The Mistress of Paris

by Catherine Hewitt

  Barely three weeks after the conflict’s bloody climax, with gunfire still echoing through the streets and the smell of smoke lingering in the air, Emilie went into labour. She was far away from her home town with no female family members to support her. Paris had its attention elsewhere. On 13 July 1848, alone and in the sweltering heat, Emilie gave birth to a baby girl.

  Emilie adhered to common practice and gave her new baby her own name. But for convenience as much as caprice, the little girl soon came to be known as Louise.

  Louise’s birth certificate does not identify her father. The blank space where his name should appear betrays a complicated relationship. Though Louise’s father joined her mother when she moved nearer the centre of Paris, he never officially recognised his lover or her child. He was often absent, and when he did return, his fondness for drink placed a constant strain on the household. Emilie Delabigne had to manage alone with her baby.

  She could have given the child up. In 1844, 66 per cent of single mothers abandoning their infants at the children’s home, the Hospice des Enfants Trouvés, were lingères.16 But Normandy women were renowned for their sense of family and duty; Emilie refused to give up her daughter.

  As baby Louise grew, she began to develop a curious, striking appearance. She had a flush of golden red hair and pale skin, against which the piercing blue of her large eyes was accentuated. She was not exactly pretty by conventional standards; but there was something disarming, ethereal, even bewitching, about her appearance.

  By the time Louise had learned to walk, her mother had moved to a tiny top-floor apartment in the Rue Paradis-Poissonière in Paris’s poverty-stricken 10th arrondissement.17 It was a lively area of the city, populated with shopkeepers, artisans and factory workers, and animated by a scattering of little theatres and café concerts. Workers’ apartments like the one Louise and her mother inhabited were cramped and stuffy with low ceilings.18 The rooms were poorly lit and dingy, and the few possessions the mother and daughter owned would instantly have made it look cluttered. And Louise and her mother were not alone in the apartment; the little girl’s father was unreliable, but his presence was consistent enough for him to father six more children. Mme Delabigne, as she was now known, being over 25 and a mother, showed no resistance. Living as a concubine was common, particularly for girls who had migrated and could not easily acquire the necessary written consent of their parents to wed. Besides, the formalities of marriage presented a great expense.19

  Living conditions became more and more uncomfortable as the family grew. Money was hard-won and quickly spent. Finally, Louise’s mother realised that the cost of her lover’s presence outweighed the gain. She severed relations with him for good.

  Louise would never truly get to know her father. Her childhood was spent on the Rue Paradis-Poissonière, and she could not have begun her life at a more difficult time, both for her mother and for France. The revolution of 1848 had done little to improve the daily life of the poor. In Paris, the consequences of the wave of migration that brought Emilie to the capital were taking their toll. The golden opportunities so eulogised had proved a limited fund, reserved for the quick and the lucky. For the poor, living conditions were squalid. The putrid air made the stomach turn, while disease and sickness spread uncontrollably through the filthy, overcrowded streets.

  The Rue Paradis-Poissonière was a microcosm of the city’s ills. On either side of the dirty, narrow street, tightly packed buildings housed a growing number of workers, shopkeepers and dressmakers. The majority of the street’s working-class inhabitants harboured bitter resentment at their lot. The theatres, café concerts and dance halls may have enlivened the area, but they also led to widespread alcoholism. It was an unsavoury place to grow up. A child had to be permanently on his or her guard. But Louise had little choice. Her mother had to continue working, and when she was away Louise found that the street became both her playground and her school.

  Children of all ages would mix in the streets, the older ones teaching the younger what they knew, the young listening wide-eyed as the world was revealed to them. A child had to be perceptive and make quick judgements about characters and their surroundings. By the age of ten, Louise was becoming sure-footed. She was rapidly learning the skills needed to survive on the street, her bright eyes watching, looking, absorbing everything around her. She grew skilled at adapting to her changing surroundings. This facility would serve her well throughout her life.

