Emilienne (eBook)

CHAPTER ONE

montmartre, 1889

She is a young girl from the hills of Montmartre, and when she walks down the street, heads turn. Barely eighteen, Émilienne André understands the value of her beauty, how to use it, and more important, how to charm anyone at any time. Anyone but Maman.

Maman hates her, she is certain. She never misses a chance to remind Émilienne of her own heavy burden, bringing a girl into the world. Maman says if Émilienne had never been born, Papa would still be here—why, after he left she was forced to work from sunup each morning until midnight to feed herself and a hungry girl.

Now, a girl who is no longer a child.

Émilienne used to believe that she remembered him—when she was young. She used to picture a strong man with eyes that smiled, a man carrying her in his arms as he sang, dancing around a room. She used to think that Maman was wrong—that Papa loved his girl.

Now? She’s not so sure. She has never seen the man.

Maman says she is a worthless dreamer, and perhaps she should be out on the streets. At least that way she would have to work.

But Émilienne works too! She cleans the lodge where she and Maman live together in the small, cold room—scrubbing the stone steps all the way to the top floor where the seamstresses sew until her hands and knees are red and raw. She also cleans the lodgers’ rooms and washes their clothes in the cellar. All without pay, which the lodge owner gives Maman, and she keeps. Maman is the concierge here and for another lodge over on the rue des Martyrs.

Why does Maman hate her so? Other people seem to care. Why, doesn’t the bookseller smile when she slips away from her work and into his shop? He lends her good books, the ones she will learn from, he says. When she opens those books, it seems she leaves Montmartre and Maman’s red, angry face and all this world behind. He lets her read in a space behind the rows of shelves, and Maman never thinks to look for her there. In turn, Émilienne dusts his bookshelves once a week.

And doesn’t the old man with the ragged beard sitting on a chair outside the entrance of the café Le Faisan Doré—oh, that lovely place—doesn’t he slip her sweets when she comes around to listen to the music, to peek inside when the door opens?

On this January night in the new year, Émilienne crouches on a flat stone in an alleyway alongside the lodge. Maman stumbled home a couple of hours ago, carrying a large bottle of wine and dragging along a filthy drunk from the street.

The man, spotting Émilienne, stopped just inside the door. Swaying, squinting, he waved his arm in her direction, spitting, “Here! This is more like it.”

Maman flew into a fury. Émilienne shrank back into a corner, but it was already too late. Out came the strap, and while she ran—ducking, darting toward the door with Maman striking her legs, her back, a hip—the drunk laughed. Only when the front door slammed behind her and the damp air outside sank into her bones did Émilienne realize she had left her coat. Even in her thick wool blouse and skirt she’s freezing. Soft flurries of snow fall tonight. Huddling in the alley, she wraps her arms around herself.

Perhaps the man tonight will pay Maman enough to buy some sausage for the bread tomorrow morning. Her stomach growls.

Leaning against the wall, Émilienne brushes away the tears. She reaches under her skirt, rubbing the stinging cuts on her legs, still bleeding. When Maman’s in one of her furies, no one can guess what she will do. Maman will do almost anything for a few francs. She has threatened to sell her girl more than once—not a threat to ignore in Montmartre.

Just threats, but still.

Shivering, Émilienne curls into a ball on the ground, hugging herself against the icy cold. She peers up at the windows on the top floor where the seamstresses work, but all is dark now. Sometimes they work past midnight. No luck, not tonight. If only she thought earlier to run up there before they left, perhaps she could have slept in their workroom—a place Maman never visits. The seamstresses have hidden her from Maman on many nights like this, from the time she was a child.

They hear. They know.

A smile flickers through, thinking of those women, of the sweets they used to keep for her when she was small. Of the lovely bolts of smooth silks and satins—such pretty colors!—they would show her and the intricate lace and embroidery and the delicate rosettes. Fine things made for great ladies. Now that she is older, the seamstresses allow her to listen when they talk of love and stories of their customers, the beautiful coquettes of Paris and the rich men who love them.

