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Authors: Elizabeth Ross

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BOOK: Belle Epoque
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“I haven’t been on a real assignment yet,” I say between bites.
I can’t imagine it, other than with a sense of dread. “Are the rich clients nice?” I ask, curious. “How do they treat you?”

“Like a new fur coat, an accessory of luxury,” she says, her mouth full of crêpe. “We’re meant to be seen.” A string of cheese hangs from her chin. “Not like that one yesterday—I was stuck in the corner listening to her go on about a case of gout. There is an art to wearing a repoussoir. We aren’t meant to be a confidante. We’re meant to ornament.”

I wipe the grease from my mouth with the back of my hand. Her bravado puzzles me. Marie-Josée manages to show utter disdain for the agency and its rulers, Durandeau and Girard. Yet at the same time she maintains an ardent respect for the job and a boastfulness about her capabilities as the agency’s finest. She wields this double-edged sword of pride and scorn with equal measure. When I think of what it is that she is proud of, it doesn’t make sense. Has she no shame or feelings to hurt? How can she not care that people call her ugly?

She catches me scrutinizing her. “What? Out with it!” she demands.

I hesitate for a moment, choosing my words carefully. “Doesn’t it bother you, what the clients think? I mean, the actual reason you’re invited to dances and fancy dinners?”

“With all those francs rattling in my purse? No, it certainly does not. They can think I’m the ugliest creature in France as long as I get paid,” she laughs. “Do you know how many weeks I’d have to work in a laundry or a café to make what I earn in one
evening
at this lark?”

Strutting by our feet are some pigeons hoping for crumbs. They look like a tribe of Durandeaus, with their murmuring
gurgles and beady head cocks.
Perfect, just perfect
. I stamp my feet and the birds scatter. “I suppose you’re right. But the repoussoir …,” I wonder out loud. “It still seems absurd to me. Does it really work?” Nothing I’ve learned so far in lessons has made me believe the concept. “Don’t society ladies like to be surrounded by pretty things, friends included?”

“Paris society is teeming with attractive women,” says Marie-Josée. “How do you stand out? If you’re a debutante, you must secure your future husband in a short season of dances, balls and operas. So how do you pull it off?”

I shrug. I have no experience with attracting men, let alone society’s finest. “Start by looking your best, I suppose.”

“When you’ve smeared on the rouge, dusted on the powder; when the hair curls to perfection and the most expensive couturiers have dressed you—what then?” she asks.

“But you can’t judge a book by its cover,” I say. “There’s more to someone than appearance. What about the quality of the person you are, or the art of conversation?”

She erupts in a laugh. “Don’t be soft! This is Paris. To attract attention, you need an advantage. That’s where we come in.”

Marie-Josée swallows her last bite of crêpe and rises from the bench. The wooden slats shift underneath me as they are relieved of the heavy load. “Come on, I’ll show you,” she says.

I follow her through the crowds of afternoon strollers and street vendors until we arrive at a fruit market where rows of canvas-covered stalls contain every type of fruit imaginable. The smell alone makes my mouth water. Marie-Josée stops in front of one stall and points to an overflowing basket of peaches. “Pick the best peach,” she says.

I hesitate. “They all look alike.”

“Go on,” she urges.

I shrug and choose one. “Here.” I hold it up. Where is this leading?

Marie Josée is rooting around at the bottom of the basket and finally pulls out her own peach. It’s wrinkled and bruised. She takes my peach in one hand and her sorry one in the other. “Which one would you pick?”

“Well, that’s easy,” I say. It’s not even a choice. “The good one, of course.”

Marie-Josée’s face lights up. “Right. The
good one
. It looks better than it did before! It’s gone from ordinary to
good
in a flash. Nothing changed in its appearance—just the company it was keeping.”

I’m looking back and forth between the peaches and I realize she’s right. She laughs and places the good peach back in the basket, and with a sly glance at the fruit seller she pockets the bruised one. “But now look at the ‘good one.’ Can you even tell which one it was? That ‘perfect’ peach blends into the crowd. It looks average again, run-of-the-mill. All those peaches are one and the same.”

