Mademoiselle Chanel Read online

  The cart jolted forward. Julia gathered Antoinette against her as the man cracked his whip over his bony mule’s back and led us onto the rutted mountain road. We jostled and clung to each other. Whatever was left of my courage withered inside me. Finally, toward dusk, the cart turned onto a dusty path and brought us before a set of stout wooden gates in a high wall.

  I barely saw the stone tower or ring of buildings beyond, so alarmed was I by the sight of a flock of women in black habits and white wimples. As the man unloaded the sacks of flour for them, the nuns brought us inside, separating us in the courtyard. Julia and I were led to one wing, while Antoinette was taken to another, for she was still a child, the nuns said, and must reside with the other children.

  Julia was ashen with fatigue. “We don’t belong here,” I said to her, and one of the nuns accompanying us turned her face to me to murmur, “In a perfect world, no child does. But this is where you are, and in time, you will adjust.”

  She took us into a dormitory where a hundred faces like ours turned to stare at us. I clenched my fists. “It’s only for a short time,” I announced, though nobody asked. “Our papa is coming for us, you’ll see.”

  Julia shushed me. “Gabrielle, stop saying that.”

  I cried when the candles were blown out and the vast room swelled with the snores and sighs of the others, stuffing my head under the pillow so no one could hear. By day, everywhere I turned, I saw only black or white and shades in between, the black of the nuns’ habits, flowing as if they glided on air, and of our uniforms, plain and sturdy. The starched white of linens, piled in cupboards or stretched taut on our narrow cots, glimmering like halos on the nuns’ headdresses; and all the grays, shifting in the light on the flagstone floors and in the monotone voices of those charged to watch over us.

  In those first weeks, I was miserable. I missed my brothers and the upheaval of being tumbled together. I missed Maman. It had been a rough-and-tumble life, but I still missed it.

  “We’re safe,” Julia said one night. “Don’t you see? Nothing bad can happen here.”

  I didn’t want to see. I couldn’t accept it, because if I did it meant Papa was truly never coming back. It meant he had abandoned us.

  “It’s awful,” I said. “I hate it.”

  “No, you don’t.” Julia reached across the space between our cots to squeeze my hand. “Isn’t it better we’re here? What would we do, alone in the world, with no one to care for us?”

  I turned away. “Just try,” I heard her say. “You are the strong one; Maman always said she depended on you. Promise me you will try, Gabrielle. Antoinette and I need you.”

  I loved my sisters and so I did try. In the next weeks, I did my utmost to smile and be attentive, waking before dawn to the clamor of bells to trudge up the steep staircase and over the river-stone pathway into the chapel to hear prime. Then we were taken to the dining room for breakfast, followed by lessons, lunch, and afternoon chores, until we returned again to the chapel for vespers, back to the dining room for dinner, and to bed when it fell dark only to rise at dawn and do it all again. Nothing exciting ever happened, but as time wore on, nothing bad happened, either. No aunts came to scold; no landlords banged on the door to demand the late rent. All of a sudden, for the first time in my life, I knew where I was supposed to be and what was expected of me. I had a routine, unchanging and monotonous, but also surprisingly reassuring.

  And as the weeks turned to months, without realizing it, Aubazine became my home.

  It was the first place I had lived where everything was clean—astringent purity in the lye soap we bathed with every morning, in the sprigs of rosemary freshening the linens, and in the lime wash water for scrubbing the cloisters. No mice scurried behind peeling walls, no lice or fleas infested our hair and sheets, no dirt from the street seeped through broken windows or under doors. In Aubazine, life might be uneventful, regulated, and predictable, but it was pristine.

  I marveled at how much I could eat. We had three meals a day—hot porridge and soup; fresh goat cheese and warm bread from the ovens; fruits and vegetables from the gardens; salty hams and roast chickens; and at Christmastime, sweet raisin pudding. I couldn’t get enough; I had to learn to disguise my hunger as I did my discontent, fending off offers of friendship and cleaving to Julia, who said, “See? It is nice here.”

