'Tomorrow?' Hélène asked eagerly.
Madame Dupre nodded. 'Tomorrow morning, then.'
For a moment Hélène shut her eyes. This was too good to be true! Not only was she getting away from Pierre and Tante Janine, but also she was taking the first step—the first concrete step—toward going back to Paris. Only there could she pursue her dream.
'You what?' Tante Janine said. Her voice was quivering with rage.
'I found a job,' Hélène said quietly.
'I gave you no permission to go and look for one,' Tante Janine snapped. 'Besides, you're still going to school.'
'I'm going to work,' Hélène said firmly. 'And nobody's going to stop me.'
'What about the nursery?' Tante Janine asked. 'I thought you were going to work here once school was out.'
Hélène was silent.
'Well? Where are you going to live now that you're such a big shot?'
'I thought I would live here until I can afford to move.'
Tante Janine's lips were compressed in a tight, ugly smile. 'Why don't you move out of here right this minute, then?' Her voice had an ugly, cutting edge to it.
Hélène recognized the taunt that lay behind her words. Tante Janine was trying to pressure her to stay and work in the nursery, or leave and be done with. Either way, she would make it look like it had been Hélène's choice.
Hélène clenched her fists. She wasn't about to fall into the trap that easily. Much as she wanted to, she couldn't just pack up her things and go. She had no money. She still needed a place to live. Jeanne's? she thought suddenly. She squashed that thought immediately. No, it wasn't fair to Jeanne. What she had to do was to make Tante Janine see reason. And assert her own position, making it clear that she was no pushover.
'And if I decide to go to work and still live here?' Hélène asked. 'What then?'
'I'll throw you out.'
'You can't do that.'
Tante Janine smiled tightly. 'Try me. It's your choice. The nursery or your job,' she said.
'I'm going to stay here until I can afford to move. And I'm going to work,' Hélène said.
She looked at Tante Janine for a long moment. What she said next was going to be a gamble. She wasn't sure just how far she could go, but she'd push it.
'According to Monsieur Lefevre,' Hélène said in a quiet voice, 'you are my guardian—and Edmond's, too—until we are both twenty-one. Only under the power of guardianship, which you would relinquish by throwing me out, are you allowed to dispose of our property.' Hélène forced herself to smile triumphantly. 'If you throw me out, you'd no longer be my guardian, would you, Tante Janine? I could even take you to court and win Maman's house back. Of course, it isn't there anymore. There's just the new nursery. Since my money—and Edmond's—was used to build it, we might end up owning it. Then you'd have competition right next door.' She paused. 'Would you like that, Tante Janine?' she asked softly.
Hélène had to say one thing for her aunt. Tante Janine knew when she was beaten. Pale-faced and angry, she marched stiffly out of the room.
9
Slowly life for Hélène became sweeter. Her world revolved around the shop. She went to work early every morning and left late at night. The wages were low but Madame Dupre had told her confidentially, 'Danielle will be leaving in three months. You will get a small raise then.'
In the meantime, Danielle was in charge of her. She taught Hélène how to use the pedal-operated sewing machine and the exact way to stitch and hem to Madame's satisfaction (Madame was far more demanding and exacting than Mademoiselle Gribius had ever been). Hélène caught on to the thousands of little jobs that Madame found it necessary to farm out to the girls. And she learned quickly. By the time a week had passed, she was more adept at the sewing machine than Danielle had ever been. Her eager mind soaked up the craft like a sponge.
