by Zia Wesley
Unlike her cousin Rose, Aimée had subverted all of her sensual adolescent urges, confessed all sinful thoughts regularly and tried to follow the dictates of the Catholic Church in all matters regarding chastity of thought and deed. The task had been a difficult one on Martinique, where she had been surrounded by the “wanton” leanings of the Creole and slave populations. In the convent, she felt comforted being in the company of other girls who felt the same way as she. Or so she believed.
Aimée sang in the choir, her full, alto voice seeming incongruous with her petite frame. She often accompanied herself on the harpsichord. Sometimes, widows who resided there gave her sheets of their favorite music, and in this way, Aimée became familiar with a variety of musical styles, as well as songs in German and Italian. She was surprised to discover that she had an excellent ear for languages, picking up inflections and intonations very quickly. She was even more surprised to learn that the Créole martiniquais, the French Creole dialect she had grown up speaking, was quite different from the way French was spoken in France. It seemed that every time she spoke, someone corrected her, and for the first time in her life, she began to feel that she might be wanting as a person. On Martinique, she had rarely been corrected in anything—it now seemed that everything she did was wrong. This new insecurity made her feel shyer than ever and she began to doubt her own value. What if prospective suitors find me wanting? She tried harder than ever to learn what anyone said she must and to please those around her, the fear of not being good enough driving her while it chipped away at her self-esteem.
The only men ever present in the convent were visiting priests or grown sons making relatively rare visits to aging mothers. The thought that one of the latter might be an eligible widower had crossed Aimée’s mind, but most were too old for serious consideration. She still dreamed of a dashing young man who would introduce her to the pleasures of Parisian society and romantic love, two things about which she actually knew almost nothing.
As a young girl, Aimée’s romantic notions had been gleaned from old French newspapers that had survived the long voyage to Martinique. She was fascinated by the illustrations of fine ladies bedecked in the latest fashions. They helped her to imagine herself similarly dressed at sumptuous balls, dancing the latest dances with dozens of handsome young men. Such fantasies had occupied many hours of boring days at sea, and she was already planning her first trip to Paris, where she imagined being the belle of the ball, charming and dazzling everyone she met.
Chapter 6
Three months after her arrival in France, Aimée’s fondest dream was about to come true. She was going to Paris to visit the uncle and aunt in whom she placed so much hope but had known only through letters. Antoine Dubucq de Rivery was her father’s younger brother, and Aimée believed that his wife, Sophie, held the key to her future happiness. She felt sure that through Sophie’s introductions she would meet her future husband.
Aimée fussed and fretted to choose her most fashionable wardrobe for the trip. She would take only her newest frocks, hats and shoes that had been made in Fort-Royal, with Aunt Lavinia’s promise that they “echoed” current Parisian fashion. She assured Aimée that the seamstress, shoemaker and haberdasher had done marvelously well with the caveat, “Parisian fashion is so capricious that by the time you arrive, it may well have changed.”
Now, in the confines of her tiny room, Aimée tried on each ensemble, feeling certain of their magnificence, despite the lack of a proper looking glass. In fact, they were more stylish and sophisticated than anything she had ever worn and made her feel like a princess.
Da Angelique packed each article of clothing with reverent care. “You gonna be tres, tres belle, Doudou. Mmm mmm. No more islan’ gull in dese. You a fine, propah lady now. ”
“One hopes,” Aimée replied studying herself in the tiny mirror that Da Angelique held for her. She pulled in the corner of her lower lip, biting it with her upper teeth, an unconscious gesture she resorted to when nervous. Her longing for a husband and family had grown even stronger within the confines of the cold convent walls. Please let me meet him in Paris, she silently prayed.
