Belle Epoque (17 page)

Cochet enters the room with a curtsey. “
Oui
, madame?”

“Show Maude to Isabelle’s schoolroom,” the countess says without looking up.

Taking my cue, I slip the perfume bottle into my coat pocket and leave the countess to her ritual.

As I follow the maid up to the top floor of the house, a whisper of doubt pesters me. I worry that when speaking with the countess, I cast Isabelle in too favorable a light with the duke. I reflect again on what passed between them at the ball and decide that every word of what I told the countess was true. I didn’t lie. What gnaws at me is that I didn’t tell her the whole truth—for example, that her daughter doesn’t seem interested in becoming a duchess. I decide it would be daft to divulge that information. Besides, Isabelle would have to be made of stone not to eventually be won over by the duke’s kind face and dashing uniform. Maybe her rebellious words are just for show.

At the top of the stairs the maid stops and points to the last door at the end of the corridor. “Mademoiselle Isabelle’s schoolroom,” she announces.

“Merci,”
I say, but she is already on her way down the stairs.

I walk toward the schoolroom door and knock.

“Wait!” cries Isabelle’s voice from inside. “Under no circumstance open the door.”

I roll my eyes, she’s a bit dramatic, but I do as I’m told. While I pace in the corridor I think back to our last conversation. My curiosity is piqued—what makes her different from other society girls?

Several minutes pass before the handle turns, the door opens and Isabelle is standing in the doorway of a darkened room.

“I couldn’t have you open the door and let in any light,” she says by way of greeting. I step into the room and find that the only illumination is a single candle, newly lit. In the gloom I can make out a large wooden workbench with all sorts of
contraptions on it, and thick tapestry-like curtains are drawn across the windows. She gives no explanation for why the room is shrouded in darkness.

“Is this a witches’ coven?” I ask, only partially joking. “A schoolroom for learning sorcery and spells?”

“Did the maid only walk you partway?” she asks. “The servants think this room is haunted, or that I’m possessed.” Laughing, she pulls open the curtains, and a strand of hair falls loose from her braid. “I have finished with my sacrifices for today.”

The windows are mucky and a shaft of sunlight makes the dust dance around us, proving the maid’s aversion to the place. Now that I can see where I’m walking, I step farther into the room. Aside from the large workbench near the windows, there’s a wall lined with bookshelves, and in the far corner there’s a writing desk. At the opposite end of the room a couple of armchairs flank the fireplace.

I’m drawn to the bookshelves, home to objects I’ve never seen before: bell jars and bottles of all shapes and sizes containing various liquids; plants and drawings of botanical specimens; glass-framed butterflies and other sizeable insects. Between these curiosities are many books. I read the spines and see volumes on wide-ranging areas of study: botany, chemistry, Roman history and architecture. There is a globe at either end of the bookshelves; I reach out to spin one as I walk past.

“Sorry for the mess,” says Isabelle. “I don’t usually get visitors.” She is shuffling papers together on the writing desk in the corner. On a shelf above the desk sits an object the size of a mantel clock, but there is neither a clock face nor hands on it. I
walk toward it to get a closer look. It is made of brass, and the case open next to it is lined in forest-green velvet.

“Father’s microscope,” Isabelle says, seeing me staring at it. “It’s over a hundred years old—one of his antiques. I daresay he hasn’t missed it from his study. He enjoys collecting things but has no real appreciation for their function.”

“What do you use it for?” I ask, in awe.

“Studying plants.”

I marvel at all her possessions. “I’ve never seen a schoolroom like this,” I say, and as the words leave my lips I realize at once that
this
is Isabelle’s room, a space furnished with her essence, stamped with her personality, just as her bedroom is a reflection of who she’s
supposed
to be—feminine and sweet, her mother’s invention.

I turn to the workbench dominating the room, fascinated by the odd-shaped objects littering its surface: chipped china serving dishes, iron clamps and wooden boxes with metal parts attached. Does she have a use for all these items?

“Have a seat,” Isabelle says, nodding to a stool at the bench.

“What are these contraptions?” I ask, pointing to the wooden boxes.

“Cameras. Do you want to see how they work?”

