Belle Epoque (7 page)

The Duberns greet Madame Vary, who introduces me as her late husband’s relative.

The countess smiles, giving me the full benefit of her handsome face. “Maude, how lovely to see you again.” I’m surprised by how much friendlier she is now than she was at the agency.

Her daughter is not at all friendly, though. I offer her my hand, my smile feeling taut and unnatural. “A pleasure to meet you, Isabelle,” I say. She barely articulates a
bonjour
in return. She might be prettier if she smiled.

Isabelle Dubern walks away from us and begins to wander the store, looking at the merchandise. It makes no sense, her lack of interest in me—shouldn’t she study
me
and not the hats? Her mother and Madame Vary were so particular when sizing up the agency girls.

The countess gestures for me to follow her daughter, so I make my way across the boutique, walking behind her like a puppy. She fingers the odd hat but doesn’t try any on. My stomach is in knots, and I rehearse some phrases of conversation in my mind but manage to voice nothing. She appears completely indifferent to my presence.

The countess and Madame Vary boss the shopgirl around, their voices filling the store. “This hat with less detail.” “More feathers.” “This one in another color.” “One with a veil.” “Without the jewels.” From where I’m standing, it appears that the countess goes for bold choices, Madame Vary the more frivolous and prettier styles. I have never seen such energetic customers of anything.

The minutes pass, and I feel as though I’m failing in this meeting. I hover near Isabelle and pick up a hat, turning it around and around. As I try to ascertain which is the front, Isabelle picks up a simple straw bonnet with a black ribbon
and tries it on. In this instant I recall my training.
Compliment your client on her appearance
. Finally, an avenue of conversation.

“That looks pretty,” I say.

She glares at me. “I’m not looking for pretty.”

The rebuff throws me. Then why do you need me? I think.

The countess sweeps in before I can respond. “Isabelle! Take off that ugly thing and try on something appropriate. Honestly, why do you enjoy acting the pauper?”

Isabelle removes the hat with a sigh and wanders to a display of over-the-top feathered hats. She picks up an ambitious creation with plumage in shades of pink and lilac. “How about this one, Mother?”

“Come, Isabelle, please. Must you go to the other extreme? You’re not going to be riding a circus elephant.”

I look away, not wanting to witness their private squabbles.

“How about this one for your daughter, madame?” The shopgirl intervenes with a gray ostrich-feather hat.

“That’s more like it,” the countess approves.

The shopgirl approaches Isabelle and fixes the hat in place.

“Now stand in front of the mirror,” the countess orders. “Take a look.” Isabelle does as she is told while the countess confides to her friend, “It’s a relief to see her looking like a lady for once, and not a peasant or a schoolgirl.”

But Isabelle maintains a steely resistance to the hat. “It doesn’t suit me, Mother. The feathers would look better on the bird.”

I stand a few paces behind Isabelle, studying her reflection. She’s pretty, but her beauty doesn’t command attention, like her mother’s does. And there’s a defiance to her; something
about the line of her jaw, how she holds her head up. I look at my own reflection in contrast. Does the comparison effect work? Do I really make her look prettier? How unnatural to want your own face to disappoint, to fall short, to repel the onlooker so much he latches on to your companion.

The countess addresses the salesgirl. “We’ll take the ostrich feather and these.” She points to the bounty that she and Madame Vary have picked out on the chaise longue. “You can start boxing everything up.”

Isabelle removes the ostrich-feather hat and gives it to the shopgirl. She catches me looking at her. “Yes?” she says sourly.

I channel Girard. Quick, I think, compliments. “Oh, just … those gray feathers contrast nicely with your hair color,” I say, smiling.

She rolls her eyes. “Are you a performing monkey—are you going to flatter me with every hat I try on?”

