Buckles and shimmering fichus and aprons, pockets and tippets and divine little parasols made of lace, toile and gossamer.
Both, I decide.
The store is called À la Toilette, and it is full of all the fripperies to make the plainest gown sing. All the trimmings to make even the drabbest of dresses into a concoction worthy of a queen. Not our queen: Julie, one of the other shopgirls, tells me she hasn’t worn anything but black or brown since ’44. But worthy of a queen of fashion, I think, twirling around and laughing in delight.
“Follow me,” says Julie, and leads me up a narrow flight of steps to a room with three beds. “You’ll be sleeping here, with Adélaïde, that’s Labille’s daughter, a very charming girl, only thirteen.” Julie has an odd way of speaking, a mixture of grub and grace. “The convent at Saint-Maur—I had a cousin there—Félicité Bertin, you knew her?”
“Oh yes, a lovely girl,” I lie, putting down my bag and sitting on the bed. “Oh, what a fine mattress!”
“Certainly—Madame Labille believes in a good night’s sleep. We must look perfectly pretty in the morning, pretty enough to match her wares.” Julie smiles at me: she is a lovely girl with a mass of brown hair tied loosely back and her thin body is swathed in fine pink silk.
I am furnished with a trousseau, as though I am a bride to be married: two dresses, a beribboned corset, a handful of soft chemises. Labille picks out a beautiful peach-colored silk for one of my dresses and she chooses perfectly: somehow the color catches my soul and lights it up. I am allowed to pick out the trim for my new dresses, and Madame Labille even permits me a small pair of hoops that lift the heavy skirt and petticoat. I giggle when I remember the nuns railing against such hoops, that send skirts swaying to catch men’s fancy.
Madame Labille is a hard-faced woman; her husband has a lottery boutique next door but she runs this store all by herself. “Calls herself a ‘woman of business,’ ” says Julie, and we both laugh at the strange image the word conjures.
Madame Labille decides Mademoiselle Rançon, as I am known, is not a suitable name.
“A new name? Oh, I’m not sure,” I say. Is such a thing allowed? “But I was baptized . . .”
“Were you? I thought your father was . . . well, never mind. Besides, it’s fun,” says Monique, another of the girls and as pretty as a rosebud. “Name means nothing in our world, so pick one to suit you. I was Gollier before I came here and now I am Mademoiselle de Beauvoisin. Miss Good Neighbor. What is the harm in changing your name, as you would your dress for a new season?”
I’ve only ever had one dress, and now I have three, so . . . I decide on Mademoiselle l’Ange: Miss Angel and I am ushered into a new life where anything is possible.
“I could stay here forever,” I say dreamily to Julie, who has just finished selling a pair of green gloves, embroidered with seed pearls, to an older gentleman. Eighty livres he paid for them and he even gave Julie a livre, for her beautiful service, he said. Imagine that: a pair of gloves that costs more than twenty chickens! The prices in the shop amaze me, though Julie, who has been here almost a year, says I’ll soon lose my charming innocence and realize that everything has a price.
Julie says it is we who keep the customers coming, like meat attracts flies. Or ribbons attract female heads. We are the most valuable product in the store, even more valuable than the two ermine muffs Madame Labille ordered from Russia, one white sewn with pearls, the other black fur banded with amber beads. The Marquise de Rouilly sighed over the white one last week but finally decided that four hundred livres was too outrageous a sum. Imagine—a muff even a marquise can’t afford!
“I could stay here forever,” I repeat, and twirl a soft velvet ribbon around my wrist. Julie deposits the glove money into a box in one of the cupboards, then comes to sit beside me in the window.
“Forever—one as beautiful as you couldn’t stay here forever,” she says playfully, unpinning a paste brooch from my hair so that a lock tumbles down. Two soldiers passing in the street stop to salute us, and we giggle and blush before they bow and go on their merry way.
“You must be more ambitious. There will no doubt soon be a kind gentleman to spirit you away.” Julie has many admirers, including one who buys her a new pair of stockings every single week. She sells most of them, along with anything else she can pilfer from the store, to the peddler woman who comes by on Mondays. Not like it’s worth anything, she said airily last week, picking up the foot of sequined band left over after Madame de la Popelinière had left.
