Mademoiselle Chanel Read online

  “Other means?” Adrienne asked. “But Louise found us this post. How can we leave it?”

  “I didn’t say we should leave it,” I replied, though as I rubbed my swollen knuckles I thought leaving it would be a blessing. “I mean, we have to find an extra income. I want to buy some plain hats that I can decorate and sell here. I think that if I have a few examples to show, and offer Madame G. a percentage of the profits, she might let me sell them.”

  I could think of no other solution. Although Tante Louise still adorned her capotes like centerpieces for a banquet, she had delivered the boater I had redone as is. She told me when the customer picked it up from the shop in Vichy, she deemed it “charming” and ordered two more in different colors, made from scratch. Louise set about instructing me on how to test an iron with a flick of spit to not scorch ribbon; how to pinch fabric between my thumbs to create a pleat or employ a board to fashion a drape; and other tricks of the trade that could turn something unremarkable into an article of beauty worthy of admiration—and money.

  Money might not be something a respectable girl should strive for, as the nuns so often drilled into our heads, but it was a necessity and I had none. If I was going to make my way to Paris, I needed money—as much as I could earn.

  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly take on another job,” moaned Adrienne. Our newfound independence was wearing thin on her; she often complained that perhaps she should accept her lot and move in with Louise, until I reminded her that if her prospects for meeting her knight were sparse in Moulins, in Varennes-sur-Allier all she would find was a goatherd with rotten teeth.

  “What about auditioning at La Rotunde?” I suggested. We had gone to the pagoda-shaped coffeehouse overlooking the square on a few occasions, escorted by the young officers who flirted with us when they dropped off their torn coats or trousers for mending. It was not a genteel place; people went there to indulge in raucous sing-alongs led by chanteuses hired to entertain and ensure that the customers drank as much as they could. Or rather, the men drank while we sat beside them, hats firmly in place and chemises buttoned to our chins, demure and inaccessible. We might not have rich families, but never could we be mistaken for those brazen professionals who haunted the perimeters of the café, their bared shoulders swaying, though they were probably better paid than we were and could set their own hours.

  “You want us to serve drinks?” Adrienne said, appalled.

  “No, silly. To sing. We sang often enough in the convent choir and we’ve been to La Rotunde enough times to know the repertoire by now.” Standing up and wincing as I banged my head on the eaves—we had to crouch about the room like hunchbacks—I assumed the pose. One hand on my bony hip and the other cocked somewhere near but not directly upon my breast, I cleared my throat before I launched into my rendition of “Qui qu’a vu Coco dans l’Trocadéro?”

  “I’ve lost my poor Coco, my lovable dog,” I sang out, “lost him, close to the Trocadéro. He’s far away, if he’s still running. My biggest regret is the more my man cheated on me, the more my Coco remained faithful. You didn’t happen to see my Coco? Coco near the Trocadéro?” I motioned to Adrienne, who joined me in the refrain: “Co at the Tro, Co at the Tro, Coco at the Trocadéro. Who has seen Coco? Oh, my poor Coco. Who has seen my Coco?”

  As the song faded, I flipped my wrist. “Well?”

  “Awful,” she said. “They’ll throw pits at us and beg us to stop,” and we collapsed into laughter, easing the tension that sometimes grew taut between us.

  “But are we so awful they wouldn’t pay?” I finally said, catching my breath. I waited as a war of emotions played across her expressive face, another way in which we were different. Unlike me, Adrienne wore her heart on her sleeve.

  “No. Not so much so that they wouldn’t pay. I’ve heard worse. I’m sure they have, too.”

  “Then it’s settled. We’ll go tomorrow after work and apply. Just a few evenings a week, until we save enough to buy my hats.”

  “If Louise or the nuns hear of it, they’ll be outraged,” Adrienne warned. “La Rotunde is no place for a respectable girl. To go in company for an aperitif, perhaps, but not to work.”

  “If we don’t tell them, how will they ever find out?”

  I went to sleep that night in blissful hope. I could do this, I told myself. I wasn’t born of peasant stock for nothing. Since fortune was dragging its heels, I would lure it out with my hard work. Then who knew what I might achieve?

