Belle Epoque (8 page)

My heart battered against my chest. Monsieur Thierry, the butcher? But he was old and pock-faced and beat his dog. How could Papa possibly think …

“I suppose beggars can’t be choosers. She doesn’t have her mother’s looks, that’s for sure.”

“Yes, she’s plain as flour. Poor thing could have done with a mother’s guidance at this age.”

I felt the blood rushing to my head, pumping furiously. My stomach dropped to the floor and my knuckles turned white from gripping the apples so tightly.

“I expect it was a kindness on old Pichon’s part. He wants her taken care of.”

“Or he fancies that with Thierry as his son-in-law, he’ll get a roast every night of the week! Sly old coot.”

Suddenly I could see my quiet life mapped out, and it felt as though I had aged forty years. I would never visit Paris or dance with a gentleman or hear an opera. The whole village
squeezed into that damp cellar, sucking out the air and crushing me. My fate had been decided; no one expected anything more of me.

I heard the squeak of the door and tinkle of the shop bell, followed by Father’s voice. His banal comments about the weather and his pleasant tone with the customers reviled me. My fingernails pierced the flesh of the apples. If I wanted it, I had to seize life for myself. It was then that the explosive idea of running away to Paris flashed with the fizzing brightness of striking a match. And that flame remained hissing and sparking in my chest. It stayed bright and grew bigger and wouldn’t be extinguished.

S
ATURDAY EVENING, AND THE AGENCY
is buzzing with activity in preparation for a busy night. All but the new girls and those mentors without plans are stuck in the salon, enduring another lesson with Girard.

I let her voice float over me as I watch the sky outside bruise from gold to purple. Night is rising in Paris, and I wear my dread of the impending evening like an unwanted hand-me-down. If only Marie-Josée were here to reassure me. We haven’t crossed paths since yesterday, before my meeting with the Duberns. I’m desperate to tell her what happened with Isabelle, but this morning I was stuck in a fitting for my evening dress and this afternoon she went out on a repoussoir date, stretching it long enough to get out of training.

“October marks the start of the Paris season,” lectures Girard. “All the rich Parisian families have returned from their country chateaus or foreign travel and are back on the social
merry-go-round.” I wish she would stop; her words only add to my anxiety.

“As employees of this agency, you will experience the best of everything—opening night at the theater, opulent banquets and exclusive balls. You will be driven everywhere by carriage, will wear costume jewels and fine clothes.”

I hear a couple of snickers at that last comment. The girls take bets on whether our seamstress, Madame Leroux, is colorblind or has naturally abominable taste. Whatever the reason, her talent for making us look bad is legendary.

Girard drones on. “People not in the know will think you belong in these social circles. All you have to do is fit in and serve your client.”

I can’t sit still; I keep shifting in my seat. Everyone seems restless. A lot of us new girls have already been on solo dates, and the training is feeling redundant. It didn’t help me in the one meeting I had with Isabelle Dubern.

“I want to finish today’s lesson by discussing one of the subtleties of your role,” Girard announces, then pauses to emphasize the importance of what she’s about to say, but for me it just feels as though she’s stopping time. Shouldn’t we be done by now? I look at the clock: two minutes remain.

“A successful client-repoussoir relationship is based on the appearance of friendship—a close one.”

This remark gets my attention. I haven’t stopped thinking about the countess’s words to me since she spoke them.

Girard goes on, “The comparison effect can only work if you can make yourself a mirror to your client, staying close enough to magnify her beauty. The client will play her part and be nice
to you, treat you like a best friend, share secrets, and laugh with you. You must also play your part.”

I want to shake my head. But what if your client is being duped by her mother? What if she doesn’t know she has a part to play? If Girard were a little more approachable I might ask her advice, but Marie-Josée is the only person I trust. I must speak to her before I leave for the Duberns’—she will know what to do.

“Remember, the closer you appear to your client, the better the result.” Girard gestures dramatically, one hand on her heart, the other reaching out to some imaginary public. “Think of yourself as an actress on the stage.…”

Before she can finish her speech the clock on the mantelpiece chimes and the lesson is finally at an end.