“Ah, ambition,” I say lazily. “Not for me.” One should be content with what one has, I think, looking around at the store; the sequins wink back in agreement. The days soon settle into a soft and luxurious routine, and the nuns and their remonstrations fade into the shadows where they belong. And serving in a shop isn’t like work, really: what greater joy than to count pretty buttons or neatly fold scarves and ribbons? Madame Labille quickly determines I have no gift for numbers and Julie continues with that dull duty.
“Two strips of this fur, here,” says Madame de Soissons, pointing to long yards of fine ermine, “and six for the skirt.” Six for the skirt! Imagine that. She doesn’t even inquire the price, and I study her cool nonchalance, her elegant air of indifference, the delicate gestures she makes with her hands to the two maids that stand behind. She is one of those hallowed ladies who steps directly from their carriages to the store, wearing only the slimmest of kid shoes in any weather. I guess she has never known rough cobblestone under her feet, never picked her way over a puddle without someone’s arm or cloak to assist. The half-finished gown that will bear the fur trim lies over one of the tables, a resplendent cream brocade.
She turns to look at me and a slight sliver of a frown pinches her features. “That is a very charming fichu,” she says, coming over to finger the soft gauze at my throat. “I’ll take some of that—it will be just the thing with my turquoise silk.” I know what she is thinking: a gown in my color, a fichu in my style, will restore her faded skin and smooth her wrinkled eyes. Peach is a most popular color this spring, and all because, says Madame Labille in satisfaction, “You wear it so well.”
Other times brown-clad women, with a bustling air of business, pick out merchandise for grand court ladies, picking up their wares on a Tuesday and heading off to Versailles. One, it is even whispered, is the dressmaker to the Marquise de Pompadour. Pompadour is the most elegant and powerful lady in the land, and she rules France, and the king, from behind her perfectly perfumed and constructed façade. One day her dressmaker decides on an enormous selection of chartreuse silk flowers, just arrived from Lille.
Madame Labille has come out from her lair to serve the august woman, and bows and scrapes before the dressmaker as though she were the Pompadour herself.
“Will she return the ones she doesn’t need?” I ask, after she is gone—eight hundred livres just on silk flowers! I try to imagine what the Marquise looks like and what she would do with two hundred silk posies—the entirety of the order. There are paintings, of course, and prints, but most of them are unflattering, as portraits generally are.
“No, she won’t return them,” says Madame Labille in satisfaction, making neat notions in the account book. “Keeps the ones she wants, then gives the rest to friends, or charity, or throws them away. I don’t really know, but the arrangement is satisfactory.”
Not all our customers are women; there are plenty of men who come to purchase for their wives, daughters, and mistresses, as well as to ogle and charm us. Highborn gentlemen come themselves, or else send their lascivious lackeys, who prowl the streets for their masters.
Julie teaches me how to laugh and be charming and coy while seeming to encourage. Men, she instructs me solemnly, are the key to everything and you never know what door they might open. She gives me lessons in coquetry, and soon I have plenty of suitors and admirers myself, offering me tickets to the Opéra, boat rides on the Seine, picnics in paradise or the Palais Royale.
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All the wonders of Paris are unfurled for me, like the cloak of a handsome gentleman laid gallantly over a puddle. I am ushered across, my feet in delicate calfskin slippers, never yellow, and never getting dirty.
“The Hôtel de Richelieu, mademoiselle,” says the guard grandly as two others open the gate. I carry my basket into the courtyard, and another man, extravagantly dressed in purple livery, ushers me into the house and through a succession of gilded reception rooms.
In the last one he leaves me alone, instructing me to wait. We often make deliveries to clients: to fine ladies too sleepy or too proud to travel the streets; to new brides anxious before their weddings; to recalcitrant lovers, needing a quick fancy to soothe a discontented mistress.
I suddenly feel nervous, for this is the grandest house I have been inside. The men and women who inhabit such places are unknown mysteries to me.
“Indeed. You have brought the gloves?” comes a voice from a shadowed corner. I jump and almost drop the basket.
