Belle Epoque (12 page)

“What did the countess wear?” asks Emilie, the hairs on her mole quivering with curiosity.

To my relief there’s a knock on the dressing room door and Laurent interrupts the interrogation. “
Bonjour
, mesdemoiselles.”

The girls’ focus shifts to his handsome face. “
Bonjour
, Laurent,” they chorus. He searches the room until he meets my gaze. “There you are, Maude. I have a message for you from Monsieur Durandeau.”

I freeze at the mention of his name. The others look at me—they’re glad his message isn’t for them.

“He asks that you go and see Madame Leroux. She has to fit you for the Rochefort ball.”

I stand up, grateful that it’s only the seamstress I have to face and not Durandeau.

“A ball dress? How exciting!” Emilie chirps.

“Yes,” sneers Cécile. “I’m sure Leroux has made you something special for the occasion.”

I walk toward Laurent, who’s holding the door open for me. “Actually, the countess has sent you a dress from her couturier,” he says, smiling. There are gasps from around the room. “She had very specific instructions.”

I glance back at my comrades, wondering how I should react. The other girls nudge each other and exchange looks. I suppose this must be a good thing. I look at Marie-Josée, who is nodding at me encouragingly.

“And of course”—Laurent puts his arm on my back, gently guiding me out of the dressing room—“the client is always right.” Before the door is closed behind me, I can hear the other girls whispering.

Madame Leroux pins the waist of the new gown in stony silence. When I saw it on the hanger, I knew instantly that this gray satin dress was in a class of its own. I glance down at the bodice and full skirts, trying to examine the countess’s choice.

“Keep still or I’ll be sticking pins in you, not the dress,” says Leroux.

Standing on a stool, I have not been permitted to look in the mirror, and given the seamstress’s current mood, I fear I will be deprived of that privilege altogether.

There’s a knock on the door and Marie-Josée enters. “Vivienne?” she calls Madame Leroux by her first name. “There’s a lunch special on today at Chartier. Do you want to join us?” Marie-Josée has everyone charmed, even the scatty Madame Leroux.

“I would if I had the time.” She throws her arms up and waves them toward the ever-increasing pile of dresses. Strands of frizzy hair escape from her bun with every gesture. “These constant fittings—I can’t get anything else done.” Her scissors hang from a ribbon around her waist and swing like a pendulum as she gets worked up.

Marie-Josée sighs in solidarity with Leroux, then turns her attention toward me. “Well, don’t you look all dressed up with nowhere to go.” She turns me around, examining the dress as I try to keep my balance on the stool. I’m desperate to see what the fuss is about.

Marie-Josée raises her eyebrows. “This is a first, Vivienne,” she says.

“Never. I’ve never had a client send over a dress before,” says Madame Leroux peevishly.

“That’s one fussy countess,” agrees Marie-Josée, teasing out the information.

“Durandeau says she wants something classic, not vulgar,” says Leroux. “What an affront. As if I could make a vulgar gown. Now, where has that pincushion hidden itself?” She sifts through some fabrics on her worktable.

“I’ll say.” Marie-Josée flashes me a knowing look. “Who does she think she is?”

“I keep up with the fashions like any dressmaker.” Madame Leroux throws a witchy hand toward the stack of outdated issues of the ladies’ fashion bulletin
Le Petit Echo de la Mode
.

I take the chance while they’re chatting and step off the stool to get a peek in the mirror. The bodice is a pale gray satin, and the skirt billows out like a cloud, finished in a layer of lace tulle. It’s a pretty shade of gray, almost with a tinge of pink to it. No wonder Leroux is nettled—it’s far superior to any dress of her creation. And what’s more, I feel different wearing this new dress. A seed of hope is growing: perhaps the countess doesn’t see me like the rest of the repoussoirs. Maybe she simply wants a friend for her difficult daughter. Otherwise why give a special dress to someone like me? It doesn’t make sense that you’d want to dress up someone who’s paid to be ugly.

