Unhappily, they hurried. Then Mademoiselle instructed them to walk around the room one by one. When they reached the front of her desk, they had to do a pirouette before returning to their seats. The girls sitting up front went first.
When Edith got up, a burst of laughter reverberated through the room. She stood there blushing helplessly. Her dress was a disaster. One sleeve was longer and fuller than the other, the hemline was crooked, and she'd pleated so much velvet at the waist that it made her look pregnant. All the trimmings she had applied were a horror. It looked as though a dozen bakers—none of them talented—had frosted the same cake over and over. Even Jeanne-Marie couldn't help giggling. But the laughter soon died in her throat. She was next.
Slowly Jeanne-Marie got to her feet. For once her poise and assurance deserted her. She walked meekly around the room. From a distance the raw silk did not look too bad. Close up, it was a nightmare of loose threads, bunched-up fabric, and sloppy seams. There was something so pathetic about her serious demeanor that no one laughed. But when she did her pirouette, everyone noticed something odd about her back. The dress buckled terribly, making her look hunchbacked. The class erupted in gales of laughter. Even Mademoiselle's lips held the hint of a smile.
Hélène was last. When Mademoiselle called out her name, a feeling of dread passed through her. She froze. Heads turned, looking back at her. Mademoiselle called her again. She forced herself to get up.
She walked slowly, self-consciously. Every step was an effort, and she felt as if her feet didn't belong to her. She held herself stiffly and her hands were clenched awkwardly. She could feel the perspiration breaking out on her forehead and under her arms. She kept thinking: This dress is new and now I'm going to soil the armpits.
When she finally reached the front of the room, she stood there while insecurity bombarded her. Her temples were throbbing.
Finally she did her pirouette. The girls gaped at her. Their mouths hung open. A sudden, spontaneous 'ah' filled the classroom. It was a moment before she realized what it meant. Slowly her eyes began to glow with pride. Her dress was a success.
For the first time she was drunk with excitement.
She had found her métier. Fashion.
5
When school was dismissed, the girls all clustered around Hélène. They wanted to know about the dress, begged to have a close look at it, asked a million questions. Where did she get the idea for it? How could such a common fabric look so beautiful? How could such a simple cut be so dazzling?
Hélène had never been happier. Suddenly she found herself in the midst of an admiring crowd. The dress had shot her to popularity. Even Edith and Jeanne-Marie grudgingly came over.
Jeanne-Marie looked hesitantly at Hélène. 'Could you design and sew a dress for me?' she asked. 'For money, of course.'
Hélène had never felt the warmth of adulation before. Tante Janine kept her from making friends by clamping down on her socializing. There was Mass to attend, the nursery to be worked in. There was time for nothing else. But now she basked in the sweetness of acceptance.
When Hélène came out of the big school door, she squinted in the sunlight. She was clutching the string bag in which she carried the dress. She was still surrounded by the chattering girls.
Suddenly a deep voice whispered into her ear from behind. 'Hello, Little French Girl.'
Hélène spun around. Edmond was standing there, his grin white against his deeply tanned face. His smile was marred only by the two missing top teeth which had been knocked out so long ago by the recoil of a rifle in Paris. For a moment she just looked at him. Then she flung her arms around him, and effortlessly he lifted her high into the air. 'Edmond!' she shrieked. 'Oh, Edmond!'
The fishing fleet had just come in. He hadn't bothered to take the time to wash up. His cheeks felt scratchy from his beard. He stank of fish. But she didn't care. At the moment it was the best smell in the world.
When he finally put her down, she looked proudly up at him. It had been almost two months since she'd seen him last. His chin looked stronger, and he seemed to have grown taller. He looked more ruggedly handsome than ever. His shoulders were broader. There was a weather-beaten, outdoor quality about him. The manual labor was packing hard muscle onto his body. She could feel it through his shirt.
Suddenly she put her face against his chest and started to cry.
He looked down at her in surprise. 'What's the matter?' he asked softly.
She smiled through her tears. 'I know it sounds silly. But. . .oh, Edmond, Edmond! I'm so happy to see you.' She sniffed and wiped her eyes.
He grinned widely. 'Tell you what. I just got paid. Come on, I'll buy you a meal in the best restaurant in town. I'll eat anything as long as it's not fish. And we can have a long talk.'
