Belle Epoque (13 page)

I
CLIMB THE STAIRCASE OF
the Dubern house behind a servant, careful not to trip on the skirts of my new dress. I had all of three seconds to look at my reflection in Leroux’s workroom before being rushed out the door. Marie-Josée was out on a repoussoir date when I left the agency, so I couldn’t show her the result, with the alterations complete and my hair done. Leroux wasn’t interested in paying me any compliments; her lips were sewn tight after she helped me into the dress. It’s absurd to admit it, but I almost felt pretty when I saw my reflection in the mirror.

I wish my mother could see me.

The gaze of Dubern relatives follows me as I advance step by step up the carpeted stair. They scrutinize me with their frozen expressions; the men are dour and the women haughty. My dress doesn’t fool them. After I pass by, I imagine one portrait turning to another and asking,
Why has such an ill-bred girl been allowed to befriend our great-great-granddaughter?

The servant leads me up another flight of stairs. I’m curious which version of Isabelle Dubern will greet me this time: the devilish cat who lashed out in the hat shop, the sullen girl who ignored me in her parents’ drawing room, or that glimmer of a confidante I saw in the glass house—like one of those flowers whose petals, closed tight by day, open up to moonlight.

Walking along a hallway, I can hear raised voices.

“I will not wear it. I told you before, it’s unbearable.”

I recognize Isabelle’s voice and I want to turn back. My question has been answered. The servant gestures toward the open door of her bedroom.

“I can’t breathe.” Isabelle puts her hands on her rib cage. A maid is fussing with hooks on her dress. Isabelle stamps her foot in protest, shrugging off the girl’s touch. The countess is perched on the four-poster bed, watching her daughter’s tantrum.

I linger in the doorway, waiting for the servant to announce me. This room isn’t what I imagined for Isabelle somehow; the walls are decorated with a girlish rosebud paper; there are framed paintings of rosy children, and a collection of china dolls stare at Isabelle from a glass cabinet.

“Is that what you want? Me to faint in front of everyone?” says Isabelle.

“Enough hysterics.” The countess snaps her fingers. “Cochet.” She addresses the maid. “Loosen the corset a hair and see if the dress will still fit.” The maid, who began to tidy up other dresses discarded on a chair, now returns to Isabelle’s side. She unfastens the hooks on the bodice of the dress, then begins to loosen the corset underneath.

The countess watches closely. “You will wear the dress, Isabelle. I will have Cochet sew you into it if need be.”

The room falls silent. Only the ticking of a clock on the mantel and the sound of the maid working the corset laces can be heard.

“Madame la Comtesse,” says the servant, seizing an opportunity to interrupt. “Mademoiselle Pichon has arrived.”

I walk toward the countess and curtsey.

She glances at me. “
Bonsoir
, Maude. Don’t you look nice,” she says without feeling—not the way a compliment should be given, but as though saying something perfunctory, like “Close the door” or “Pass the butter.”

“It’s a shame your aunt was taken ill,” she adds with a knowing look.

I didn’t realize that’s why I’m here alone this evening, but I play along. “Yes, she was feeling poorly.” I recall the countess’s remark after dinner about the count admiring the young widow. Is Madame Vary really ill or just not invited?

I look over at Isabelle. She stands silently while the maid finishes hooking up her dress. Bright white satin with chiffon folds sweeping across the low neckline and layers upon layers of skirts emphasize her neat waist. Her diamond earrings hang like giant teardrops, glittering in the lamplight. I now understand that the choice of my gray dress was expertly engineered. As beautiful as I thought it at the agency, seeing Isabelle now, I realize that I am a mere shadow—a faded bloom to her vibrant flower. The countess’s grasp of the subtleties of the foil’s position is far more sophisticated than the agency’s.

The countess gets up from the bed and walks toward
Isabelle, inspecting her daughter as a superior officer might a soldier under his command.

“Where’s the necklace? Put it on,” she instructs the maid.

“Mother, really, the earrings are sufficient.”

“Darling,” says the countess icily. “The jewels will reflect the light and brighten up your pretty face.”

Isabelle scowls. Flattery doesn’t soften her. She looks at me accusingly. “Maude doesn’t wear carats of precious stones. Why should I?”

The countess looks at me with mock pity. “Maude suits a simpler
tenue
. I’m sure she would appreciate the chance to wear jewels if she were as lucky as you. Isn’t that right, Maude?”

“I—I’m sure,” I stammer, my voice croaky. “The necklace will look awfully pretty, Isabelle.”

The maid takes the jewels from the box on the dressing table and places them around Isabelle’s white throat—a web of rubies the color of pomegranate seeds is interlaced with shimmering diamonds.

Isabelle’s jaw tightens. “I’ll wear it on the condition we lend Maude something.” She turns to her mother. “It’s only fair.”

Gripped with anxiety, I step preemptively toward the countess. “Oh, I couldn’t.” I shake my head emphatically.

“Come now, Isabelle. Don’t be difficult,” says the countess. “Cochet, fix her hair. I don’t want it falling loose at the back.” She’s doing her best to ignore her daughter’s request.

“I’m not being difficult, Mother, I’m being generous,” says Isabelle. “I insist Maude be allowed to borrow something pretty. She looks positively plain.”

Without knowing it, Isabelle has hit upon my intended
purpose. The countess must be silently fuming: the foil shouldn’t be given jewels.

“It’s not appropriate, Isabelle.”

I nod. “Your mother’s right. I don’t need to borrow any jewels.” I silently pray that Isabelle will let the matter drop.