I am the first out of the salon. Maybe Marie-Josée has returned while I was stuck in class. I run along the corridor to the dressing room, fling open the door and survey the room, looking for her familiar round figure. But as I stand there out of breath and searching, I realize instantly that she’s not here. A few more girls drift into the dressing room and step around me. I can’t face Isabelle Dubern and her intimidating mother without debriefing Marie-Josée on what happened in the hat shop. She’s never afraid of clients. More than this, she feels like my good-luck charm at the agency—I just need to see her and then everything won’t seem so bad.

“Maude.” Madame Leroux sees me and beckons me over. She takes my outfit from the rack of gowns hanging up for this evening’s dates. It’s an old-lady dress, dark gray lace with matching gloves.

She holds it against me on the hanger. “It should fit better now that I lengthened the hem and took in the waist.”

“Have you seen Marie-Josée today?” I ask as she hands me the dress.

“No, I haven’t.” She snaps her fingers, irritated. “Get a move on and get changed.”

I slip off my agency day dress and she helps me on with the evening gown. I catch my reflection in the mirror—I look like a faded widow before I’ve even been married.

“Sit,” she instructs, pointing to the stool opposite the mirror. She unravels my braid and bushes out my hair, then scrapes it into a pile on top of my head, fixing it with jabbing pins. I place a hand on the back of my bare neck; I’m not used to wearing my hair up like this. I feel exposed.

“You’re done. Hortense, you’re next,” she calls out.

I leave the dressing room, and as I walk past the wall clock, I check the time. I have one hour until I have to leave. Come on, Marie-Josée, I think. Come back soon.

I sit alone in the agency dining room with a large napkin over my frock so as not to spill my dinner on it. The dining rules have been helpfully tacked on the wall in front of me.

I don’t have any appetite. I make patterns with my fork in the runny shepherd’s pie. Maybe Isabelle will be friendlier to me this evening, or maybe she’ll be worse. My stomach somersaults at the thought.

“What are you doing?” The voice startles me and I look up to meet Marie-Josée’s twinkling eyes. She pushes my plate away. “Don’t stuff yourself before a dinner. You won’t have any room left.”

Immediately I jump up and kiss her cheek. “I’m so glad you’re back. You were gone all afternoon.”

She laughs at the welcome and takes a seat. “Leroux told me you were off to the Duberns’ tonight. Mind if I finish your plate?” she asks.

“Go ahead. But what about the rules? I should try to eat something.”

“Poppycock!” Marie-Josée replies. “You have to enjoy the perks. Do you know how incredible the spread will be? You can’t miss out.” She whips off my napkin to prove her point and tucks it into the collar of her own dress. “Just don’t let anyone see you pocket anything—and nothing too soft or it will spoil in your purse.” She gives me a wink. “Leroux might not tell on you, but Girard always has a way of finding out.”

A pulse of anxiety quickens through me as I imagine the dinner to come. “I doubt I’ll be able to swallow a bite.”

Marie-Josée shovels a forkful of shepherd’s pie into her
mouth. “Why so nervous? If you’re on a second date already, yesterday must have gone well.”

“That’s why I’ve been desperate to speak to you. It didn’t go well. The girl is a brat. And that’s not the worst of it. I’m supposed to befriend her—not like a repoussoir—but as a real friend.”

“What do you mean?” says Marie-Josée, her forehead scrunched up and a piece of potato hanging from the corner of her mouth.

“The countess is hiring me for the ball behind her daughter’s back.”

“What?” says Marie-Josée, wiping her lips with my napkin. “The daughter doesn’t know you’re a repoussoir?” This is the first time I’ve seen Marie-Josée look genuinely shocked.

I shake my head. “I have to pretend to be Madame Vary’s niece or second cousin or something, and I’m supposed to make friends with Isabelle without giving the game away. I have to get through dinner tonight and the ball next Saturday.”

Marie-Josée stops eating for a moment. “I’ve never heard of that happening before, the client being in the dark. They usually pick us out themselves.”