  But my plan didn’t seem so easy once it was set in motion. La Rotunde’s owner hired us on the spot, no doubt because we were fresh-faced girls straight out of the convent. On the night of our debut, I was so nervous I stammered out my Trocadéro song standing stiff onstage, as the patrons hissed and flung olive and cherry pits from their glasses at me, while Adrienne wove her way through the tables, tremulously holding out our empty purse.

  I grimaced when I beheld our haul. “Less than three francs. That won’t buy me a train ticket to Vichy, let alone a hat.”

  I practiced every night, roaming the attic and singing aloud as Adrienne shoved her head under the pillow, until I felt I had mastered the requisite sauciness and hand gestures. The next night, I did better, and the night after that. Within a few weeks, the owner graduated us to Friday evenings, when the crowd was composed of officers let out for the weekend from the barracks. That first Friday, I commanded the stage, and if my voice warbled on each high note, at the conclusion of the song I heard the unbelievable thumping of hands on the tables and enthusiastic shouts: “Coco! Coco! Coco!”

  God save me, they demanded an encore.

  I hoarded my savings in a tin hidden under the attic floorboards. When I realized I had enough, I told scowling Madame G. that Adrienne and I needed a few days off because Louise had taken ill. Then we boarded the coach to Varennes, as we couldn’t afford the train.

  At last, I was going to buy my hats.

  VIII

  Vichy was the first city I had ever seen—a resort town with wide boulevards, hotels, and casinos, patronized, Tante Louise explained, by wealthy visitors eager to partake of the famous healing waters of the spa. After breakfast in the cheap auberge where we slept three to a bed, we went with Louise as she delivered her completed wares to the various shops who hired her, then spent the afternoon perusing the shops for her gewgaws and my hats. I could buy only three, but I was as delighted as if I’d bought twelve. As the summer dusk settled over Vichy, Louise allowed us to take a stroll by ourselves while she rested her sore feet in our room, though she admonished us to not speak to anyone, especially men, or venture into any of the cabarets and alehouses that attracted the less respectable denizens of the city.

  I’d never heard such a noise, never seen such hordes of people, all seeming to speak at once. Hooking her arm protectively in mine, Adrienne guided me down the sidewalks like a duchess surveying her palace, for she had been here before.

  “Isn’t it divine?” she breathed, her slim figure in a forest green, puff-sleeved shirtwaist jacket fitted to her waist and a tailored skirt with whale buttons running up the side (a creation made entirely by Louise out of scraps and remnants). “It’s so civilized.”

  I had never been more aware of how isolated I had been in the convent. To me, Vichy was like a carnival ride, moving too fast for me to ever grab hold, and so I squared my shoulders and said, “It is a bit garish.” As I spoke, we sidestepped a group of young officers lounging outside a café, smoking. They whistled as we passed, causing me to shoot a scathing look at them. Louts. I contended with dozens like them at La Rotunde.

  “That seems to be your favorite word of late,” said Adrienne. “But even you have to admit, it’s also exciting. Don’t bother lying to me; I can see it on your face. You’ve been staring at everything just like that elegant man behind us is staring at you.”

  I paused, and glanced warily over my shoulder. The officers clasped hands to their chests in mock swoons, crying out that they’d been pierced by arrows shot b
y a pair of heartless Dianas. But there was indeed an elegant man dressed in a brown velvet sack coat and cream-colored trousers with perfect creases, a gold watch chain dangling from his patterned vest. He held a bowler hat in his hand.

  He did appear to be staring at me. In fact, he was smiling.

  I whipped around to look away.

  “Oh, look,” giggled Adrienne. “You’re blushing.”

  “I am not!”

  “You are. You’ve gone red as a beetroot.” She looked back, even as I hissed, “Don’t encourage him!”

  “He seems taken with you,” she said as I tugged her forward, quickening our pace, mortified. “He’s just being forward,” I said. “He sees two girls out alone, and thinks we’re . . .”

  “Grandes cocottes?” teased Adrienne. “I told you no one looks like you. You’ve entirely won over the patrons of La Rotunde, no matter how badly you sing, and you attract attention here already despite that funereal ensemble you insist on wearing.”