Another knock sounds at the door, and before Leroux can answer, a trio of heads appear: Cécile, flanked by Emilie and Hortense.

“Oh, look at the dress,” breathes Emilie. “Is that silk?”

Cécile walks up to me, eyeing my new gown intently. “There’s a client coming at eleven for a selection. Laurent says we have to round everyone up.”

Hortense reaches out to touch the material.

Madame Leroux is getting testy. “Why is everyone crowding in here?”

I hear Laurent’s voice in the hall and he appears a moment later in the doorway.

“Emilie, Hortense, Cécile, it’s almost time. What are you
standing around for?” Then he looks behind the door and catches sight of Marie-Josée next to Leroux. “What’s going on in here—secret workers’ meeting? Durandeau will have a coronary if you decide to unionize.”

“I’m just trying to get my dresses done, Monsieur Laurent,” says Leroux, flustered.

“Well, everyone out, and leave Madame Leroux to her work.”

My colleagues protest with a round of moans, but the crowd breaks up and they file out of the seamstress’s room, dragging their heels.

“I’ll be right there, Laurent. Once I change out of this dress,” I say.

When I get to the salon the door is closed, which means the client has already arrived. Wearing a plain agency dress again, I open the door quietly, hoping to slip in without a fuss. My footstep on a creaky floorboard gives me away, and Durandeau’s head whips around to see who’s causing the disturbance.

“Excuse me, madame,” Durandeau says to the client, who’s strolling around the room looking at the girls. “I won’t be a moment.” He marches up to me, his face swollen as though his collar is throttling him. “Out! Get out,” he hisses.

I’m so confused I just stand there. Shouldn’t he want me to take my place with the other girls?

His eyes bulge. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”

Cécile, Marie-Josée and Emilie are all within earshot. Even though they remain frozen like statues, I know everyone’s straining to overhear the drama.

“I know I’m late, monsieur, but—”

Durandeau cuts me off. “The countess has requested that you work exclusively for her family.”

I look blankly at him, his chest puffed out, nostrils flaring, annoyed at having to explain. “She doesn’t want you shown to other clients until after the ball. Now go!”

I nod feebly and make for the door, embarrassed. I can sense the other girls’ eyes boring into my back.

I drift along the corridor and return to the dressing room, where I sit alone, staring at my colleagues’ belongings. We always spend the day in agency clothes, then change back into our own before we leave for the evening; until then our dresses, coats and hats are hung up. There are rows of shoes and boots, some mittens and an umbrella—all waiting for their owners to return. There is nothing to suggest from their appearance that the items belong to ugly girls—just girls, who, like me, need a job and are lucky (or unlucky enough) to fit the bill.

I think back to the day of my interview. The initial shock of contemplating a room full of unattractive women wears off eventually. Over time you get past the outer layers, the misshapen shells, and become acquainted with the soul and essence of each girl. Like any person, an ugly woman’s looks are transformed by her conversation, humor, intelligence and even grace. But this all reverses during the selection process. When a client enters the salon, I’ve seen a girl change from her giddy, laughing self to her repoussoir guise in an instant. When she freezes like a statue, the light completely disappears from her eyes. She hides. All that’s left to the outsider is that unattractive shell to judge her on. Her true self waits for the selection
process to be over and her persecutors to leave the room; until that time, she is impenetrable to discovery.

No one talks about these moments, but I take note—I can feel the change happen. For it takes place in my own heart when I hear the step of a well-heeled shoe on the salon floor and Durandeau’s nauseating voice.

I rinse out the teapot and tidy away the china plates. Minutes drag on. It’s only now that I am separated from the rest of the girls that I can see how I’ve come to belong here and feel at home. Despite the unpleasantness of the job, there is comfort in the routine of the agency and the comradeship of the girls. But now I’ve been singled out, and I can’t shake Durandeau’s words. They echo in my head.
The countess chose you
.

