The Wedding Dress

by Mary Burchell

  “No. This I missed,” conceded Lisette with naive candor.

  “Too bad,” said Loraine drily. “He rushed up to greet me—and we not unnaturally kissed. That’s all.’

  “But you didn’t tell your guardian, did you?”

  There was something frightening about the way Lisette kept unerringly—and with such confidence—to what was really the crux of the matter. Loraine would have given anything to be able to laugh the whole thing off—or resolutely to refuse to answer any more questions. But something in that speculative glance froze any laughter at the source and made one feel that almost any reply would be better than silence, since silence could be interpreted as dangerously as one pleased.

  By nature, Loraine was a truthful girl, but it took her only a second to decide that, if a curt fib were the only thing to end this most distasteful discussion, then she was prepared to tell it.

  “There’s no earthly reason why I should answer your silly and inquisitive questions,” she said shortly. “But, since you seem so passionately interested, of course I told my guardian of my unexpected visitor.”

  “When?” inquired Lisette, with the simple scorn of one who could as easily add, “Liar.”

  “When?” repeated Loraine, unaccountably put out. “How do you mean—when? When he came back into the box, of course. I told him all about my unexpected visitor and he—”

  The other girl laughed slightly, and it was an oddly disquieting sound which had the effect of drying up Loraine’s fount of eloquence.

  “You should have said, ‘On the way home’,” Lisette informed her contemptuously. “That no one could have questioned. But me, I know quite well that you did not tell him ‘all about’ anything when he returned to the box, for the curtain went up almost immediately, and you had time only to exchange half a dozen words. Therefore you did not tell him, but you would like to make out that the handsome guardian is in your confidence when in fact he is not.”

  Loraine was struck dumb. Partly with the chagrin which descends on any truthful person caught out in the unfamiliar lie. Partly with sheer dismay at the discovery that she had been made to give an air of guilty concealment to something she greatly wished to pass off as natural and unimportant.

  Lisette, for her part, looked quite disproportionately pleased at having trapped a virtual stranger into what she evidently considered a damaging admission. That anyone should find satisfaction in such a pointless bit of spite was in itself so baffling to Loraine that she could find no words. And then, as she stared angrily at Lisette, wondering what on earth to say next, a summons came for her to go to Monsieur Florian himself.

  Almost running in her desire to get away from Lisette’s unwelcome company, she hastened to the top of the building, where Monsieur Florian had his own office and workroom. Here she found him and Madame Moisant in consultation.

  “Come in, petite,” Florian bade her indulgently.

  And Loraine—who did not yet know that the great designer ruled his subordinates by a clever mixture of kindness and brutality—thought how lucky she was to have such an employer and that, after all, Lisette and her spiteful ways were of little account.

  “We were discussing where—or, indeed, if—we should place you in the present Collection,” Florian informed her. “It is a question of substituting you for one of my models who has—deserted.” The faint pause before the last word conveyed the enormity of the erring Julie’s offence to Loraine more clearly than anything Clotilde had said. “Some of her numbers we have already allotted to one or other of the girls. But perhaps”—he turned to Madame Moisant abruptly and said, “Try her in Number Fourteen.”

  So Loraine was whisked off to a nearby dressing-room and, at great speed, arrayed in a deceptively simple little black suit, which somehow made her feel like a princess, slightly but charmingly disguised for the purpose of some wistfully romantic adventure. A white hat, which looked innocent in the hand but provocative on the head, completed the outfit and, still under Madame Moisant’s close surveillance, she was conducted back to Florian’s workroom and instructed to walk to the end of the room and back.

  She did as she was told, indescribably intrigued by the mood which the very wearing of the suit seemed to inspire in her.

  “Now, if she really were a princess escaping from formality and ceremony for a day—perhaps only a precious hour—just so would she dress, thought Loraine. And then anything could happen! Particularly here in Paris. Why—

  “Do that again,” said Florian’s voice, with a curious note of amused attention in it.

  So she recalled where she was and obediently retraced her steps. But it was difficult not to revel still in the role of the little princess in disguise, and she only descended completely to earth again when she heard Madame Moisant exclaim, a trifle disparagingly:

  “She does not wear it in the least as Julie wore it.”

  “No,” said Florian softly, “she wears it as only she herself would wear it. She gives it an entirely new identity. Strange. I have seen that happen only about three times before in my life.” And then, to Loraine: “Of what were you thinking, petite, as you walked up and down my workroom?”

  “Well”—she glanced shyly at Florian and blushed—“I was pretending—I mean”—the blush deepened—“oh, it sounds so silly!”

  “Tell me nevertheless,” said Florian, in the tone he used for drawing large orders out of difficult customers.

  “I had the feeling—” Loraine laughed softly and ran her hands gently over the slim lines of the magical suit. “I had the strange feeling that I was a princess, a little bit disguised, and that something touching and—romantic might happen at any minute. Like a fairy story, only in real life. I’m afraid you must think me dreadfully childish! It was only a moment of make-believe and—”

  “Try her in all Julie’s numbers this afternoon,” said Florian, turning to Madame Moisant.

