Belle Epoque (25 page)

As the minutes tick by and the guests begin to take their seats, I worry that the duke won’t show up after all. The performance is due to start any moment, and I search the well-dressed crowd for his face.

“
Mesdames et messieurs
, please take your seats,” says the ambassador, and the last guests drift into the rows of chairs. Our row is composed of Isabelle’s uncle, Isabelle, me and an empty
seat beside me for the duke; the count, the countess and the Rocheforts are sitting in front of us. Needless to say, the seating arrangement was Isabelle’s doing.

Just as I’m about to give up on him, I see a figure gliding up the aisle in my peripheral vision.

“Is this seat taken?” I turn my head to meet the radiant face of the duke himself. He kisses my cheek as he sits down next to me, and my heart can’t contain itself. But when he leans across me to greet Isabelle in the same way, a voice inside me jeers,
Why you? Why would he pick Maude Pichon over a count’s daughter?

The ambassador clears his throat to get our attention.

“
Mesdames et messieurs
, at the embassy we are patrons of music, and tonight we are going to hear an original composition by a talented young musician. Please welcome Monsieur Paul Villette.”

I stop breathing. I cannot believe I have just heard my friend’s name spoken aloud. That name belongs in another world, another life. Surely it’s a mistake. But then the musicians walk into the room to polite applause. I gasp—the piano player is indeed my Paul Villette. The floor feels as though it’s rolling beneath my feet.

I shrink down as low as I can behind the mountainous hairpieces of Claire de Rochefort, immediately in front of me. In such a tiny audience it will be easy for Paul to recognize me. Or perhaps, as I’m dressed so differently, and in such an unfamiliar setting, he won’t—I hope he won’t.

Paul gives a short bow and takes his seat at the grand piano. Its surface shines like liquid. He glances up at the audience
just as Claire de Rochefort leans in and whispers something to her mother, exposing me completely, and my eyes lock onto his. I register the slight twitch of his head, followed by a cursory glance at my neighbors in the audience. The violin and cello players take their positions and look to him for a signal to begin.

Paul fumbles on the opening bars of his piece and my heart sinks. The performance spirals downward from there and seems to last an eternity. The sweet melody he played for me at the music hall sounds cheap in this decadent setting. The audience responds negatively—there are whispers and sniggers punctuating each phrase of music, not the least of them from my friends.

“Amateurs,” the duke hisses in my ear, and it cuts me to the quick. “The pianist isn’t the match for that fine instrument.”

As wounded as I feel for Paul, at the same time I want to distance myself from the borrowed evening jacket, messy hair and general inferiority he exudes. In truth, I feel ashamed of him. Seeing him vulnerable among these people only magnifies my own fears of not being good enough, of being discovered. I glance to my right at the duke, then to my left past Isabelle to her uncle. These men radiate confidence and grace; Paul resembles a court jester.

When the piece is finally over, all the guests leave the music room. I want to see if Paul is all right after the doomed performance, but I don’t want any of the Dubern circle to know we are acquainted. I follow Isabelle and the others for a few steps toward the ballroom, but when no one is looking I steal back into the music room unnoticed.

He’s standing alone, gathering his sheets of music. He looks up and I carefully make my way past the gilded chairs, unsure of what to say.

“Is everything in this city for sale?” he asks. “How many little girls are you governess to? For I only see you in the company of grown-ups.” His voice is strained with emotion.

Why is he so angry with me? “Paul, I’m sorry about your performance.”

“Do you think me a simpleton? God knows Paris is expensive. You wouldn’t be the first to accept ‘charity’ of that sort. I’m surprised your patron—or is there more than one?—I’m surprised he hasn’t installed you in better accommodations. Judging from his carriage, he can well afford to keep a mistress in more luxurious surroundings.” He stuffs his music sheets into a leather satchel.

I gasp when it hits me what he means. “A mistress? You think …” Then I have to stifle a laugh. “That’s ridiculous!”

“Is it so amusing? Do you have another explanation? You are certainly not a governess. Am I wrong?”