Oh yes, she is old enough to understand les belle horizontales, the courtesans who seem to rule the hearts of Paris far below the butte Montmartre. Butterflies, all of them. She dreams of becoming a butterfly, too, rich beyond dreams and free from Maman and the leather belt and living in a tiny, crowded room. Even now, hiding in this alley, she watches them in her mind, glittering up and down the Grands Boulevards where no pretty girl who knows how to laugh, to smile, to flutter her lashes goes hungry or cold. Some dance in cabarets, some sing onstage, and Suzette, her favorite seamstress, says, some are just too pretty for any man to leave behind. These are girls who know how to flirt.

Émilienne understands the worth of flicking your skirt, lowering your lashes, a slow smile, and more. She’s no dum-dum. She learned two years ago, when she was sixteen and hungry enough, how to give pleasure to a boy for money enough to fill her belly when there is no other way to eat. But she’s no grisette, to settle for a drunk and few sous—like Maman.

A loud noise comes from above, Maman’s voice shouting. Émilienne freezes, listening. A man roars. Laughter. Then silence.

Soon Émilienne will find a man who knows her worth, a rich man who will care for her and keep her always warm. Doesn’t everyone say she is beautiful? She will leave behind Maman and her shabby room with one wood table and one broken chair and two old mattresses on the floor and the thick glass window that hides the light. She shall leave these hills for the streets of Paris below. She shall dance onstage like the butterflies and own jewels and dresses in every color of the rainbow, and slippers instead of clogs.

But that little voice whispers inside—When? How? Already you are eighteen.

For years, Émilienne has practiced dancing on backstreets in the hills when no one is around to see, molding stories with her body, holding her back straight, her head high. She practices for the day when she dances in the theaters of Paris, perhaps even dancing down the glittering boulevards, too, later in the night.

Not long ago, Émilienne mentioned her dream of dancing in Paris to Suzette. And Suzette nodded, looking her up and down. “You are pretty enough,” she said. But then she took Émilienne’s hand in hers, and, holding her eyes, she leaned close, whispering, “You must leave soon, little one. I believe your maman plans to sell you, child. Here on the hill pretty girls disappear all the time. Get out, away, and quick.”

Even Suzette knows the threats.

Émilienne heard the words, and she understood, but still, she’d waited. Perhaps Suzette was wrong. Now, in the alley, she knows the threat is real. She swallows, feeling cold. She must leave. Where will she go? What can she do to eat, to live?

You will dance, a small voice whispers inside.

She has always loved to dance.

Émilienne sits on the steps of the lodge the next morning. Maman is still upstairs. A shaft of sunlight almost seems to warm her, and she’s drifting off when the sound of footsteps on cobblestones startles. Blinking into the sunshine, she rubs her eyes, watching a tall, slim woman with flaming red hair seeming to float toward her. At once Émilienne recognizes her from the posters hung all over Montmartre.

She sits up straight, realizing she is in the presence of Countess Valtesse de La Bigne, known as the Valtesse, the grandest courtesan in Paris. The Valtesse must be coming for a fitting. Émilienne follows, tiptoeing past Maman’s room to the floor where the seamstresses work.

Émilienne stands in the doorway, gazing speechless as Suzette and the women greet the star. She watches each move as the Valtesse slips off the long white gloves, flinging them onto a nearby shelf and lifting her hat. Suzette takes these treasures, placing them carefully on a table. Émilienne admires the great beauty. Her shining red hair winds in loose braids around her head. A few curls fly free around her face, giving a soft look, softer even than a pompadour, and Émilienne swears she shall remember this trick when she is rich and bold.

Turning, the grand courtesan, painted by great artists and adored by men, fixes her eyes on Émilienne. “Have you been following me, girl?”

But Suzette spoils the moment, turning Valtesse around to examine a fine piece of lace already cut and on the table. “Ah, you have found it, Suzette. The Alençon lace I have longed for.” She claps her hands together. “Have you more?”

“Yes, of course.” With a frown at Émilienne, Suzette waves toward a bolt of lace on another shelf. “Over here, mademoiselle.”

Émilienne’s eyes follow the trim figure as she moves. “Yes, exactly!” the Valetesse cries. “This I must have for my new gown.”

“It’s lovely lace, but very...