'Don't you want to come. . .home with me? We can talk there.'
His expression darkened and he shook his head. 'No!' he said vehemently. 'I don't want to see that bitch.'
She nodded soberly. His attitude hadn't softened. He still didn't want to see Tante Janine, didn't care if he never saw her again. When he was in port he rented a room in a boardinghouse near the waterfront.
They walked in silence for a while. Then he took her hand suddenly. 'I've got ten days' leave till we go back out to sea.'
She smiled contentedly. 'Then you're going to take me to the Feux de St.-Jean festival?'
'You bet. You'll be the second-prettiest girl there.'
She stopped walking. She stared at him dumbly. 'Second!' she said bewilderingly. 'Who's the first?'
'Someone you'll meet at the restaurant.'
Suddenly a strange fear passed through her. 'Is. . .is it a. . .a girlfriend?' she asked weakly.
He nodded slowly. 'I met her last time we were in port.' He saw the look of pain in her eyes. 'Oh, come on. Jeanne is special. But she can never take your place.' He smiled. 'You're my Little French Girl.'
She smiled back, but her smile was tight. Some of her happiness had died. She wasn't the only girl in his life any longer. He had a girlfriend. She had wondered how long it would take. He was too handsome not to have one. No, she hadn't wondered. She had worried.
Suddenly she knew what she felt. Jealousy.
The restaurant was called Au Petit Caporal. Hélène had passed it often but she'd never been inside. They had to go down two steps from the sidewalk and pass through an old but clean kitchen to the dining room in the back. It was almost empty. It had a low vaulted ceiling, white stone walls, and a flagstone floor.
They sat down on cane chairs at a round table covered with a checkered tablecloth. Beside them was a small window. Geraniums grew in the flower boxes, and beyond that were rows of moored fishing boats. The sunlight reflected the squirming water on their hulls.
Hélène recognized Edmond's girlfriend instantly: she could tell by the way the young waitress looked at him. Hélène stared at her disapprovingly, comparing the girl's looks with her own. She was Edmond's age, almost eighteen. Her hair was brown, almost mousy, but her face was kind and her brown eyes were soulfully gentle. She looked very pretty when she smiled.
Edmond got to his feet and kissed her cheek. Once again Hélène could feel a stab of jealousy. She looked away.
'Hello, Jeanne,' she heard him say. There was a peculiar warmth in his voice that she had never heard before. 'This is my sister, Hélène. Hélène, my. . .Jeanne.'
Hélène looked up. 'Hello,' she said awkwardly.
Jeanne smiled. 'How do you do,' she said warmly. She sensed that Hélène felt threatened by her presence. She pulled up a chair and sat down. Then she reached out, took Hélène's hand, and looked earnestly into her eyes. 'I like Edmond very much,' she said honestly. 'And I know how much you love him. He's told me. If you'll let me, I. . .I want us to be close friends.'
Somehow Hélène felt immediately better. She looked at Jeanne with respect. 'I would like that,' she said. 'I've never had a good friend before.'
The day of the Feux de St.-Jea
n festival dawned warm and clear. The sun shone brilliantly and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. Tante Janine even closed down the nursery for the festivities.
Early in the morning, Hélène filled the big kitchen pots with water and put them on the stove. When it boiled, she washed herself carefully, scrubbing the gardening earth out from beneath her fingernails, shampooing her hair and combing it out. She took infinite care with her appearance. Today she would wear her new dress. She hadn't shown it to anyone yet. Not Tante Janine, Madame Dupre, or Edmond. She would surprise them all! Especially Edmond. He and Jeanne would be waiting for her outside the nursery gate at exactly twelve o'clock.
'It's time you got dressed,' Tante Janine snapped at eleven-thirty. She was already wearing her long traditional black dress with the white lace collar. Her gray braid was wrapped around her head and the high, stiffly starched lace cap was pinned to it. It made her look somehow invincible, bigger than life.
Hélène nodded obediently and went upstairs to her bedroom. She wasn't about to tell Tante Janine that she was planning to leave without her. Nor did she dare mention Edmond's name. Tante Janine would fly into one of her rages.
No, Hélène had a better plan. When her back was turned, she'd simply slip out of the house.
