Affaire de Coeur

by Stephanie O’Hanlon

  I made my way out of the stateroom and into the foyer, walking across the parquet flooring, past the dining room and the little music room to the staircase, ascending to my bedchamber.

  As soon as I closed the door, I smiled, looking about the large room. It was much like the rest of the home—a sparkling jewel box, the daintiest of them all.

  The main focus of this bedchamber was the large, crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The long rope of crystals hung from a silver flower at the base of it. The theme for the room was pink—a light, almost white pink. All the decorative molding in floral and filigree patterns all around the room, intricate designs scaling the walls, and even on the rectangular ceiling were all this delicate shade. Little beadings framed the ceiling before it sloped down slightly and crosses in all the corners, almost like a rosary. Was it supposed to keep ladies chaste? Keep them in line and reciting their prayers, confessing to the Abbé?

  I never really took notice of the ceiling itself, just the way the candles on the chandelier cast through all the little crystals and to the slope of it. It made a beautiful, shimmering pattern, similar to what the sunlight from the large windows did during the day.

  A large, swan-neck looking glass sat against the wall to the left. The vanity beneath it held all the utensils for a lady’s toilette and some personal items. The entire room bounced off the smooth glass. I would sit on one of the pink, velvet chairs in front of it while one of the chambermaids helped me pile my hair into a low upsweep, sometimes with decorative gems or pearls studded within the curls. Then, she would cover my face in powder and lightly rouge my cheeks. It was the style—style à la Dauphine.

  I would then stand in my peignoir, turning toward my large bed. The violet and gold damask coverlet caught every hint of light in the room and shimmered, the pale lavender of the satin and linen sheets below it hanging carelessly off the edge. A gold brocade curtain hung from the large rods above the bed, pulled back for the day, but pulled around and encasing me in the darkness when I barreled into the mountain of pillows after making my couchér. There had to be at least a dozen of them, all ranging in size, covered in gold and pale lavender, little tassels on the corners or perhaps a golden rope fringe. Of course, my bed at my own home was not nearly as extravagant, but with all my being, I wanted it to be.

  I sat down on the edge of the bed, looking to the white and gold armoire, the large looking glasses on the doors reflecting me back to it. I did not look like a country girl, did I?

  My hair was piled on my head and powdered, looking almost completely white. The absence of my hair at my shoulders and around my face made my high cheekbones protrude, my jaw line stiffen, all my features sharpen. Even under the light rouge on my cheeks and stain on my lips.

  I stood up, pushed my shoulders back even further, and looked over the offset yellow robe à la Française with little daisies patterned all over it in a darker yellow. The last six inches and the trim up and around my bodice had little golden embroidery, ruffles accompanying it. The sleeves smoothed out to my wrists tightly, and little bits of lace trimmed with a yellow ribbon stuck out prettily. The gown was elegant—what of the woman wearing it?

  In reality, I was just playing the part of an aristocrat. I could not afford the lifestyle that Colette kept, though I longed for it. I could quite do without all the gossip and scandal of the courtiers and just live in my secluded palace, “stuffed up” in the library as Colette always said, in my lovely gown.

  A knock sounded. One of the chambermaids, Brielle, opened it and walked in, curtseying. “Oh. Good evening, Mademoiselle. Would you like to make your couchér?”

  I nodded, looking over to the clock that sat on the mantle of the fireplace behind me by the window. The golden cherubs held their little fabric over themselves. It swirled around them as flowers and other designs filled it out around the clock face. It was just past nine in the evening, but the thought of sitting in bed in my nightgown while reading was a comforting thought to me. Is that not what aristocrats do? They can lounge and do as they wish.

  Two other chambermaids bustled into the room, bringing water and undressing me. They pulled my hair out carefully, put me in my soft nightgown, led me over to the bed, and helped me inside of it.

  “Thank you,” I said, holding close to me one of the many books my father had brought me back from abroad. I sat up comfortably in the large, feather bed.