  “I like black,” I retorted. I’d copied the schoolboys from Moulins, belting my long blouse and pairing it with an ankle-length skirt, loose shirtwaist jacket, and collarless chemise. On my head, I’d donned a square sailor’s hat with a black band; I’d filched a mother-of-pearl pin from Louise’s drawer but rather than affix it to the hat, I’d inserted it in my lapel. I’d thought I looked smart, until we strolled down the boulevard and came upon the Vichy swans in their curvaceous skirts and matching jackets in shimmering jewel tones, their frothy hats crowning towers of upswept hair. I began to feel like a sorry little duckling. Not because I wished to look like them—I would never be able to move in such costumes—but because it occurred to me the dandy behind us must have been smiling at my feeble attempts to fit in.

  “He’s coming after us,” said Adrienne, breathless with excitement.

  I hauled her into the nearest establishment, another smoke-infused café.

  “Order us something,” I said, pushing her to the counter as she searched her small bag. We hadn’t expected to buy anything. Only as she turned to me in desperation did I realize she probably didn’t have money and I had spent all of mine on the hats. Then I saw her eyes widen.

  I didn’t need to look to know that the dandy had followed us inside.

  “May I be of some assistance, mesdemoiselles?” he asked. He had a cultured, sardonic tone that betrayed the fact that he never found himself in a café with no money.

  “Unless you care to buy us two coffees and cake, I think not.” I meant to dissuade him with my sharp reply, for why should he waste his time on us when he surely could find other, more available women?

  Instead, he smiled, revealing well-kept teeth under his groomed mustache. “I’d be delighted.” He moved past Adrienne to the counter. She raised an anxious eyebrow at me. I shrugged. Let the cad buy us a snack; it wasn’t as if we were doing anything indecent. But I could see her already quivering over the potential consequences of my rash invitation. Hadn’t Tante Louise forbidden us to talk to, much less drink coffee with, a stranger?

  “Shall we?” He pointed to an empty marble-topped table. He also drew out each of our chairs and waited until Adrienne and I had sat before he slid us forward to the table.

  Though I took pains to hide it, I was impressed.

  As the waiter served our coffee, I took advantage of the moment to inspect him. I noted at once that he must be wealthy: he had small manicured hands with perfect nails, and his topcoat alone cost more than Adrienne and I earned in a year. He was not handsome. Up close, he had a distinct smell of strong cologne that I disliked, and a long face with rounded cheeks, a prominent nose, and thin lips. His close-set brown eyes, though, gleamed with intelligence. I had seen his sort before at La Rotunde, though not often—a man of means, out on the town in search of illicit entertainment.

  If he thought coffee and cake would gain him entrée, he was mistaken.

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said as Adrienne sipped from her cup with almost frantic haste and I deliberately left mine untouched. “My name is Étienne Balsan and I believe we have—”

  “Balsan!” Adrienne almost choked on her coffee.

  He smiled. “You have heard my name perhaps, mademoiselle?”

  “No, I . . . I mean, yes, of course, I have, but I . . .”

  I stared from across the table. What had gotten into her? It wasn’t as if he was the Marquis of Richelieu.

  He nodded, running one of his manicured hands through his fine light auburn hair (it was thinning on top, I noted) before he turned his gaze to me. “As I was about to say, I believe we have met before.”

  “We most certainly have not,” I answered. Adrienne kicked me under the table. I forced out a terse smile. “What I meant to say was, we have not because I would remember you.”

  “Oh?” He leaned back, his cup held with precision, his little finger curled. “You would?”

  “Gabrielle,” said Adrienne, “this gentleman is—”

  “Yes,” I interrupted, without taking my eyes from his. “I would. And I have never seen you before in my life, begging your pardon, monsieur.”

  “My pardon?” He chuckled. “Oh, I think it is I who must beg yours, mademoiselle. You see, I fear I’ve mistaken you for a lovely chanteuse named Coco who has been entrancing the crowds at La Rotunde in Moulins. I’d hoped that you were her so I might congratulate you, as I find her interpretation of ‘Qui qu’a vu Coco dans l’Trocadéro?’ the most delightful I’ve heard.” He drank from his cup. “You must hear it sometime for yourself. She has exquisite talent.”