“Mother, why not? We can easily lend her something. I have a box full of jewels.”

The countess looks past her daughter and stares at her own reflection in the mirror, smoothing the neckline of her dark velvet dress.

“Very well. You may let your friend play dress-up, if that’s what it takes.” She shakes her head. “Everything has to be a fight with you.”

Isabelle begins to rummage through the jewelry box on the dresser. “Cochet, where are Grand-Maman’s pearls?” she asks. “They will go with Maude’s dress.”

The maid opens a drawer in the dressing table and pulls out an ivory box. Once the massive swath of pearls (five rows deep) has been secured around my undeserving neck, Isabelle spins me around to look at the result.

“Very pretty. Take a look.”

The jewels feel cool and weighty against my skin. I look in the mirror on the dressing table and catch my breath: the pearls are large and dazzling and completely out of place on me. I meet the countess’s gaze; her expression is one of barely masked disgust. I don’t want to anger her, but how could I have refused her daughter any more than she could? To do so would have drawn attention to the insistence on my plain appearance.

“Your father will be ready to leave,” says the countess. “He’s
always hideously punctual, even though he hates events like these.” She sweeps past me, her eyes accusing. Almost out of earshot she hisses, “Pearls before swine indeed.”

The fire crackles and a loose coal falls to the hearth. Thrown by her displeasure, I walk toward the fireplace and lean down to pick up the tongs without thinking.

“Mademoiselle,” says Cochet. I glance up to see her look of horror. “Geneviève will see to the fire. Don’t trouble yourself in your nice dress.”

I put the tongs back immediately and step away from the fire, inwardly cursing myself.

“That will be all, Cochet,” Isabelle says. The maid bobs a curtsey and closes the door, and we are alone.

Isabelle glares at me. “Why did you take my mother’s side about the jewels? If we’re going to be friends, you cannot act like her lapdog.”

“She intimidates me. I’d be scared to disagree with her.” I fear my honesty will be my undoing—why couldn’t I have given a more polite answer?

Isabelle’s face freezes in surprise and then she slides into a laugh.

Realizing my precarious position, I touch the necklace adorning my throat. “You shouldn’t have insisted I wear this, Isabelle. It’s too much. I barely know your family.”

“What are you saying, that you’re going to vanish with the necklace into the night?” She laughs at my shocked expression. “I’m joking.”

With the countess gone, Isabelle is immediately happier. I wonder if her mother is a trigger for her moods.

“I’m surprised Mother doesn’t mind us going to the ball together,” she says.

“Why would she object?”

Isabelle fiddles with one of her earrings. “She is normally picky about the friends I make, always wanting to pair me off with some titled girl as a best friend. The longer the name, the better; everything is for appearance’s sake with her.”

“Oh, I see,” I murmur. “Whereas I’m a nobody.” I watch Isabelle carefully. Could she be testing me? Still doubting my “poor relation” connection to Madame Vary?

“You mustn’t take offense. I find you more interesting than the other debutantes.”

“Why?” I’m genuinely curious.

“You have an honesty that’s refreshing. And you’re not obsessed with the season. It’s obvious you’re not from this world.” She shrugs. “Yet it’s not like Mother to take on a cause like you.”

I have to think quickly. “I suppose she’s doing my aunt a favor,” I say lightly.

Isabelle shakes her head. “She doesn’t do anyone favors unless there’s something in it for her.” She picks up her fur mantle and wraps it around her shoulders. “Shall we go?” she asks.

I nod, grateful that she doesn’t expect me to justify her mother’s uncharacteristic charity toward me. I follow Isabelle out of the room. Despite the drama, the necklace manages to make me feel less like one of Durandeau’s repoussoirs, and I can’t help but leap to the next thought: what if a young man at the ball mistakes me for a real debutante? As soon as I think this, I close the lid on the notion—I don’t need that kind of
dangerous thought running free in my mind. It can’t do me any good.

When we reach the grand staircase, I glance at the portraits again as we pass. “Are all of these people Duberns?” I whisper to Isabelle.

“Just the dead ones.”

I purse my lips to fight the smile. Isabelle is no ordinary debutante either. She has a rebel in her.

A servant is waiting at the front door with my cloak in hand. I put it on and follow the Dubern family into the night.

T
HE CARRIAGE PULLS US THROUGH
the illuminated boulevards of Paris. A layer of fog wraps around the low-hanging moon and gives the streetlamps an unearthly glow. I think of the pearls under my cloak and how Durandeau would never approve. No doubt I’m breaking some agency rule.

Next to me Isabelle taps her foot lightly and tugs a finger of her gloves, pulling at a thread. I can’t tell whether she’s the least bit nervous or excited for the ball.

“Remember to bring up hunting with the gentlemen tonight,” says the countess to her husband.

“You know I hate shooting,” he says, running his thumb and forefinger down the sides of his mustache.

“I don’t care. We need an invitation to a shooting party this season, for your daughter’s sake.”

The count ignores his wife and smiles at his daughter.
“Tu es très belle, ma fille.”

“Yes, we did quite well, considering what we had to work with,” says the countess, taking credit.

“Any excuse for you to spend money,” the count responds. “There aren’t enough days in the year for her to wear all those dresses I’m paying for.”

I bet the count doesn’t know he’s paying for my wardrobe as well as his daughter’s.

“Isabelle gets one season to make an impression,” the countess snaps. “Do you want her looking like the poor relation?”

At that remark the count’s eyes dart to mine. I look out the window to deflect his gaze. No, he wouldn’t want a daughter like me.