Bride of New France (10 page)

For sustenance on their journey through the city, Madame du Clos has brought with her some bread and meat, which she carries in a fashionable purse. Both women have on their best dresses—in Laure’s case it is the only one she possesses—and bonnets to protect against the sun. The archer at the hospital’s gate lets them by with a flourish of his arm. On this walk, Laure receives envious stares from the peasants along the Seine path. She keeps her head raised high and pretends that she cannot see them looking at her. She holds up the skirt of her dress to guard against the mud of the streets and is both relieved and impressed when Madame du Clos offers a man with a donkey cart a few sous to carry them to the Pont-Neuf. From there, Madame du Clos chooses to walk only the paved streets, and
even then they keep to the elevated centre of the road to avoid the sludge from the ditches on either side.

“Is this Tailleur Brissault some sort of duke or prince?” Laure asks as they near the shop. “What is his connection to the King’s court?”

“No, he is a tailor. Not even a good one.” Laure looks at Madame du Clos, who goes on. “Even the cut of his suits is mediocre. But he provides something noblemen have a hard time finding at the Palace … poor girls.”

“But there are poor girls all over, on every street corner.” What a ridiculous notion that anyone should find a shortage of poor women in Paris. There are all types, tall, short, pious, crass. On their journey to the tailor’s shop, they must have passed three dozen destitute girls.

“Yes, but the noblemen prefer the ones that Brissault selects and cleans up for them. He calls them his sewing assistants. But their skills have nothing to do with sewing.” Laure is unsure why Madame du Clos is bringing her to this man who sounds despicable.

Tailleur Brissault is there when they enter the shop, crouched at the haunches of a nobleman. Both men turn to look at the women entering through the door. Laure can see the tailor’s eyes straining to make them out. Judging by what Madame du Clos just told her, Brissault is probably trying to assess them. Laure guesses that Madame du Clos is in her forties although she has never dared to ask her age. She is short and heavy, with soft features and gentle eyes, like a kind grandmother. She does not look at all like the sort of woman who would be a sewing
assistant to this Brissault, but her dress is made of calico, a good material, even though the cut is more outmoded than the one Laure is wearing.

“Tailleur Brissault, how do you do today?” Madame du Clos’ voice is stern. She remains standing near the door.

“What brings a fine lady such as you to my shop? Come on in so I can get a better look.” Laure can tell the latter part of his comment is addressed to her even though he speaks to her instructor. She wonders why Madame du Clos had her dress up to see this ugly man. He is like an enormous cat, even to his rounded midriff.

His shop is easily three times the size of the workshop at the Salpêtrière. Brissault’s shelves and tables are overflowing with bright silks, plush velvets, and cottons. His hangers are filled with finished men’s suits, as well as women’s whalebone stays and dress skirts. These are all items that seamstresses are forbidden to make. Many of the scraps from the tailor shops get resold in the riverside markets to women like Madame du Clos so they can make hats, purses, and hair ribbons.

In Brissault’s shop, five or six apprentice tailors work cross-legged on the table. None of them glanced up when the women entered. They must be accustomed to the arrival of high-ranked people and so do not find the women to be interesting. Laure recognizes Gamy, the pin merchant, and he tips his hat to Madame du Clos when he sees her. Gamy is seated near the door waiting for Brissault to finish up with the Duke.

The Duke is wearing a powdered wig, breeches, and an embroidered velvet jacket. He is more magnificent than the archers in their uniforms. Laure wonders if this intimidating man is really seeking a pair of pants from Brissault’s shop.

Madame du Clos wastes no more time with formalities.
“I have with me a letter for the King written by this young lady.”

“What sort of letter? Not a petition on behalf of the seamstresses, I hope. The King is quite satisfied with the way clothing is being produced.” Brissault rises with a loud intake of breath. “There we are, Monsieur le Duc. I think that does it.”

The nobleman’s two guards step forward. They draw back again when the Duke waves his hand at them.

“No, nothing like that. I am not here to interfere with your … business.” Madame du Clos says the last word as if she is spitting something rotten from her mouth.

Brissault smiles. “You know that even the King asks the police for detailed descriptions of the city’s prostitutes when they are arrested. He then pores over these reports in between his official duties. If the King himself seeks this sort of entertainment”—Brissault laughs—“then my shop is guaranteed a good and prosperous business, built on the simplest of precepts. No need for fancy cuts.”

The Duke clears his throat. “A letter for the King, you say? From this lovely young lady?”