  It was nice, much as I didn’t want to admit it. It was also a challenge. Because we had moved so much, our education had suffered. I discovered I had no aptitude for lessons, not like Julia, who filled her notebooks with precise letters that made mine look splotchy. The nun who oversaw our class, Sister Bernadette, had me stay an extra hour every day, though I always felt as if my hand had extra thumbs.

  “You must apply yourself, Gabrielle,” Sister Bernadette remonstrated. “You don’t like to write so you don’t make the effort. We must always try, if we are to succeed.”

  Try, try, try: it was all anyone said to me. It unsettled me because I’d gone from being the strong one, as Julia claimed, to someone who didn’t seem to be good at anything.

  Reading, however, entranced me. After I mastered children’s fables and began to read more, I haunted the convent library, sifting among the tomes. Books took me to places I’d never imagined and I devoured every one I could, from the laments of saints to the tales of heroes and myths. I even began to enjoy the twice-daily procession to the chapel because the designs in the pathway were so interesting, obscure symbols linked to the convent, such as the five-pointed star. But like my lessons, prayer itself was a torture.

  Closing my eyes, I tried to talk to God. I asked Him if Papa was coming back and if I would see my brothers again. I wanted to feel Him. The nuns kept telling us, God hears you. He listens when you pray. But I never felt anything but the hard wood kneeler under me. No matter how much I tried, all I heard was my own voice, echoing inside me. I peered about at the other girls to see their faces lifted as if to heaven, full of trust. Julia seemed transported to somewhere else, as if God spoke directly to her.

  Why didn’t I feel this same comfort? Why did God ignore my prayers?

  I searched for a way to prove my worth. I began to see that in their orderly world, the nuns valued those who applied themselves with a minimum of fuss, in particular those who could sit still for hours monogramming articles for other women’s trousseaus. The sisters of Aubazine excelled at sewing and were paid for the work, which helped fund the orphanage.

  Oh, the endless in and out of thread and needle! I imagined heaps piling up to the rafters, all the sheets and pillowcases, stockings and pinafores, petticoats and smocks. How could there be so much need for so many things? Yet it never ceased, like water pouring over a mill. I stopped feeling my callused fingers and pinpricks on my hands, attacking each new task, each day, with a ferocity that Sister Bernadette wished I would show in my grammar. Only here could I excel. Maman had often said I had a sure hand for sewing.

  One day, I was given an entire sheet to hem. At the end of the day, Sister Thérèse, who supervised the workroom, walked up and down the aisles to inspect our work. She paused, took up my folded sheet. “Such fine stitches. Who taught you to sew like this, Gabrielle?”

  “My mother. She was a seamstress. I used to help her sometimes.”

  “I can see that. You’re quite skilled. How old are you now?”

  “Nearly fourteen, Sister.” As I spoke these words, I startled myself. How had the last two years passed so quickly?

  She reached out to examine my hands. “You have small hands. Perfect for sewing.” She smiled at me. “If you continue to improve, you could be a mercer’s assistant one day or perhaps even a seamstress yourself, with your own shop. Would you like that?”

  I had never thought of it. To me, being a seamstress meant my mother’s lot, mending other people’s clothes, paltry work that never earned enough. Now that I had decent food every day, I never wanted to be hungry again. But to have my own shop . . .

  “Yes, Sister,” I s
aid quietly. “I think I would like that.”

  “Good. I’ll have you embroider a handkerchief next time. A good seamstress must be knowledgeable in every aspect of her trade.” She gave me a stern look. “That means grammar and math, too, so I’ll expect you to heed your lessons with Sister Bernadette.”

  As she moved back down the aisle, I sagged in relief. If Sister Thérèse thought I might succeed in making my own way, perhaps I could.

  I only became more determined as I saw Sister Thérèse shaking her head over Julia’s pillowcase. My sister might be able to write, but those hands that were so skilled with a pen proved clumsy with the needle. As Julia gave me a dejected look from her seat, blond-curled Marie-Claire, who shared our dormitory and was a favorite with the nuns, always polite while ridiculing them behind their backs, hissed at me, “That stitch on your sheet is uneven. You’ll never be a seamstress. You’ll never be anything.”