To explain … I realize I can’t explain. I grip the back of a chair for support. “No, I am not a governess.” The truth is humiliation. Worse than what he supposes. At least this way he thinks me capable of enticing a man.

“I thought you were a different sort of girl.” He looks at me harshly. “You had a purity to you. I found you open and honest. But you are an actress, I take it. Are you even interested in art or music—was that an act as well?”

“Paul, stop!” I say, my voice raised. I turn back to look at the door, hoping no one has heard us. I meet his gaze again. “I
was myself with you,” I say in a hushed tone. “I cannot explain further. It’s not what you think, but I have no other explanation to give you. It’s painful to see you disappointed with me. I cannot pretend I didn’t lie to you, but you mustn’t accuse me of the worst.”

“You must think me utterly naïve.” He slams down his satchel on the piano stool. “Every woman in Paris has her talents, her skills in manipulation; every woman has her price.” He closes the lid of the piano with unnecessary force and then meets my eye. “We are all prostitutes to the rich, Mademoiselle Pichon.”

I feel suddenly degraded by my job all over again. Its shadow of shame has reached every corner of my life. But I’m also angry. How could he think I would stoop so low as to be a kept woman, a rich man’s mistress? If that’s what he truly thinks of me, then let him believe it.

I meet his glare with mine. “Yes, most desperate people would submit to something distasteful for money,” I retort, my tone icy. Let him make of that what he will. “I’m sorry your music wasn’t more graciously received.”

I turn away and quit the room in a hurry, just as my voice falters and a sob escapes.

I fight to compose myself, then enter the ballroom. As I look for Isabelle among the guests, I notice that her parents are dancing, and I’m grateful I don’t have to deal with the countess at this moment. Isabelle is with the other young people, listening to Xavier boast about some feat of horsemanship. She looks bored. Behind her I see that the duke has been commandeered by Claire. They are both in hysterics.

I join the group casually. “What’s the joke?” I say, forcing a smile.

“It was the worst performance I’ve seen,” Claire says, laughing in a high-pitched screech.

“Where on earth did the ambassador find such buffoons? Had that pianist ever touched the instrument before?” says the duke.

“It can’t be easy to play in front of people.” Isabelle comes to Paul’s defense. “Maybe it was nerves?”

Claire rolls her eyes and bats her fan impatiently. “Nerves or not, the composition was dreadful.”

“I agree with Claire—it was hideous!” I laugh out loud, throwing away any thought of Paul, his composition, what he risked to play in front of an audience—and not least the name of the piece,
“La Bretonne.”

A
COLD SNAP HAS
P
ARIS
in its freezing grip. I follow the trickle of girls into the agency dressing room, my cheeks raw and my fingers numb. Like the others, I’m reluctant to take off my coat. One by one, we gather near the stove to thaw out. I take in the pitiful scene and compare it to the Dubern drawing room with its roaring fire and army of servants.

The glamour of the Christmas holiday is long gone. Isabelle has a cold, and we haven’t been to any events for the past ten days. The fantasies I got carried away with under the Dubern roof no longer seem possible when I’m here at the agency. Or maybe they aren’t possible under any circumstance. At the Christmas ball, Isabelle’s matchmaking amounted to a few dances with the duke. He was charming and courteous as ever, but I could tell he preferred Isabelle’s company to mine. And so despite her protest, I feigned tiredness and the Viscountess de Rochefort took me back to the Duberns’ in her carriage. I didn’t even mind about the failed attempt to attract the duke,
for on the drive back and into the small hours of the night it was Paul’s face, and not the duke’s, that kept entering my thoughts.

My new camera is the one good thing that has lasted from the Dubern Christmas into the New Year. I practiced using it in Isabelle’s schoolroom, and today I brought it to work with me. I have two plates remaining and plan to use them to take pictures of the view from the dressing room.

Of course, the moment Emilie sees the camera and exclaims aloud, the girls all gather round.

“What is that, Maude?” Emilie asks, her large eyes blinking.

