The Price of Innocence (The Legacy Series)

by Vicki Hopkins

  Brouchard swore to her face he would never trust her with such delicacies and seemed content watching her hike back and forth each day hauling loads of sheets. His ill-gotten pleasure irritated Suzette. She decided long ago that if her life were relegated to a washhouse forever, she would work her way up to a higher paying position—come hell or high water.

  Suzette’s hands dried and cracked from the lye poured into the steaming water to whiten sheets. She often felt dirty, tired, and ugly. Her hips carried a continuous bruise from hauling the heavy baskets. To lessen the pain, Suzette learned to alternate hips each week to give the other time to heal. The routine of her employment turned into an endless, degrading cycle.

  Her pittance of three francs per day barely purchased enough food to eat. She lost weight from her already petite frame, due to the strenuous physical demands and smaller portions of nourishment. Thirty centimes would buy a piece of bread, but if she wished for a piece of meat, it would cost two francs more at the café. Her daily diet consisted of soup and bread, but when she could afford to do so, she would splurge on cuts of beef or mutton.

  Workers were allowed short breaks for lunch and dinner. Not everyone lived at the washhouse. The majority, who were married or made more money, lived in residences elsewhere. Only the lower-end employees, such as herself and Flora, kept residence in the small room, which began to feel more like a prison house than a comfortable place to live. The Daughters of Charity, as sparse as the dormitory had been, provided far more comfort.

  Unable to save enough for clothing or shoes, she continued to wear the same worn-out cotton day dress and oversized shoes until they were on the verge of falling apart. She learned to stuff strips of old rags into the toes to make up for the excess size, after the paper she had used earlier fell apart.

  Over the weeks, Suzette found the women of the washhouse crude in many ways but not necessarily mean. Most had worked there for years, obviously accepting their lot in life and conditions of poverty better than what the streets offered. As she feared, the reputation of laundresses lay low in the minds of men, especially during hot, sweltering days when the doors and windows were flung wide open. The women stripped and worked thinly clad to escape the scorching heat and avoid dehydration, which could lead to fainting.

  Men, on the other hand, took advantage of the scene and stood in the open doorways watching bare-fleshed women bend over vats. The views, of course, from the front and back would burst a blush on any virgin’s cheeks. Brouchard enjoyed the scene immensely, and he did not attempt to discourage the curious onlookers who came daily for the show of naked flesh.

  To Suzette’s surprise, most of the women were alcoholics, drinking low-grade wine during work each day, which was purchased and supplied by the owner. It was considered a benefit of the job, so they took advantage of the free drinks to relieve the stress of everyday life in the washroom.

  Suzette shunned the practice, thinking it self-defeating, and refused to partake in the amble spirits of canteens strategically placed throughout the workspace. However, finding even a clean glass of water proved to be a chore, and some days the heat and lack of hydration made her feel sick. She would succumb to a small amount of alcohol to quench her thirst when nothing else was available, but she despised the taste of cheap wine.

  Her only comforts were the quiet evenings she found by herself as she lay on her cot. In her distress, she found prayer necessary to seek solace from a higher power. She was still angry with God for taking her father, but she tried to forgive Him, and she prayed for forgiveness and grace for her bad attitude.

  The one memory she clung to for as long as faith allowed her happened to be the folded letter that she had kept from her jewelry box. As delicately as she did many nights before, she unfolded the parchment, read the words, and returned it once again to its new hiding place within her purse. Of course, there was nothing of value in her purse any longer except a piece of paper, a rosary missing a few beads, pictures of her parents, and a few francs to show for her hard labor.

  Suzette’s reading of the letter gradually lessened as the weeks turned into months. Like dreams fade when one awakes, so did the words on the page. They held no meaning or encouragement, and Suzette finally came to a place where she didn’t wish to feed her fanciful dreams any further. She did not have the strength to destroy the letter, but neither did she desire to read it again. It finally found a resting place of neglect in the bottom of her purse after the third month of her life as a laundress.

