Belle Epoque (16 page)

It’s a good point, but it never occurred to me to ask. “Isn’t rich just rich?” I say. I imagine they’re all equally privileged.

Cécile pulls a deck of playing cards off a shelf and fans them out. “A duke is worth more than a viscount,” she says. She pulls out the king of hearts and places it face up on the dresser. “King of hearts is the duke. Someone like the Count Dubern would be the next step down,” she says, putting the queen of hearts next to the king. “Now, a viscount is one rung down from that, a jack.” She places the jack next to the king and queen.

“But,” says Marie-Josée, pulling a ten of hearts from the deck and placing it on the dressing table. “This is Xavier de Rochefort.”

“I don’t understand. Why is he the ten and not the jack?” I ask.

Marie-Josée points a pudgy finger at the ten of hearts. “Xavier is the second son. His older brother becomes the viscount after their father dies. See, the brother gets the title and most of the fortune. Ten of hearts has to make do with a smaller piece of pie.”

I look at the cards laid out on the dresser. “I didn’t realize there were so many rules.” I think back to Isabelle’s words about status and what a society match means for her family.

There’s a knock on the dressing room door and Laurent walks in. “Good morning, ladies. Monsieur Durandeau wants to speak with you, Maude. Urgently.”

I have a bout of nerves—or could it be excitement? I’m eager for feedback from the countess. But what if she complained to Durandeau that I wore the family jewels and danced with the duke, leaving her daughter stranded?

“In his office?” I ask Laurent.

“No, he’s in the salon getting fitted for a new suit.”

The circle of girls surrounding me breaks apart and I follow Laurent out of the dressing room. Before I pass through the door I glance back at the others—it was nice being the center of attention for once.

As I walk beside Laurent down the corridor, doubt begins to grow, and I shorten my stride a hint. “Do you know what he wants to see me about?” I ask.

“Not a clue,
ma belle
.” We arrive in front of the ominous closed door to the salon. “But he’s usually in a good mood when new clothes are concerned.” Laurent winks at me, a wave of hair grazing his long lashes. He opens the door and I enter the room.

Durandeau is preening in front of the floor-length mirror, his arms outstretched, while his tailor takes his measurements. Materials like tweed and wool plaid are laid across an armchair. I look about the room, not used to seeing the space empty of girls.

“Mademoiselle Pichon. I will be with you shortly,” says Durandeau. “A shooting party requires a suitable wardrobe. I may not be a good marksman, but I know how to dress the part.”

I wait patiently for the tailor to finish. I should think being a decent shot is precisely the point of hunting, but what do I know about upper-class pursuits?

“The Scottish tweed is an excellent choice for the Norfolk jacket, Monsieur Durandeau,” the tailor says, removing the swatches of cloth from the armchair. He gestures for me to sit down, but Durandeau, thinking the invitation is for him, takes the seat and I remain standing. The tailor exchanges a look with me before quitting the room.

“Well, you’ve done it, Mademoiselle Pichon!” Durandeau sinks back into the plump cushions.

My body tenses. “Done what?”

“I have just had word from the countess.” He pulls a letter out of his breast pocket and waves it in front of me. “She wants you to work exclusively with her family for the whole season. What a coup!”

My heart leaps in a surge of excitement. “The whole season?” I ask, amazed. “How long is that?”

“From now until summer.” His beady eyes are bright.

Suddenly all I can think of is the duke’s handsome face and whom else I might dance with in a whole season.

“Do you know how many events you will attend?” Durandeau asks, his double chin shuddering as he speaks.

I shake my head. “I can’t imagine.”

“Several a week. Concerts, operas, banquets, shooting parties and even the horse races, when the weather warms up.”

“Several a week until summer,” I repeat. I can see Durandeau mentally tallying up how many piles of francs that will amount to. “Does this mean I’m no longer in training?” I ask, feeling bold.