“La, sir! I thought I was alone. What are you doing, sitting in the shadows?” I peer into the corners, but it is a dull afternoon and the evening candles are not yet lit. Madame Labille constantly impresses upon us the need for formality when making deliveries, especially to the grander houses, but I have found that a smile and a bit of a jest is also well received.
“Shadows are best for observation,” comes the voice of an older man, husky and worn. “Now show me one of the gloves. Slip your hand inside.”
I oblige, the soft leather greeting me like a friend.
“There, yes, now, put on the other one. How do they feel, mmm?”
“Warm and comfortable. As soft as cream.”
“Tight?”
“Yes, sir. Well fitting, snug, like a . . . a glove.” I turn my hands this way and that for his benefit.
“Warm and tight, ah yes, excellent. Pull your hands out slowly—slowly, I say! Yes, that’s it . . . mmm. Now, put your basket on the floor, dear, and go stand by the window.”
“Now, do you want to see the gloves, or me?” I say, doing his bidding. “Oh, but what a lovely statue! Who is she?” I cry, my attention caught by a delicate marble lady in the gardens before me.
“The goddess Hebe. Do you know your goddesses, child?”
“I don’t know my goddesses, only my saints. And I’m not a child, sir, I’m already nineteen!”
“Turn around. You are charming, charming.” A shuffled creaking and the man emerges from the shadows, older than his voice and a little stooped, but with a certain bright energy. He is wearing a home robe of quilted blue velvet and a gold-tasseled cap.
“Ah, charming, delectable. Do not be afraid,” he says, creeping closer.
“I’m not afraid, sir, for I know you to be a gentleman.”
“Ha! How strange you should think yourself safe with a gentleman. Come here, my dear, and give me a kiss.” He beckons me with a curled, beringed finger.
“Very well,” I say, for kisses are free and give so much pleasure. I peck him on the cheek and his arms catch me, surprisingly strong and grasping, and suddenly I am afraid. I push him away, and he releases me.
“Ah, now, twenty years ago, you would not have escaped so easily, I can assure you, mademoiselle,” he says, staggering over to a stuffed sofa. “You would have succumbed, and been the more pleasured for it, but alas these days I must conserve my energy.” He coughs and spits a phlegmy wheeze.
I suddenly feel sorry for him, though I am not sure why, and impulsively lean over to kiss him again. I see with a giggle that he has fallen asleep and is snoring. I am unsure whether to leave the basket or not; I decide I will and Madame Labille can send a bill for all of it. He can certainly afford it, I think, looking around the magnificent room.
I tarry before leaving, look out over the fountains and the statue of Hebe, then twirl around on the soft carpet. I imagine living in such a house; I am his mistress, this harmless old man is my protector, and every day I wake to the charms of this beautiful life.
If I hold very still, I can imagine it’s mine, all mine.
Chapter Six
In which Jeanne falls, but lands quite comfortably
It’s been raining for six days and all of us shopgirls are cooped up inside like a brood of ruffled pastel chickens. Madame Labille has taken the carriage to visit the lace merchants in Lyon and we do not want to ruin our cloaks and slippers by walking out in the rain.
Adélaïde, Labille’s daughter, is sitting on the floor in front of me, sketching me. She follows me around like a puppy dog and says I am the most beautiful woman she has ever seen.
“Madame Gourdan’s is the house of highest repute in Paris,” says Julie, fingering a purple bow. “Well, perhaps second to Madame Sultana’s.” Monique has left to go and work at that famous brothel, enticed there by money and promises.
I shudder. “I’d rather be a mistress than work in one of those houses.”
Julie shrugs. “The number of presents increases with the number of different admirers, and there is, of course, no chance anyone will tire of you.”
“I think to be married would be far nicer.”
“Not I,” dismisses Julie. “The most we could hope for is a coachman, or a shopkeeper, and then you have to live in a garret for the rest of your life, and have too many children and scrimp each penny. Better to be a mistress: if he mistreats you, you can simply leave.”
I look out at the street: it’s November and winter is coming. How lucky I am to be in this warm and beautiful house. “But where would you go?” I ask.