  Her only reprieve was the Chabanais. The poverty and stench gave way when she entered through the brothel doors. As soon as she stepped inside, she inhaled the scent of perfumed air and held it in her lungs as long as she could retain it in order to replace the putrid smells of the washhouse.

  One day as she made her way to the linen closet, Suzette walked past the opulent parlor. Her eyes always glanced inside, but she never stopped. Like a little mouse, she would scurry past the entrance, catching glimpses of red settees, gold-gilded furniture, ornate rugs, mirrors, and palm plants. She refused to linger and stare for fear of getting in trouble.

  After returning all of the linens to the cupboard in a neat stack, she picked up the full basket of dirty laundry and flung it on her hip. She quickly sprinted down the hallway, but failed to watch her step. The toe of her foot caught on the edge of an area rug. Suzette stumbled and dropped the basket. She gasped when it landed full-force at the parlor entrance, strewing dirty laundry across the floor. Quickly, she lowered herself to her knees and grabbed the linens stuffing them into the basket. She bit her lower lip, as she glanced at the scene teasing her from the corner of her vision. Curious, she stopped and slowly turned her head to look inside the glorious room. Like a little girl in a candy shop, her eyes grew large in wonder.

  “Like what you see?”

  The voice of Madame Laurent startled her, and she jumped to her feet.

  “Oh, Madame, I’m sorry. I tripped, and everything went flying. I apologize.”

  Suzette grabbed the last piece of laundry and shoved it in the basket as quickly as possible. She stood to her feet and hurled the basket upon her hip and darted for the door. Madame Laurent reached out and grabbed her arm, preventing her departure.

  “Do you wish a tour?”

  She wanted to see, but feared accepting such a daring invitation. Suzette hesitated, then slowly turned and faced Madame Laurent.

  “It looks quite beautiful, Madame, but I’m sure Monsieur Brouchard would be quite angry should he find out. I don’t wish to lose my job.”

  “To hell with Monsieur Brouchard,” she said, empathically. “Put the basket down and follow me.” The mistress of the house turned around and walked into the parlor, fully expecting her visitor to comply with her wishes.

  Suzette dropped the basket at her feet with a thud and gave her curiosity free reign. She stepped cautiously through the entranceway. Once inside the forbidden world, Suzette stopped. The beauty of the ornate room took her breath away, and Suzette basked in the enthralling atmosphere of opulence.

  Madame Laurent smiled at her reaction and motioned her to a red velvet settee. She sat down and patted the seat next to her.

  “Come sit with me, Suzette. Rest a moment and take a look around.”

  Suzette walked over to Madame Laurent and slowly lowered herself onto the soft, cushioned seat. She hadn’t felt such comfort since her father’s passing, and the touch of softness to her tired body brought tears to her eyes.

  Madame Laurent said nothing. She gave Suzette time to absorb her surroundings, while she studied her more closely. Suzette’s complexion, albeit dirty, was flawless. Her auburn hair displayed a slight natural curl even though it was piled high on top of her head in messy tousles. Her body was far too thin, but she was certain that was only from too much hard work and poor nutrition.

  It was easy to imagine Suzette with makeup to accentuate her features and fine lotions to smooth her rough skin. With a few dabs of enticing perfume to
replace her obvious body odor, the young lady would be quite the attraction in her establishment. She needed a girl for the Louis XV Chambre to serve her aristocrats and rich businessmen. Suzette would fill the part perfectly—after a little makeover and training, of course. Her beautiful features and regal look would bring a high price.

  Madame Laurent reached over and tenderly picked up Suzette’s hand and held it in her own. She turned it back and forth examining the poor condition of her skin.

  “My word, child, don’t you have any cream for your delicate hands?”

  Embarrassed, Suzette wanted to pull her hand away, but feared to spurn her touch. “I’m sorry, Madame, but I barely make enough for a good meal. Cream, I’m afraid, is a luxury I cannot afford.”

  “How did you come to choose the life of a laundress, Suzette? You seem intelligent and well bred,” she inquired, after releasing her hand.