  I felt my embarrassment turn my cheeks red; taking my cup, I sipped the dark coffee and scalded my tongue. He smiled again, extending the plate of almond cakes to Adrienne. Was he mocking me on purpose? I couldn’t tell, but whatever he intended I didn’t care for his manner, and was about to tell him as much when Adrienne suddenly burst out, “You have not mistaken her, Monsieur Balsan. She is Coco from La Rotunde.”

  “She is?” He feigned shock. “But how can this be?”

  With an artificial gaiety that made me want to strangle her, Adrienne said to me, “Do tell him the truth, Gabrielle. Don’t be cruel. He has heard you sing and praised you for it.”

  “Not to mention paid,” he added. “I always tip very well.”

  I set my cup back on its saucer. I would not insult him, since it was obvious he was indeed rich but I knew that because he’d seen me in a music hall, he assumed I had loose morals.

  “And I sing well for tips, too,” I said, “as you yourself have declared. Or would you have me give away my exquisite talent for free, monsieur?”

  Adrienne sat with her mouth agape. To my surprise, he said softly, “Touché, mademoiselle. I regret to have caused you offense.”

  “No offense,” I said. I retrieved the last three cakes on the plate and folded them into my handkerchief, then stood. “It has been a delight, monsieur, but I’m afraid we are expected elsewhere. We thank you for your hospitality and bid you good evening.”

  He stood at once, bowing. “The delight has been all mine, mademoiselle.”

  “I’m sure it has.” I smiled at Adrienne. “Shall we?”

  She stumbled up from her chair, a faint trace of coffee on her upper lip as she quavered, “Excuse us, monsieur. We are indeed late and we—”

  I turned to the café entrance without looking back, though I had to hesitate at the doors until I heard Adrienne rush up behind me, heels clattering. Once we were outside, I strode down the boulevard to the auberge, not stopping until she grasped my arm and pulled me to a halt.

  “Gabrielle, are you mad? Do you realize who he is?”

  “I do. He is Étienne Balsan and he assumes too much for an alleged gentleman.”

  She gripped my arm tighter. “Étienne Balsan and his brothers are heirs to one of the largest fortunes in France. His family owns factories in Lyons; they produce all the wool cloth for military uniforms. Why, they practically own the town of Châteauroux and
have any number of exquisite châteaux. He is not any alleged gentleman, Gabrielle. He is a very rich one!”

  “Just because he’s rich doesn’t mean he has any decency. You heard what he said, about how well he tipped. I am not one of those women; I do not sell more than my songs.”

  Adrienne released my arm and took my hand in hers, uncoiling my clenched fingers to set a cream calling card with embossed lettering between them.

  “Here is his card,” she said. “He must be mad, too, because he wants to see you again. He said you are as irrepressible as he could expect and will call on us in Moulins next week.” I looked at her, silent, as she added, “I suggest you be less rude when he does. Men like him do not come around often. You never know where an acquaintance like this might lead.”

  I almost said I had a very good idea of where Balsan wanted it to lead but held my tongue. Adrienne still nurtured her silly dream of marrying some knight, while I doubted anyone besides the butcher’s son would ever see us as more than playthings.

  It was the summer of 1904.

  Though I pocketed his card and promptly forgot him, I had just met my savior.

  IX

  Étienne Balsan did appear at the shop, sending Madame G. aflutter when he delivered several shirts for repair—though I didn’t find a single rip or tear on them and thus was not swayed. Nevertheless, he persisted on calling on me after work to take me on carriage rides, strolls about the square, and suppers. He often brought his well-heeled friends, sons of affluent families who, like him, served in the military—though, unlike him, they were eager for war to break out with the Prussians or Germans.

  Balsan smirked as they stamped their boots and declared that only in war could a true gentleman prove his mettle. “They wouldn’t know a cannon from a trumpet until the Huns were upon them,” he said, leaning to me. “Such fools does money breed.”

  Despite my misgivings, I found his dry wit amusing. But I was not attracted to him. He did not press his advantage, either. We passed the next months in a whirlwind of drinking and dining, with Adrienne and I eating better than we ever had, squired about town by some of the barracks’ most eligible bachelors. One in particular, Baron Maurice de Nexon, became enraptured with Adrienne and she reciprocated his interest, for he met all of her qualifications for knighthood. But she had several others panting at her heels and her sudden popularity kept me up until dawn in our room as she anxiously deliberated over whom she should most favor.