“You could come back here,” offers little Adélaïde from the floor. “Look—isn’t it the perfect likeness?”
I glance at the sketch and ruffle her hair. “It is indeed, pet. You are very talented.”
The street door opens and I startle; I hadn’t seen or heard the carriage. A man enters, followed by a tall footman holding an umbrella over his head. Adélaïde scuttles out—she is not permitted in the front of the shop when there are clients.
“But Monsieur du Barry! We haven’t seen you for almost a year!” exclaims Julie in what appears to be genuine delight. “How is Félicité?”
“Ah, the lovely Félicité,” says the man, and I note how handsome he is, with large eyes and a sensuous curve to his mouth. Very handsome. “Some mistakes are best forgotten. And so you must be Mademoiselle l’Ange!” he says, turning away from Julie and offering me his hand. I put mine in his and he kisses it, then almost pulls me off the chair, but in so elegant a motion that I am unaware of what he is doing until I am standing before him.
“Magnificent,” he says, and leans closer, and my legs feel a little weak and I almost swoon. I’m going to fall, I think in amazement, even though I have never been one to faint.
“The rumors do not lie,” the man continues, fixing me with the full force of his smile. “Enchanting, simply enchanting.” I sense something powerful and attractive coming off him, and I smile at him under half-lowered eyes, with the look that the younger Corneuve boy declared drove him to distraction.
“Jeanne is one of our newer girls,” says Julie, edging herself back into the conversation. She likes him too, I think. Who wouldn’t? He’s so handsome. The man she calls du Barry ignores her.
“Now,” he says, releasing me. I sit back on the window seat and giggle, for what has passed between us is something rather extraordinary. “I have not come on behalf of anyone else, but entirely for you, mademoiselle.”
“La, sir. Now what would you mean by that?” I say, feeling deliciously flirtatious. It is as though we are alone in the shop, Julie of no consequence, nothing of any consequence except for him and me.
“I came here because of you. A woman’s charms are more exaggerated than even money, but I declare you are more beautiful than the rumors. Since you have not disappointed me, in any small measure, I would make you a present—of anything in this store.”
“Oh!” I exclaim, smiling up at him.
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p; “And do not hold back on any account of the price—I want to be assured that you will remember me favorably.”
“Very well,” I say, noting the curve of his mouth, the brushed elegance of his coat, and the gleam of his sword handle. “I already know what I want.”
“And what would that be, most charming mademoiselle?”
Some part of me wants to say you, but instead I say, “The Russian muff. The white one.”
“Bring it here,” the man instructs Julie, and when she does he takes my hands and fits them inside the snug warmth. My fingers curl in delight, and I can’t stop staring at my new admirer.
After he leaves, Julie snatches his money off the counter and whispers low: “The most debauched man in Paris, a provincial adventurer, some say tainted.”
“Well, you seemed rather keen on him when he first came in,” I say, stroking the snow-soft fur of my new muff. “Don’t be jealous.”
“I’m not jealous,” she snaps, but I know she is.
That night I can hardly sleep for thinking of him—how handsome! And the look in his eyes when he appraised me, the sincere and mutual admiration. Then more presents and gifts, notes sealed with sprinkles of gold leaf, nights at the Opéra and the Comédie-Française. He woos me with an intensity that I find immensely flattering. He is so very good-looking, and charming. And a comte! And he must be very rich to have brought me that muff without hesitation.
He is the first man to sweep me off my feet, but I’m still in the air: I haven’t fallen yet. But soon? My stomach wobbles like a jelly when I remember the way he caressed my hands last night, before slipping a perfect emerald ring on one finger, paste but still beautiful.
What better life than to be loved by him?
After seven long years of war, peace has come at last and Labille closes the shop so that we may all attend the celebrations. Du Barry fetches me on foot, the streets too crowded for a carriage to pass. His footman goes on ahead, carving us a course with his cane, toward the Place du Paix where two urchins have reserved our places in the stands. Du Barry throws some coins at them and shouts above the crowd: “Reserved, for you, my princess.” We squeeze in and wait for the royal procession.
The Enemies of Versailles Page 4