“Yes, I suppose you’ve earned the commission. The Dubern patronage is a boon for the agency.”

I’m awestruck at how quickly my life is changing. Having so many dates with Isabelle—maybe I’ll be able to afford a nicer apartment and some new clothes.

“Let me read some of the countess’s letter.” Durandeau scans the pages. “There was a little confusion with her friend Madame Vary.”

“She’s supposed to be my aunt.”

“The countess says she’s reluctant to play along.… They’ve had some falling-out.”

I question how close the countess and Madame Vary really are. Did the countess just use her as a convenient way to introduce me to her circle?

Durandeau continues, “Now, this presents the problem
of how you are to get access to the Dubern girl without your chaperone.” He leafs through the pages of neat handwriting.

“Ah. Here it is.” He reads aloud.

“I think it best if we use common sense, Monsieur Durandeau. If Madame Vary is indisposed due to poor health, let’s say, we should think logically of how Mademoiselle Pichon would spend her time were she indeed her niece and not an employee of your agency. I would naturally invite Mademoiselle Pichon to spend time with Isabelle, given that the girls are the same age and both debutantes this season. Soon her appearance at social events with our family will be taken for granted and appear quite natural. In this way, she will have ample access to my daughter and the requisite events of the season, without requiring the assistance of Madame Vary’s person.”

Durandeau turns the page and continues reading.

“Furthermore, I request that Mademoiselle Pichon dress only in the clothing I provide. I shall have my personal couturier send over a suitable wardrobe for every occasion we might require her for.”

I gasp. “A special wardrobe, just for me?”

“In response to your question, I myself will not require the services of a repoussoir for the rest of this season. As a mother, I must put my daughter’s needs before my own.”
Durandeau sighs at this. “More’s the pity.” He finishes reading.
“My distinguished sentiments, Countess Dubern.”

He smiles, taking satisfaction in reading that last sentence, despite the fact that there’s not a scrap of real affection to it; it is the perfunctory way to end a letter, as we all learn in school.

Durandeau folds the sheets of notepaper back up and looks at me. “There you have it, Mademoiselle Pichon. I didn’t hold
out much hope for your future at this agency, but you have exceeded expectation. You are now a permanent employee.”

My heart should sink at the idea of being a permanent repoussoir, but instead I rejoice. Perhaps my approach to this job has been wrong all along—rather than dreading it, I should be open to its possibilities.

As if he can read my giddy thoughts, Durandeau hauls himself out of his chair and approaches me, his small pigeon eyes narrowing on mine. “But now that you’ve secured this contract, better not do anything to jeopardize it.” His breath smells sour. “If I hear any complaints from the countess, the least murmur of disapproval—”

“I understand, Monsieur Durandeau.”

He looks unsatisfied, not sure whether he has sufficiently intimidated me.

“The clothes will be kept in a storeroom next to Madame Leroux’s workroom; she complains that she doesn’t have the space required to house your new wardrobe.”

I don’t need to guess why she is being unaccommodating.

He waves a fat finger toward the door. “That will be all, Mademoiselle Pichon.”

I curtsey and walk quickly out of the salon. I close the door behind me and lean against it, my head spinning with the thought of what’s to come. My hope has turned to certainty—something marvelous is going to happen to me this season, I can feel it.

“I’
M NEVER ALLOWED TO SET
foot in Isabelle’s schoolroom,” says the countess.

She is seated at her dressing table, amid a clutter of bottles and potions, her maid assisting with the ritual of
la toilette
. I watch as her hair is unpinned and one thick lock of black silk unfurls after another.

She looks at me in the mirror. “She must hold you high in regard to let you in.”

I give her a small smile. As promised, Isabelle requested that her mother invite me to tea, but before I could be shown upstairs to the schoolroom, the countess summoned me to her boudoir for a private audience.

“Cochet, you can leave us now.” The maid gives me a furtive glance, puts the pile of hairpins in a jeweled box and leaves the room.

