The school of mirrors, p.4
The School of Mirrors, page 4
Lebel does not wish to appear too angry. He has already done his calculations, and the result pleases him. In the town of Versailles, some timely gossip about the servants of the Polish count who has just bought a house there may offer a useful distraction. His decision to order special Count Boski livery, purple with silver braid and shoulder-knots—not too flashy but made of excellent quality cloth—is clearly paying off. However, he doesn’t want disgruntled peasants knocking at the Deer Park door, wailing that they have been cheated.
“Enough.”
The two exchange uneasy glances. Michel lowers his head.
Lebel slides his hand inside his pocket and takes out his watch. It is three thirty. He has wasted enough time already.
“Listen to me, you two,” he says in his official voice of displeasure. “I’ll say it once only.”
Deer Park, he impresses upon them, is like a fortress under siege. Any crack will be pried open, any indiscretion repeated. “The tavern keeper—”
“A liar,” Michel interrupts.
“Waters his wine,” Saint-Jean adds. “Thinks we cannot tell.”
“Didn’t I say, enough,” Lebel thunders, fist landing on the table, making it rattle. “Any plans to get back to Saint-Christophe soon? Just in time for winter?”
The mention of Saint-Christophe brings the two to their knees.
This is what always happens, Lebel thinks, in spite of the mawkish talk of Alpine air and mountain views. At first, they all dream of going back home, to show off their smart new clothes, impress everyone with their stories. But those who go come back filled with warnings. Nothing is the way it was. Their new clothes look out of place. Their stories, repeated too often, bring envy, not admiration. You have left, they hear, so you must be rich. Give and then give some more. Relatives you have never heard about emerge from the shadows. Leeches all, hungry with greed.
The lackeys shift on their feet, eyes to the ground. Michel clears his throat with an annoying hark, as if he were getting ready to spit on the floor, a Saint-Christophe habit he cannot shed.
They are mine to direct, Lebel reminds himself. I’m their master. It behooves me to teach them. Direct their impulses. Remind them of a larger canvas on which their lives are just tiny lines.
“Get up,” he orders. “Smarten yourselves. Look beyond today.”
They know what he means. He has made provisions for all servants who are still at Deer Park at the time of his death. Each lackey will get three thousand livres in addition to an annuity of three hundred livres, not to mention objects of value they have already received and will receive in the future. Unless they are dismissed beforehand, that is. Which will happen if they cross him.
He lets the numbers float in their minds, transform into farmland purchased, livestock, equipment, a good marriage.
“We beg your forgiveness . . .”
“Never again, patron . . .”
Before he lets them go, Lebel hints at a much better way of multiplying their money than cheating at card games. There exists a thriving network of lenders and borrowers at Versailles, and he knows them all. Right now, one of Madame de Pompadour’s new drivers, Gourlon, or Bruiser as he is called in the stables, is in debt to a wine merchant. The merchant is getting impatient. And so are the merchant’s two sons, well known for their short tempers and hard knuckles. Besides, Gourlon’s wife knows nothing of the debt and our Bruiser would like to keep it that way.
The man is quite desperate to borrow. He would agree to 4 percent or more if handled well. If they wish, they can entrust their money to him, just sit back and watch it grow.
* * *
It was almost evening when I got home, sweaty and tired from all that walking. Anticipating Maman’s fury I rushed upstairs, but she was not there. The pile of clothes she had given me to mend was gone. She must have also given my brothers their dinner, for dirty plates were piled up on the table, flies buzzing around them. The room still smelled of meat stew, so the butcher must have given Maman a good deal on today’s scraps. And the water carrier had come, too, for our bucket was filled to the brim.
I cleared the table, swept the floor and scrubbed it clean with a hard brush dipped in soapy water. Then I carried the slop bucket downstairs and out to the backyard, expecting our neighbors to warn me Maman was furious with me and I would get it when she got back home. But instead everyone wanted to know about Monsieur Durand’s visit. Who was he? What was his business with us? “Let the girl catch her breath,” the tripe vendor said, handing me a bowl of hot tripe soup. Humpback Lily offered me some of her roasted meat. She even wrapped the morsels in the chicory leaves that Master Deveaux grew in the cellar—in the dark they grew very pale and thus less bitter. I ate hungrily, praising the tripe soup and roasted meat, confessing to the little I knew. I would go into service at Monsieur Durand’s grand house. No, I didn’t know where he lived.
Fat Nanette saved me from further questioning. Pulling me aside, she said Maman was in a good mood. She must have received quite an advance on my wages, too, judging by how much she had spent already. Did I know about it? No, Nanette didn’t think I would. It might still work out for the best for me, though if anyone asked her, grand house or not, she would not have sent her own daughter into service. “No one asked me, though,” she said with a comic sigh that was meant to make me smile.
By the time I climbed the stairs back to our room, the taste of roasted meat lingering in my mouth, empty slop bucket in hand, my brothers had returned and wanted to know where I had been all day.
“Walking.”
“Where?”
“Along the river.”
“Walking alone?” Eugene asked.
“Alone.”
“Did you get us anything?” Marcel asked, and I saw that his breeches were torn at the knee. He was growing fast, his face becoming longer, losing its oval shape. He had just one big tooth in front, the other one just coming through.
“Enough,” I said, ordering them to wipe themselves clean and Marcel to hand over his breeches, wondering when I would see my brothers again. Gaston must have wondered that, too, for he asked me if—when I live in a grand house—I would let them visit. He wanted to learn to ride a horse. He was sure it wouldn’t be hard to gallop.