  Suzette’s wounded heart, still tender with grief, skipped a beat. For months, she had consciously chosen not to think of her father’s death. In reality, there was no time to grieve either. The washhouse consumed her life, and each night she was too tired to think of anything except sleep.

  “My father passed away four months ago.” She paused for a moment letting out a sigh and then continued. “I didn’t know, but he was deeply in debt. His estate was sold to pay the creditors.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear that. Am I to assume that you have no other family or friends to care for you?”

  “No, Madame, I do not. I stayed with the Daughters of Charity for a while until they helped me find the position at the washhouse.”

  Suzette felt increasingly uncomfortable with time slipping by and begged to leave. “I need to be going. Brouchard will wonder why I am late returning.” Suzette couldn’t stand the thought of him reprimanding her upon a late return.

  “Not yet, Suzette,” she sternly replied. Madame Laurent looked into Suzette’s eyes, and her serious gaze kept Suzette motionless in her seat. “I have a proposition for you, my dear.”

  Suzette swallowed a lump in her throat. “A proposition?” she repeated, wondering what she could possibly mean.

  “I need a girl for my Louis XV Chambre.” She softened her tone and conveyed her pride in her establishment. “This is no ordinary brothel, Suzette. I only cater to one type of clientele—the rich. The men who frequent my doors are royalty. We have Dukes, Marquises, Comtes, and Vicomtes, who visit my girls.”

  A prideful twinkle radiated from the Madame’s eyes over her successful business.

  “If you come to work for me, I can offer you a life of luxury. You’ll be well fed, clothed, and housed in quarters that are a thousand times better than the filth you live in now. Instead of working eighteen hours a day, you’ll only work four hours each night. You will be given one day off every week to do as you please.”

  Madame Laurent paused, giving Suzette a moment to consider everything she offered. It was obvious by the wide-eyed look on the young girl’s face that she was in shock.

  “I take good care of my employees, Suzette. I pay fifteen francs per night. With that type of income, you can buy as many new dresses as you please and all the hand cream you’ll ever need.” Madame Laurent’s eyes travelled over the worn-out cotton fabric dress. “You are a beautiful young girl, and I hate to see you wither away in the filth of a washhouse.”

  She waved her arm pointing out the room gilded in gold, with hanging electric lights, potted palm plants, red velvet settees, and mirrors on the walls. “Would you join me here as one of my girls, Suzette?”

  After Madame Laurent made her offer, Suzette sat motionless, barely able to breathe at the thought of what she asked.

  “Do you mean you want me to be a prostitute?” The look in the Madame’s eyes told her that was exactly what she inferred. Suzette jumped to her feet in horror.

  “No! No, I could never do such a thing. I am a good girl!” With a quick bow of her head, she begged Madame Laurent’s pardon. An overwhelming urge to flee the brothel washed over her. “Please excuse me, Madame, but I must return to my work.”

  Suzette sprung to her feet, leaving Madame Laurent on the settee. She retrieved her basket by the parlor entrance, flung it upon her hip, and swiftly headed for the exit. Just as she grabbed the doorknob and was about to turn it, she felt the tight grip of Madame Laurent’s hand upon her upper arm.

  “Think about it, Suzette. Do you really wish to live a life of poverty, hunger, and filth? For a small price, you can swallow your pride and live like a queen. The choice is yours.”

  Suzette wrestled her arm away from her grip, then flung the door open and ran down the alley. Madame Laurent watched her hasty departure and smiled, calmly assured this would not be the last of their discussions.

  While making her way back to the washhouse, Suzette pondered Madame Laurent’s brazen offer. Her confused mind screamed “no.” But, her aching, exhausted, hungry body begged her to say “yes.” The price was too great to pay, and she swore she would rather die in a back alley than sell her body to live in luxury. Her father would never forgive her for stooping to such a deplorable life, nor would she forgive herself.

  Out of breath from her hurried return, she slowly made her way back into the washhouse. Fearful that Brouchard would scold her for the time she missed, she successfully dodged his keen eyes. Suzette reached her station, poured out her laundry basket from the Chabanais, and began sorting. She wanted to forget what transpired between herself and Madame Laurent, but touching the brothel linens made it impossible.

