The girls sat in tense misery, trying their best to look attentive.
Mademoiselle was not to be hurried. 'By now most of you should have some inkling of how to sew. As you all know, there are only ten more periods of this class until the summer recess. Every year at this time it is traditional that my classes show me what they have learned.'
There was a collective groan from the girls. Their faces fell. They knew what was coming. Mademoiselle's pet project.
Most of the girls hated to sew. The needles pricked their fingers, the threads got tangled, and Mademoiselle was ever unsatisfied. She complained endlessly about their buckling hems, their sloppy stitches. More often than once, each of them had experienced the humiliation of Mademoiselle's wrath: with her tiny scissors she tore out whole rows of stitches, and the tearful girl would have to start over from scratch.
Mademoiselle continued. 'You are each assigned to sew a dress. The dress shall be something utilitarian. Something simple. You will design and cut out your own patterns. You will supply your own fabric. You will sew it without help. All work shall be done in this classroom. What you sew, and how well you do it, will determine your final grade.' She paused. 'Do I make myself clear?'
'Oui, mademoiselle,' the girls chorused.
Mademoiselle raised her chin. 'Girls!'
They all sat stiffly at attention.
'Class is dismissed!'
There was much scraping of chairs, a stampede out the door. On the other side of the building the boys would be waiting.
Usually Hélène was the last one out. She had nowhere to rush except home to Tante Janine. But today she sailed happily out the door with the rest of them. Her heart pounded. Of all the girls in the class, she was the only one who greeted the news of the sewing project with delight.
'What's with her?' Jeanne-Marie Berty asked loudly, staring after Hélène. 'I've never seen her in a hurry before.'
Jeanne-Marie's friend Edith Loiseau said something in a whisper, and the girls glanced at Hélène, giggling noisily.
Hélène could feel her face flushing, but she ignored them. Jeanne-Marie and Edith thought they were better than everyone else. Monsieur Berty owned a shipyard and Monsieur Loiseau was the head of the local fish cannery. They were the wealthiest families in town and the two girls were vain, stuck-up, and vicious. They got their jollies making fun of other people. Hélène always went out of her way to avoid them. But often their loud wisecracks followed her and caught her off guard.
Today she didn't care. Let them snicker, she thought. She'd show them! Her heart did another joyous leap. She had not only a talent for sewing but also a secret passion for it. Perhaps it was a legacy from Maman.
She smiled to herself. She would have ten classes—ten Saturdays—on which to work on her project. And eleven Saturdays from now was the annual Feux de St.-Jean festival. For that the townswomen would don their traditional costumes with the fantastic starched lace caps and celebrate proudly. But she? She would celebrate beautifully.
Hélène stopped hurrying for a moment in order to catch her breath. She leaned against a stone wall and shut her eyes. Yes, she could see it already. At the festival she would wear a beautiful dress. Something besides the humiliating hand-me-downs that Tante Janine collected from neighbors on whose children Hélène had seen the same shapeless outfits a year or two before. Yes, for once she would dazzle. She would be Cinderella, the festival her ball.
It wouldn't be difficult. She had the talent and she had a little money. For the past few years she had squirreled away a few francs that people had given her when she ran errands for them. A few francs Tante Janine didn't know about.
Hélène smiled again. On the way home she would stop at Madame Dupre's shop. Madame Dupre was the local seamstress. But she didn't only sew. She sold fabrics by the bolt or by the meter. Most of them were simple, inexpensive fabrics. But a few—ah, a few were fabulous!
And best of all, Madame Dupre had back issues of fashion magazines—copies of Paris Vogue and Elle and L'Officiel. Hélène would flip through them, carefully selecting a style for the dress she was going to sew.
She skipped along the steep cobblestoned streets, past the stone houses that had turned pale gray under the onslaught of the salt winds. Within a few minutes she would pass Madame Dupre's and peek in the window. And on Monday, right after school, she would march in armed with her precious francs.
3
On the following Monday, Hélène stood paralyzed in front of the door to Madame Dupre's. In the window was a breathtaking dress on a headless wooden dummy, and underneath it a photo clipped from one of the Parisian fashion magazines. Hélène saw that the dress was a copy of the one in the picture. Only the fabric was different.