“A camera.” I act nonchalant, but I can feel a sense of pride quicken in me.

“Do you know how it works?” says Hortense.

Cécile pushes past the others. “Where did you get it?” She reaches out to touch it.

“It’s fragile,” I say, pulling it from her grasp. I’ve anticipated this question, and I relish my answer. “It’s a gift from my client.”

And there: I see the shadow of envy touch their faces.

Marie-Josée joins in. “Take a picture of us,” she says, nodding at me encouragingly. Immediately the girls get giddy at her suggestion and imitate poses they’ve seen actresses and vaudeville stars strike. I can see what she’s doing: diffusing the tension, tempering the girls’ jealousy by having me share the camera with them. But I’m annoyed. I don’t want to waste a plate on them. I look at my friend playing the fool with the other girls. She lifts up her skirts like a cancan dancer.

“Come on, Maude.” She grins at me. “Tell us what to do!”

An idea pops into my head—I could just pretend to take
the picture; they don’t understand the technicalities involved. I’ll take the lens cap off, but if I leave the slide protecting the negative in the camera housing, the plate won’t be exposed. It will seem as if I’ve taken their picture. They’ll feel included, yet I won’t have used up a plate.

“All right. Open the net curtains and let in as much light as possible,” I say. They scramble to do as I ask. Meanwhile, I place the camera on a stool as a makeshift stand. “Now go to that pool of light by the window.” Excited, Marie-Josée, Hortense and Cécile horse around, arguing over who should stand in the middle. Emilie hovers at the fringes of the group, smiling at their antics.

I continue going through the motions as if I were really about to take the picture. “Emilie, join the others. Go on,” I say. I find the framing and set the focus; then I slide the wooden negative housing into the back of the camera. “Hold still,” I tell them. I look up from the viewer and remove the lens cap. But in that moment a shaft of soft light hits their faces, giving them an ethereal glow. In that instant I suddenly recognize that the girls are unself-conscious; they are their true selves, and I want to capture the way I see them right now. Before I can stop myself, I swifly remove the protective cover of the negative holder and the moment is recorded, almost against my will.

“Done,” I say, and a sigh escapes. I replace the lens cap and feel the rush of disappointment—I only have one plate remaining.

“What is going on in here?” Durandeau is standing in the doorway of the dressing room. “Not one of you is dressed.
There is a client coming in half an hour.” Smiles vanish and eyes are cast down.

“What is that, Mademoiselle Pichon?”

Instinctively I pick up the camera and draw it close. “A camera, Monsieur Durandeau.” My voice is almost a whisper.

“Really?” He strides toward me, his chin jutting out, suspicious. “And where did you procure such an item?”

“A gift from my client, monsieur.” I shrink back from his looming figure.

“Well, you can’t take an agency portrait in this hovel of a room.” He looks at his watch. “There’s ample time. We shall all convene in the salon for a proper formal photograph.”

My face flushes with indignation as I realize what he means. I don’t want to waste my last plate on a picture of Durandeau. “But—”

He cuts me off immediately. “Or would you rather I confiscate the item as property of the agency?”

I shake my head, wanting to kick myself for having brought the camera here in the first place. Part of me did want to show it off to the others.

We change into our agency clothes in silence, and I realize no one wants their repoussoir portrait taken. Nevertheless, everyone gathers in the salon. The chairs are arranged in a row. Durandeau enters and takes a seat in the middle, flanked by Girard and Laurent. The remaining seats are taken by the first girls to arrive, and the rest stand behind them.

“Is this setup going to work for you, Maude?” asks Laurent.

“Let me see.” I’ve never taken a formal group portrait before.
I place the camera on a wooden plant stand as a makeshift tripod and look through the window at the upside-down image. For this many people I should really have a bigger camera with a larger plate size. “You have to bunch together to all fit in the frame,” I say. The girls shuffle closer to one another while I check the focus. Then I insert the fresh plate and pull up the protective wooden slide in preparation to take the picture. I feel nervous with the whole agency looking at me expectantly.