“Exactly. It makes my job impossible, because Isabelle has made it plain she dislikes me.”

Marie-Josée thinks for a moment. “How? Is she vain and stuck-up?”

“No, she’s proud and standoffish.”

“Don’t kowtow to her; she’ll be used to getting her way. Show some mettle.” She nods at me. “I know you have it in you.” She polishes off the last of my shepherd’s pie.

“But stand up to her how?” I ask.

Marie-Josée doesn’t have a chance to answer. Girard’s nasal voice can be heard across the room, and we turn around to see Cécile point to our table. Girard hurries toward us with her mincing steps.

“Mademoiselle Pichon!” she calls out.

When she arrives at our table, she glances at my empty plate. “Good, you’ve finished your dinner. Monsieur Durandeau would like to speak to you before you leave. He’s in his private rooms.”

I nod and exchange a look with Marie-Josée. She pats my hand encouragingly, and I push back my chair and rise to go and face Durandeau.

I walk along the hall to his apartments, where a light shines under the door; I clench my fist and knock. A muffled grunt bids me to enter. I open the door to find Durandeau at his supper: filet mignon, not shepherd’s pie. It smells unbelievably good.

“Monsieur Durandeau, you wanted to see me?” My voice has to compete with saliva-drenched chomping. His table is set as if it were in a restaurant, with white linen, silverware and a carafe of wine. There’s even a candelabra on the table to add to the formal atmosphere.

“Second assignment in a week, and the ball next Saturday.” He manages this utterance between mouthfuls. “The countess must like you.”

I wonder if I should point out that the countess hired me tonight because she doesn’t trust me and wanted to test me with a group of her friends. “What if …” I hesitate. “What if
tonight doesn’t go as planned and she decides not to hire me for the ball?”

His silverware clatters down on the plate. “Why would you say such a thing?”

I swallow hard. “I just wondered if a different client might be more appropriate for me.”

“Give you another client?” he booms. “Impossible. The countess selected
you
, not some other girl.”

“But, monsieur, I’m not sure this client is a good fit,” I plead, desperate to make him understand. “Maybe when I have more experience …”

He points at me with his steak knife. “You want to get the commission without having to earn it, more like.” He goes back to attacking his steak, sawing at it with vigor. “I would never contradict the Countess Dubern’s wishes.” He stabs a large hunk of meat and shovels it into his mouth. “She is from one of the most distinguished families in Paris. We’re lucky to have her patronage.”

“Yes, monsieur,” I say. My posture sinks with compliance. He lectures me about the Duberns’ noble ancestry, but I’m not listening. Watching him tear into his steak, an image surfaces in my imagination—the birth of the agency. Durandeau, seated by the window at his favorite restaurant, wolfs a filet mignon. Outside, two young women stroll by. From behind there isn’t much to distinguish one from the other. They pause and look at the menu board outside, arm in arm, laughing at some private joke. The girl closer to him is average-looking, nothing special; the other girl, who was obscured by her friend, now steps forward, directly into Durandeau’s line of vision. He
gasps. “What a hideous creature!” An offensive type of ugliness reserved for a select few this world has seen fit to punish. He can’t help but stare—he is hypnotized by this ugly girl.

Finally, when he can take no more, Durandeau looks to her friend for some relief from the visual assault. He is calmed by her features, which appear to soften and improve before his eyes. He thinks,
She is pretty this girl, not average at all
. Then the wheels turn.
Ah, the illusion of beauty—the rule of comparisons
. The lightning bolt strikes! He freezes midbite, wanting to hold on to this genius, delight and cunning creeping across his face. The quivering synapses fire to the next thought, his body a bystander to the locomotive of ingenuity thundering through his brain.
Ugly women! An untapped resource until now!
A drizzle of steak blood drips from his mustache onto the white linen. The waiter disturbs his reverie. Durandeau waves him off impatiently, his expression ferocious. He resumes his analysis of the girls, greedily taking in the features of each.
Imagine if you could re-create this experience for other such average women. You could sell beauty!