  She resented me because I refused to join her circle of admirers and I despised her in return because she teased Julia mercilessly. I had tried to protect my sister, but as her hips widened and breasts sprouted (unlike mine, I was still as flat as a sole) so did the other girls’ envy. While Antoinette lived in the children’s wing, Julia was fifteen, practically a woman, and her beautiful features and timid air made her a target. Marie-Claire and her friends stuffed menses rags in her shoes and danced in circles around her, chanting that she was a bleeder, until I barreled into them and threatened to knock out their teeth.

  I now examined the stitch Marie-Claire had mentioned. Fury suffocated me when I saw she was right; it was uneven. All of a sudden, I wanted to shred the sheet with my scissors but instead I leaned over to her and said, “I know what you do at night under the sheets. You’ll grow up to be a harlot. They’ll have to exorcise you like the devil sisters of Loudon.”

  Though I still didn’t know what a harlot was, reading had taught me it must be dirty, and the horrified flush on Marie-Claire’s face assured me of as much. I gave her a smug smile.

  Marie-Claire wasted no time in telling Sister Thérèse: “Gabrielle Chanel is a beast. She says I’m possessed and called me a harlot.”

  “Gabrielle!” exclaimed Sister Thérèse and she marched me to the abbess’s chamber.

  “Is this true what I hear?” asked the abbess, a plump woman with a belt of keys affixed to her waist.

  “Yes, Reverend Mother,” I said, thinking that just as I had discovered my purpose, I was about to be cast out for my wickedness.

  “Well, no proper lady uses words like that. And where did you learn such things?”

  “The library, Mother. I . . . I like to read.”

  “ ‘Read’?” echoed the abbess. She didn’t realize that by now I could have recited the exploits of Charlemagne and the history of the convent from its founding by Étienne the Penitent to its desecration in the revolution, and I didn’t want to boast, as that, too, would be improper.

  “Do you read often, my child?” Her question was flat. I couldn’t tell if she meant to encourage or ensnare me with my answer.

  I lowered my eyes. How could I tell the truth, that reading was my escape because I had never asked to come here?

  “Only so I may strengthen my faith,” I finally murmured.

  “I see.” Relief softened her tone. “To seek God’s truth is commendable, providing it does not lead to temptation. There can be no room for aspiration in a humble girl’s heart. We must learn to submit always to our Almighty’s will.”

  Her words were like wire, choking off my breath. If to aspire was a sin, did that mean I was doomed already? Had I not prayed to find something I was good at?

  She dismissed me. “Henceforth, your access to the library is restricted; see that you read less and pray more. And no more talk of devils; do I make myself clear?” she added as I turned to the door. “You frighten the other girls. You must exercise moderation. It seems to me that you think too much, Gabrielle. You must learn to accept.”

  She might as well have asked me to yoke the moon with my rosary. But I took care from that day forth to appear penitent. Restrictions were often relaxed after a certain amount of time, and fusty Sister Geneviève who oversaw the library always nodded off after lunch at her stool. She never heard me as I tiptoed past with a book hidden under my pinafore. I read in corners when everyone else was in the courtyard, skipping rope. I read at night under my covers by the sliver of a candle stub that could have lit the dormitory aflame. I read at mass, pretending the book was a hymnal, risking my immortal soul. The other girls knew, but none dared tell on me. They knew what I had said to Marie-Claire. They, too, had secrets to hide.

  All I needed to do was look.

  SISTER THÉRÈSE GAVE ME a handkerchief as a test, showing me a pattern of camellia flowers from a book. “I want you to embroider this around the edges. Can you do that?”