“Girard’s rule of comparisons.” Of course! It’s a simple concept—people make choices by comparing things all the time. I’ve seen it with my own eyes; customers in the village shop did it. I never thought it could apply to people too.

The fruit vendor is suddenly looming over us, his weathered face in a scowl.

Marie-Josée acknowledges him casually. “
Une belle journée
, monsieur!” She’s naturally pleasant, and I almost forget about
the peach in her pocket as we move into the thick of market shoppers.

“The repoussoir is hardly a new idea,” she explains. “Those fancy ladies in the old Spanish court would parade around with a monkey on their arm for the same effect. The gall of Durandeau to make a franc out of it is actually to be admired, if he weren’t such a slug.”

We weave past the market stalls, and Marie-Josée takes my arm as we cross the boulevard, avoiding the carriages and sidestepping some horse manure.

I understand the concept, but it still doesn’t add up. “What about the countess?” I ask. “She’s already married and beautiful. She doesn’t need a repoussoir.”

Marie-Josée shakes her head. “
Au contraire!
The countess is the perfect kind of client. Even though she’s married, she still wants to be thought of as beautiful. One thing I’ve learned at the agency time and again is that when an attractive woman sees her beauty fading with her youth, she’s going to try anything to cling to it.”

The countess is the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. How could she be concerned about her looks?

Marie-Josée dips her hand into her pocket and retrieves the ugly peach. She sinks her teeth into it. “Tastes all right to me,” she says with a grin, peach juice rolling down her chin. “We are a couple of bruised peaches, Maude!” She laughs heartily.

I know she doesn’t mean to, but it hurts when she says that. She may be a bruised peach, but I don’t feel that way.

“Maybe I’m just not ripe yet,” I say without thinking.

“Oh, of course,
chérie
. Be positive,” she replies gamely. “A
must in this job.” She’s smiling, but I suddenly worry I’ve offended her. She has accepted what she is—an ugly woman—and I’m trying to shrug off the same label.

We head toward the agency, pushing our way up the avenue against the parade of people and vendors. Marie-Josée, ever the good tour guide, points out a nice café here and a theater with cheap matinees over there. I sense that our time for sharing confidences is over. But I’m still mulling over everything she’s said. I’m not ready to be one of life’s castoffs, some rich girl’s social advantage. I’m worth more than that, surely.

“Enough talking, ladies,” says Girard, tapping her cane on the floor to get our attention. As with every lesson, the chairs in the salon are arranged like a school room, all facing the fireplace where Madame Girard stands. “This afternoon we are going to do an exercise. I want you to pair off with your mentors and list your partner’s unattractive features.”

Her words feel like a punch in my gut. Did I hear her correctly? I turn to Marie-Josée who’s sitting next to me, but she merely sighs as if she’s been asked to do something mundane and tedious. “Not this one again,” she whispers. It’s the kind of reaction I’d give Papa when he made me count the inventory on the shelves. I look along the row of other girls for a glimmer of emotion. Is it just me who has a thin skin?

“You need to get used to hearing Monsieur Durandeau draw attention to your appearance during selection,” says Girard. “And you need to be prepared to hear how the public will talk about you when you enter a room with your client. Better
to learn how to brace yourself now than to get upset when you’re on a job.”

She approaches a girl with dark hair at the end of our row. “For example, Emilie.” She nudges Emilie’s leg with her cane. “Well, stand up.” Emilie reluctantly stands. She’s a new girl, like me, and young, maybe eighteen or nineteen; she’s sweet and quiet as a mouse whenever I see her in the dressing room. Girard scrutinizes her, their faces inches apart.

“I might say the following: the nose is long and pointy; the mouth curls down like a frown; a weak chin exaggerates the unfortunate nose; and of course, the moles on the face look witchy. Thank you, Emilie. You may be seated.”

Emilie looks like Girard just slapped her. I bite my lip as if the stinging words were directed at me. Emilie says nothing. She simply sits down, and I have to look away, not wanting to catch her eye.