It’s warm and stuffy and I still have my coat on. I shift my weight from one foot to another.

“Take a seat, Maude.” The countess points to a footstool.

When I sit down, I see my own face reflected behind hers. She smiles at me. “It’s time we had a little chat.”

She picks up a silver hairbrush and draws it through her mane. This is the first time I’ve seen her hair unpinned. It hangs in long, dark waves down her back over a loose-fitting dressing gown. She looks not quite human to me—like a statue of a Greek goddess in the Louvre.

“This season you will be privy to all sorts of information.”

I nod, wondering where this is leading.

“You can help me by using your eyes and ears. There is nothing as innocuous as a plain girl. People won’t even notice you are there.” There’s a sharp clack when she places the brush back on the vanity.

“Whom does Isabelle speak to, dance with, look at? Which gentlemen are receptive to her, who is making a play for her attention? She is silent as stone when I ask her opinion on anyone.” She selects a bottle of perfume and dabs some on her neck. “You’re quick. I bet you notice everything with those unremarkable eyes.”

Her insult feels less cutting paired with the backhanded compliment. At least she thinks me intelligent.

She picks up another glass bottle from her collection and swivels around to hand it to me. “Here, smell this,” she instructs.

I take the bottle and remove the lilac stopper, which is shaped like a flower. Somewhat hesitant, I inhale the scent. “It’s pleasant,” I say. “Like spring.”

“I detest it. Too sweet. The count should have bought me
jewels instead.” She cocks her head to the side. “You can keep it, if you like.”

I’m taken aback for a moment: how generous. I examine the colored glass and the flower etching on the bottle and feel a ripple of delight at how easily this luxurious token has come into my possession. “
Merci
, Madame la Comtesse,” I murmur.

I look up to see her dusting a powder puff over her face, her skin becoming more like marble than human flesh. “Tell me—the ball. What did you think?” she asks.

“Oh, it was magnificent—” I begin.

She cuts me off immediately. “Yes, yes. I mean what did you think of Isabelle’s suitors?”

Unsure of what she expects to hear and how honest I should be, I hesitate.

“Come on. You spent the entire evening with my daughter.”

“Obviously the duke likes her,” I say, watching her reaction. “And Xavier de Rochefort was keen to get her attention. But he seemed to flirt with a lot of pretty girls. I get the impression he might envy the duke.”

The countess scoffs. “Well, of course. A duke is superior to the second son of a viscount. Now, what about the duke?”

“He’s drawn to Isabelle, I think. They danced together often, when he wasn’t dancing with Claire de Rochefort.” I feel a twinge of regret; I remember all this because I was hoping he would dance with me again.

“Claire de Rochefort? Ugh! That insipid little doll.” An invisible wind has blown the countess’s expression to a look of disgust. “Did she make any headway with him?”

“Claire tried, but she’s empty-headed,” I answer, happy to support Isabelle’s claim over Claire’s. There is no question that Isabelle is a far superior choice. “The duke spent more time talking to Isabelle. They seemed more of a natural fit when they conversed.”

It feels satisfying to be able to share all the things I observe, for once. The girls at the agency want only the broad brushstrokes of the players’ interactions, but the countess has an eye for detail. Finally someone appreciates my habit of watching people.

The countess drums her fingernails on the dressing table. “I bet that Rochefort girl is using her brother to forward her cause. He’s known the duke for years.”

“Especially if Xavier wants Isabelle for himself, wouldn’t he welcome his sister throwing herself at the duke?” I say.

She arches an eyebrow.
“Très bien.”
She considers me for a moment. “Very well, Maude. You can go up and see Isabelle now.” The countess rings the bell for the maid; then she leans toward the mirror and pulls the skin on her face taut like a mask. “What do they say?
Old age is the revenge of the ugly ones
.”

Her remark throws me. Does she consider me a culprit, one of these
ugly ones
, cheering on the march of time against her greatest asset?