Camille’s Story, 1910

by Adele Whitby

“Thank you, madame,” I said with another curtsy. Then I quietly saw myself out.

  But once I was in the hallway, I gave in to my excitement and skipped all the way to the kitchen.

  I could already tell that everything was going to work out perfectly!

  I was busy from dawn until dark for the next several days, tending Sophie in the morning, assisting Mama in the afternoons, and preparing Mademoiselle Claire’s room every spare moment in between! All the hours I’d spent helping the housemaids came to good use: I washed the bedclothes, dragged the rugs outside to beat the dust from them, and scrubbed the windows until they sparkled. Every muscle in my body ached by the time I finally went to bed each night, but I always fell asleep with a smile on my face, imagining how pleased Mademoiselle Claire would be when she saw her new room.

  At last, everything was clean to my satisfaction: There wasn’t a speck of dust to be seen, and the entire room, from the drapes to the rugs, smelled fresh and clean. I stood back to admire the result of all my hard work, but a frown soon settled across my face. I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something missing from this room. Something important. Something that would truly make Mademoiselle Claire feel at home.

  “That’s it!” I cried suddenly as I realized what the room lacked. It was clean and bright—but utterly impersonal. There were no pictures, no trinkets, no books, no toys. It could be a room in any house, belonging to any person, from a baby girl to an elderly grandmother. Mademoiselle Claire’s room wouldn’t truly be ready until it was filled with items she might like.

  What could I give her? I wondered, thinking about all my belongings. Mama’s words suddenly came to mind; Mademoiselle Claire was the daughter of rich parents. Nothing I owned, not even the finest gifts from the Rousseaus, would be suitable for her.

  Perhaps I’ll need to ask Madame Colette to buy her some fine things, I mused. Of course, Madame Colette had probably already thought about that . . . but what if she hadn’t? A troubled air had settled over her; she was more distracted than ever. I’d even heard the housemaids gossiping about how deeply affected she was by her grief. No, I decided, the last thing Madame Colette needed at a time like this was to be bothered by such trivial matters as toys and books.

  Mademoiselle Claire must be very sophisticated, I thought. She is an American, after all, from a highly regarded family. Perhaps I could find her some books in the library . . . some poetry perhaps—

  Then an idea struck me that was so perfect I almost laughed out loud in relief! When I’d gone down to the basement to fetch my old pram for Baby Sophie, I’d stumbled across a whole box of poetry volumes that had been neatly packed away. At the time, I’d wondered why they weren’t in the library with all the other books that belonged to the Rousseaus, but I hadn’t given it another thought since then. Now, though, I knew exactly where those books should be: in Mademoiselle Claire’s room, awaiting her imminent arrival!

  I set off for the basement at once, remembering to get a few candles and the packet of matches on my way. The storage area of the basement was separate from the laundry and the larder, which was why I’d never been there before my first visit last week. All along the back wall, not far from where I’d found the pram, were boxes that had been carefully stacked, one atop the other. There was a thick layer of dust on the top boxes, but after all the cleaning I’d been doing, I didn’t mind a bit. I carefully lifted the lid of the first box and looked inside. Yes, there were the poetry volumes on top, along with several illustrated volumes of fairy tales. The books were beautiful, bound in rich leather with golden edges on every page. I knew at once that Mademoiselle Claire would adore them.

  I glanced at the other boxes, wondering if I should look inside them, too. The more nice things for Mademoiselle Claire, the better, I decided as I peeked inside another box. This one was filled with the most magnificent assortment of dolls I’d ever seen! I counted twelve in all, dolls of all shapes and sizes: a beautiful porcelain baby doll whose eyes opened and closed; an elegant doll dressed in a delicate silk gown, with a cascade of golden curls spilling down her back; there was even a doll dressed for tea who came with her own tiny china tea set! Each one was more special than the last, and for a moment I imagined what it would be like to own something so beautiful. To sit at a low wooden table with the dolls set around me, perched on tiny little chairs, having a tea party complete with real petits fours and delicate cubes made of real sugar to gently plop into the teacups. I had outgrown imaginary play like that a few years ago, of course, but it was still fun to think about for a few moments. But then I reminded myself that it was exactly that kind of silly daydreaming that made it seem to the other servants like I put on airs. Feeling pleased that I had stopped myself from continuing down a foolish path, I hugged each doll and whispered to her about the new girl who would love and care for her.