“I
T IS A SPECIAL DANCE
lesson today, girls,” says Girard with her affected elocution. We are gathered in the dining room, the tables and chairs pushed to the sides. Each girl is partnered with another. Of course I’m paired with Marie-Josée, who actually enjoys dance practice and is surprisingly light on her feet considering her ample frame.

“Mademoiselle Pichon is to attend the official ball marking the start of the season: a first for one of our girls.” Girard beams at me. I feel uncomfortable. My excitement for the new dress has been overshadowed by the pressure of such a big event.

In the village we had a dance once in the church hall. It was a chilly building not equipped for celebration or rejoicing. Still, I cradled my anticipation of the event lovingly, thinking it would be a grand affair that would change the course of sleepy rural life. Something momentous would happen that evening, I was sure. The hall was decorated with flowers, I wore my new dress—well, an old one I had made new with
ribbons and lace—I drank cider and caught the eye of a boy from a neighboring village. When he led me to dance, I knew that my prophecy was becoming reality. It was only afterward he admitted it was a bet, to coax a wallflower to the floor. My hopes crushed, I spent the rest of the evening as a spectator, the promise of magic extinguished.

“Now take your partners, ladies. We shall begin with a waltz.” Girard’s voice squawks when she raises it. The shuffle of footsteps can be heard across the room as the girls obey orders. I turn and face Marie-Josée, putting my hand on her shoulder. She squeezes my waist, making me laugh.

“Ready, and … begin.”

There’s no music, only Girard tapping out the rhythm with her cane.

“
One
, two, three,
one
, two, three,” she says breathlessly, punctuating each repetition with a thump.

As we waltz near Cécile and Hortense, I feel a sharp elbow in my back. Cécile whispers, “Watch where you’re going.”

Marie-Josée tuts and guides us away from them. “She’s just jealous,
ma belle
,” she says, twirling me around the room. “You’re getting all these lovely perks and don’t have to bother going to the client selections.”

I feel wrongly accused. “Doesn’t she understand that I don’t care about those things? I’m not trying to be special or better than anyone else.” I step on her toe, not paying attention to the dance. “Sorry,” I say. We come to a standstill.

“Let’s start over. Come on, chin up,
chérie
,” says Marie-Josée. “Look at me, not your feet.” She smiles at me and I feel a bit better. “Like any job in service, there are important clients
and less important ones at the agency,” she continues. “You are getting the high-society treatment. You’re starting at the top.”

“But I don’t want the attention.”

“It doesn’t work like that. Look, not all the girls get to attend such events. Give them something, Maude.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, surprised. “I’m not going to boast about the events.”

“Not boast, but you have to share your experiences. If you don’t, they’ll think you’re stuck-up. So take some notice at the ball and pay these girls some mind when they quiz you on it.”

“New tempo now, girls.” Girard changes the “music,” but I’m distracted. I can’t get the new rhythm right. Marie-Josée leads us through my missteps patiently.

“They want the details: the names of the guests, the dishes the hostess serves, a description of the clothes and jewels,” she says, spinning me, her face reddening from the effort.

“Emilie, arms up, keep your frame solid!” Girard shouts.

Marie-Josée continues, “The likes of Emilie, she’s only seen the inside of a café or gone for a stroll in the park—and only with lower-tier clients, at that. She hasn’t been as lucky as you.”

“But it’s not luck,” I insist. “It’s a curse, such a high-profile event. It would be so much easier to walk in the park, or sit in the back of a café, out of sight.”

“It’s too late for that. The countess did her choosing and off to the ball you go, Cinderella.”

“But I’m not Cinderella, am I? I’m supposed to be the ugly stepsister. We all are—Durandeau’s
belles-sœurs
.”

Girard thumps her stick out of time to get our attention.
“Girls, enough talking! Concentrate on the steps. Mademoiselle Pichon, you especially, given that you’re attending a ball in a matter of days. Do you want to embarrass yourself?”

We continue dancing around the room under the scrutiny of Girard and to the unrelenting
thump, thump
of her stick.