  Angry and tired, she said nothing to Flora, who stood by curiously watching the odd behavior of her coworker. Suzette, grim and frustrated, flung the sheets from pile to pile. Each bend of her red and cracked fingers caused pain.

  As she struggled to work, visions of the opulent perfumed brothel teased her resolve. Madame Laurent’s invitation to live like a queen replayed in her mind. It would be so nice to feel like a queen, she thought, but the price was far too costly.

  Chapter Seven

  As the weeks passed, Suzette felt like millstone hung around her neck, which she bore as a necklace of shame. Eighteen hours of work, sorting linens, washing, folding, and walking back and forth to the Chabanais became the entirety of her boring and meaningless existence. Each night, she returned exhausted to her cot for five hours of sleep in a room filled with drunken, snoring women who grated on her nerves.

  In contrast, the opulence of the brothel would greet her with open arms. The scent of perfume filled her nostrils, alluring her from the stench of the washhouse. Suzette arrived at the shameful realization that she looked forward to her morning visits in a house of ill repute, if for nothing more than to breathe fresh air and enjoy a luxurious atmosphere where everything appeared soft and clean.

  Her visits were often short and without conversation. As the weeks dragged on, she met more of Madame Laurent’s employees. They rarely spoke to her. More often, they eyed her arrival through the back door and commenced whispering amongst themselves. Nadine always seemed to be the center of attention, giggling at her whenever she passed by.

  At first, Madame Laurent stood silently observing Suzette as she carried out her duties. Eventually, she would bring up the subject once again, asking Suzette to join the ranks of her staff and become one of her girls.

  “My offer is still open, Suzette, should you wish to take it. Leave the squalor and come live like a queen.”

  Madame Laurent entice Suzette’s weakening resolve with offers of a comfortable bed, a belly full of food, new clothes, lavish creams, and perfumed hair. Suzette would shake her head and give the same timid response.

  “No thank you, Madame.”

  After time, the cat-and-mouse game, as they often do, began to wear upon Madame Laurent’s patience. Unable to convince an eighteen-year-old beauty to join her staff was merely a minor setback, which she would soon remedy by other means. It would not be long, and Suzette would be one of her new beauties of pleasure. When
Madame Laurent wanted her way, she was sure to get it.

  * * *

  Monsieur Brouchard counted the 50 francs at least a dozen times. The bills were crisp, and he brought them to his nostrils and inhaled the alluring scent of money. The amount was more than what he made in three months.

  He folded the bills for the last time and stuffed them into his pants pocket, after standing up from behind his desk. The clock on the wall indicated the end of the shift had arrived. He was about to earn his pay by performing one small task he would immensely enjoy.

  The door to his office opened, and he walked out onto the washroom floor and observed the women finishing their work. Each night, he would bellow out at the top of his lungs, “End of shift!” and then stand aside and watch the weary ladies go their separate ways.

  He meandered over to Suzette stooping over a basin scrubbing sheets, which should have been done hours ago. Both of his hands were shoved into the pockets of his trousers, and one fingered the crisp francs with greed.

  “I need a word with you,” he scowled. He purposely contorted his face into an angry scowl.

  Suzette stood up straight and wiped her sweaty brow with the back of her hand. She frowned at him in return. “Yes, Monsieur Brouchard?”

  “You’re fired. Take what belongings you keep upstairs and leave. Your services here are no longer required.”

  Suzette dropped the sheet into the soapy water and wiped her hands on her apron. Dumfounded, she froze. He spat the words in her direction with such force that she could not deny he meant every syllable. His angry expression dared her to question him, but Suzette’s shock would not allow her to remain silent.

  “But why? What have I done?” she persisted.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he hissed, as he took a step and shoved his face closer into hers. “It’s my prerogative to fire anyone I please, whenever I please. I’m not happy with your work. These sheets should have been hung to dry hours ago.” He shook his finger at her, inhaled a deep breath, and yelled, “Gather your things and leave now!”