  For Louise, the street was often the preferable place to be. Even when her mother was at home, she was seldom alone. Conscious of her marketable assets, the resourceful Mme Delabigne would frequently return to the tiny apartment with a lover. More often than not, she was paid for her troubles. Prostitution was a common way for poor girls to make ends meet. In 1836, Alexandre Parent-Duchâtelet, the vice-president of the Conseil de Salubrité, declared there to be over 3,500 prostitutes in Paris, and a further 35–40,000 working on a clandestine basis.20 Peasants new to the city were, he felt, particularly at risk of falling into this profession owing to their vulnerability and naivety. The garment trade was notorious for supplying a wealth of young girls eager to earn some extra sous through prostitution.21 As a lingère, Mme Delabigne would often have found herself the butt of caricaturists’ jokes. For such girls, a common trait was a lack of family support to fall back on.22

  For Louise, her mother’s sideline business established unconventional reference points from which to judge the world. From an early age, she learned by example that success was measured by a woman’s ability to seduce a man. Years later, the little girl would speak proudly of her mother’s sexual charisma:

  ‘Mama was so beautiful, my dear, that every time she went out she would seduce at least three men.’23

  Still, as a child, Louise learned that her mother’s profession meant there were times when it was wise to be absent.

  In this period of political upheaval, social rituals became vitally important. They offered stability and reassurance. Normandy was a region renowned for its piety and superstition, and Mme Delabigne clung to these familiar rituals when she moved to Paris. She made sure that her daughter took part in all the religious and social rites appropriate for her age. So in her tenth year, Louise joined the other girls and boys of the area at the Église Saint-Laurent to prepare for her First Communion. For children like Louise, the preparation and the ceremony were above all a marvellous social occasion. It was also a rare chance to wear a pretty dress and be admired. Everything about the event was a glittering contrast to the monotony of everyday life.

  The Église Saint-Laurent was a modest yet elegant building. Louise could see it standing proud at the end of her road, a beacon of tranquillity, every time she stepped outside the family’s apartment. It took barely five minutes to walk there, but when she left home on the day of the ceremony, each one of Louise’s light, bouncing steps was another precious moment to savour the pomp and grandeur of the occasion.

  Mme Delabigne washed and arranged her daughter’s long red hair specially. Then, when Louise shed her dreary everyday dress and pinafore, the frothy white Communion dress – even if it were borrowed – seemed to transform her into a princess. A delicate crown of white roses was carefully placed on her head to complete the outfit. The purity of the white lace against her red hair and blue eyes made her unconventional, Pre-Raphaelite appearance even more striking than usual. Curious onlookers turned their heads in admiration as the children filed out of the church after the ceremony.

  Louise instantly caught the attention of one of her neighbours. This was the young Jules Claretie, who would go on to become a prolific journalist. The little girl was eight years his junior, but the young man was spellbound by the child as she walked past him, the light catching ‘her beautiful red hair’.24 Already, Louise’s social skills were flourishing. Well aware of the impact she was making, she bounded up to greet the young man clutching her prayer book. Louise had learned that survival depended on how you interacted with
others.

  Claretie became a firm friend. With his insatiable appetite for culture, he would often amuse himself by staging a makeshift puppet show for his younger neighbours. He was both director and puppeteer of these amateur performances, but the shows never failed to attract a keen audience, of which Louise was the most dedicated member. Seated on the little chair that Claretie had arranged for the purpose, she watched mesmerised as he performed crude interpretations of Victor Hugo’s tragic drama Ruy Blas and the same author’s courtly romance, Hernani. Claretie was always struck by the intensity with which Louise’s big blue eyes fixed on the wooden puppets as she attentively absorbed the dialogue. At the end of each performance, her delicate hands would applaud enthusiastically. Perhaps, Claretie fancied, she was dreaming of conquering the world of theatre as she watched those shows.

