Belle Epoque (26 page)

“I’m ready,” I tell Durandeau.

The image in front of me is very different from the candid smiling faces I captured minutes earlier.

“Now, ladies,” says Durandeau. “Eyes forward, chins up; think of what the agency means to you.” Before me, I see the faces of my colleagues harden, the shoulders sink. And shame washes over each one of them. By contrast, Durandeau’s chest puffs out and his nostrils flare. He is clearly filled with his own sense of genius. Next to him, Girard looks proud; the agency is her home. On the other side of Durandeau, Laurent looks unaffected.

I see all this happen in the blink of an eye. And I feel with certainty that I am not a part of it, I am not one of them. My heart thumping, I remove the lens cover. Light floods in, and the image is captured on the glass. My last plate is gone.

After the drama of the photograph, the workday continues like any other. In the dressing room, Marie-Josée is rounding up the girls for a lunch out. I don’t feel like it today. When there’s a group of us we’re often seated in an out-of-the-way table,
ignored by the waiters until Marie-Josée gets uppity. Then we’re treated rudely. Today I just want to be left alone.

I linger behind, fixing my hair as they file out of the dressing room. When the door closes behind them, I breathe a sigh of relief and drop the pins from my hand, letting them scatter on the dressing table. I look in the mirror and think of Paul. What was it that he saw in me, and why couldn’t I just tell him the truth? All the layers of deception weigh me down, and when I see my own reflection, I’m not sure who I’m looking at anymore.

The dressing room door creaks open and I look up to see Marie-Josée pop her head back in.

“You not coming with us, Maude?”

Her question breaks the seal on my irritation.

“No,” I snap. “I have some errands to run.”

She comes over to me and puts an arm around my shoulder. I know she means to be nice, but it’s all I can do not to pull away.

“It’s too bad you weren’t in the picture with all of us,” she says.

Sensing my bad mood, she has tried to guess what might be the root of it. She couldn’t be more wrong.

“I suppose someone has to be clever enough to know how to take the picture,” she says kindly.

But her niceness only provokes me more. “I’m glad I wasn’t in the photograph—how could anyone want this humiliation to be captured for eternity in black-and-white?” I shrug off her touch and stand up. “Besides, I’m not like the rest of you.” I feel a surge of fury, and it’s all I can do not to push her away. “The
countess sees that. All she wants is a friend for her daughter, not a hideous freak of nature.”

She sucks in her breath, taken aback. “Oh, be careful, Maude.” She shakes her head.

I know what she thinks; I’ve felt it since the beginning. She resents my contract with the Duberns—why else is she always bothering me about them, cautioning me against befriending Isabelle?

“Why must I be careful, Marie-Josée?” My voice is shrill, but I can’t lower it. “You’re just jealous. Because the countess would never pick someone like you for her daughter.”

Her eyes open wide. “Someone like me how?” She puts her hands on her hips, challenging me to utter the words. “Spit it out, girl.”

“Someone as coarse as you are.” It feels unnatural to lash out, but the words keep flowing from my lips, as though from someone else. “You could never belong in their world.”

I’m shaking with anger and confusion. Looking at Marie-Josée’s familiar face makes me realize that spewing out these caustic words isn’t the release I thought it would be. But I can’t unsay the words.

She grabs my arm. “Look, my girl. I’m not jealous of you. I’ve been in your shoes before, and it didn’t end well for me. I’m trying to save you from the same disappointment.”

I don’t believe her. “What do you mean? You were friends with a client?”

She releases my arm and sighs heavily. “No. It was when I was in service as a lady’s maid. The gentleman of the house took a shine to me. It felt good to be a favorite for once. I was
young and daft. But then a kind word turned into wandering hands. And then something worse.”

My mind races ahead of her, anticipating the rest of the story. “What happened?”

“I told the mistress and she fired me. No letter of reference, no savings—I was kicked to the curb.”

Her eyes meet mine, her face full of emotion. I know it’s cost her something to tell me this.

I look away. I feel bad for her, but at the same time I have this need to put a distance between us. So I don’t soften, and I don’t apologize for my outburst. If anything, she has added more fuel to my fire.

“Our situations are completely different,” I tell her. My anger transforms into contempt. I meet her gaze again, my expression hard and cold.

Marie-Josée looks like a wounded animal. Realizing she hasn’t won me over, she simply casts her eyes to the floor, then leaves the room.

I stand alone in the dressing room, trembling with anger. Or is it shame?

I
T
’
S DEEP WINTER IN THE
countryside outside Paris. Late January might be cold and dark, but the weather is irrelevant because I, Maude Pichon, am staying in a chateau. The Duberns, some other notables and myself have been invited to the Duke d’Avaray’s country estate. The men are going to catch the last of the duck-hunting season.

The chateau is vast and elegant, a gray stone building covered with spidery vines, situated in acres of woodland and fields of grass. The formal gardens are dead and brown at this time of year, but strolling the maze of paved paths and hedgerows, I can imagine how beautiful the greenery and flowers would be in summer. For me, just to be in the countryside is a treat; I can breathe clean air and enjoy the soothing views of rolling hills, not a rooftop or chimney in sight.

Isabelle and some of the gentlemen have gone riding, but as I am a poor horsewoman, I stayed behind to enjoy the peace
and quiet of the library and a roaring fire. I’ve never seen so many books in one place, outside of a bookshop. After my mother died, I inherited her books, mostly classics, which I reread until I knew some pages by heart, but I also found a few romance novels in her collection, which revealed something of her nature. She daydreamed beyond the confines of Poullan-sur-Mer, just as I did.