She was enthralled.
Slowly she opened her hand and looked down in her palm to make certain that the money was still there. It was. Then she fortified herself with a deep breath, opened the door of the shop, and went in.
The shop was dim. Through an open door she could see the brightly lit workroom in the back. There were two girls sitting there. One was sewing meticulously by hand; the other sat facing a machine, pedaling with her feet and spinning a large wheel with one hand.
But what caught Hélène's eye was the long counter in front of her. Displayed on it were bolts of beautiful cloth. She stared at them but didn't dare touch them. One fabric in particular fascinated her. It was gray and had tiny nubs, like imperfections, scattered all over it. Instinctively she realized that they were not imperfections; they were indigenous to the fabric.
'May I help you?' a cultured voice said from behind her.
Startled, she turned around and looked up in awe. Madame Dupre herself was standing there. She was a tall, imposing woman. Hélène thought she was the most elegant woman in the world. She wore a striped silk blouse with a delicate lace bow at the collar. Her eyes were brown and gentle, her hair elegantly gray, and she smelled faintly of perfume. Next to her, Hélène felt extremely shabby and awkward. For a moment, a feeling of panic seized her. She wanted to turn and run right back out. But something gave her courage. Perhaps it was the way Madame Dupre looked at her.
'Bonjour, madame,' Hélène said meekly.
'Bonjour, mademoiselle,' Madame Dupre returned with extreme politeness. 'May I be of assistance?'
Hélène took a deep breath and clutched her handful of francs tighter. 'I would like to buy some beautiful fabric.'
Madame Dupre smiled wisely. 'All fabrics are beautiful,' she said. 'It depends on how they are sewn. What is it that you would like? I have cottons, woolens, linens, silks and satins, velvets. . .'
'Oh!' Hélène looked a bit deflated. Then she composed herself.
'Something like that'—she pointed a trembling finger at the nubby gray material—'how much would that cost?'
'You have good taste, mademoiselle,' Madame Dupre said with approval. 'That is raw silk, from the Orient. It is the only bolt I have. It is very expensive. But oh, so fine.' She looked at Hélène warmly. There was something about the way the girl took to the fabric that reminded her of herself when she was young. Having an eye for fabrics was a rare gift. And the girl had it. She smiled. 'Would you like to feel it?'
Hélène's eyes lit up. 'May I?'
'But of course, mademoiselle.'
Madame Dupre watched Hélène as she reached out and reverently stroked the fabric. Then she held a corner of it between her fingers and caressed it. The woman nodded to herself. The girl was getting the feel.
To Hélène the cloth seemed to have a lifeblood of its own. She could feel it coursing between her fingertips. The texture was luxurious to the touch. The sheen was soft, like subtle moonlight on a tranquil sea.
'It would make a beautiful gown, n'est-ce pas?' Madame Dupre said.
Hélène was breathless. 'Oh, yes! How much is it?'
'Ah.' Madame Dupre looked at her shrewdly and wagged her finger. 'You must not think that raw silk is all there is. The woolens are sturdy, co
arse and warm, or they can be soft and subtle. The linens are crisp. The velvets are like the deep colors of the night. And the cottons are cool. Each fabric has its own personality and characteristic. You yourself must judge what fabric will suit your needs best. Royal fabrics like silk and velvet must never be used to make aprons or housedresses. But a ball gown—yes! Linens and cottons are for the summer. Woolens for the winter. There are fabrics for every season of the year. For every function in the world!'
Hélène's eyes shone with rapture. The door to a whole new world was opening before her. And she was dazzled.
There was the sound of someone coming into the shop. Madame Dupre turned around automatically. Discreetly Hélène examined a bolt of navy-blue linen, comparing its texture to the raw silk.
'Bonjour,' Madame Dupre said.
'We need fabric,' an all-too-familiar voice said loudly.
'Yes, something simply extravagant!' a second voice chimed in.
'For mademoiselle's annual sewing project, no doubt,' Madame Dupre said dryly.
