Bride of New France Read online

  Laure lifts the box containing the gown from beneath the sewing table and follows Madame du Clos, who has two gold ribbons streaming behind her, into the back room. The needlework instructor holds the dress away from her weak eyes. “Not a bad job considering we only had muslin and fake gems to work with.”

  “It looks like a gown for the royal court.” Laure has already slipped off her work dress.

  “Not quite, poor soul. Court dresses are made of taffeta and decorated with precious gems. They cost ten times what this dress is worth.”

  Laure cannot imagine a dress ten times more exquisite than this one. Madame du Clos has given her a small amount of silver thread to sew into the bodice and some ruby and turquoise beads for the trim. She had also suggested to Laure that the bodice cut be lowered. Not so much that Laure will be mistaken for one of those despicable women that sell themselves for coins on the street, but enough to give a hint of her soft chest. She has also given Laure a leather string for tightening the whalebone corset, and the two ribbons for her hair.

  Madame tightens the corset with one swift yank. Laure feels her ribs squeezing against her lungs. She exhales and cannot draw in a new breath. Any fat Laure has on her bones has been squeezed up to her chest. She raises her hands. Panic rises in her throat.

  “You can’t breathe?” Madame du Clos laughs. “Breathing is for peasant girls tending their sheep in the countryside. You are choosing another life.” Madame du Clos’ voice renews Laure’s hope in the future. In the dark basement of the hospital that was once an old munitions factory, where madwomen of all ages can be heard wailing upstairs and starvation rations are carefully accounted for at mealtimes, Madame du Clos dishes out kind words. “In elegant circles, women do not breathe. They steal breath from those around them. Now suck in your stomach and lift your chest.”

  “Even if I only—” Laure’s breath is cut off again as Madame tightens the corset further. How would she be able to work as a seamstress all day in such a constricted garment?

  “Yes, no matter, you will be a charming lady. It isn’t so bad once you get used to it. Besides”—her chubby face breaks into a smile—“you must suffer to be beautiful. Now suck in your stomach and lift your chest.”

  When Laure finally emerges from the back room, her cheeks are flushed from the effort of changing into the dress. Madame has lent her a sparkling red necklace to wear for the day. Laure strains her eyes to look past her chin at the jewels resting on her pale chest.

  “Look at those ribbons in your hair,” Madame du Clos says, and Laure reaches to touch the silky material. “Many women dressed in far more elaborate and expensive gowns could only hope to look as lovely as you do.” Madame du Clos pushes Laure’s back until she is standing in the workshop in front of the other girls. Laure can tell by their eyes that Madame du Clos wasn’t exaggerating.

  While the instructor is describing to the girls the adjustments that were made to Laure’s dress, a man enters the workshop. The girls freeze, and Madame du Clos turns to him and bows. “Bonsoir, Monsieur le Directeur.” It is the director of the entire General Hospital, including the men’s division. He comes by the workshop every few months to check on the progress of their production. Normally, the girls are at their stations and working in total silence when he comes through. This is a surprise visit.

  “Bonsoir Madame, mesdemoiselles.” His words are polite, but he doesn’t remove his hat as he surveys the disarray of the workshop and the girls standing around Laure. He belongs to the Compagnie du Saint-Sacrement. The Superior said to the girls one day that the members of the Compagnie are good men who are trying to build Jerusalem in the middle of Babylon. Laure asked Madeleine what that meant, since she knows more biblical quotes and references than Laure because she had been with the Sulpiciens before she ended up at the Salpêtrière, but she just said that it meant the men of the Saint-Sacrement were trying to make the Salpêtrière a better place. Nobody knows very much about the Compagnie, as it is a secret gathering of religious men.

  “You have a client with you …?” The director sounds confused. There aren’t normally customers in the Salpêtrière workshops. “It looks like you’re turning this room into a real commercial enterprise. I hope you fit in plenty of prayers for these girls.” His wooden soles reverberate on the floor as he walks by each of the work stations.

  Madame du Clos nods her lowered head.

  “Some men,” the director continues, “think that commerce is the ultimate purpose of existence. They’ll use any hands they can, even those of the poor, to fuel their greed.” The director has his arms crossed over his chest and is walking past the table filled with the girls’ completed work. “There isn’t much I can do to oppose this kind of thinking.” He then walks up to Laure, examining her dress. His eyes stop on her chest. When he gets beside her, he whispers into her ear: “Cover that breast that I am not to see. By such things are souls injured, and guilty thoughts made to enter the mind.” Then he says to her aloud, “Mademoiselle, what do you think of these young women? They aren’t exactly cultivated, but they do work very hard.”

  Laure blushes. She glances quickly at Madame du Clos, whose eyes are wide with fear. Laure does her best to suck in a little air.

  “Yes, they work … like angels.” She feels her cheeks burning.

  “Très bien, Mademoiselle. The King will be happy that his aims are being realized.” The director doesn’t return Laure’s smile, but turns instead to Madame du Clos.

  “Madame, excusez-moi, but next time you might want to keep Divine values in mind when you fashion your dresses.” He glances again at Laure and turns to go.

  After he has gone, Laure breaks into laughter. “Did the hospital director really think that I was a Parisian lady?” she asks.

  “Yes, thank God for us all that he did.” Madame du Clos is trembling, but manages a smile as she quickly helps Laure out of the gown and back into her work dress.

  In the morning, Madame du Clos gives Madeleine instructions to look after the workshop. She then sets off with Laure and the letter for the seamstress area of the city. Their destination is on rue Saint-Honoré, in the new fashion district near the Place des Victoires. According to Madame du Clos, their only hope of getting Laure’s letter to the King is to bring it to the shop of the Tailleur Brissault.

  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 he
r 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 tremo
r 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?”

  “You know how children are,” Madame du Clos says. “They have all sorts of ideas—”

  “We are not here, paid from His Royal Highness’ coffer, to entertain the whims of every wretch with a deluded mind.”

  The Superior takes several steps toward her desk. She picks up a package.

  “Since you seem to have so many talents and much knowledge of the outside world, why don’t you tell me what you know of the place they call Canada.”

  Laure glances sideways at Madame du Clos, who shrugs. What does any of this have to do with Canada? That was where Mireille was going to marry an officer. Laure tries to remember everything she can about this place. “I know only that Canada is far across the sea and that the Savages there eat the hearts of priests.” She thinks back to Mireille lying dead at the Hôtel-Dieu and what the nurse said. “And that it is better to die than to go there.”