But her favorite hours were after closing time. When everyone left the shop, she would stay behind, turn out all but one of the lights, and sit on the floor beside the counter. With her knees drawn up to her chin and a studious expression on her face, she would leaf through the precious back issues of Madame Dupre's fashion magazines. That was when Hélène would enter what she considered the 'real' world, the world of style and fashion and international vitality that transcended national borders and natural boundaries. In silence she would study each page of each magazine. Each layout, each advertisement, each model, each dress, each pose, each photograph. Nothing escaped her sharp eye. She learned to detect the subtle differences among the designers. There were the greats—Odile Joly, Schiaparelli, Dior, Madame Gres, and Chanel—and a crop of talented young hopefuls. (She decided that when she had her magazine, she would devote one feature in each issue to new talent.) She became aware of each designer's 'mark,' each one's style. It was by this unique style that she was able to recognize their garments as easily as she could recognize persons by their faces, their walks, their mannerisms. She even became adept at predicting what Madame Gres might do next, and what Dior would definitely not do. (Although she couldn't in her wildest imagination have foreseen that Chanel would come out with costume jewelry.) She was, however, able to understand the subtle differences between Chanel's classical simplicity and Schiaparelli's boldness; Dior's elegance and Madame Gres's daring. And above all, there was the great Odile Joly, the grande dame of fashion, who reigned supreme among even the high chieftains of fashion. Somehow, she always managed to melt all the differences of the competition into a single fluid style. Her style was so distinctive, so different, and yet so elegantly subtle that it transcended pure magic and astounded all the other magicians of design.
Hélène absorbed and absorbed until she could absorb no more. And still she studied the magazines again and again until she found a tiny some¬thing she had overlooked—and then she absorbed that, too. Her favorite days were those when the postman delivered new issues of Elle or L'Officiel or Paris Vogue. Madame Dupre understood Hélène's excitement and let her have the first look at them.
With trembling fingers Hélène would rapidly tear off the brown wrapping paper and stare at the colorful, glossy covers with awe. Always she felt the thick paper with the palm of her hand before turning the pages. She loved feeling the luxurious, slick texture against her fingers.
Finally the day came when Hélène looked at a photograph and frowned. She said to herself: 'I could do that better. I would have placed the model differently. I would have had her wear the Gres gown in the other photo instead of the Schiaparelli. I would have had the camera focus upward, from below, instead of just head-on.' That was the moment she knew she was learning.
Madame Dupre watched Hélène's progress with interest. There was no doubt in her mind: Hélène was a natural. A natural seamstress, a natural learner, a natural barometer of taste. Instinctively she could differentiate between the good and the bad. And under Madame Dupre's subtle tutelage— making Hélène think she was actually discovering everything by herself instead of being taught—Hélène learned to tell the difference between the good and the exceptional. Between the exceptional and the sublime.
One day Madame Dupre stopped at the sewing machine and silently watched Hélène at work. The girl had a deftness, a professional assurance in handling fabric, that usually came only from years of experience.
Hélène stopped sewing and looked up at her.
'Come upstairs to my apartment, Hélène. I would like to have a private talk with you.'
Hélène nodded. 'Oui, madame.' Quickly she took the dress she was sewing out from under the needle, carefully folded it, and followed Madame Dupre upstairs. Nervously she wondered what she had done wrong.
When they got to the little apartment above the shop, Madame Dupre switched on the parlor lights and directed Hélène to one of the floral-chintz- covered chairs.
Hélène uncomfortably folded her hands in her lap and watched as her employer sat in the chair opposite and elegantly crossed her legs.
Madame Dupre hesitated a momen
t. 'How long have you been working here now?' she asked.
Hélène looked at her dumbly. 'I. . .I'm not sure, madame. A month?'
Madame Dupre smiled and shook her head. 'Three months to the day,' she corrected her.
Hélène's mouth hung open. 'It. . .it doesn't seem possible!'
Madame Dupre smiled. 'It does. When you become my age, the weeks can drag by like years.'
Hélène nodded. How strange, she thought. Every minute she spent at Tante Janine's was an eternity, and yet months here seemed mere minutes.
'In two weeks, Danielle will be leaving. On that day you will take over her job completely.'
Hélène's lips broke into a smile. 'Oui, madame,' she said.
Madame Dupre raised an eyebrow. The girl showed no nervousness about the added responsibility. She was confident that she could do the job well.
'It appears that you like your job,' Madame Dupre said slowly.
'Oui, madame. I have never been happier.'
Madame Dupre looked at her shrewdly. 'And yet you are not satisfied.' It was a statement, not a question.
Hélène hesitated a moment. Then she nodded. 'I am satisfied for right now, madame,' she said carefully. 'And I'm very grateful for the opportunity you've given me.'