  I nodded, studying the pattern until I memorized its shape. Ignoring Marie-Claire’s intermittent stares as she hemmed a smock, I threaded my needle and began to stitch the pattern into the linen. It was painstaking. I had only embroidered for my mother a few times, mostly easy motifs along sleeve cuffs, while this was intricate, with rounded corners that required precision. I made several mistakes that I had to undo; glancing up to find Marie-Claire smirking, I clenched my teeth. I was going to accomplish this if it killed me so I could wave it in her face. But once I finished the first camellia and Sister Thérèse came to look—“Oh, yes, Gabrielle, that is lovely”—I lost all sense of Marie-Claire and everyone else. The workroom with its rafter ceiling and white plaster walls, the large crucifix over the door and the rows of tables over which the girls bent, disappeared. It was only me with my needle, creating camellias as if by magic. When I looked up in a daze, I found I was the only one left.

  As I stood, wincing at my sore buttocks from sitting for hours, Sister Thérèse rose from a stool in the corner. She floated to me, gathering shadows under her hem. “Are you finished?” she asked, and I nodded, suddenly aware I’d forgotten everything but what was before me, missing my prayers and, by the looks of it, dinner as well. Now she’d tell me I had failed her test, too.

  She took up the handkerchief, turning it over to check the tiny knots of thread, then reviewed the pattern before she breathed, “Perfect,” and to my disbelief, I saw tears in her eyes. “Just perfect, my child. Never have I had a girl here who can sew like you.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Her praise was so unexpected that I could only look at the handkerchief in her hands and mutter, “It . . . it wasn’t hard once I figured out how to do it.”

  “Not hard? It is one of the most difficult patterns I could find! The camellia is a blessed symbol of our order, grown in our very gardens, but few can reproduce it like this.” She paused. Her next words were spoken so softly, I almost didn’t hear them: “Does God speak to you?”

  I met her gaze. Here at last was my opportunity, my chance to earn lasting reward. If I lied, I could become a novice and then a nun, immured and safe forever. But Sister Thérèse looked so eager that I couldn’t bring myself to deceive her.

  Without speaking, I shook my head.

  She sighed. “It’s not a punishment. God loves us all. He can’t ask every one of us to serve Him. He needs us in the world, too.”

  Looking up, I whispered, “I am afraid.” I had never admitted it to anyone, not even Julia. Fear had become my enemy because it might take root inside me and never leave.

  Sister Thérèse smiled. “You needn’t be. Don’t you know we will see to your care even after you leave us? The most promising among you will be sent to other convents on your eighteenth birthdays, to perfect your skills in the hope that apprenticeships can be found. It is our duty. We do not want our girls to lose their way.”

  “You will?” I said hesitantly.

  She nodded. “We will do all we can. You need not fear; I know it in my heart. A skill like this can save you, my child. God does indeed love you, Gabrielle. Never doubt it.”


  IV

  On Sunday afternoons in the spring and summer, we were released past the locked gates into the countryside. I had never understood the reason for locking us in. There was nowhere to run; forests and the mountains surrounded Aubazine. With our allotment of two pairs of shoes and stockings, two chemises, a cloak, gloves, and a wool hat, and the one uniform we wore until it strained at the seams, where could we possibly go?

  Still, the girls eagerly awaited the ceremonial unbolting of the gates. The noise was deafening as we tumbled into the fresh air with ecstatic cries no amount of chiding by the nuns could stifle, bounding to the summit overlooking the valley. Picnic baskets were uncovered, bread and cheese passed around. Even the nuns sat together to lift their shuttered faces to the sun.

  It was during one of these excursions in late July, shortly before my eighteenth birthday, that Julia suddenly said to me, “You’ll be leaving soon.”

  I glanced at her. We sat dangling our bare feet in the rushing waters of the river, which fed the convent’s fishpond and now ran full with melting snow. It was the only time we were allowed to shed our stockings and shoes outside the dormitory.

  “My birthday isn’t until August. And if you haven’t left by now, why would I?” In fact, I wondered why she hadn’t. Her eighteenth year had come and gone in September and we both waited nervously for the day the abbess would summon her. But it hadn’t happened.

  “Have you decided to take the veil?” I added, not certain how I would feel if she told me she had. She seemed resigned to spending the rest of her days in Aubazine, but since my talk with Sister Thérèse, I wondered about life beyond these walls. Her reassurance about my skill with sewing had given me confidence, and though I still worried about my uncertain future, I was starting to anticipate the day when I could embark on it.