  They all curtsied before me, just as if I was one of the ladies of the household. They then turned and made their way out of the room and closed the door behind them.

  I sighed in contentment as I looked over to the little door by the window—the secret door that led to the little adjoining boudoir that was only accessible from my bedchamber or Colette’s on the other side.

  I wonder what time she will return.

  It was not unlike Colette to return nearly close to midnight or later. I honestly was not looking forward to her awakening me once she arrived.

  She would always burst into the room, tearing back the linens, and jumping on the bed. Still in her evening finery, she would gush about what Vachel had said, and not always in a positive way. She came home in tears before, sometimes not even bothering to pretend to make her couchér and barreling through the door, waking me in a fit of hysterics.

  I was hoping for the former this evening, obviously. I never wished her to feel any pain or sadness because of Vachel and his ways. I often found myself hoping that one of those times she would wake up from her dreamy, lovelorn slumber and see that her prince was in fact nothing but a beast.

  “Maddy!”

  I tried to open my eyes. The darkness from the drapes around my bed was disturbed as they were torn back, and a candlestick shoved in my face.

  “What, what is it?” I said sleepily, sitting up as I tossed a large section of my hair over my shoulder.

  “I need to talk to you,” Colette’s face came into focus, her expression stern and serious as she placed the candlestick down on the little table beside the bed.

  “Oh?” I said, wiping my face as I leaned against the pillows. “Is something wrong?”

  She shook her head, “No, everything is fine…I think. Tell me the truth. Have you heard the same things that I have heard about Vachel?”

  My eyebrow raised as I looked her over. “Have you been drinking, again?”

  “No,” she slapped my hand as she adjusted herself on the bed. Her dark orange, silk gown glowed from the candlelight. “One of my other friends was at Vachel’s. He mentioned something about Vachel coming into town to see me the other night, but Vachel hasn’t come to see me in the past month. I have always traveled to him.”

  I noticed her face almost showing a sign of worry. I shook my head. “Who would I hear it from? Everyone ignores me.”

  “Exactly.” She smiled. “You can hear things that I cannot. Perhaps Stanzy might know something…well, she would never outright tell me, unless it caused a scandal.”

  I almost winced at the thought of Constanze—a woman I had yet to meet and dreaded doing so. She was one of the foremost social climbers and social hell raisers. She never missed an opportunity to give the pot a good stir, especially if she got some close entertainment out of it.

  Colette’s face lit up. “I will invite Stanzy and some of the other girls over tomorrow. You have not met all of them, yet.”

  My face twisted in discomfort at the thought of it. Colette jumped up off the bed and paced the middle of the room.

  “You can sit and listen while I speak to one of the servants, my father, or some rubbish like that.” She waved her hand. “I am sure you could even nonchalantly steer the conversation that way, toward Vachel and what he has been up to.” She turned to me, smiling as her green cat-eyes lit up in delight. “Stanzy has eyes and ears everywhere. Surely she would know of something.”

  I sat up, pushing myself up on my pillows as I raised my legs and wrapped my arms around them. I did not want anything to do with Constanze. What I hear
d of her was enough, but whatever Colette wanted, she got…there were no arguments with her.

  “I shall invite them in the morning. I will write out the invitation as soon as I rise.” She turned to me, smiling triumphantly.

  I smiled back weakly, looking down to the coverlet and tossing my hair that had crawled back around off my shoulder.

  “You should get some sleep. We have much work in the morning!”

  She grabbed the candlestick, skipped over to the hidden door, and disappeared through it into the night.

  I sat for a moment in the darkness, letting my eyes adjust to the sudden black that surrounded me, closing them tightly and opening them, again.

  Now, how will we go about this one. Hmmm, Madeleine?

  I was not good at investigating. I was always obvious. How does one question someone like Constanze?

  I could ask…no…Oh, Lord.

