Belle Epoque (19 page)

“M
ADAME
L
EROUX
!” I
CALL OUT
, rapping at the seamstress’s door. I don’t hear a response, so I look to Marie-Josée for direction.

“Just walk in.” She nudges me. “Go on. I know she’s in there.”

I turn the handle and peek in. Marie-Josée pushes the door wide open and we find Madame Leroux unrolling a bolt of green fabric—it looks like she’s drowning in the swaths enveloping her.

I walk toward her, a smile pasted on my face. “Do you have the key to the storage room?”

She looks up, irritated.

“Durandeau said my clothes from the countess are in there,” I explain.

“Yes, I know where they are,” says Leroux sharply. “Give me a moment.”

I brought Marie-Josée with me for moral support, as well
as to satisfy her curiosity. Other than the seamstress, no one at the agency has had a glimpse of my special wardrobe yet.

Leroux dumps the roll of fabric on her worktable and rummages through a drawer, pulling out odds and ends of threads, until she produces a ring of keys from the mess. She fans them out like a hand of cards.

“It’s either this one”—she points to a dull-colored key—“or try this small one.” She hands them over roughly.

“
Merci
, madame.”

“I’ve got work to do. You’d best leave me to it,” says Leroux, dismissing us.

“
Merci
, Vivienne.” Marie-Josée tries a smile, but Leroux is unreceptive and turns her back to us, wrestling with the fabric again. It’s not like her to be so indifferent to Marie-Josée.

We leave her in peace, and after the door is closed behind us, Marie-Josée exchanges a look with me. “Poor thing,” she mutters. “It must be hard for her, being snubbed by Durandeau’s favorite client.”

I shrug; I don’t much care about Mademoiselle Leroux’s feelings. The storage cupboard is just next door. I find the right key and we enter the little room. In the dim light I can make out a stack of broken chairs, a lampshade and some old candlesticks. But behind the junk, looking completely out of place, is a rack of beautifully made clothes in all manner of colors and rich fabrics.

Marie-Josée lets out a shriek.
“Ooh la la
!
”

I gasp. “There are so many! Will I really need them all?”

Marie-Josée shoves the broken chairs and lampshade aside and then flips through the different outfits.

“Look, there’s a list with descriptions.” I pull the piece of paper from its tack on the wall and read out loud.

Then I catch sight of stacked shoe boxes and hatboxes. “My goodness!” I point. “Shoes and hats to match.”

Marie-Josée dives into the stack of hatboxes and begins rifling through them. “You’ve hit the jackpot, my dear. Too bad the girl is unpleasant.”

“Isabelle’s not so bad.”

Marie-Josée turns her head and gives me a knowing look. “Really?”

I distract myself with the clothes, letting my hand glide across the different fabrics hanging on the rail. “I can’t believe these are all for me.”

“Don’t get too attached. They’re yours as long as you keep the countess happy,” she says, kneeling amid layers of tissue paper and box lids. “And don’t let your guard down for a minute; remember, you serve at the mother’s pleasure.”

I sigh. “There’s not much affection between mother and daughter—they aren’t a thing alike,” I tell her.

“Well, don’t get between them if there’s an ounce of bad blood. You’ll be out the door and your fancy clothes stripped off quick enough to make your head spin.”

“Do you ever become friendly with your clients?”

She looks up at me pointedly. “You mean beyond what’s required of the job? No, I most certainly don’t.” She goes back to inspecting the hats. “Most of them are a right bunch of snobs, smiling at you in public and bossing you around like a skivvy when no one’s watching. I keep them happy, of course, but I’d never consider any of them a friend.”

I could have predicted she would react like this—Marie-Josée sees everything in black-and-white: them and us. I’ve been hesitant to tell her that I’m actually starting to like Isabelle. She certainly wouldn’t condone my helping with her secret schoolwork. But Isabelle isn’t like other clients.