  “All of them?” His directrice sounded faintly scandalized. “Do you mean those which have already been allotted to Lisette and Clotilde?”

  “All of them,” repeated Florian coolly. “I want to see what she makes of them.”

  “There will be trouble,” muttered Madame Moisant. “Not with Clotilde, who is philosophical and also lazy. But with Lisette, who is ambitious and envious and fights for every design like a dog for a bone.”

  “I do not run my business to please Lisette,” said Florian drily. “Loraine will wear all Julie’s designs at the show this afternoon. And do not look so solemn, ma chère—”

  For a moment Loraine thought he was still addressing Madame Moisant and then she realized that he had turned to herself. “In this world one cannot be both successful and popular. This I have found for myself long ago. To be hated is often the full measure of one’s success.”

  He looked remarkably cheerful about this regrettable state of affairs. So Loraine smiled and also tried to look as though she did not in the least mind being hated, so long as she won his approval.

  “Come, then. We have a great deal to do,” said Madame Moisant brusquely, as though Loraine were lingering unnecessarily. And once again Loraine was whisked off, divested of her black suit and, when reclothed in her own things, taken down to the salon, where Madame Moisant put her through her paces with regard to the matter of actually appearing in public.

  In her sharp, astringent way, the Frenchwoman was not unhelpful, and it became perfectly obvious to Loraine that there was nothing—literally nothing—which she did not know about the display and sale of beautiful clothes.

  Humbly glad to be instructed by such an expert, Loraine paid the utmost attention to all she was told and tried hard to remember her instructions, at the same time making them sufficiently part of herself to avoid either stiffness or anxiety.

  “You have a natural talent,” Madame Moisant admitted grudgingly at last. “Well—we will see.”

  Back in the dressing-room once more, she made the general unequivocal statement that Loraine would wear all
Julie’s designs at the afternoon show.

  “What a relief!” exclaimed Clotilde characteristically. “I shall now at least be able to breathe between appearances.” But Lisette—equally characteristically—cried.

  “She shall not wear Fourteen nor Fifty-one. These are mine! They are my models.”

  “On the contrary, Lisette—” It was Florian himself who, unexpectedly, spoke from the doorway. “They happen to be my models, and I will decide who wears them.’

  “But, monsieur”—Lisette was only mildly abashed—“you promised me—”

  “You are mistaken, Lisette. According to my invariable custom, I promised you nothing,” Florian assured her courteously. “Loraine will wear Julie’s models this afternoon, and I shall be there myself to see the show.”

  From the silence which greeted this last statement, Loraine gathered it was unusual for Florian himself to attend the daily dress show so late in the season. And she was both alarmed and gratified to realize that she herself must be the reason for his unwonted appearance.

  “Afterwards,” went on Florian calmly, “I shall need you in my workroom, Lisette. It is possible—though by no means certain—that I shall use you for the wedding dress in the new Collection. But for this it will be necessary for you to cultivate a less sullen expression.”

  “Monsieur!” Lisette’s sulky face cleared like magic. “You say that I am to wear the wedding dress?”

  “No, Lisette. I did not say that, and well you know it,” Florian assured her drily. “Once more—no promises. What I said was that I might use you. A very different thing.” Then, turning to Madame Moisant, he said, “Madame, if I may have a word with you—” And the two of them went out of the room.

  Everyone now crowded round Lisette, with an eagerness which made it plain to Loraine that the wearing of the wedding dress in any new Collection ranked as such an important favor that even the suggestion of being the fortunate one chosen conferred a special brilliance upon one.

  She herself was left isolated near the door and, as Florian and his directrice paused outside, she distinctly heard Madame Moisant say, as though she could no longer suppress her protest:

  “Surely you would not really allow Lisette to wear the wedding dress?”

  “No, of course not.” The reply was cool, frank and brutal, though delivered in an undertone. “There is nothing bridal about Lisette. She is designed by nature for the Other Woman. It is the little Loraine who will make the perfect bride. She has all the qualities.”

  “You are already so sure?” Even Madame Moisant sounded a trifle incredulous.

  “Of course. One does not have a flash of genius in stages,” replied Florian, without false modesty. “One knows.”

  “The other one will tear her to pieces,” observed the directrice unemotionally.

  “Between now and then she will learn to defend herself.” was the careless reply.

  Then they both went their separate ways, leaving Loraine divided between rapture and alarm. It seemed that her future path was to be fraught with most disagreeable perils. On the other hand, Florian had said she would probably wear the wedding dress. And already Loraine had absorbed enough of the dress-house atmosphere to assess—and covet—this signal honor.

  If one were to be torn to pieces by the dangerous Lisette, as Madame Moisant had so confidently prophesied, at least it would be in a splendid cause.

  By the time the afternoon show began, Loraine was icy with fear and burning with enthusiasm. She was not aware that what she was experiencing was a form of stage-fright. She only knew that, terrifyingly and miraculously, she was to play a part before strangers, and that on the way she played that part would depend her future with Florian.

  The other mannequins, of course, had already shown these particular models so many times that they were without nerves and also without that first keen interest which spells adventure instead of routine. In contrast, Loraine was keyed up to the finest edge of competitive zeal. And perhaps this helped to highlight her performance.