'Ah. But it's not what you really want to do, is it?'
Hélène shook her head. 'Not really.'
Madame Dupre leaned forward. Her eyes met Hélène's evenly. 'Tell me about it. What is it that you want to do?'
Hélène started to say something, then stopped. She got up and walked over to the window, parted the lace curtains, and looked down at the cobble- stoned street and the row of stone houses. She turned to face Madame Dupre. 'I can sew and stitch well, madame. I can even design clothes adequately. But I'll never be very good at it. I borrow too much from other people's work. But. . .' She paused and then continued in a low, earnest voice. 'But I can see what's good. Instinctively I know how to put things together.'
Madame Dupre nodded. The girl was wise beyond her years. 'Go on,' she said gently.
Hélène took a deep breath. 'I want to return to Paris,' she said fervently. 'I want to start my own. . .fashion magazine.'
Madame Dupre did not look surprised. She had felt the currents of Hélène's ambition and yearning stirring restlessly beneath the surface. Lately she had felt the current gathering strength. She sighed. Yes, she too once had a similar ambition. But now it was too late. Somehow she had become too entrenched in her comfortable lifestyle. Perhaps her ambition hadn't burned strongly enough. But Hélène's did.
'I wanted to move to Paris once,' Madame Dupre said. There was a faraway look in her eyes.
Hélène looked surprised. 'Why didn't you?'
Madame Dupre shrugged her shoulders elegantly. 'One falls into a trap. One is too comfortable. One is afraid of adventure. Of starting anew.' She paused. Suddenly her voice was very quiet. 'Or one doesn't have enough talent.'
Hélène stared at her. She had always thought Madame Dupre was strong-willed and extremely talented. She didn't think there was anything she couldn't do, once set on it. Suddenly she remembered the first time she had gone into the shop, and the beautiful dress that was displayed in the window. The copy in the window, she corrected herself. Now she knew what it had been. A Gres.
Madame Dupre rose to her feet suddenly. 'Come with me,' she said.
Hélène got up and followed her into an elegant little bedroom. The walls were papered with a forget-me-not pattern; there were a pale blue dresser with a mirror and two big wardrobes.
Madame Dupre motioned for Hélène to sit down. 'I want to show you something,' she said softly. 'I visited Paris once and brought something back.' She opened one of the wardrobe doors and took out a wooden clothes hanger draped with a long sheet. She flung the sheet away.
Hélène let out a gasp. The gown had to be a Dior. It was the most beautiful garment she had ever seen. Even on the hanger it had a life of its own. The pale satin shimmered with a luminosity that came from within.
'It is beautiful, non?'
Hélène was speechless. She was barely capable of nodding. Then slowly, delicately, she reached out to touch the gown. She laid it carefully out on the bed and examined the design, the workmanship, the fabric. It was a culmination of everything that was genius. Slowly, reverently, she lifted a corner of it to her lips and kissed it.
Madame Dupre watched her. 'Now do you understand that I am a. . .a failure?' she asked.
Hélène looked at her compassionately.
'Never would I be capable of creating something like that,' Madame Dupre said in a whisper. 'But oh, how I longed to. Now I've learned to accept my shortcomings. My lack of genius. But I learned it too late. After too much hungering. Strange, how every so often something reminds me of my failed ambition.' She smiled painfully. 'This time it was you.'
Hélène nodded solemnly.
Suddenly Madame Dupre grasped Hélène's hands in her own. 'Leave Saint-Nazaire!' she whispered. 'As soon as you can! You are lucky. You know your ambitions. Your limitations. Leave and become successful with your magazine!'
Hélène swallowed. 'Yes, madame. As soon as I can, I will.'
Carefully Madame Dupre covered the gown with the sheet and hung it back inside the wardrobe. She snapped the door shut and they went out to the parlor. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
'I have promised you a raise,' Madame Dupre said finally. She crossed the little room to a delicate desk and opened the top. She took a thin booklet out of a pigeonhole and handed it to Hélène.
'What's this?' She looked at it curiously. 'It's. . .a bank-book!'
