Read Online Bride of New France by Suzanne Desrochers - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Suzanne Desrochers
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like a foolish pauper playing dress-up in the clothes of a princess. She must also admit that she is a little frightened to put on a garment that is above her social status. She was a child when Madame d’Aulnay would place silk hats on her head, long gloves, fans, all of which were far too big for her. Although the women of Madame’s salon disapproved even then of dressing a poor girl in finery, it had been no more harmful than outfitting a toy doll in the Queen’s fashions.
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.
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.
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