  At any rate, from the first moment she stepped out on the small stage and moved forward along the raised platform in the little black suit—her heart thumping, her eyes starry and her lips faintly smiling—until the final retreat in her last number—a miracle of rose and lavender tulle which seemed to embody the dreams of every girl choosing her first evening dress—she was an unqualified success.

  In some subtle, exciting way, she knew it herself. She heard the murmur of it in the admiring, indulgent comments of those who watched her. She saw the gleam of it in Florian’s smiling but watchful eyes. And somewhere, deep down inside her, there was the inner conviction that this was her natural and inevitable form of self-expression. She was doing this thing well because it was as natural to her as breathing.

  At the end, Madame Moisant said, “It was well done.” Clotilde said, “You were superb, chérie. Where were you trained?” Lisette said, “She was amateur.” And Florian merely said:

  “Thank you, mademoiselle.”

  But she knew that those three words were her passport to the fashion world of Paris.

  When the end of her first long, long day came at last, Loraine felt both elated and exhausted. Never before had she gone through so many conflicting emotions in a matter of hours. And certainly never before had she so fully tasted the sweet, heady wine of success.

  She walked home, through the shimmering evening light, intoxicated with the beauty of Paris, the triumph of her happy achievement, and the exquisite relief of having accepted a challenge and won. And when she finally came to the tall house which she now called home, she scorned the lift and rushed up the stairs to her guardian’s apartment on the second floor.

  The moment Mimi admitted her, she ran across the hall and into the drawing-room, where Paul was lounging comfortably in an armchair, reading the evening paper.

  “Hallo!” He put down the paper and smiled across at her, as she stood, pink-cheeked and with shining eyes, in the doorway. “How did the first day go?”

  “Wonderfully!’ She came forward into the room, as though she still walked on air. “I was a success.”

  “Already?” He looked amused, but faintly indulgent too. “How did you manage that?”

  “It was like being in a book!” She pulled up a low stool and sat down in front of him, hugging her knees ecstatically like a little girl. She was so full of it all that she simply had to tell someone, and even her rather forbidding guardian seemed the ideal audience at the moment. “I didn’t think I’d be allowed to show any dresses the very first day. But I was. Another girl, called Julie, had deser—I mean,” her voice dropped impressively, “she’d left Florian rather in the lurch by getting married and going to Australia.”

  “You appal me,” murmured her guardian, and at that she laughed and leant her arm upon his knee, in an intimate little gesture which would have been utterly impossible twenty-four hours ago.

  “It was so exciting—you can’t imagine! Madame Moisant was doubtful if I should be allowed to show even one of Julie’s dresses. But Florian tried me out in one outfit and then said, 'Let her have them all, and see what she can make of them.’ And Madame Moisant was quite shocked and said, 'All of them?’ And he said, 'All of them—’ just like that. Like—like—”

  “An Eastern potentate ordering his harem about,” suggested her guardian obligingly.

  “Well—not quite like that. But with a sort of careless authority which was frightfully impressive.”

  “Don’t lose your heart to Florian, dear child. He’s very happily married,” Paul reminded her.

  “Oh, I know he is. And I’m not at all likely to lose my heart to him. It’s just that he’s so—so clever and unusual. But one wouldn’t fall in love with him. He’s quite old, isn’t he?”

  Her guardian made a face.

  “About six years older than I am, I suppose.”

  “Oh,” said Loraine, and looked reflectively at Paul, because she had really never thought abou
t his age before.

  “Well, anyway,” he seemed slightly anxious to break that scrutiny, “you then showed all the erring Julie’s dresses very successfully?”

  “Yes, indeed! It was quite a triumph.”

  “What did Florian say at the end?”

  “He said, ‘Thank you, mademoiselle,’ ” Loraine explained reverently, at which her guardian laughed insensitively and said that seemed meagre praise in the circumstances.

  “Oh, but it was the way he said it,” Loraine assured him. “As though I’d done him a great favor and lifted a weight off his mind.”

  “Yes—they say Florian is very good at that sort of thing,” agreed Paul, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “But of course you had done him a favor and got him out of an awkward spot, if he really had lost one of his mannequins in the middle of the season.”

  “Not the middle of it. Almost the end of it,” said Loraine, who could not let that inaccuracy pass, now that she was beginning to know her fashion world. “Everything is already beginning to lead up to the new Collection, and everyone is mad with excitement and—” She pressed her hand against her lips and looked as though she had difficulty in holding back the next words.

  “Come on—you’d better tell me the whole story.” He smiled and looked amusedly curious.

  “It’s terribly secret—and I only overheard it, really. You will keep it secret, won’t you?”

  “I’ll call on all my diplomatic training and do my best,” he promised.

  “Well, I overheard Florian say to Madame Moisant that he intended to have me model the wedding dress in the new Collection.”

  “The wedding dress? But isn’t that the high-spot of the show?”

  “Yes.” She nodded vigorously. “That’s why it’s terribly exciting—and secret. Isn’t it wonderful?”