Belle Epoque (31 page)

Durandeau used to intimidate me, but after the countess, I knew I’d faced my worst fears. He could shout and name-call all he wanted. I remained expressionless.

“You vile girl, treating the countess’s patronage with such deviousness. Our most important client, and all you had to do was obey her instructions.”

He punctuated this by waving a letter from the countess in my face. It contained an exaggerated and misleading account of my sins. I felt numb. I said nothing. I knew that any utterance from me would be pounced on and would prolong the dressing-down. When was he going to get to the point and fire me?

“Do you know how much you’ve cost the agency in lost wages? When you secured the Dubern contract I made an estimate of how much revenue to expect. Now, due to your premature dismissal, the agency is hundreds of francs at a loss.”

Here it comes.

“Mademoiselle Pichon, as much as it sickens me to do so, I shall keep you on, to earn out what you owe.”

I couldn’t believe it. His greed had gotten the better of his anger. As a fully trained repoussoir, I am still able to make money for the agency at a time when business is booming.

“Of course, you will only be permitted to work with lower-tier clients: no aristocrats. With your low breeding and common manners, you’ve made it clear that you are unfit for such company.”

So here I am, standing once again with the others, frozen like a statue while a client looks at the inventory. I keep my distance from the other girls now; I don’t join in and chat like I used to. Cécile has been positively glowing whenever we cross paths.

But Marie-Josée is pained by my estrangement, I can tell. I’m sure if I were to approach her now with an apology, her uncharacteristic hardness would melt, but I am so ashamed of myself I cannot bear to speak to her. I feel that being shunned by the whole agency is what I deserve. When the girls gather in the dressing room, I sip my tea in the corner and keep quiet—holding a steaming cup in both hands is the closest to warmth and comfort I get these days.

After the client selection, it’s time for lunch. I avoid the dining room and eat lunch away from the agency. As I walk down avenue de l’Opéra, I wonder how long I could support myself if I were to be fired, the threat of which hangs over me like a cloud. I don’t know when Durandeau will consider my debt to the agency paid in full. After setting aside some money for the train fare home, the rest of my savings wouldn’t keep me here beyond summer. Any day at the agency feels like it could be my last. I live in fear and secret anticipation—at least if I were fired the Paris experiment would be concluded. Will my father take me back? Will the whole town know I failed so spectacularly with my big dreams?

During the early days of working for the Duberns, I imagined I would leave the agency of my own accord and find work in service, as a maid, or maybe one of those fine shops would hire me, if I were to present myself as a well-dressed girl with letters of reference.

But now, I assume I am infamous across Paris as a con artist or petty thief, courtesy of the countess and her circle. I fear there could even be a police report on me if the countess decided to take her performance that far. I wouldn’t be surprised.
I can’t escape reality—if I am let go from the agency, I will have no choice but to return to my father.

I get to work early these days. This morning, it’s just past eight o’clock when I enter the dressing room. I’m the only one here. I like to change quickly and find a quiet space to be alone before the workday begins. I am back to wearing traditional agency garb now, my beautiful wardrobe having long since been packed away and sent back to the countess. Leroux was delighted by that turn of events. Today I have finally brought back the fur mantle I stole; no doubt I’ll be in even more trouble when I tell Girard what I did. I was going to sell it and keep the money, but I couldn’t bear to profit from anything associated with the Countess Dubern. I hang it up next to my coat, and now when I touch the soft fur, I can only think of the poor beast that was sacrificed to make it.

I’m changing into an agency dress when I hear a step in the corridor and turn to see Marie-Josée arrive in the dressing room. My insides shrivel. I don’t want to have to speak to her. She puts down her habitual white box of pastries from the bakery and takes off her coat and hat. I concentrate on doing the buttons of my dress so I don’t have to look up.

I hear the box being opened and smell the waft of
pâtisseries
. I sneak a glance to see what treat she has today—freshly baked
pain au chocolat
.