Why is she being so difficult? She knows this is my job; what does she expect? I look away, my face flushed with embarrassment. It’s as though Isabelle is feigning ignorance of the purpose of our meeting. And then it hits me with a jolt: maybe she’s not pretending. Maybe she doesn’t know the reason I’m here. My heart quickens as I tally up the evidence: Madame Vary’s playacting that I’m her relative, the tension between mother and daughter, and Isabelle’s reluctance to look pretty or feminine. This whole charade is the work of the countess, I’m certain of it. Hiring a repoussoir for your daughter without her knowledge—if Isabelle Dubern were nicer to me, I’d feel sorry for her.

“I challenge you to find the ugliest hat in the shop.” I turn
to find her staring at me. “One that would make me look ridiculous.”

I glance over at the countess and Madame Vary for help, but they are occupied with the salesgirl on the other side of the shop. I take a breath and walk around the merchandise, looking for a bad hat, the wrong hat, the odd one out. Isabelle follows at my heels. I see one decorated with masses of silk roses and a lacey veil. “This one.” I point at it.

“Why don’t you like it?” she asks.

“It has too much adornment, I suppose, to be tasteful.” I hope I’ve made the right decision—is this some kind of test or trick?

She picks it up and examines it. The silk flowers crowd it like a great rosebush. Even the veil has small roses embroidered on it.

“Who do you think would wear a hat like this?” she asks me with a smile.

Relieved that we are actually conversing, I respond eagerly. “An actress, maybe. A vaudeville star, perhaps?”

A spark lights in her eyes. “Or a courtesan,” she says playfully, trying on the hat herself. I laugh with too much enthusiasm, grateful to be sharing a joke with her.

Madame Vary approaches as Isabelle flaunts the hat.

“Did you find anything else before your mother settles the account?”

Isabelle’s face falls. “I fell in love with this one, but your niece says I look like a prostitute.”

I gasp, and Madame Vary colors, then shoots daggers at me. Isabelle makes a show of removing the hat as if it’s tainted and
puts it back on the display. What a vixen! How easily lies roll off her tongue.

I try to defend myself. “But, I—”

“Maude! Apologize at once.” Madame Vary’s voice is like acid. She touches Isabelle’s arm and in a softer tone says, “I’m sure she didn’t mean to be rude. Coming from the—uh, the convent, she’s not accustomed to the latest fashions.”

The countess calls, “Isabelle! Fetch the driver. Tell him we have boxes to put in the carriage.”

“Yes, Mother.” Isabelle smirks in my direction as she walks between me and Madame Vary. When Isabelle is safely out of earshot, Madame Vary grabs my wrist and hisses, “Where are your manners? I thought they trained you to behave like a lady. This isn’t the cheap seats.” She drops my arm and hurries out of the shop after Isabelle.

It’s obvious to me that I’m not any kind of match for the countess’s wretched daughter. It’s all so absurd. This meeting is a disaster. Why didn’t they prepare me properly for the farce? Regardless of whether she knows the truth of my position, Isabelle Dubern is mean and spiteful. I remember Marie-Josée’s words: “There’s always one client who’s a cruel mistress.”

“Maude!” The countess calls me over. My stomach plummets as I approach. Did she overhear the exchange with Isabelle? I dread hearing what she has to say, and I hold my breath.

“You and Isabelle are a match,” she says, trying on a pair of midnight-blue gloves. “I want you for her debut at the Rochefort ball. But before I let you loose on society, tomorrow night you will dine with us—to make sure you can handle yourself in a group of our friends.”

She extends her arm to examine the glove.

“But I want to be crystal clear,” she continues. Her voice is sharp and cold, like ice cracking. “This isn’t like other agency jobs. Isabelle doesn’t know what you are. As far as she’s concerned, you are her new best friend.” She meets my eye. “She is never to find out. You understand?” Her gaze is unflinching.

I nod slowly. I understand perfectly—the countess has given me an impossible assignment.

T
HIS IS ONE OF THE
few times I’ve been a customer at Café Chez Emile. On Saturday the agency doesn’t open until noon. It’s just past ten, and I’m sipping a bowl of hot chocolate, pretending to read the newspaper, but really I’m scanning the faces and searching for Paul’s baggy suit in the crowd.