  What other treasures will I find down here? I wondered, full of anticipation. The next box contained everything a young lady would need for her dressing table: several small atomizer bottles of scent, a silver-plated mirror on a stand, and a matching hairbrush that was engraved with an elaborate wreath of forget-me-nots circling the letter C. This must have belonged to Madame Colette when she was a girl, I thought as I loosened my braid and ran the brush through my hair. The feeling of the bristles made me shiver all over, for reasons I couldn’t figure out, so I quickly returned the brush to the box and fixed my hair. For Mademoiselle Claire, I reminded myself. I was sure that she would feel a special connection to all these items, knowing that they had belonged to Madame Colette long ago.

  The last box was filled with the most wondrous assortment of toys, including a menagerie of wind-up mechanical circus animals that moved! I laughed excitedly as I watched the little monkey clash his cymbals while a proud peacock strutted in a circle. There was even a pair of swans who leaned their heads together as if to share a kiss! I knew that Papa, who had taken such pains to shape the animal topiaries outside, would have loved them as much as I did.

  Perhaps they will bring a smile to Mademoiselle Claire’s face in the midst of all her grief, I thought.

  By that point I’d made quite a mess of the basement—there were dolls and toys and books scattered all about me—so I carefully repacked each box. Only as I picked up one of the volumes of poetry did I make a truly startling discovery:

  There was another book hidden inside it.

  It tumbled to the floor and landed near my feet. I stared at it for a moment in surprise. Unlike the fancy poetry books, this one had a plain, burgundy-colored cover without a title. The name “Claudia” was written on the first page in perfect, tiny handwriting. It’s not Madame Colette’s book, then, I thought. I wonder who Claudia was. A servant girl, perhaps. Someone just like me.

  I knew I shouldn’t read it, but my curiosity soon got the better of me, so I flipped to the middle of the book. I saw right away that it was some sort of diary.

  15 May 1898

  There is no one in the world who knows the secret I am about to commit to these pages—

  Instantly, I slammed the diary shut, knowing full well that I had no right to read it—though I was even more curious about the diary than before. I’ll show it to Madame Colette and ask for permission to read it, I thought as I slipped it into my apron pocket. Then a new thought occurred to me. I need to ask permission for all of this. I don’t have the right to take these things upstairs—even if they are for Mademoiselle Claire.

  There was just one problem: The Rousseaus had left early that morning for a trip to the center of Paris. They wouldn’t be back until the next day. And I couldn’t bear to wait so long to finish arranging Mademoiselle Claire’s room!

  Mama will know what to do, I thought as I made my way up the stairs. I’d go straight to the kitchen and ask her advice.

  But Bernadette blocked the stairs

  “What were you doing back there?” she demanded. Though there was a harsh scowl on Bernadette’s face, I couldn’t help noticing the gle
eful look in her eyes, like a cat who’d caught a mouse in a trap.

  “I—I—”

  “If you’ve been sneaking around where you don’t belong, you’d best have a good explanation!”

  I swallowed hard. “I—I was looking for things to put in Mademoiselle Claire’s room,” I stammered. “I found some old—dolls, and books, and toys. I—I wanted to ask Madame Colette if—”

  To my surprise, Bernadette’s scowl melted away. She looked almost happy. “Oh! That’s a wonderful idea, Camille!”

  “It is?” I asked in surprise. Bernadette had never paid me a compliment before, in all the years I’d known her.

  “But you don’t need to bother Madame Colette with something so unimportant,” she continued. “After all, those are the family’s belongings, and Mademoiselle Claire is family. Go right ahead and take whatever you want for Mademoiselle Claire’s room, and set it up however best you see fit. I’m sure your efforts will make Mademoiselle Claire so happy—and the Rousseaus as well!”