She dressed carefully. The burgundy cotton felt good and new against her clean skin. She had gotten up in the middle of the night, heated a brick in the oven, and put it inside the iron. Then she had surreptitiously pressed the dress. It didn't have a single crease or wrinkle.
Happily she did a pirouette, watching the fabric swirl around her hips. She wished she had a mirror so she could see what she looked like. But Tante Janine didn't believe in mirrors. They were a sign of weakness. Of vanity.
She parted the flimsy curtains and looked down. She could already see Edmond and Jeanne waiting for her at the gate. Edmond was leaning against one of the posts, smoking a cigarette. She waved to him. He saw her and waved back.
Quickly she smoothed the dress, ran a hand through her hair, and opened the door a crack. Tante Janine was nowhere in sight. She took a deep breath. Quietly, gritting her teeth against each creaky step, she descended to the kitchen.
Hélène had never looked lovelier. The dress seemed to have a life of its own. It even made her skin tone look warmer. In the excitement of the occasion, her violet eyes glittered like jewels. She felt truly beautiful.
She tiptoed across the room to the door. When her hand touched the handle, a staccato voice froze her in her tracks. 'Where do you think you're going!'
Hélène turned around slowly. Tante Janine was standing near the wardrobe. Her eyes were wide and her hands rested on her gaunt hips.
Hélène gestured to the door. 'Edmond is waiting for me at the gate.'
Tante Janine approached her with the crafty stealth of a spider. 'Running out to see your brother, are you?' she spat contemptuously.
'Yes,' Hélène said coldly.
Tante Janine laughed shrilly. 'All dolled up, too.' Then her lip curled. 'Where did you get that dress?'
'I made it.'
'Don't lie to me!'
'I did make it! It was Mademoiselle's year-end project.'
'And the fabric? Where did you get that sinful color? Red is the color of the devil!'
'It's not sinful!' Hélène said. 'Even the Abbe wears red robes sometimes!'
Suddenly Tante Janine flew at her. 'You wicked, cursed beast! How dare you equate that lascivious garment with the Holy Church!' Her hand slashed out to slap Hélène, but Hélène effectively blocked it with her forearm. Tante Janine sucked in her breath in pain. Then suddenly she grabbed hold of the bodice of Hélène's dress. She jerked downward with all the strength her bony fingers could summon.
There was a terrible ripping sound as the bodice tore. Hélène let out a cry and looked down in despair. Her dress—her dazzling Cinderella dress—was ruined! The bodice hung in shreds around her waist. Her white slip was all that covered her small breasts.
'I hate you!' Hélène cried out. 'I despise you!'
'Get dressed into something decent,' Tante Janine snapped. 'You're going to confession.'
'I am not,' Hélène said quietly. Then she drew herself up. Her eyes flashed. 'I'll tell the Abbe what a wicked woman you are! How you. . .you. . .' Hélène lifted up the sagging bodice and smiled suddenly. 'How you attacked me so that you could see me naked!'
'You wouldn't dare tell a lie like that!' Tante Janine whispered. 'God would punish you like he punishes all sinners! You'll see!' Then she turned, her black dress rustling as she stormed out the door.
6
Summer passed, autumn came, and winter followed. Then once again the seasons slipped into their perpetual cycles. Spring, summer, autumn, winter. On the sixth of January 1952, Hélène turned fifteen. She was invited to spend the Sunday afternoon with Edmond and Jeanne.
When she arrived at Jeanne's gray apartment house, Jeanne answered the door. 'Hello.' She smiled. 'Edmond's here already. Come in.'
Hélène was led to the familiar kitchen. It was off the narrow hallway, separated by a door that had wavy, opaque panels of glass set into it. Edmond was sitting at the table. When Hélène came in he got up and kissed her.
'Now my two favorite girls are here,' he said, smiling.
Hélène slid down beside him on the wooden banquette while Jeanne crossed the room and disappeared into the pantry. She came out holding a bottle of white wine. She took three glasses from the credence. Carefully she filled them and set one down in front of each of them. Then she slipped into the banquette on Edmond's other side. She raised her glass. 'To Hélène,' she announced. 'Who in another year will be graduated from school.'
Edmond raised his glass. 'A votre sante,' he said.