  However, the friendships Louise was cultivating were not restricted to her peer group. The renowned landscape painter Camille Corot lived close by, and along with the other local children, Louise would go and visit ‘père Corot’. His studio represented a haven of peace in the bustling 10th arrondissement. When Louise stepped inside, closing the door behind her to the sounds of the street, she entered a whole new world. The artist’s studio was not claustrophobic and cluttered with objects as her home was, but spacious and simply furnished.25 The only decorations to be seen were the paintings and sketches that adorned the walls. The studio was cool, and the comforting smell of wood and oil paint filled the air. As Louise gazed upwards towards the high ceilings, she could see a large window that allowed the daylight to pour in.

  Corot was a grandfather-like figure. He could often be found sitting at his easel, dressed in a comfortable, flowing blue smock and a soft hat. Once she arrived, Louise would sit and watch the master paint, singing while he worked; for Corot ‘would begin his day singing and end it singing’.26 Louise spent long summer afternoons lost in the painted world of the beautiful town of Ville-d’Avray, which Corot would bring to life through stories. Louise watched as a magical landscape built up in thick, glossy layers before her eyes. She had never travelled beyond Paris; and yet, in that quiet, peaceful space, with the sound of the artist’s voice echoing through the studio, Louise could almost believe she was there, sitting by the lake or strolling in the shade along a meandering pathway.

  Louise’s life education had begun, but her childhood was to end abruptly. She had reached the age of thirteen. And it was then that she truly came to encounter the sordid underbelly of Parisian society.

  CHAPTER 2

  The Child Becomes a Woman

  The young girl was beginning to blossom into an attractive teenager, her childlike figure growing curvaceous and womanly. Below the dramatic arch of her eyebrows, her huge blue eyes sparkled as she gazed back at all those she met. Her features were perfectly even, her nose fine and straight, and when she smiled, her dainty mouth recalled the quiet self-assurance of the Mona Lisa. But it was her hair that would turn people’s heads. The thick mane of lustrous red tumbled down her back, glinting like spun gold when the light caught it. It was unusual and people would remark on it.

  To Mme Delabigne, her daughter was now a young adult. She would have to get a job.

  It was common for daughters of working-class families to be sent out to earn as soon as they became employable. Few parents saw any value in sending children to school. Attendance figures in Paris were erratic even among the youngsters who were enrolled.1 Young adults were considered an asset designed to improve the family economy. This was felt most keenly in single-parent families. The memoirs of Jeanne Bouvier, the daughter of working-class parents living in Paris in the second half of the 19th century, paint a vivid picture of parents’ reliance on their children’s income: ‘I was a good worker at the factory, but I almost never got a raise. My mother, who was always short of money, would get angry to the point of beating me. She thought that I was not working hard enough and she would call me lazy.’2

  The consequences of unemployment could be terrible. It was vital that a youngster be found a position at the earliest possible opportunity. Each time she stepped outside her home, Louise’s mother would see wretched women clothed in rags and men huddled in doorways, robbed of both soul and ambition. Unemployment was an ever-present threat and the Delabignes’ neighbourhood provided a daily reminder.

  Having been raised in the countryside, Mme Delabigne was used to children starting work as young as seven or eight.3 It would not have struck her as unreasonable for Louise to begin work at the age of thirteen. So it was that in the early 1860s, Louise found herself arriving to begin her first day of paid employment in a dress shop.

  It was a fortuitous time for the teenager to be starting her first job in the clothing industry. The market for luxury items was flourishing. After the financial crisis of the late 1840s, France was now enjoying an economic boom as the new Emperor, Napoleon III, set about nurturing the country’s prosperity. Under the Second Empire, industry was thriving, communications and transport were improving, and money was being poured into housing. On the surface, Paris sparkled with affluence and possibility. There reigned a spirit of joie de vivre, and youth and beauty were particularly sought-after commodities.

  The tone was firmly set by the Emperor and his entourage. The Imperial Court was renowned for its extravagance, its spectacular balls and parties, its elaborate costumes and gastronomic excess. Its example filtered down the social scale and was imitated by the rest of society. Everyone wanted to copy Napoleon and Eugénie.