~ ~ ~
On the following day, Aimée and Da Angelique boarded a coach for the two-day trip to Paris that stopped in Nantes, where Aimée’s ship had docked. There they picked up three other passengers: a middle aged man and his wife who were returning to Paris from their summer home nearby, and an older gentleman going to visit his ailing sister. As they headed north, the coach bounced uncomfortably through gloriously lush French countryside, fields of barley, flax, sunflowers and lavender, vineyards and chateaux. Aimée had never seen such fine, large homes and marveled at the fact they were all made of stone. The married couple was friendly towards her and offered a wealth of information about each area they passed through. The conversation and scenery were almost enough to distract her from the discomfort of the ride, but on the second day, as the coach approached the outskirts of the city, the view began to change drastically. Green fields gave way to muddy enclaves of makeshift shacks overrun with shabbily dressed people, mangy livestock and piles of garbage.
“Surely, this can’t be Paris,” Aimée said. “Who are these people and why are they here?”
“Millers, butchers, tradesmen and the like,” the husband explained.
The road became narrower and rougher, strewn with garbage, urine and dung from the rickety carts that traveled to and from the city. As the progress of the coach slowed, people with filthy clothing and faces watched its passage, sometimes calling out crude greetings to the passengers.
“Salut, mon ami,” a toothless woman dressed in rags called out as she lifted the front of her filthy skirts. “Je t’aime beaucoup, I love you a lot. Anyone tired will find some peace here. For a very small price too.”
Embarrassed, Aimée caught the eye of the wife, who raised her brows and shrugged her shoulders as though the woman’s behavior was commonplace. The other passengers turned their faces away from the open windows and lifted scented handkerchiefs to their noses. Da Angelique retrieved two of the same from her large travel bag and doused them with lavender scent before handing one to Aimée and then pressing the other to her own offended nose.
As they entered the city, the streets became even narrower and more crowded. Aimée glanced up at a shabby two-story tenement just as a woman flung the contents of a chamber pot onto the street before them. Dozens of grime-covered children ran alongside the coach in the sewage and muck, their hands extended, begging for coins to be thrown to them. Shabby crowds mingled at open butcher stalls displaying fly-covered hanging carcasses of pigs, lambs, chickens and goats, some in advanced stages of decay, while the butchers slaughtered and skinned animals right in the street. Acrid smoke from cooking fires rose to blacken the air and bring tears to the eyes.
Aimée pressed her scented handkerchief more tightly to her face, her stomach beginning to rise in her throat. “Oh, the stench.” she exclaimed. “Why are they so poor and dirty?”
“The king has sent our armies and all our money to the colonies in the New World to fight the British,” the older man replied contemptuously. “And doing that not more than ten years after losing the Seven Years War. The fool is bankrupting us to save the colonials, damn his soul. Ridiculous, if you ask me,” he added. “And for what? No one will ever travel that far abroad to an empty land full of hostiles. Stupid waste, just like everything else he does.”
“It’s that queen’s fault,” his wife added. “Damn foreigner.”
Aimée could see the man’s point, despite having grown up in what most people thought was a colony. Martinique was technically “an overseas region” of France, and all its inhabitants’ full French citizens. Very few French ever visited Martinique, and fewer still relocated there.
“Is this truly Paris?” she asked.
“A good part of it,” he replied. “It’s not all like this, and one becomes accustomed to it after a while. You’re going to one of the most
fashionable sections, which is quite lovely.”
It was difficult for Aimée to imagine a “lovely” area anywhere within the landscape she observed. In the near distance the tall smokestacks of a large factory, a tannery perhaps, belched clouds of dark brown smoke, giving the air an ochre pallor. Aimée’s mythical dream of Paris was crumbling before her eyes. The poverty and filth seemed to go on forever, with ramshackle buildings of rotting wood, chimneys spewing coal smoke and beggars of all ages. Nothing looked as though it might be able to stand very much longer... neither buildings nor people. The site hurt not only Aimée’s eyes, stomach and nostrils; it broke her heart.
But true to the passenger’s word, as the coach moved on the street gradually became wider and smoother, bordered on the right by the River Seine. A long avenue of beautiful homes appeared behind tall, graceful wrought-iron fences, and well-dressed pedestrians replaced the ragged throngs on the streets. Within moments, everything had acquired a stately orderliness.