  Bernadette’s enthusiasm was contagious; soon I was smiling as broadly as she was. “Thank you, Bernadette!” I replied. “I’ll take these boxes upstairs right now!”

  “If you need help, I can send for Maurice,” she offered.

  “No, that’s all right,” I told her. “They’re not heavy.”

  “This will be such a . . . surprise,” Bernadette said. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell a soul about what you’ve planned.”

  I grinned at her as she stepped aside, making room for me to climb the stairs. Could it be possible that Bernadette was finally willing to give me a chance? Alexandre didn’t like me very well when we first met, I remembered. But after we spent the morning together, he seemed to change his mind.

  I could only hope that the same thing would happen with Bernadette.

  A few days later, I knocked on the door to Madame Colette’s parlor. It was finally time to unveil Mademoiselle Claire’s new room to the household, and I could hardly wait to show everyone how I’d transformed it!

  As luck would have it, I found Monsieur Henri in the parlor too. “I’m so sorry about the interruption,” I began, “but Mademoiselle Claire’s room is ready now, if you would like to see it.”

  A smile as warm as the sun filled Madame Colette’s face. “Splendid!” she exclaimed as she rose from her desk.

  “I take it this means we can finally see what our busy little bee has been buzzing about?” Monsieur Henri teased me.

  I grinned at them both. “If it pleases you,” I replied with a curtsy, remembering the manners Mama had taught me.

  As the Rousseaus followed me down the hall toward Mademoiselle Claire’s room, my hands were trembling so much that I had to clench them behind my back, but I don’t think that either Monsieur Henri or Madame Colette noticed. I could hardly wait to see their reactions when they saw Mademoiselle Claire’s special new room!

  As we approached the end of the hallway, I saw a group of servants clustered around the door; Bernadette was there, and Josephine and Renée, and Mama, of course. Just seeing Mama made me feel more at ease.

  “Wait,” Madame Colette said suddenly.

  I stopped and turned around. To my surprise, there was no trace of the smile on her face; it had been replaced by a pinched, worried expression.

  “This is not—” she continued, but Monsieur Henri cut her off.

  “It’s just a room, Colette,” he said tensely, and his voice was sharper than I’d ever heard it before.

  It was very obvious that something was wrong, but I didn’t know what. As I searched their faces for answers, Monsieur Henri nodded at me. “Go ahead, Camille,” he said in a kinder voice. He slipped a supportive arm around Madame Colette’s waist. “Show us what you have done.”

  I tried to return his smile as we continued down the hall. I had a whole speech that I’d planned to deliver before I showed them the room, but all of a sudden it seemed out of place. Instead, I decided to simply open the door and let the room speak for itself.

  As everyone followed me into Mademoiselle Claire’s room, I took one last look around the room that I’d so carefully cleaned and arranged. Soon Mademoiselle Claire would arrive at Rousseau Manor, and she would surely make the room her own, moving things, taking some away, adding others. That was as it should be, of course. But for now this beautiful room was arranged just the way I would’ve wanted it set up for me, and I didn’t want to forget a single detail of what I’d done.

  The sheer curtains fluttered in the breeze as patches of sunlight danced across the rose-colored carpet. All the slim volumes of poetry had been carefully dusted before I’d placed them in the bookcase. I’d taken pains to wash each doll’s clothing before I brushed and styled their hair; they looked truly lovely arranged in the curio cabinet. I’d polished the silver hairbrush and mirror until they shone as brightly as the moon. I had even spritzed one of the glass atomizers about the room so that the very air smelled like a meadow filled with wildflowers. All that was missing was Mademoiselle Claire.

  Waiting, I thought suddenly. It feels like the whole room is waiting for a little girl to come home to it.

  Then I realized that no one had said anything. Not a single word.

  I turned around to look at the others. What I saw, I would never forget.

  Poor Madame Colette—she must’ve been taken ill; something must have been drastically wrong with her. All the color had drained from her face, leaving her ghostly pale. Her trembling lips were moving, as though she were trying to speak, yet no sound came out. At last I heard a wordless, anguished cry escape from her mouth. She hid her face in her hands as her shoulders shook with sobs.