She catches me looking. “You want some breakfast?”

I meet her gaze for what seems like the first time in weeks. I want to say how sorry I am, how awful I feel, how I wish
I could undo my poor behavior. She was my first friend in Paris—a good friend. And I dumped her without regret. She holds out the pastry, a peace offering on a chipped plate.

“
Merci
, Marie-Josée.” Thank you for being a true friend to me is what I want to say; Thank you for warning me about the Duberns, for trying to stop me from getting too close to the client. I take a seat and nibble at the pastry, but then put the plate down. I must speak.

“You were right, Marie-Josée.”

She meets my shamed face with her kind one.

I go on, “You warned me and I didn’t listen.”

She approaches slowly and sits heavily on a chair next to me, placing her hand over mine and giving it a squeeze. “I expect it was easy to get caught up in all that glitter.”

She forgives easily, and that breaks the seal on the tears, which have been welling behind my eyes. “Surviving in Paris was harder than I thought—less of a daydream and more of a nightmare. Then with the Duberns, I was scared and intimidated at first, but Isabelle made things fun, and I enjoyed my free time with her. I saw and experienced things I couldn’t have dreamed of when I first stepped off the train at Gare Montparnasse. I got seduced by it all and I stopped thinking for myself.”

“What went wrong?” she asks softly.

“I crossed the countess. I didn’t want Isabelle married off to some cad. I spoke up, because that’s what I thought a real friend should do. I didn’t want to be her repoussoir—I wanted to be her friend.”

“And after you did so, the witch decided to punish you by telling all?” she says with disgust.

“That’s about the size of it.” I don’t feel as though I can go into any more detail or I will start crying again.

“But how did the girl react?” asks Marie-Josée. “Wasn’t she appalled at her mother? Didn’t she see that none of it was your fault? It was her mother who hired you.”

“I wasn’t permitted to explain. I was basically separated from Isabelle and thrown out of the chateau immediately after.” That walk through the snow was one of the loneliest times of my life. In remembering it the tears swell in my eyes again, but I fight them back.

Marie-Josée shakes her head. “If you ask me, you’re best shot of the lot of them, the daughter included.”

I sigh. “I know you don’t approve, Marie-Josée, but Isabelle was a true friend to me.”

She squeezes my hand. “I hope we are friends again, Maude.”

“I said terrible things to you, and I’m truly ashamed,” I say, meeting her eyes. I have a well of regret I can never fill. “Where would I be without you?”

She leans over and kisses me on the cheek. “People have said worse.” It pains me to hear her say that. How could anyone treat her ill? Then I look down at my bootlaces, knowing I did.

“My, my, Durandeau is paying you too much.”

I look up to see her staring at the mantle hanging next to my coat. “It belonged to the witch’s wardrobe,” I tell her, relieved to have an easier topic of conversation.

She gives me a knowing look. “It just happened to get mixed up with your own clothes, did it?” She laughs. “Well, let me try it on.” She winks.

“Be my guest,” I say, grateful we are friends again.

She throws it over her shoulders and struts around the dressing room. “Very nice indeed. I’ve a mind to borrow it for a night out on the town.”

I’d do anything for Marie-Josée right now. “Go ahead. Keep it, for all I care. It’s been ages since Leroux sent my wardrobe back to the Duberns, and no one’s missed it.”

Marie-Josée thrusts a hip forward in a pose. “Don’t mind if I do.”

The clock on the wall chimes the half hour. As if on cue the door opens and in comes the stream of girls arriving for work.

Pastries are shared, a pot of tea is made and the chatter swells. I sit next to Marie-Josée, and when the other girls notice the change in my status, my label of outsider is gone. Marie-Josée takes off the fur coat and fans herself with her hands. “It’s stuffy in here. Open a window, someone.”

I go over to the sash window, unclip the metal catch and slide it up, letting the sweet air blow in.