Marie-Josée mutters some choice words under her breath while Girard continues her lecture. “Remember, ladies: embrace your flaws.” She waves her arm in a theatrical gesture. “They augment your client’s beauty, and that’s the sole purpose of an employee of the Durandeau Agency. Now pair off and start the exercise.” She bats us away with her twiglike arms.

We spread out and scatter to the far corners of the salon. I realize that no one wants an audience for this exercise. As Marie-Josée and I gravitate toward the windows, my shoulders sink. How can this exercise be necessary? Hasn’t every woman in the room already scrutinized her own face as the harshest of critics?

The truth is most of the time spent at the agency isn’t awful,
when I forget the reason I’m here. We’re fed and clothed during work hours, it’s better pay than the laundry, and of course the work isn’t physically demanding. But every so often—like right now—the truth of the position strikes you like a blow. Sometimes you have to close off a part of yourself. It’s at times like this I’d rather be ironing a pile of shirts.

Girard’s shrill voice rings out. “Emilie! Look your partner in the eye, don’t avoid the impact of her words. That won’t do you any good.”

With a sense of dread, I turn to face my mentor. “I suppose we should start,” I say, studying the face in front of me. I can’t believe I’m about to say cruel things to my new friend.

“I have my own twist on the exercise.” Marie-Josée nudges me. “I will list my own good qualities and then it will be your turn; it’s good for morale.”

I smile, relieved. “How about we list each
other’s
good qualities,” I suggest. “I’m not much good at plumping up my own feathers.”

“Good.” She nods. “You go first, then.” She mimics Girard’s hand gestures. “Shower me with compliments!”

I look at her making light of our situation.

“Go on, love, you can’t think of anything nice?” She flutters her lashes, playing the fool.

I reflect for another moment. I want what I say to count. “You like to protect people,” I say. “You make this place bearable; you have an infectious warmth and you fight cruelty with laughter. You’re like magic—”

“Oh, shush, that’s enough.” She cuts me off, taken aback. Her eyes fill up a little, but she blinks the emotion away. “My
turn,” she says. “Well, for someone so young, you have quite the resolve, coming to the big city all alone. You’re plucky and bright and quite the little observer, with those sharp eyes of yours.” I squirm with the compliments; my throat feels tight. These are the kind of things my mother would have said to me. I fight her memory. Marie-Josée goes on. “There’s something else. You’ve a notion for bigger things here in Paris. I’ve a mind you don’t even know what, but you’ll have it.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“I have a sense about you.” She’s looking at me intently. “Yes, you have your sights set on something, and you’ll get it,” she repeats.

The emotion I just felt cools at these last remarks. I doubt her words; how can I be meant for bigger things? Look where I am right now—a repoussoir-in-training.

The clock chimes and Girard starts bossing, cutting off our conversation. “Tomorrow morning we have dance practice in the dining room, followed by manners and customs. Ladies, you are dismissed.”

In the evening after work I get off the omnibus a stop early and take my time strolling along the streets of my neighborhood. It’s awash with activity and color in every direction, from the painted faces of the prostitutes to the street performers, market vendors and posters plastered on every free space.

I stop outside the bright windows of Café Chez Emile. I’ve never ventured inside at night before—a girl alone at a bar isn’t respectable—but I love watching the scene. Half of Paris
seems to be crowding the bar tonight. The décor is simple, with wooden paneling matching the tables and chairs and not much on the walls. People are dancing where a couple of tables have been moved aside. Peering in the window, I’m looking for a glimpse of Paul. The zinc bar is lined thick with people. I’m studying those faces so closely I don’t notice the band right away. But when the music stops and the customers turn, cheering and clapping for the musicians, I follow their gaze to the far corner. There, on a slightly raised platform, Paul sits behind the piano, laughing and saying something to his bandmates, a violinist and an accordion player. He nods to them and they strike up another tune. I watch for a few more moments, until I hear a sudden tapping and see a man pressing his face against the glass, beckoning me inside. I immediately step back and keep walking along the dark street.

BOOK: Belle Epoque
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