Aimée felt a flood of relief. “Oh, look, Angelique. Here is the Paris I dreamed of.”
She drank in the beauty of the stately houses and fine carriages traversing the street, quickly forgetting the squalor through which they had just passed. However, the stench was not barred from permeating even the best neighborhoods. In fact, the smell of Paris seemed to follow them everywhere.
The coach came to a stop in the center of a block in the eighth arrondissement on the fashionable Rive Droite. It was a three-story house elegantly designed of granite block. Copper gutters and ornate wrought-iron trim bordered the steep mansard roof. Six unusual windows that looked more like covered doorways marched proudly across the topmost floor.
Aimée had never seen anything like it. Her eyes opened wide as she made to step from the carriage. With the help of the footman, she descended the steps and looked up at the house again to see a liveried servant open the elaborately carved black front door. In the following moment, two people who must be her aunt and uncle filled the doorway. Posed gracefully in a studied stance, his left arm raised waist height with hers resting lightly upon it, they were the most magnificent human beings Aimée had ever seen. Their clothes were a compilation of soft pastel satins, silks and lace, their hair (actually wigs) masses of platinum curls piled high and cascading past their shoulders. Sophie’s coiffure was adorned with ribbons, silk flowers and pearls. Their faces were the purest white, each with a black beauty mark beneath the left cheekbone, and perfect little cupid’s bow mouths painted the color of deep, claret wine.
There the young girl stood, mouth open and gaping at the splendor of her relatives and their elegant home, thinking them every bit as glorious as the King and Queen. They are more beautiful than I ever imagined, she thought, as she ascended the marble steps where her aunt and uncle greeted her formally with a curtsey and bow. Had anyone asked her at a later time to describe their faces, she would have been unable to do so, as she had been so thoroughly enchanted by their costumes.
Aimée’s uncle kissed the air on either side of her cheeks without actually touching them, welcomed her to his home with a few formal words and then retreated to the interior of his house. She would see him only occasionally during the next month.
“Welcome, niece,” Aunt Sophie cooed, hiding her shock at the girl’s appalling appearance, and guiding her through the rococo foyer into the formal drawing room. Aimée continued to openly gape at the opulent surroundings: silk covered walls and gilded furnishings, crystal chandeliers, marble fireplaces and satin brocade drapes. She was unaware that Sophie had taken an instant accounting of her and had audibly sighed.
Well, Sophie thought, what could one expect from a girl raised in the wilds of a pagan island colony? Her own youngest son, Henri, a commissioned officer serving in the King’s army, was at that moment in the American colonies fighting that ridiculous war, and his letters home told tales of savages and the rough life one was forced to abide in the New World. Well, at least the girl has a natural beauty. With that and her substantial dowry, I might be able to transform her into an acceptable young lady worthy of introduction, if not at court, certainly to my well-chosen clique of personal friends. Mon dieu, this is going to require an enormous effort.
“I trust your trip went well,” Sophie said aloud. “No untoward occurrences or mishaps along the way?”
Before Aimée could pull herself together enough to answer, Sophie continued. “The first thing we must do is make arrangements to have some proper gowns fashioned for you. You are too lovely for words, but that ensemble you are wearing, tsk, tsk, tsk,” she intoned, shaking her head slowly from side to side. “It will never do in Paris.”
Aimée was tongue-tied. She would readily admit that her dress could not compare to the magnificent one worn by her aunt. Moreover, the woman’s matching satin slippers with silver buckles were the finest she had ever seen. Her aunt even carried an ebony walking stick with an intricately carved silver head. This was what Aimée dreamed of in her fantasies of Paris. For all she cared, her fashionable relatives could burn every piece of clothing she owned.
“As you wish, Aunt,” she was finally able to reply.
Sophie seated herself on a tiny gilded chair with a dark green velvet cushion, and indicated a similar chair opposite to Aimée. Hanging on her aunt’s every word and paying no attention to where she was about to sit, she plopped her bottom down and tipped dangerously to the left, almost falling. She righted herself by flailing her arms and then grasping the seat of the chair to steady it. Sophie gasped audibly and clutched her breast.