  “Madame!” I cried, taking a step toward her. But Monsieur Henri held up a hand to stop me. He, too, looked ashen, but there was a fire blazing in his eyes as he wrapped Madame Colette in his arms.

  “Camille,” he said, pointing at me. The way he said my name made it sound like a crime. “You had no right—no right—”

  I couldn’t breathe.

  Monsieur Henri pressed his hand over his eyes; when he removed it, the fire in them was gone, replaced by a deep, lonesome sadness.

  When he spoke again, he addressed Bernadette as though I wasn’t even in the room. “You will have these things packed up with the greatest care and returned to storage,” he said. “Then you will—”

  “Don’t!” Madame Colette sobbed. “Don’t take it all away! Not again!”

  There was a long, strained silence, during which Monsieur Henri’s age had never been more clear. His face seemed to turn gray for a moment before he straightened himself and said to his wife, “Of course, my dear. Whatever you desire.”

  Then Monsieur Henri looked over at Bernadette. “Please make it known to the staff that I do not want this room to be disturbed ever again. Ever.”

  “Yes, Monsieur,” Bernadette replied.

  For a long moment, no one spoke; the only noise in the room was the heartbreaking sound of Madame Colette crying. At last Monsieur Henri turned to face me.

  “You are never to go into this room or down to the basement again,” he ordered.

  I nodded mutely as Monsieur Henri led Madame Colette from the room, whispering soothing words to her. Even as they retreated down the hall, Madame Colette’s sobs echoed back to us. Tears filled my own eyes, making my vision blur. Even so, I could see the distress on Mama’s face—distress that I had caused her. How? I wondered, numb. How did I manage to hurt everyone I care about? I was only trying to help.

  It was the worst moment of my life.

  Come,” Mama said to me in a low voice. “Come.”

  With her arm around my shoulders, Mama whisked me past the gawking housemaids, past Bernadette, whose gloating grin I could see even through my tears. How could anyone smile at a time like this? I wondered. Even if Bernadette was happy to see my humiliation, didn’t she have any compassion for the Rousseaus? When I thought about the way Monsieur Henri’s hand had shaken when he’d poin
ted at me, or the way that Madame Colette had seemed to crumple, overcome by her grief—

  And to think that it had been all my fault. . . .

  Well, I didn’t understand how anyone could take pleasure in that.

  Mama hurried me down the hall as fast as her ankle would allow; in moments, we were safely hidden away behind the door to our rooms. Only then did I let my tears fall freely. Mama folded me into her arms and held me tightly as my tears soaked her apron.

  “Shhh, shhh,” she whispered. “There, there. You mustn’t cry so, Camille.”

  But nothing Mama said could bring me comfort now.

  Mama brought me over to the settee and handed me a fresh handkerchief. I buried my face in it as if it were a mask that I could hide behind for the rest of my life. The only thing more overwhelming than my confusion and embarrassment was my shame. Somehow, some way, I’d managed to hurt the Rousseaus terribly—and all when I was trying to be useful. How had my plan to make Mademoiselle Claire feel welcome backfired so badly? Just the thought made me sob harder.

  “Camille.” Mama’s voice was still gentle but firmer than before. “You must calm yourself. You will do no one any good if you make yourself ill.”

  I tried to take a deep breath. To my surprise, the rush of air did help me feel calmer . . . at least a little.

  “What did I do wrong, Mama?” I asked in a trembling voice. “I never meant to—”

  “Of course you didn’t,” she replied. She bit her lip as a troubled frown settled over her face. “As best as I can figure, those things must’ve belonged to Mademoiselle Claudia. And that, I think, must’ve been Mademoiselle Claudia’s room.”

  “Who?” I said, puzzled.

  Mama sighed. “I bear some of the blame,” she said. “I suppose I should’ve told you this before, but the time never seemed quite right. And to be honest, we’ve all known for years now that Mademoiselle Claudia was not to be discussed in this house. . . .”

  I sat up a little straighter. I could already tell that Mama was about to tell me something important.