Hélène smiled. 'A votre sante.'
By the time she sipped her second glass of wine, Hélène felt a warm glow settle over her. The wine made her relaxed and content. Her favorite hours were those idly spent in this little apartment that Jeanne's mother had 'inherited' after her grandmother died. It was cozy, warm, and cheerful. Edmond still rented his room at the boardinghouse whenever he was in port. But he spent most of his days here, going back to his room only at night.
For a while they exchanged small talk and gossip. Then Jeanne took Edmond's hand. Her face was serious as she looked at Hélène. 'We have something to tell you,' she said hesitantly. She glanced at Edmond and squeezed his hand, signaling for him to do the talking.
He nodded and she looked away. 'Jeanne and I. . .' He paused and took a deep breath, his brown eyes flickering nervously. 'We're going to get married.'
For a brief moment Hélène stared at them openmouthed while she let the news sink in. When it did, she jumped to her feet. Her heart thumped and she was beaming. She bent down, grabbed hold of Edmond, and hugged him tightly. He looked up at her with surprise. Then she rushed around the table and hugged Jeanne. 'Congratulations!' she cried with excitement. 'When's the big day? Did you set a date? Just think!' She shook her head unbelievingly. 'I'll have a sister-in-law! My present to you will be the wedding gown,' she announced. 'I will sew it myself!'
'Would you?' Jeanne looked pleased.
Hélène lifted her glass. 'I propose a toast,' she said.
Edmond and Jeanne reached for their glasses, and a blush came to Hélène's face. It was the first time she had ever proposed a toast.
'To my brother and sister-in-law,' she said quietly. 'Both of whom I love dearly.'
She walked back to Tante Janine's alone. The town was quiet and there was no traffic on the dirt road that led to the nursery. The sky had grown dark and the fog rolled heavily along the ground. The wind had picked up. Icy gusts tugged at her clothes, but she didn't seem to notice. Her mind was in another world. The world of fashion. Of Paris. Of magazines.
Yes, when she graduated from school she would immediately get a job and scrimp and save; when she'd saved up enough, she would buy a one-way ticket to Paris. That was where fashion reigned suprem
e. Once there, she would be able to start along the road that would lead to the fulfillment of her dream. Her glossy dream. Her magazine. A magazine more beautiful than all the others she had looked through at Madame Dupre's. More beautiful even than Elle. More glamorous than L'Officiel. More powerful than Vogue. The thought of it made her drunk with excitement. She loved designing and sewing dresses. But she didn't want to do that. She had talent, true, but she also instinctively knew that she didn't have enough. Not to compete with such geniuses as Madame Gres and Christian Dior and Hubert de Givenchy. Her talent lay elsewhere. In recognizing fine things. Fine fabrics. Fine jewelry. Fine design. She had what Madame Dupre called an 'eye.'
When she got to the house the lights were glowing weakly in the ground-floor windows. Now that she'd have to face Tante Janine her dreams evaporated. With this return to reality came the sudden knowledge that it was very cold, and she shivered.
She found Tante Janine sitting in the kitchen with a visitor. She recognized the man instantly. He was an unemployed riveter who had worked in the shipyard and now spent most of his time frequenting the waterfront taverns. Hélène didn't like him one bit. He was tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed, and had a crafty look. Several times when she'd passed him on the street he had directed lewd remarks at her. His name was Pierre Peguy.
'Come here, Hélène,' Tante Janine said sternly.
Dutifully Hélène crossed the room toward the table.
'Sit down.' With her bony hand Tante Janine indicated an empty chair.
Hélène was suspicious of this sudden hospitality. It was the first time Tante Janine had ever asked her to sit and join her. Slowly she pulled out the rickety wooden chair and sat down stiffly.
Tante Janine looked at her expressionlessly. 'I think it is only fair that you should know something,' she said in a flat voice. Her dark eyes glanced at the man beside her. 'Monsieur Peguy has asked me to marry him.'
Hélène was staggered. Her mouth hung open as she stared at Tante Janine, then at Pierre, then back at Tante Janine. Her mind was reeling. Tante Janine marrying? And a penniless, drunken dockworker for a bridegroom? Surely this was a bad joke! She looked deep into Tante Janine's eyes. No, this was no joke.
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