Aimée flushed. “Oh my goodness,” she giggled. “I did not realize how small it was.”
Sophie did not smile in response. She regained her composure by speaking in a measured tone that signaled her displeasure at her niece’s gauche behavior. “Imagine... if you will... perching... like a tiny bird on a branch... softly... gracefully. Now, up, up,” she indicated with one hand that Aimée should rise. “Please, try again.”
Wanting very much to please her exquisite aunt, Aimée rose, and then looked back over her shoulder to assess the size and placement of the small chair.
“No, no, no!” Sophie commanded, knocking her stick on the floor sharply. “Never look behind yourself. Walk away a few steps and approach the seat again as if you are entering the room for the first time.”
Aimée did as she was told and began to sit down.
“Your skirt, child,” Sophie barked. “You must first lift and fan out your skirt.”
Aimée bent forward and awkwardly clutched her skirt with both hands.
“No, no, child,” Sophie scolded, and then stood up to demonstrate. “Place the toe of your left foot slightly forward for balance, then bend only your right knee, like so. Gather your skirts gently and lift them. One must alight upon a seat, rather than,” she searched for the word, “plop. You see?”
Aimée nodded, then copied her aunt’s example and found herself indeed “perched” upon the little chair. She smiled broadly at her own accomplishment.
“Better,” her aunt said, “but please make an effort to smile less broadly, and never with an open mouth. To smile or laugh with one’s mouth open is coarse. It also distorts the contours of the face and conveys far too much emotion.”
Too much emotion? Aimée thought. This is going to take an enormous amount of effort.
Sophie continued. “I cannot stress enough the utter importance of proper comportment. When amongst polite society, one never knows whom one may meet, and one does not wish to convey the wrong impression.”
Long before Aimée’s arrival, Sophie had spent many hours arranging for her to meet an appropriate assortment of suitors and to attend countless numbers of social events. Now, having actually seen the girl, her mind reeled with everything she would need to do to make her presentable. It would not do to have Aimée cast as a “country bumpkin,” which reflected poorly on her sponsor. The girl’s appalling manners must be dealt with immediately and, clearly, an entirely n
ew wardrobe would need to be ordered. That would take a week or more. Sophie’s mind whirled with plans. While the clothing was being made, she would need lessons in social graces, manners and elocution. Mon dieu, there was so much to do. She was going to need several weeks.
However, Sophie’s facial expression did not reveal her mental machinations. She was well past her prime, but still considered beautiful. She gracefully extended her right arm to the wall behind her and gently pulled the tasseled end of a thick, woven cord. Before she had replaced her hand in her lap, a liveried servant entered the room and stood just inside the doorway.
“Yes, Madam?” he said without looking directly at Sophie.
“Summon my dressmaker and tell her to come immediately.”
“Yes, Madam,” the servant bowed and left the room.
As he did so, another man entered. He was probably no more than five years older than Aimée, and dressed in a very casual manner with heavy tan leggings, soft black leather boots that rose just over his knees, and a roughly woven white cotton blouse, open at his throat to reveal the smooth, olive skin of his hairless chest. His long, black, wavy hair was loosely tied at the back, and his handsome, dark face made Sophie’s pale complexion appear ghostly in contrast. Standing just inside the doorway, he executed a bow.
“My lady,” he said with an accent unfamiliar to Aimée, who automatically rose from her seat.
“Please, do sit down, child,” Sophie scolded. “Allow me to introduce Signore Cavalieri. Signore Cavalieri, may I present my niece, Marie-Marthé Aimée Dubucq de Rivery, who has just arrived for a visit from Nantes.”
The dashing young man approached Aimée with a languid gait. He bowed, fixing her in his devilish smile, his dark eyes with their long, black lashes seeming to sparkle. Taking her hand in his, he gently touched it with his lips. “Salve, Mademoiselle.”