Marie-Josée gets up, wearing a fetching bonnet with blue velvet trim and brown feathers. It’s too small, so it perches on top of her head. She sucks in her cheeks and knits her brow in her classic Girard imitation. “You women to whom nature has been so unkind.” I dissolve into laughter.

The scuffle of footsteps echoes in the corridor and the door of the little storage cupboard opens wide. The other girls peer in.

I pick up the lilac taffeta dress on its hanger and hold it against me. “Isn’t it the most exquisite thing you’ve ever seen?”

“It’s beautiful,” says Emilie breathlessly.

Even Cécile is impressed. “You have all the luck,” she says, reaching out to stroke a fur mantle.

As we dig through the treasure trove of clothes and hats, the other girls become as giddy and excited as I am, like children on Christmas Eve.

I spin around in the tight space, still holding the lilac dress. “It’s as though you’re a real lady and not a repoussoir at all,” says Emilie.

Marie-Josée tuts under her breath. “Remember who you are and why you’re swanning around at operas and balls in the first place. Don’t get carried away,
chérie
.”

I giggle, ignoring her, getting dizzy from spinning in circles.

“Maude, you may wear the right clothes, but you’re not their equal. Mind my words.”

But I’m not listening. I’m lost in folds of lavender and the dreams my new wardrobe is inspiring.

I
HAVE LEARNED THAT THE
Parisian aristocracy has many rules, including which day of the week is preferable to attend one event over another. Tonight is the right night for opera. As the guest of the Duberns, I’m attending a performance of
Aida
—we are to watch from their private box.

The Garnier Opera House looks like the work of a baker, a white cake with swirls of pink and cream marble and rosettes of gold frosting. It is as mobbed as the train station before Christmas, but the opera crowd doesn’t wear the fatigue and grime of travelers—they wear silk and lace and glimmer in the chandelier lights. Each person is a feather in this peacock’s tail of Parisian society. Again Isabelle and I follow the count and countess, this time up the grand staircase. A stage in itself, this is the place to see and be seen in Paris. The vast staircase splits off in two directions and is visible from many vantage points; people looking out from balconies observe the progress of the newcomers as they ascend.

I have never been to a proper concert before, let alone an opera. Our party proceeds up another flight of stairs and along curved corridors until we finally arrive at our private box. Nothing could have prepared me for my first glimpse of the theater. The ceiling must be twice the height of our village church, and it boasts a massive chandelier dripping with golden light. I take my seat on one of the plush chairs and grip the velvet rail in front of me. Everywhere, my eye is met with red and gold.

“It’s so incredible,” I breathe, gazing up at the ornate ceiling.

“Garnier built it for Napoleon III, but we got rid of our emperor before he could set foot here,” Isabelle says, removing her cloak. She’s wearing a brilliant violet dress, which looks striking against her jet-black hair and pale skin. I am once again her insipid shadow; my lilac taffeta dress, beautiful within the agency walls, is demoted to ordinary in her presence.

“Garnier’s design isn’t to my taste, though.” She turns to me. “Did you know he wanted to design the tower for the Exposition Universelle?”

“You mean the one Eiffel is building?”

“Yes, he was livid when Eiffel won the commission. Garnier tried to put a stop to it—formed a group called the Protestation des Artistes, who claimed that as a mere engineer, Eiffel is incapable of creating a work of beauty.” Isabelle shakes her head. “He can only look to the past.”

When she talks about a subject she cares for, the spark in her eye outshines any dress or piece of jewelry she wears.

Unlike Isabelle, the count and countess are not interested in the architecture of the theater. They only have eyes for the faces populating it.

“Is that the captain who invited himself to my brother’s one Easter?” asks the count.

“Where?” The countess picks up her opera glasses and searches the sea of well-groomed theater patrons.

“In Montesquiou’s
loge
.” The count gestures toward another box like ours.

“Don’t point,” hisses the countess.

I look down at the stalls and the orchestra pit and watch as the musicians take their seats. Paul’s face floats into my mind. I bet he would love to play here.