“You know how to take pictures?” I ask, astonished. “Of what?”

“Anything, really. What got me interested was the chemistry behind it.”

“How incredible,” I say, touching the smooth surface of the wooden box in front of me.

“Shall I take your picture, would you like that?” She’s up and in motion before I can reply.

“I’ve never had my portrait taken before.” I don’t feel exactly comfortable at the idea. “It seems hugely extravagant,” I murmur.

“Come on, take off your coat and let me show off my ‘contraptions,’ as you call them.”

The absurdity of my posing as her model doesn’t seem to occur to her. She busies herself setting up the equipment.

I hang my coat over a stool, somewhat reluctant to make myself at home. “Your governess is ambitious with your curriculum.”

“I don’t have a governess anymore.” Isabelle secures the wooden camera box on a stand with three legs. “Mother got rid of her once my season started; she said I wouldn’t have time for schoolwork, with all the events I have to attend. But this isn’t simple schoolwork, Maude.” She sweeps her hair from her face. “It’s my self-designed curriculum. Take the stool and sit next to the window,” she says. “We need you in the light.”

I obey her instructions.

Isabelle bends down behind the camera, her head obscured. “Now move the stool a few inches closer to me and a little to the right.”

“How long do I have to keep still?” I ask, shifting position.

She pops her head up. “Don’t worry, I won’t be putting your head in a clamp. The exposure time is only a couple of seconds. Not long at all, compared to the old days.”

“How do I look?” I ask her warily. “Can you see me through that thing?”

She ducks down. “I can, but you’re upside down. The picture will be from the top of your head, past your shoulders. A proper portrait.”

I look straight at the camera, its one black eye staring back at me.

She picks up a slim wooden frame and slots it into the camera box. “Relax,” says Isabelle. “Think of something pleasant and hold still.”

My mind takes me back to the ball, when I reached out and took the duke’s hand.

“Un, deux, trois,”
Isabelle says. Then she removes the black cap covering the lens.

I hold on to that thought. I see his smile; I feel his hand in mine.

“C’est fini,”
Isabelle announces, returning the cap to the lens.

She orders me to close the curtains and then disappears into a closet. The wooden frame, I have just learned, encases the glass plate containing the negative image of my face. The minutes tick by as I wait in complete darkness for her to develop it. The smell of chemicals seems stronger now; it burns my nose and makes my eyes water.

Does Isabelle’s mother know about this? I wonder. If Marie-Josée were taking bets, I’d put my money on no.

The closet door creaks open and footsteps approach.

“Open the curtains, Maude.”

I draw back the heavy drapes and the light makes me squint. I turn around to see Isabelle walking toward me, brandishing the plate. She’s wearing an artist’s cotton smock over her dress and a pair of India rubber gloves. Her eyes are bright, her
expression eager, as she joins me by the window, holding the plate up to the light. “Have a look.”

Despite my earlier reluctance I’m curious, and I crane my neck toward this mysterious image, a negative of myself. It’s odd to think that this ghost twin I’m looking at, with white hair and face in shadow, is actually me.

“Now the exciting part—making a print,” Isabelle says. “We’ll need to close the curtains again and put a candle in the safe lamp—that red lantern on the bench.”

“A red light?” I ask.

“The paper we print on is sensitive to daylight but not to red light.”

I don’t understand this, but I light the lantern and close the curtains and we are immediately bathed in a sinister, hellish glow. If I were a servant in the Dubern house, I would be suspicious of the goings-on in the schoolroom too. “You look positively ghoulish,” I say. Isabelle smiles as she fiddles with a wooden frame. She places the glass negative inside, then covers it with a sheet of paper from a sealed box. Lastly, a wooden backing secures the device together. Isabelle looks at the watch pinned to her smock and opens the curtain wide. She then props up the wooden frame by the window in full sunlight.

“What’s happening?” I ask, peering at the frame.

“The light develops the print. It passes through the plate, exposing the positive image onto the treated paper. It should take about ten minutes.”

I shake my head, dumbfounded. “Where did you learn all this?”

