that blond girl, the Rochefort sister. She has her sights set on the duke. I will not have her overshadow Isabelle.”

“But how?” I ask, anxious to please her.

She thrusts the glass in my hand. “Tip a glass of champagne down her dress, for all I care, as long as you keep her at bay for a few dances. Isabelle must be given ample time with the duke. Everyone is watching whom he pays attention to.”

Her words have slapped me out of my dancing haze, and I walk with her toward Isabelle, smiling as though we have just had the most delightful conversation.

A servant is helping Isabelle to a glass of champagne.

“Enjoying yourself,
chérie
?” the countess asks her daughter.

Isabelle takes a sip. “Yes, Mother.”

“Then why aren’t you dancing?” she asks. “I don’t want you lounging on your own. You should be in the center of the room, where everyone can see you.”

Before Isabelle can answer, a portly woman distracts the countess and she’s on her way back across the ballroom to another group of people.

I smile, relieved that she’s gone. “Your mother is very direct,” I say, taking a seat.

Isabelle lets out a small laugh. “She’s exhausting. She thinks we’re all on a stage, and that we must clamber over everyone else to be visible. The jewels, the too-tight corset, the marching orders for dancing.”

And the foil rented for the occasion
, I almost say out loud.

Isabelle sips her champagne and surveys the room.

“I think the duke is dancing with Mademoiselle de Rochefort, if that’s who you’re looking for,” I say.

“Antoine d’Avaray is mother’s obsession, not mine.”

His name is Antoine, I think, and repeat it silently.

Isabelle continues, “She’d love it if her daughter became a duchess.”

A prickle of jealousy stings me.

“He inherited the title recently,” Isabelle continues. “I swear that’s why she had me come out early—I’m not eighteen until summer.”

I can imagine them together, a perfectly handsome couple. It makes my dance with him seem irrelevant. “He is dashing.” I look down. The envy skips across the surface of my thoughts, then sinks into shame. How pathetic—the ugly stepsister in lust.

“He’s nice enough, but I’m no duchess, Maude.”

Her tone is sincere and instantly makes me feel less sorry for myself. I turn to meet her pretty face, which hides that fierceness beneath. Isabelle Dubern is indeed a conundrum. “Why couldn’t you be a duchess?” I ask.

She taps a finger on her champagne glass, but it doesn’t make a sound under her glove. “There is a whole world beyond this ball, and a new century dawning. But for me this is all there is: a society marriage.”

How can she be so reluctant to embrace her future? It’s not as though she’s being forced to marry an old butcher. “Is it such a terrible fate?” I ask.

“Why must I marry at all?” She looks at me intently. “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that a hundred years ago the whole country got turned upside down by a revolution but nothing has really changed? I mean not for a girl like me, anyway.” She drains her glass and stares into the distance.

I shake my head, bemused. “Well, I can think of worse scenarios than marrying one of the gentlemen in this room.”

“It’s the status that matters most to Mother, the attention surrounding a society match. It’s as if my season is happening only to her and the family, without a thought for me.”

“But don’t you see how lucky you are?” I press.

Her head whips around. “Is that what you think? I’m the girl who has everything?” She sounds cross.

“But aren’t you?”

Isabelle sighs to make it clear I don’t understand. I want her to explain, but the duke and Claire join us.

“I must be getting old,” says the duke, taking a seat on the other side of Isabelle. “Dancing is more exhausting than cavalry drills.” Claire’s face falls at this comment. As the duke and Isabelle get deeper in conversation, I stand and retreat to a chair several feet away to give them some privacy. Claire isn’t so subtle. She hovers near them, waiting for a chance to interrupt.

She’s not the only one watching. A bit farther away, Xavier is flirting with a buxom brunette. Despite his animated performance with her, I notice him looking over at the duke and Isabelle every now and then. Finally Claire loses patience and begins to pester the duke for another dance. I can feel the countess watching me from across the room and I know I need to act. I must distract Claire.

I take a sip of champagne. The bubbles tingle in my nose and then fizz in my head and I look down at my glass. Surely the countess didn’t really mean I should douse her with it. I begin to study Claire. Observe her. What would she buy, I
wonder, if she were a customer in Father’s store? What would she stop to chat about? Think, Maude, think.

And it strikes me: her hair.

It is ridiculous—a mountain of corkscrew curls piled high, defying gravity. Too much time must have been spent in its architecture. It’s a perfect avenue of conversation.

I get up and approach her. “Claire, I love your hair.” I smile but worry—do I sound natural or tense? “It’s very … impressive.”

She perks up and takes a step toward me. “Oh, thank you.” She’s positively glowing as she checks that it’s still in place with a dainty hand. “Mother knows the best hairdresser in Paris.”

“Is that so?” I try to sound amazed.

“Yes, and he created the style just for me. You see, there are two hairpieces, at the front and on the back, to give it the volume.…”

I nod as she drones on about how her own hair was curled and how the fake hair was attached. Behind her Isabelle and the duke rise to join the dancing and Claire is none the wiser.

“You would never know,” I say with just the right amount of enthusiasm. “The hairpieces blend right in.” I sip my champagne, relieved by my small victory.

I keep Claire chatting until she is asked to dance by another suitor and I’m left alone once more to watch everyone’s good time. Being a spectator is my natural state.

With my second glass of champagne, the room grows warm and the candle lights soften until they blur into each other. I let the magnificence of the setting wash over me. I cannot believe where I am.