It’s afternoon, when the light is fading, that the countess summons me to her bedroom and my tranquility is snatched away. For the countess there are prospective husbands to be hunted, not waterfowl. Any interaction with her lately makes me apprehensive. I’ve fueled her exaggerated expectations for Isabelle and the duke. He likes Isabelle, but enough to propose? I have no idea. Judging by my own foolishness with him, I know I am the last person to interpret aristocratic manners.

When I enter the countess’s bedchamber she is standing in front of the armoire, arms outstretched, an evening gown in each hand.

“Come in, Maude. Take a seat. A glass of sherry, perhaps?”

She is unusually warm, which makes me cautious.

The maid hands me a glass of sherry and I take a seat on a high-backed chair. I haven’t been in the countess’s room at the chateau until now; naturally it’s even nicer than mine, decorated with tapestries and a great oak bed with old-fashioned hangings. Entering certain rooms here is like stepping back in time, or walking through the pages of a history book.

“Which one do you prefer?” the countess asks. “Which one should I wear this evening?”

I look at the two garments, one black with a swirling pattern of gold stitching and the other a burnt-orange satin. “The orange is more original and eye-catching,” I say, hoping to please.

“Yes, but tonight I want Isabelle to shine. I’ll wear the black.” She hands the dresses to the maid and nods to her. “You can leave us.”

After the maid has hung up the dresses and scuttled out of the room, the countess takes a seat in the armchair across from me and picks up her glass from the side table. “I have more than an inkling that Isabelle will soon receive a proposal,” she says, taking a sip of sherry. “Perhaps this very week!”

She waits for me to make some positive utterance.

I hesitate for a moment. “Really? That’s wonderful,” I say. But it doesn’t feel wonderful.

Fortunately the countess doesn’t seem to notice my reticence.

“Is it the duke?” I ask, feeling a little crushed.

She looks at me as though I’m dense. “Of course it’s the duke. I heard the servants gossiping about what their future mistress would be like, how she would run the house and whether she’d bring her own maid—all the usual drivel.”

“How do you know it’s Isabelle he means to propose to?”

The countess sets her glass down and glares at me. “Who else would it be—you?” She breaks into a laugh and covers her mouth with her hand. “I’m sorry. Forgive me.” She continues laughing, tipsy on sherry. “But really, it’s too amusing.” She finally composes herself.

Sufficiently humiliated, I take a gulp of the putrid sherry.
“What about Claire?” I say, to get back at her for hurting my feelings. “The Rocheforts are supposed to turn up this evening with the other late arrivals.”

Her mouth tightens. She runs her thumb and forefinger up and down the stem of the glass, agitated. “Well, with Claire there is the possibility of an attraction. But from what you’ve been telling me these past months, he appears to have little regard for her.”

She cocks her head to the side, her eyes fixed on me. “Now, when the duke proposes, Isabelle will naturally seek your counsel—more than her mother’s, I might add.” She pauses and swirls her sherry around the glass. “I want to make sure that when that moment arises you will encourage her to give a swift and demure acceptance. As for your reward …” She takes a sip and continues. “The count has an aunt near Avignon who needs a companion. She’s lonely in her country estate. You would be well compensated and above the rank of servant; you would be quite comfortable.”

“The South of France?” I could never have imagined such a future—it’s like tasting something sweet. No more Montparnasse, no more dingy garret, no more Durandeau and the repoussoirs.

But like a pinprick, the fantasy is punctured when I think of how Isabelle will react to a proposal; somehow I must prepare her mother for the worst. “What if Isabelle refuses him? I cannot
make
her say yes. She is her own person. I mean—”

A look of wrath silences me. “If he proposes, she must accept him. What other choice would she have?”

I nod in agreement and don’t say another word. Clashing desires are coming to a head, instruments without a conductor playing out of time, the crescendo turning into a bad dream.

The countess rings the bell for her maid. “Now go.” She waves me away. “They’ll be back from their ride soon. Who knows what might have happened all this time we’ve been talking?”

I put my barely drunk sherry on the side table by her armchair and leave the room. When I close the door behind me, I stand for a moment in the hallway, frozen in mind and body. Is it a betrayal to encourage Isabelle to do what her mother wishes? I know how passionate she is about her studies and the future she has planned. But I must think about myself as well. I mull over the countess’s words,
above the rank of servant
.

Once installed at the chateau with the count’s aunt, I would be able to write my father properly. The postmistress in Poullan-sur-Mer, on reading the return address, would spread the gossip.

Did you hear about the Pichon girl? Lives in a castle!

Aristocracy—well, I never!

I will walk the rooms of a great house steeped in the spoils of a France that no longer exists. I can almost smell the orange blossom and lavender in the formal gardens. For the first time my future would be secure.

Somehow I
have
to make sure Isabelle says yes to the duke. I continue along the corridor toward the main stairs. I must think of her as Marie-Josée would—as an assignment.

When I return to the library I find Isabelle standing on a ladder by the bookshelf, still in her riding habit.

“What are you looking for?” I ask her.

She turns her head. “There you are.” She pulls a thick volume off the shelf and holds it up for me to see.
“Science in the Age of Enlightenment.”

“Of course.” I smile and sink into the vast leather couch.

Isabelle descends the ladder with the book.

“Are you wearing breeches?” I ask.

She shrugs as she walks toward me. “I hate sidesaddle. I asked the groom to lend me a pair.” She collapses on the couch beside me, the book in her hands.

I shake my head at her. “And he has your fine wool riding skirt, I suppose?”

She laughs. “I plan to return them.”

“Don’t let your mother see you dressed so scandalously,” I tease. I’m buttering her up before I broach what’s really on my mind. I know I must be more forceful than last time. “Imagine, Isabelle,” I venture. “If you were mistress of this house, you could wear breeches every day if you wanted.”

“And get rid of all those ladies’ saddles in the tack room. That would be fun.”