Eiffel’s Tower Soars Past Second Platform, Approaches 200m
. I skim the words of the article without taking them in. My hot chocolate is nearly gone and I’m about to give up, when, with a thrill of recognition, I see him walk through the door. He’s with a couple of friends, and they take a table on the opposite wall. The waiter obviously knows them, as he produces their coffees without having to ask. Now is the right time, and I feel the surge of daring propelling me to action as I rise from my chair. But before I walk over to his table, something stops me in my tracks: Paul and his friends are suddenly distracted. My eyes follow theirs toward an attractive woman who’s just walked in.

“Suzanne! Suzanne!” they call out to her. She waves and approaches their table. They are all pleased to see her—including Paul—and as I watch with dismay, as each man jumps up and takes a turn to kiss her on both cheeks. She wears her wavy hair long and loose and carries a large canvas under her arm. Seeing them all together, I shrink back down into my seat and stare at the dregs of my hot chocolate. When I look up again, I see that she’s sitting next to Paul and the painting is propped up on the banquette. It doesn’t sit there for long. Paul picks it up and removes the cotton sheet covering it. I can’t get a good look at the artwork, but much discussion occupies the table. Is she the artist? Whoever she is, she is the center of attention. The louder their chatter, the more invisible I feel. I put a coin on the table for the hot chocolate and slip out of the café unnoticed.

The omnibus is stopped on rue de Rennes, and even though I have time to kill, I run to catch it. I climb up to the open-air top deck as usual so I can see the view. My favorite part of the journey to work is when we’re on the Pont Neuf over the Seine and I can see the two sides of Paris spread out on either side of the river. I live on the Left Bank, and everything to do with the agency and rich people, as far as I can tell, is on the Right Bank. But today when the omnibus reaches the Pont Neuf, instead of gazing at the view, I revisit the scene in the café. Why didn’t I just say hello to him? I think, and a sigh escapes. The omnibus jolts and I glance up to look across the river. Eiffel’s unfinished tower is rising in the distance. Not fitting in was never part of my dream of Paris.

I think back to the chain of events that led me to finally
leave Poullan-sur-Mer. I had grown to hate the store, with all its practical items of country-life necessity. No frills or luxury. Nothing scented or pretty or delicate. It used to be fun when I was little and when my mother’s touch could be felt in the inventory and the organization. After her death, Papa took me out of school. In his opinion I had learned enough arithmetic to be useful, and I was put to work managing the accounts. When my classmates were reading about Pompeii and Byzantium, I was counting bottles of liniment or hauling sacks of flour. If any of my friends came by the shop to see me, Papa would hover about sighing until they left. He said he didn’t like me socializing while working. I bet the miser that he is didn’t want me handing out extra butter or chocolate. Or maybe he was worried I would turn a blind eye if one of the little blighters lifted anything.

I had started talking to Papa about returning to school. The shop was running smoothly. I could still help out on weekends and afternoons. I wanted to learn—there was a whole world of knowledge I was missing out on. That was when he began promoting the idea of marrying me off. I would soon be turning sixteen, and this was his way of controlling me, of quashing my dreams.

The notion of running away surfaced gradually: a secret I had been unwilling to tell myself. The turning point came when I was in the cellar fetching apples from the dry store. Down there, you can hear the floorboards squeak and the muffled conversations from upstairs. Papa was out front loading supplies onto a farmer’s cart, and the farmer’s wife was gossiping to a friend, assuming they were alone in the store.

“She’s only a young thing, and he works her six days a week for her keep,” she said. “Young folk should have some time to live. Lord knows there’s enough work to go around when she grows up.”

I froze at her words, an apple in each hand. They were talking about me.

“Who’s going to work for him for free when he marries her off?” asked the other woman.

I craned my neck toward the ceiling, straining to hear.

“Well, she’ll be right across the street. I hear that Thierry has been dropping hints, wants a young wife to bear him some sons.”