“Isabelle, look!” exclaims the countess, still wielding her opera glasses. “The Duke d’Avaray is sitting with the Rocheforts.”

Isabelle follows her mother’s gaze and so do I, my pulse quickening at the mention of the duke’s name, even though I know this is Isabelle’s privilege, not mine. I won’t be prone to envy where the duke is concerned. I’m content to experience Isabelle’s good fortune vicariously.

“We shall invite them to dine with us afterward,” announces the countess. She puts her glasses on the velvet parapet and looks eagerly at her daughter. “He’s been paying you some attention. We must capitalize on that.”

“Must we?” Isabelle lowers her eyes and fidgets with the buttons on her gloves.

I want to pick up the opera glasses and see him for myself, but my attention is pulled to the stage. The thump of a stick signals that the performance is about to begin. I feel a quiver of anticipation as the house lights dim, and I hold my breath in the darkness. The opera is in Italian, but Isabelle explained
the plot to me in the carriage ride over. A young princess is kidnapped and sold into slavery, and a military commander falls in love with her but doesn’t know her true identity.

As the curtains open, the first bars of music send a shiver of goose bumps over me. Light shines on another world: another place and time in history. Logic tells me that I am looking at a stage with painted sets framed by solid marble columns in present-day France, but I feel transported back through the ages, to ancient Egypt, to hear a slave girl’s story.

Music fills the theater and I am transfixed. When Aida sings, it’s as though she’s singing from my own heart. In the hush, in the darkness, it is as though the performance is for me alone. In my mind, the audience has vanished, and my companions in the box recede into the shadows. The language might be foreign, but I understand the story: Aida is hiding a secret in plain sight.

When the house lights brighten and the curtain closes for intermission, my gaze remains locked on the stage. I exhale a silent breath and realize that I’m gripping the arms of my seat. As the chatter rises in the box, I feel a wave of loss wash over me; the illusion is broken and I am brought back to the carpeted floor of reality—when I was soaring just moments ago. How impossible not to be affected by such music. How jarring to take on one’s old form again, and continue the conversations you were engaged in before the performance started. I wish to be left alone to ruminate on this new feeling. But the magic is already fading and commonplace concerns take over.

“I can’t sit through another act on an empty stomach,” grumbles the count.

The countess claps her hands. “Café de la Paix for supper.”

“Mother, really?” says Isabelle. “We’re leaving at the intermission again?”

The countess ignores Isabelle’s complaint and addresses her husband. “We’ll invite the Rocheforts. Have the footman send a note to their box.”

As the rest of my party rises to leave, I’m hesitant. As much as I want to set eyes on the duke again, part of me wishes I could stay and find out what happens to Aida. I finally follow the others out of the box. I drum my fingers against my skirts in memory of the music as we walk along the marble corridors.

“Will anyone else be able to enjoy our seats?” I ask Isabelle as we retrace our steps back to the foyer.

Isabelle shakes her head. “Do you know I’ve never seen the end of a performance?”

“But why do your parents pay for such good seats if they always leave early?”

She smiles knowingly. “It’s more about who is sitting next to whom, who is wearing what and the gossip whispered in the darkness. The performance as advertised is the drama that interests them least.”

“It was spectacular,” I say.

She sighs. “I know. I was enjoying it too.”

After we find our way back to the marbled entrance hall, the party becomes a confusion of lost members and different plans. The viscountess has a headache and wants to go home; her husband wants to stay for supper. The countess tries to encourage
Claire to accompany her mother; Xavier is nowhere to be found. As Isabelle and I wait for the muddle to be sorted, my attention gravitates to the duke, my eyes following him as if he were the sole actor onstage. He wears the same black evening dress as the other men, but his suit is crisper on his contours, the color a deeper shade of midnight. In the general milling-around I can always locate his exact movements, even in my peripheral vision. When he brushes past me, the air shifted by his presence makes the tiny hairs on my arm stand at attention, and a shiver shoots up my neck.