  I sighed heavily as I pulled the thick coverlet and linens up, straightening out my legs, cuddling down into the feather bed, and grasping hold of the pillow. I almost laughed, remembering Colette and her comments of my way of sleeping—always as if there was a person next to me, a lover I was nestling into.

  All right, Vachel and his business…which friend did she say it was who told her?

  My eyes closed as my mind ran, the thoughts blurring together and slowing down as I drifted back off to sleep.

  Chapter Three

  My eyes opened just before Brielle walked into my bedchamber. Two other maids followed her and readied all my effects for the day.

  I always awoke before they entered. Every day, my body knew it was time to rise immediately after that first day and their surprising wake-up call. All their heels clicked against the floor as Brielle walked over and pulled the drapes on the bed back, smiling as they stopped, and curtsied.

  “Good morning, Mademoiselle.”

  I smiled as she pulled back the linens, pulling myself out of the bed and standing. One of the other chambermaids—whose name I could never remember, and I felt awful about—walked up behind me and held my peignoir out. My arms found the sleeves as she pushed it up to my shoulders. She lifted my hair over it and set it back down, the loose curls bouncing against the small of my back.

  They then led me over to my vanity, sat me down on the little pink velvet chair, and handed me my utensils to clean my teeth and then wash my face and pat it dry. They started to comb through my hair and prepare it to be pinned up, fixing the curls that chose not to cooperate with their iron rod that they heated up in the fire. They twirled the long lock around it and let it go, a soft, usable curl bouncing back.

  They performed their little ballet of styling, pulling hair up here, crossing it over there, taking big, blonde curls and placing them on my head, pulling them apart to look like little roses in intricate, pretty designs.

  They then handed me a bizarre, metal cone with gauze-covered eyeholes that I held over my face as they put a toile around my shoulders and powdered my hair, pushing the pump to release a large cloud of dust. Their stifled coughs rang in my ears as a set of heels clicked over to the window, the crank from it creaking as a gust of fresh, May air burst through the room and cleared it of all the dust from the powder.

  I brought the mask down and looked to the mirror. My hair was pulled up elegantly, there was a soft curl over my shoulder covered in a snowy layer of powder, and the scent of lavender filled the room once the dust had settled.

  They then continued with their little dance—their well-orchestrated styling ballet. Each one placed a dangly, pink diamond earring in my ears, a stunning bracelet on my wrist, and my silk slippers on my feet. They were all hand-me-downs of Colette’s. Brielle gently smeared on my face powder then stained my lips with a light pink color, as well as rouge for my cheeks, and finished it off with my perfume.

  I stood up from the chair as one of the ladies removed the toile. It quickly disappeared as Brielle took off my peignoir and helped me to take off my nightgown. A fresh chemise was quickly pulled over my head and stays tied tightly.

  Panniers were fastened around my hips, moderate hoops on either side. Nothing as extreme as at Colette’s little gatherings or styles of the past. Next, an embroidered, pink, blue, and green patterned petticoat was put over top and a stomacher of the same pattern pinned in the front of my stays. The neckline of this particular style dipped down to where the stays cut off. My breasts were pulled tightly into my chest and pushed up on display, as was expected and the style.

  The rest of the gown was set in place, with all the seams well covered by pretty ruffles. The stiff pleats pushed against my shoulders from the sacque back, and all the lace pinned around my neckline and sleeves.

  I looked over the gown. The obvious, basic color it started with was white, with those few sections having little chain designs in violet down the center. Pink dye was laid over it in alternating sections. Then, green strips in the middle of that. The silk material shimmered in the ten o’clock morning sun. An échelle of four pink bows, decreasing in size, adorned the front of the bodice and each of the sleeves which were large bells with frothy lace sticking out.

  One last spritz from my perfume, and I finally finished my toilette. Almost an hour of primping and preening, preparing myself for the stares of all those who would look upon me. Did they really notice me, though? It did not matter. I could not risk looking unkempt. After all, I may have been playing the part of an aristocrat, but all believed I was just that, or at least thought I was up to the standards, so there was no need to bother about my actual station. Clothing is the currency of social acceptance and survival in Paris.