By now it’s after midnight, and the banquet table is littered with picked-over food, glasses of champagne half drunk and candles shrunk to stubs. The crowd of beautiful people is thinning: the night must end. I can’t think beyond this ballroom, of the world outside. To even imagine my room in the grime of Montparnasse is to be there, and I want to hold on to this beauty. I know that when I am sitting at my dressing table, brushing my hair, this night will exist only as a memory.

I walk with the Duberns down the grand staircase to the reception hall, where we are presented with our cloaks. My aunt’s carriage—in other words, the agency carriage—is picking me up directly from the ball. My feet are throbbing and my neck feels bare. Per her mother’s instructions, I relinquished the family jewels to Isabelle before we made our way downstairs. I suppose the countess couldn’t risk leaving them in my care.

Outside, Isabelle and I walk behind her parents. The sharp air cuts through the fuzz of champagne and fatigue. I should feel glad that the hurdle of the ball is behind me, but I find there’s a thread of disappointment tangled around the relief. Did I succeed for the countess tonight—enough to be hired again? I think back to Durandeau talking about “a whole season to exploit” and I find myself hoping for another experience like tonight.

“This was magical,” I say.

Isabelle shrugs. “It was all right. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

I laugh. “I can’t believe how indifferent you are. It was beautiful. Everything was perfect.”

“Perfectly artificial. What about real life?”

I think of my garret room waiting for me. Is that how she
wants to live? Does she even know what “real life” means for most people? A touch of resentment surfaces as I contemplate this. I shake my head at her. “I’d choose this over real life any day.”

The Dubern carriage pulls up first and the count and countess climb in. Before we get too close to the carriage, I stop and turn to Isabelle. “What do you want, then—if dancing with good-looking men and drinking champagne bore you to tears?”

“Do you really want to know?” Her breath forms ghostly trails in the freezing air, and she pulls her mantle tight around her shoulders.

“Isabelle, get in,” the countess calls from the carriage. “It’s freezing!”

Isabelle studies me carefully. “Come to tea on Tuesday and I’ll show you.”

I watch her hurry to the carriage. In all honesty, I wouldn’t mind accepting an invitation to tea, but I don’t think it’s the high-profile event Durandeau has in mind for my next assignment.

The door slams shut and Isabelle waves to me from the window. She doesn’t know that tea will cost her mother five francs an hour.

M
ONDAY MORNINGS ARE A BUSTLING
and noisy affair at the agency, and I know the dressing room will already be crammed with girls before I even open the door. I’ve been starved for company since the ball, and the need to share the details of my magical evening has eaten away at me ever since. I’ve rehearsed my descriptions of the people, the dresses and the décor. The idea is to give my colleagues a treat, a visual madeleine to brighten their day, not to gloat—or not to appear to gloat.

I hang up my coat and hat, then smile and try to make eye contact with the others. For once I welcome their gossiping. I look around for Marie-Josée, knowing she’ll be the first to pounce on me for details, but she’s not here yet and I sink into a chair, disappointed. Cécile is purposely ignoring me, I can tell; she keeps her back to me and talks loudly to the other girls. I get changed into an agency day dress and wait, the minutes ticking by as the girls describe their own banal assignments. It feels as though I will burst from keeping quiet. Finally I’m
given an opportunity to share when sweet Emilie takes a seat at my dressing table and with wide eyes asks,
“Et alors, le bal
?
”

“It was a fairy tale come to life,” I tell her, unable to keep from smiling. I can hear the excitement in my own voice, but I don’t have to hide it. “Dancing, dresses and handsome men.”

“And the refreshments?” asks Emilie.

“Ten different kinds of desserts and pink champagne,” I say, grinning.

“
Ooh la la
! Did you try a bit of everything?” she asks. I nod, and then Hortense joins in, hungry for details.

“Who did you dance with?”

As I recount my story, the other girls gradually look up, leaving dress hooks undone and stockings unraveled to listen. Even Cécile gives up her resistance and lingers close enough to catch the details. I don’t mention the moments when I was sidelined, ignored or passed over for my client. That is something they are already familiar with and no one wants reminding of.

Marie-Josée eventually arrives, out of breath. On seeing that I am the center of attention, surrounded by the others, she says, “If you’re dishing about the ball, you best stop right there.” She wrestles her coat off. “Not another word until I’ve opened this box of pastries and taken a load off. And then you’ll have to start at the beginning.”

Once Marie-Josée is installed with the rest of us, the pastries cut in half to share, I start over. There is a chorus of oohs and aahs from the younger girls when I describe the Duke d’Avaray; apparently he is famously handsome, and Xavier de Rochefort is known as a charmer in many Paris circles.

“His sister, Claire, is always mentioned in the society
columns,” Cécile adds. “She is the most sought-after debutante this year.”

Marie-Josée chimes in. “Did your client behave herself? Or was she a brat to you again?”

“Isabelle was nice enough this time,” I admit.

“Who did she dance with?” asks Marie-Josée.

“She had lots of partners,” I say. “Xavier was very attentive. But the countess was most anxious to see her with Antoine, the Duke d’Avaray.” I say his full name again, drawing it out, because talking about the duke feels as good as thinking about him.

“I bet she was,” says Marie-Josée, polishing off her pastry.

“Oh, imagine if she marries the duke! What a heavenly couple,” says Emilie.

The envy I felt at the ball threatens to surface. I force it down—envy is pointless in my line of work. Besides, I don’t want to be like Cécile, besotted with all her clients’ suitors. That would be ridiculous. “They do look good together,” I agree.

“Why does the countess prefer the duke for her daughter and not Xavier de Rochefort?” asks Hortense. “He must be rich too, judging by his father’s house.”