“Perhaps winter has finally taken itself off for another year?” Marie-Josée says.

I lean against the window frame and gaze out at the back alley and rooftops. The breeze strokes my cheek like a caress and I turn my head into its soothing hand; I close my eyes and inhale deeply. She’s right: spring has arrived.

There’s a knock on the dressing room door and Laurent calls out, “New client in ten minutes. Hurry up, ladies.” The idle moments of chatter in the dressing room are over.

As we shuffle out of the little room and into the salon, I take my place next to Marie-Josée; we stand together, resigned and bored. The other girls are listless. With the whisper of warm
weather, no one wants to be shut up in the agency salon for a client. But the moment Durandeau walks in, I let out a gasp. I could never have predicted who would be next to him. I nudge Marie-Josée with my elbow.

“What?” she whispers.

“It’s her!” I say. “It’s Isabelle Dubern.”

I
CAN FEEL
M
ARIE
-J
OSÉE BRISTLE
at the name.

Isabelle stands next to Durandeau in front of the fireplace and scans the room until her eyes meet mine. Immediately I am back in the chateau watching her dissolve as the countess lashes out with all the revelations of our scheming and my helplessness to stop her. Why has she come here?

Durandeau is treating her like any other new client, and I have to guess that he doesn’t know who she is. Isabelle meanders among the repoussoir statues, but all the while her eyes are fixed on me. I know which way she’s heading, and I hold my breath, wondering what she’s going to say. Durandeau makes his usual abhorrent suggestions as to which of us might best suit her. She ignores him and continues walking toward me.

“I didn’t catch your name, mademoiselle,” says Durandeau as he trots after her.

“I didn’t give it,” Isabelle says. “I like discretion.” I can’t help but smirk at her composure.

Durandeau is unusually flustered. “Why, of course. Naturally,” he says, but I know he likes to be able to place who he’s dealing with.

She stops before Marie-Josée and me. Durandeau immediately pounces on Marie-Josée. “Yes, a fine choice. This one’s grotesque figure would complement your exquisite proportions.”

Isabelle stares at me and I try to silently communicate with her.
It wasn’t my fault. What are you doing here?

Isabelle ignores Durandeau’s suggestion. “I’ll take this one,” she says, pointing at me.

Durandeau tries to mask his surprise. “Very well, mademoiselle. We shall try to accommodate you.”

“Is she available now? I should like her for an hour or two.” She is curt with him, as if he’s merely there to serve her desires.

His nostrils flare slightly. “Why, yes, that could be arranged. It’s five francs an hour, as I said.”

Isabelle pulls out a leather change purse. “I’ll settle the account immediately.”

Durandeau’s chins quiver with enthusiasm. Money always placates him. “Excellent.”

He takes the francs from Isabelle, then turns to me. “Maude, fetch your coat and hat. Go on.” He prods me with his fat finger. “Don’t just stand there, run!”

I obey and hurry out of the salon. By the time I return from the dressing room, Durandeau and Isabelle are standing in the hallway.

“I can tell you’re a lady of refined taste,” Durandeau says to Isabelle. He pulls his card out of his breast pocket. “I’d be
happy to service your repoussoir needs again, and if you would care to refer our service to a friend—”

“Merci.”
Isabelle cuts him off and turns away without accepting the card. I follow her toward the stairs, leaving Durandeau standing in the hallway, perplexed.

Ever since the countess told Isabelle who I really am, I have imagined getting a chance to explain my story to her. A “what if” scenario has often run through my head, in which I run into her on the street or in a shop. But after the shock of seeing her at the agency and now walking with her down avenue de l’Opéra, my mind has gone blank.

“How does it work, then?” she says. “How do I best display my ugly accessory? I want my money’s worth,” she snarls.

I inhale deeply. I can’t really blame her for wanting to exercise some revenge. I try to keep my tone even and controlled. “It’s a bit early for high society. We could go to a café or something,” I suggest.