'Oui.' Suddenly there was a shriek. 'Jeanne-Marie! Look who got here ahead of us!'
Hélène glanced sideways at Edith and Jeanne-Marie. The two girls put their heads together and started whispering and giggling. Hélène clenched her fists. It was as if a dark cloud blotted out the sunshine. Those two malicious creatures didn't deserve to be here, she thought. Not among all these bolts of beautiful cloth.
Edith looked at Hélène. 'Which fabric are you going to buy?' she called over.
'I. . .I don't know yet,' Hélène murmured.
The girls whispered and giggled again. Madame Dupre glanced at them sternly. She felt sorry for Hélène, but she didn't dare chase the two other girls out. Their mothers were her best customers; most of their dresses were sewn at the shop. That was how Madame Dupre really made her money. Selling fabric was only a sideline. No, to chase them out was impossible, but she would try to get rid of them quickly.
'Could you excuse me for a moment?' she asked Hélène.
Hélène nodded and withdrew to a corner. Silently she stood there and waited. She watched in horror as Edith immediately homed in on a bolt of bottle-green velvet, pawing it like a bundle of rags. Jeanne-Marie was in no hurry. Slowly she examined each bolt, all the while watching Hélène out of the corner of her eye. When she reached the gray raw silk, she saw Hélène stiffen.
Jeanne-Marie smiled triumphantly and looked up at Madame Dupre. 'I'll take six meters of this,' she said sweetly.
Hélène's heart sank. In panic she looked pleadingly at Madame Dupre.
The woman looked at her stoically. Then she turned to Jeanne-Marie. 'That's a very expensive fabric,' she told her. 'Perhaps—'
'The cost doesn't matter,' Jeanne-Marie said firmly. 'Maman said I was to choose whatever I want. You're to put it on her bill.'
'Very well,' Madame Dupre said with a sigh. The sight of Hélène tugged at her heart. The girl stood trembling in the corner, clutching her coins pathetically.
A few minutes later the two girls left, their noses in the air. Their fabrics were wrapped up in brown paper parcels and tucked under their arms. They were chattering happily, grandiosely planning their dresses. Edith had the bottle-green velvet; Jeanne-Marie walked away with the raw silk.
'I thought those two would never leave,' Madame Dupre murmured wearily after the door closed behind them. 'Ill-mannered girls! What they both need is a good spanking!' Then she turned to Hélène. 'Now, mademoiselle,' she said gently, 'let me teach you something.'
Hélène didn't speak. She remained in the corner, staring up at her. There was deep hurt in her eyes.
'Come, come,' the woman said knowingly. 'This is not as tragic as you think. The raw silk and the velvet are all wrong. They are not for dresses. They are for gowns or beautiful suits. And gray does not become Mademoiselle Berty at all. Not with her terrible pallor. It will make her look all washed out. Neither does green suit the other one. Her skin is much too dark.'
Hélène nodded slowly. She thought she understood what Madame Dupre was trying to say. 'But. . .it's just. . .'
'Never mind, my dear.' Madame Dupre made a gesture that looked as if she were waving away an irritating fly. 'Let them make fools of themselves. They have no taste. You are smarter, non?'
Hélène gave a tentative nod. She felt a little better. Not much, but enough. Still, the excitement was gone from her eyes. Her pleasure had turned sour.
Madame Dupre touched Hélène on the shoulder. 'Fortunately I have no fittings scheduled this afternoon. Come upstairs to my apartment with me. We will have some tea and I will teach you a lesson that you should never forget. Danielle!'
The sewing machine in the back of the shop stopped chattering. The skinny girl who operated it came out front. 'Madame?'
'I am going upstairs, Danielle. You're in charge of the shop while I am gone.'
Hélène looked up at the elegant wall clock. It was three o'clock. They had been talking for almost two hours.
Madame Dupre rose from her chintz-upholstered chair. 'That's enough of a lesson for one day,' she said, smoothing her skirt. 'Now, go home and digest what you have learned. Don't forget what I told you—that there are two approaches to design. The first?' She looked questioningly at Hélène.