  Even worse was that this would not be the final gown of the day. I had another two and then my bath and couchér—one afternoon gown and a gown for the evening. Unless, of course, Colette decided we were going out. Then, that was another gown I would need to change into.

  Colette’s laugh rang out as she burst through the door. Her own gown was a solid, light orange cream with an échelle of dark orange bows up her bodice and on her sleeves. Her own hair was pulled up with a curl hanging down on either side, her powder a light yellow, snowy blanket covering it. A large, floppy yellow silk flower was pinned on the side of her head, and her yellow diamond necklace glimmering around her neck.

  “Stanzy will be here for tea after we have our breakfast. Most likely around 11:30 a.m. or so,” she said as she skipped over to the bed, sitting down on it and leaning back on her palms. She had a little powder puff in her hand, leaning down on it.

  I turned to her, smiling and nodding as I tried to remember my thoughts when she left my room in the night, before I had fallen back to sleep.

  She sat up, pulling her hands in front of her. The little, pink powder puff dangled about in her hand as she looked at me, unsure. “Are you all right?”

  I nodded. “I am just wondering how to go about this.”

  She stood, bouncing over to me. “It is really rather easy. All you have to do is listen while I am not in the room, which will be as soon as I can arrange it.” She pointed the powder puff toward me, turned and looked into the gilded looking glass, and tilted her head to the side as her eyes swept up the reflection.

  “How will you be arranging it?” I smirked, always finding it humorous when Colette took her moments to be vain.

  She turned to me, tilting her head once again as she smiled slyly. “I have a note that I am sending to my father. It will summon him, and I will make away to speak to him.” She skipped passed me, opened the door out of the room, and stood in the doorway, waiting for me.

  I stepped forward. “Should you not actually have something to speak to him about before you summon him?”

  “Who says I do not?” She smiled, grabbing hold of my hand and turning into the hallway, pulling me along with her. “I am going to ask him for my diamonds from the safe. I want to wear them for the ball that Vachel invited us to.”

  “Oh,” I nodded, making our way down the staircase, turning into the dinin
g room, and nearly running through it to the salon where our breakfast awaited us. Powdered, chocolate-filled croissants, Brie, brioche, various fruit, and my second favorite pastry—macarons, colored pink, brown and yellow—sat on the table in the sunlight from the window. Various jams and jellies, as well as fresh milk and butter were set out on or in pretty china. Coffee, tea, or a cup of chocolate also sat there for our choosing.

  The male servants were also awaiting us, polished in their white justaucorps with golden trim and black breeches. They had their hands on the back of two chairs that they pulled out for us, standing at attention.

  The salon was perhaps half the size of the dining room, which one had to walk through to get to it. I looked at the doors to the stone terrace and the doors to the ballroom across the way from it to the left. The fireplace was to the right in the very middle of the wall, and a painting of Colette and a fat, fluffy cat on her lap hung above the mantle, which was adorned with crystal sculptures.

  Red, white, and gold were the color scheme. The room was perhaps a bit darker than the rest of the house because of it, though the walls were still the same creamy white with gilded trim and molding. The walls had oil paintings of the family, including the one of Colette, all around the fireplace.

  A large red and gold rug lay on the floor. The round, white-gilded table sat in the center of the room with a large vase in the middle of it, little white daisies and stocks of lavender inside it for the day. The rest of the room had little tables with vases or sculptures on them, armchairs beside the tables, and a chaise longue in the far corner.

  We sat down at the table, Colette diving for the brioche and smearing it with a thick coat of butter as one of the maids that followed us poured her a cup of coffee. The maid poured out a cup of tea for me as I picked out one of the chocolate croissants, eyeing a pink-frosted macaron on the edge of the plate for after. The pink ones were always my favorite.