Laure looks away as his eyes meet hers.

“I suppose only the King himself is good enough for her. But you do know, Mademoiselle, that His Majesty has many important affairs to tend to.”

Brissault chuckles. “And quite a few young ladies to look after as well.”

The Duke gives the tailor an irritated look. “I am on my way to the court tonight, Madame. Maybe I can be your messenger.”

“It is a letter of flattery. It is sure to put His Majesty in
a good mood.” Madame du Clos holds out the letter. Laure doesn’t like the way the Duke’s eyes have remained on her even while he speaks to Madame du Clos. She wishes she wasn’t wearing this dress, that they hadn’t lowered the neckline. She wants to protest that it isn’t that kind of letter. It is about something important. She wants to tell these men that not all poor girls are prostitutes. She wishes Madeleine were here.

“I suppose it can’t hurt to pass it on. As long as I have your assurance that its contents will please His Majesty.”

“Oh, yes, in a trifling way, of course. The girl is barely seventeen and has her head in the royal clouds. She can do nothing but speak of the powerful spell she swoons under each time she imagines her letter being read by the King.”

“I—” Laure feels betrayed. She wants Madame du Clos to stop telling these lies about her letter.

“But His Majesty has been known to abhor flattery by his … inferiors.” The Duke raises his eyebrow and smiles at Laure. He extends his hand for the letter.

“I am certain that even the King can tolerate a few innocent pleasantries from a sweet young girl,” Madame du Clos says as she relinquishes it to him.

“As long as she isn’t too innocent.” The Duke smiles, tucking the letter into his velvet pocket.

Madame du Clos bows and puts her hand on Laure’s back, steering her out of the shop with hurried feet.

Laure is shaking. She wants to tear the restrictive dress off her body and replace it with the coarse fabric of the hospital dress. It is this gown that is slowing her down, keeping her
from getting away from Brissault and the Duke and their filthy eyes.

Madame du Clos takes her by the shoulders. “I’m sorry, Laure, you poor soul.”

“Why did you let them think I had written that kind of letter to the King?”

“If I had told them what the contents really were, they would have thrown it out just as quickly as we gave it to them. Now it might stand some chance of getting where you want it to go. Besides, don’t worry too much about what men like Brissault and that Duke think of you. They have only one way of looking at women.”

When Laure returns to the Salpêtrière, she changes into her grey dress. Some of the girls have heard about her letter and want to know if she succeeded. If there will be something more for them to eat for dinner. Laure tells them she is tired and doesn’t want to discuss her trip. Now that she is out of the dress, at least she can breathe again. But she still feels constricted remembering the eyes of the Duke and the fat tailor on her body. Her thoughts return to the prostitutes she saw in the courtyard last month. All the girls in their shabby dresses crammed together like squealing pigs and the madams following behind in their covered carriages. Laure wonders if that Duke, or some of the other men at court, went to see these women before they were brought in to the Salpêtrière.

Laure is called up to the office of the Superior and Madame du Clos is asked to accompany her. The instructor talks about the sewing work of this or that girl the whole time they walk through the dark hallways up from the workshop toward the light of the Superior’s office. It only serves to make Laure more nervous. She tries to quiet her breath by concentrating on the sound of their shoes against the floor.

When they enter the office, the Superior is sitting with her back to them. Without turning to face them, she rises to her feet. Although the Superior is short and even thinner than Laure, the sight of her dark-clad frame rising from the chair fills Laure with terror.

When the Superior finally turns to them, she is smiling. It is the cruellest smile Laure has ever seen.

“It seems that no matter what we do to help the poor women of the hospital, there are some who refuse to be pleased.” She pauses, as if she is thinking hard.

“It was only a harmless gesture.” Madame du Clos has already begun to make matters worse.

The Superior does not respond. Instead she continues to stare at Laure. “Do you remember the place you came from before you entered the Salpêtrière?”

“I was in the home of Madame d’Aulnay.” Laure’s voice comes out weak like that of a very young girl.

“No. Before that. Where do you come from?” There is a slight tremor in the Superior’s lip.

“I was with my father and my mother.”

“You were picked up from the street, cold, dirty, and wet, like a starving rat. The very sort of creature that disappears one night and nobody notices is gone.”

Laure’s face fills with blood.

“What do you think would have happened to you if our archers hadn’t saved you when you were a child? What fate would have befallen you if you hadn’t been taken in, cleaned up, nourished, and taught to pray?”