“My uncle gave me his camera and some instructions.” Isabelle glances at her watch. “And my governess helped me too, before Mother sent her packing. She introduced me to the world of science, ordering the books and supplies we needed—all behind Mother’s back, of course.”

“What did your mother think you were learning?” I ask.

“Ladylike pursuits. I would pay Geneviève the housemaid to embroider cushions and handkerchiefs and I’d take credit. Sometimes I’d bang about on the piano or practice Italian for mother’s benefit.”

I shake my head. Isabelle Dubern is full of surprises—sulky rich girl, reluctant debutante and now a secret scholar. Just when I think I know who I’m dealing with, she confounds expectation.

She spends the next few minutes at the workbench pouring liquids into china trays and I am told to watch the clock. “Time’s up,” I say, after ten minutes has passed. Isabelle retrieves the wooden frame and peers at the progress of her contraption. I close the curtains, checking that not a chink of light remains.

We are bathed once more in the eerie red light. I watch, fascinated, as Isabelle opens the frame and glances at the paper, now darkened with an image; but before I get a good look she drops it into a tray and douses it with water. She rinses the paper, then transfers it to a tray filled with the noxious-smelling solution, agitating the liquid so that it sloshes around submerging the paper completely.

As the minutes pass I strain to see the image, but Isabelle is blocking me from getting a clear view, not to mention the red light and ripples of the liquid make it hard to see.

“We can open the curtains and blow out the safe light. The image is fixed now, so the light won’t affect it.”

I follow her orders while she pours water from a pitcher into another tray, drops the paper in and rinses it gently.

“Can I see it now?” I ask, dying for a look at this first and only photograph of me.

“Once it’s dry,” says Isabelle. “I’ll order tea and we can look at my other pictures.”

She lays the sopping paper on a canvas-and-wire press. “We use this drying rack,” she explains. “If we simply hang it up, the paper curls as it dries.”

Watching her work, I realize this is the happiest I’ve seen Isabelle Dubern. She moves confidently, the hint of a smile on her face. To me she looks radiant—not in the way she looked at the ball, with the poufy dress and family jewels. She’s in her element.

After she rings the bell for tea, we install ourselves in the armchairs at the parlor end of the room and she fans out her portfolio of pictures on the table.

She picks up a photograph of an orchid.

“This is one of my first. I began with objects that didn’t move or talk.” She laughs, but I can tell she’s proud of her work.

I pore over the images, coming across a portrait of a stoic-looking woman. “Who’s this?”

“Madame Ferrand, our cook. She gave me all the old serving china to use for the chemicals, and she lets me steal eggs from the kitchen for my albumen.”

“Her face is interesting,” I say, looking at her direct gaze and
the deep lines on her forehead. She is clearly no stranger to hard work; she brings to mind the villagers I know back home.

Isabelle pulls out a duplicate of the portrait. “You see how this one is faded at the edges? It’s because the emulsion wasn’t applied all the way to the corners. When I reprinted it, I fixed that mistake.” She points at the improved print, in my hands.

“Even so, the flawed one looks beautiful,” I say. It reminds me of that photograph of my mother. “The light edges give her a more radiant look, don’t you think?”

She studies the two prints. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.” She meets my eye with a faint smile. “You have an artist’s heart and not a scientist’s logic.”

There’s a knock on the schoolroom door.

“Leave the tea outside, Geneviève,” Isabelle calls impatiently.

“Mademoiselle Isabelle.” It must be one of the maids, but she doesn’t enter the room. “Your mother says you are to dress for visitors after your tea. They’re expected in an hour.”

Isabelle gets up and flings open the door, taking the tea tray from the maid.

“Countess says you are to put on the blue patterned dress. I laid it out for you.” The maid peers into the room and calls to me. “Mademoiselle Maude, the countess has ordered her carriage to drop you at your aunt’s.”

“Merci,”
I say, my voice sounding flat. I didn’t notice how quickly the afternoon was passing until now, when I don’t feel in any hurry to leave.

Isabelle pushes the door closed with her foot and makes
her way back to me. The cups rattle as she sets the tea tray on the table.

“I’m constantly being thwarted.” She sits down with a sigh. “Mother’s always finding more events and visits to take up my time.” She pours the tea. “Sugar?”