Hélène took a deep breath. 'Designing the pattern and then finding a fabric to suit it.'
'Bon. And the second?'
'Designing the dress around the fabric.'
'Correct. And which will you do?'
Hélène did not hesitate. 'I shall design a dress that will look good on me. Then I'll use whatever fabric best suits it and me.'
Madame Dupre looked at her with respect. The girl learned fast. With the right tutoring, she might even get someplace.
4
It was ten Saturdays later that Mademoiselle Gribius came around from behind her desk. She clapped her hands sharply, bringing the class to order.
The girls sat erect, nervously looking up at her. On the table in front of each of them was a neatly folded garment.
Mademoiselle cleared her throat. Her face was impenetrable and her voice was emotionless and dry. 'As you all know, this is the last class until September. I have tried to teach you well. Now we shall see what you have absorbed during the past year.'
She was silent for a moment. Her sharp eyes swept through the room. 'You will all change into the outfits you have sewn. You will remain dressed in them for the remainder of the day. However, you will not wear them home. Upon dismissal you will change back into your school uniforms.'
She frowned. 'I think this is prudent, since it will spare you much embarrassment. I have been watching you while you were sewing, and it saddens me to realize how little some of you have learned. I do not think your parents would appreciate the humiliation of your looking like clowns on the way home.'
She paused. 'All right, girls! Change into your dresses!'
Hélène's heart began to hammer. She took a deep breath. Slowly she reached for her dress and began unfolding it. For a moment, the rest of the class slipped out of her consciousness. All she had eyes for was her new dress.
During the past ten weeks, Mademoiselle had indeed kept her eye on the girls' progress. However, she offered no advice or comments. No approval or disapproval. Not one girl knew what she thought. Mademoiselle never smiled. Her stern face gave nothing away.
Edith had the most trouble. Her constant 'ouches' and muttered curses were greeted with muffled giggles from the rest of the class. She found it very difficult to sew and drape the green velvet. The fabric was thick and difficult to handle. Somehow or other, it got so much wear and tear that the nap was already beginning to wear off in a lot of places. Each Saturday, Edith was ready to burst into tears.
Jeanne-Marie had no fewer problems, but she attacked them with gusto, if only to spare herself ridicule. Each time she stuck herself with her needle she refrained from cursing or crying out. But her sharp intakes of breath were enough. The hisses c
arried to the back of the classroom. She was discovering—too late—that the raw silk she had bought out from under Hélène was no easier to sew than the velvet, for silk has its own characteristics. It 'crawls' right out from under the needle. A beautifully fluid fabric, it also tends to show off flaws in workmanship more easily than 'everyday' cloths such as cotton or linen.
Adding to their misery were their designs. Mademoiselle's instructions for a 'simple' dress were interpreted differently by each girl. But no interpretations were as ambitious—or bizarre—as Edith's and Jeanne-Marie's. Clearly both of them got carried away. They tried to create updates of lavish eighteenth-century court dresses. This process required repeated visits to Madame Dupre's. Almost daily they bought multicolored ribbons and frothy white or gold lace. Each time they saw a new item, they would pounce on it. Madame Dupre was no help. Knowing that they would return, she shrewdly put all her ribbons, laces, and bows out on display. It was too much for Edith and Jeanne-Marie. They knew no restraint. They had to have everything. And everything was destined to go on their dresses.
Hélène was grateful for Madame Dupre's tutelage. She took what she'd learned to heart and designed the simplest dress imaginable. She had gotten the idea for it from a picture she saw in L'Officiel. It had an unadorned bodice and a modest skirt and was supposed to be the latest rage in Paris. The sleeves were short, and the neckline, although low, was not low enough to be scandalous. For fabric, she'd chosen a lightweight cotton that was itself simple and easy to work with. The rich shade of burgundy would go dramatically with her raven hair. For adornment she sewed a belt out of the same fabric and used the beautiful buckle Madame Dupre had given her as a gift.
The pure simplicity of the dress gave it its elegance.
Slowly the girls began to change into their dresses. Most of them did it with trepidation.
'Hurry up!' Mademoiselle snapped. 'We haven't got all day.'
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