Belle Epoque by Elizabeth Ross Read Free Book Online Page B

slows and pulls to a stop on boulevard Haussman. The driver helps me down and points to the shop where my meeting is to take place. A ladies’ hat boutique, it has a façade of wrought iron and a glass window with swirling gold lettering, which reads
Le Miroir des Modes
. Hats areon display in the window, perched on gilded treelike branches. The carriage pulls away and I’m left alone on the street, trying to find the courage to enter the establishment.
    My chest tightens as I open the door to the sound of the jingling shop bell. There is only one customer paying an account and no sign of the countess and her daughter. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding and relief washes over me. I must be early.
    I move farther into the store, taking it all in. I’ve never been in such an elegant place. The ceilings are higher than one would expect from the street, and the walls are finished in dark wood and cream moldings. Suspended from the ceiling is a glittering chandelier illuminating all shapes and colors of ladies’ hats. There are tall glass cabinets housing the more fragile creations, and slim wooden drawers left ajar display scarves arranged in rows.
    I turn and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the wall of mirrors—it’s like looking at a stranger, seeing myself in an agency outfit of brown gingham. It felt much smarter than my own clothes in the dressing room, but here in this fancy store, it’s obvious how dull and plain I look: perfect for a repoussoir.
    The customer leaves and the rosy shopgirl turns her attention to me. “
Bonjour
, mademoiselle. Let me know if you need assistance with sizes or styles.”
    How odd it is to be treated like a customer. “I’m meeting some friends,” I tell her, and make my way to a chaise longue in front of the window display. I’m too intimidated to touch the fine hats, so I take a seat to wait for the clients. When I first arrived in Paris, it was my dream to work in a store like this, full of beautiful things, a far cry from the practical necessities ofcountry life. No lugging sacks of potatoes and boxes of apples or restocking bottles of hoof oil and spools of flypaper. Most of all, no Papa breathing down my neck.
    I stare at the exquisite hats; they look like exotic birds. I want to sweep my hand across their plumes and feel the soft feathers tickle my skin. I imagine choosing a different one to wear every day. For a few moments I forget the reason I’m actually here. Then a nagging thought pokes at me—a section of the repoussoir rule book comes to mind. I was given a copy of the turgid volume on the first day of training.
            II. ii.
Alieni Appetens
. It is forbidden to covet a client’s belongings, as this encourages unhealthy desires. Furthermore, any suspected theft of a client’s property will result in dismissal and legal action.
    It’s as if the fashionable hats swivel away from me with disdain and the gloves laid out on the counter point accusing fingers. They know I don’t deserve to wear them; they know I don’t belong.
    The tinkle of the shop bell turns my attention to the door. I’m surprised to see the countess’s friend, Madame Vary. She wears peacock feathers in her hat and prances like the bird itself. “Ah, there you are, Maude,” she says when she sees me.
    I get up and we shake gloved hands.
    “Bonjour
,
”
calls out the shopgirl.
    Madame Vary ignores her and looks me up and down. “Only for the countess would I get involved in such a thingShe is such a precious friend.” Her warm words for the countess don’t match her contemptuous tone of voice. She removes the peacock on her head and throws it behind me on the chaise longue.
    “You are my late husband’s second cousin’s daughter, if anyone asks.” And under her breath, “You look more like someone from
his
side of the family.”
    I don’t know what she’s referring to, but I realize her last comment is a slight. How could she resent me when I’ve barely