  ‘In general, people believe that luxury is the state most favourable to health,’ complained critic Philarète Chasles in 1863.4 This was the Paris of dances, parties and theatre excursions. Gaiety and frivolity had become the city’s guiding principles.

  The bourgeoisie found that they now had money to spare, and the leisure industry was quick to respond. Cafés, balls, operas, ballets and the theatre drew pleasure-seekers from across the capital. Ostentatious department stores began to appear from the middle of the century, and mechanised manufacture made fashion available to the masses. Paris firmly established itself as the world capital of luxury, good taste and pleasure.

  At the centre of this lavish fashion show was la Parisienne. ‘The Parisienne is not in fashion,’ declared man of letters Arsène Houssaye, ‘she is fashion.’5 More than ever, a lady’s appearance was of the utmost importance. ‘By simply inspecting the external appearance of a woman,’ explained the Comtesse Dash, the author of etiquette manuals, ‘another woman, if she has intelligence and skill, will know to which class she belongs, what her education has been, the kind of society she has frequented. She will even be able to guess her tastes, her character, if she gives herself the trouble to observe; often the way she wraps her shawl about her, the placement of her hat, the way she puts on her gloves, tells of her life.’6

  The burgeoning fashion industry depended on a steady supply of laundresses, seamstresses, milliners and shop assistants. Louise was one of many young girls whose first experience of luxury was preparing it for other women’s consumption. As an impressionable teenager, Louise was swept up in the reigning spirit of extravagance and consumerism. But as a dress shop employee, her life was a stark contrast to that of the customers she was now serving.

  A dress shop assistant’s working day was long, lasting up to twelve hours. An 1841 law limiting the hours a youngster could work was rarely adhered to by employers.7 Louise would leave home early, while the great city of Paris was only just stirring. The streets were being swept in preparation for another busy day and as Louise made her way along the pavements and passages, she would pass market sellers, factory workers and shop assistants, all hurrying to take up posts which would bring the city’s bustling industries to life. Louise had to walk briskly. It was important that she arrive punctually. Few employers tolerated lateness, and time would have to be made up at the end of the day. A girl could not risk her parents discovering that her performance had been found wanting.

&nb
sp; A young girl’s wages could be pitiful by comparison with those of an adult. Under the Second Empire, the average adult worker earned a daily wage of 2 francs 50, though the more fortunate employee could be paid as much as 5 francs. The 40 sous (approximately 2 francs) Louise took home at the end of the day was a respectable wage for her age and profession.8 Those precious coins brought personal pride and parental affection. But Louise soon discovered that they were hard-won.

  Her day was filled with preparing garments for clients, adjusting ribbons and trimmings, adding adornments, and handling all manner of luxurious fabrics. A wealth of new skills had to be acquired and perfected. But Louise had always been an observant child. She responded as she always had to a new environment: she studied the people around her. By closely watching her co-workers and mimicking the work of their delicate fingers, she quickly mastered all the techniques of the trade. Soon, Louise became known in the local area for her intricate lace ribbons and pretty taffeta dresses.

  Once the anxiety of the first day had passed, a new girl like Louise would fall into a routine. After an early start, a simple lunch was taken at about midday, usually in the workshop. Louise’s contemporary Jeanne Bouvier also worked in a dressmaking shop and was struck by her colleagues’ frugal eating habits: ‘how they would scrimp and save so they could buy gloves, perfume, and a thousand other accessories. The midday meal was often reduced to its simplest expression.’9 Work then continued into the evening. It was draining, but conversations with fellow workers could make the time pass more quickly.

  Dress shop owners typically employed several girls who would work alongside each other. Jeanne Bouvier recalled how the women she worked with were ‘pleasant comrades’ who would sing as they sewed; ‘I had fun with them.’10 In L’Assommoir (1877), Émile Zola’s fictional tale of a working-class Parisian family, the florist’s workshop where the teenager Nana is employed is abuzz with the sound of girls’ voices chatting and gossiping as they work, giggling at each other’s jokes, quietening only when the patronne enters.