'In your name. I have taken the liberty of depositing the first month's difference between your salary and your raise. Bank it every month from now on.' She looked into Hélène's eyes. 'For Paris,' she said softly.
'Yes. . .' Hélène whispered. 'For Paris!'
The night was dark and cool as she walked home. The road to the nursery was treacherous because it was hard to see the ruts and bumps without any moonlight. But Hélène liked the quiet solitude of the night and the distant, reassuring rumbling of the surf. It gave her time to think. To plan. Madame Dupre was right—she would have to leave Saint-Nazaire soon. There was no future here. Sadly she recalled Madame Dupre's own shattered dreams and lost hopes, a lesson to remember. She mustn't fall into the same trap. She must keep her ambition burning.
She rounded a familiar bend more by instinct than by sight. In the distance she could see the lights glowing in the Brocqs' house. She put her hands in the pockets of her coat. Yes, she thought, she'd learned a lot today. She smiled to herself. She was judging each day by what she had learned.
'There's my pretty!' a voice hissed out of the darkness.
Hélène suddenly froze and her heart pounded against her ribs. Pierre! In terror, her eyes searched the darkness around her, but she couldn't see anything. What was he doing out here? It was still a good kilometer till she'd be home. Suddenly she knew what he was doing here. Lying in wait. Setting his trap. For her.
The whisper came again. 'My pretty. Pierre is waiting!'
Hélène whirled around. 'Where are you?' she cried out.
The foliage on the trees to her left suddenly rustled. She turned to face them. But it was only the wind.
'I'm over here, my pretty!' Now the voice seemed to come from her right. She whirled in that direction.
'No, no, no. Pretty mustn't run! Pierre is in front of you!'
She drew back instinctively—right into his arms. He clamped them around her.
He hadn't been in front of her! He'd tricked her! He'd been behind her all along!
She started to scream, but a cold hand covered her mouth.
'Pretty better not scream,' he whispered, his breath hot against her neck.
She let out a muffled wail. Her mind raced. She had to do something. Anything. For a moment she sagged in his arms. He loosened his grip in surprise, and suddenly she dived out of his grasp
. He tried to grab her again, but she twisted around and brought her knee up in his groin. She could hear him grunt. Then, as fast as her legs could carry her, she started off across the dark fields. She plunged past trees whose branches tore at her dress and scratched her face. Every branch held a special terror. To Hélène they seemed like fingers, as she ran out of their reach. She tripped over a rock and fell, and for a fleeting instant she thought Pierre had tripped her. With a grunt she struggled back to her feet and continued running, never stopping to listen to see if he was following. She had lost all sense of direction.
After a while she felt as if her lungs were going to burst. For a moment she stopped running, her breasts heaving as she swallowed mouthfuls of air. Her heart hammered like it had gone out of control.
'Pierre's waiting!'
'No!' she screamed, and covered her ears. 'No no no no no no!'
And suddenly she felt herself slipping into nothingness. For a moment she swayed unsteadily, and then she could feel herself falling. She was aware that he was very near, but she wasn't quite sure where. She thought she could feel his thighs clamping around her face. It was all so. . .so dreamlike. So unreal. In the distance she heard breathing. It sounded shallow and faraway.
After a while things slowly focused again. She felt drops of warm liquid falling on her face. Had it begun to rain? she wondered in surprise. Then the pressure left the sides of her face and she heard a noise moving away in the underbrush.
She moaned and lay there without moving. He was gone. She shook her head to clear it and realized that there was liquid on her lips, too. For a moment she caught the taste of it. It was strangely salty.
Suddenly she knew what it was. Semen. In disgust, she started to wipe it away with her wrist. But she never finished. The nausea rose instantly. Before she could bend over, she threw up.
When the lights in the shop went on, Hélène looked up and blinked. Madame Dupre was standing in the doorway, a coat over her nightgown, her hair in metal curlers. Her eyes were red and swollen; she looked like she'd just awakened. 'What are you doing here?' she asked. 'It's after midnight!' Then she sucked in her breath. 'What's happened to you? Your face—it's got scratches all over it!'
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