I was still darning Marcel’s breeches when Maman came home from the market. She did not mention my absence, but she was not in a good mood, either. A woman tried to steal a fichu, she said, just before she was to close the stall. Grand-looking, too, all sweet talk and sticky fingers, screaming bloody murder as she fled.
Maman paused and looked at me, expecting me to say something, but I didn’t feel like talking. I fixed her supper: a slice of cheese, all that was left of the bread and a glass of flat ale. When she asked if I wanted to eat with her, I said I was not hungry. I did not mention the roasted meat and the tripe soup, suddenly ashamed of eating it all by myself.
“Suit yourself,” Maman said and sat down at Papa’s workbench, kicking off her shoes. Not the scuffed ones she always wore to the market, I noted, but high-heeled ones, made of blue damask with what looked like a silver buckle.
It was only after the boys were in bed that Maman set about emptying a small trunk with a cracked lid and lined it with parchment paper.
“Time to get you ready for tomorrow,” she said.
I didn’t have a lot to put inside. Two shifts, two petticoats, the fichu with the brownish stains. Apart from the gray russet dress, which I intended to wear for the road, I had one other of plain cotton. I didn’t like it, for Maman had altered it for me from her old one and it had never fit me well. My only precious possession was the book I had saved from the bailiff, which I now retrieved from under the bed, wrapped up in a velvet cloth. La Fontaine’s Fables, beautifully bound in calfskin leather, Papa’s gift for my eleventh birthday. Not fairy tales but parables, Papa said when he gave it to me, each a lesson about the ways of the world. The lion in love with a peasant’s daughter agreed to have his claws clipped and teeth filed only to be killed as soon as he had lost his power. The upright royal oak was felled by a gust of strong wind, while a blade of grass that bent low survived the storm.
I quickly leafed through the pages with their intricate drawings of animals and plants before wrapping the book back up and slipping it under the plain cotton dress.
Maman went behind the partition and I heard her rummage there, telling my brothers not to mind what she was doing but sleep. A moment later she was back. “There,” she said, clearing her throat.
I looked up from over the trunk and saw that she was holding a white muslin dress. “Don’t you recognize it?” she asked.
I did recognize it. I remembered trying it on at the stall a few days before Monsieur Durand’s visit, for a fussy customer who could not make up her mind. I remembered thinking how beautiful it was and how I would never have a dress like this.
“I didn’t sell it. I kept it for you,” she said, clearly expecting a leap of joy, or at least my gratitude, but words that scraped in my throat refused to come to my lips.
If Maman was disappointed, she hid it well. The dress was not quite ready yet, she said. She would have to mend the tears in the hem, gather the skirt a bit at the back, add a new ribbon.
I closed the trunk with a thud. A mouse scurried along the wall.
“It’ll be ready for tomorrow,” Maman said. “Go to sleep.”
I wiped my face and hands clean with a washcloth, undressed and slipped into bed. Behind the partition, candlelight formed a flickering circle on the ceiling as Maman worked on the dress. I saw her shadow bending forward, her hand pushing the needle in and out. The last I recall before drifting off to sleep was Fat Nanette saying that she would not have sent her own daughter away like that but, perhaps, all will still work out for the best. Then for a moment I felt Adèle’s hand in mine as we ran along the street. “Faster than the wind?” she asked, gripping me tight.
I woke up at dawn to the sound of grinding teeth, a sure sign that my brothers had worms again. Maman was snoring beside me. Her breath smelled of rot. There was a new sagging to her chin I hadn’t noticed before. I lifted my hand and placed it on her shoulder. The snoring stopped.
From the yard came the familiar sounds. A rooster crowed, delivery carts heading for the market clattered on the cobblestones, porters groaned hauling merchandise to the stalls, one calling another a halfwit. A dog barked, then whimpered. A horse neighed and snorted.
I slipped out of bed. The muslin dress was lying on Papa’s workbench, folded neatly and tied up with a new purple ribbon. I undid the knot and put the dress on, wondering if it would fit me, for Maman had not measured my waist.
It did.
Maman emerged from behind the partition then, still dazed from sleep, scratching her arms. No amount of washing the bed frames with vinegar ever rid us of lice and fleas. Just watching her scratch made the skin on my head itch.
“White is not a good color for traveling,” she said.
She was right. It had been raining all night, and the roads would be muddy. The old russet dress would fare much better. But I did not want to listen to her, not then, not anymore.
I shrugged.
“Do as you wish, then,” she said.
I had a feeling she wanted to say more, but my brothers were up, hungry, demanding breakfast. My imminent departure excited them even more than yesterday. Jealous of my carriage ride, they planned their own daring exploits. They would sneak into the Jardin des Plantes and ride an elephant. No, a tiger. No, a rhino. Holding it by the horn. Making it jump through a hoop, like in a circus.
“What if a guard finds us?”
“We’ll run away.”
“Climb the railings!”
“Like monkeys.”
I could not eat anything that morning, and only had a few sips of the coffee Maman brought from the kitchen herself. Real coffee, I noted, not chicory. She was unusually quiet, too, leaving my brothers to their foolishness unchecked.
We were still sitting around Papa’s old workbench when the butcher’s apprentice knocked on our door to tell us that a big black carriage was waiting and that I must hurry. The driver was blocking the street just as the market sellers were arriving. We were not the only ones in this world, were we?
“This is it, then,” Maman said.
As I stood up, she began fiddling with the muslin folds that flared out from my waist, adjusting them for a better fit. There was no mirror in our room, so I could not see myself, but Maman said it was just as well. Modesty was my best adornment. Then she threw her own traveling cape over my shoulders and tied it at the neck.
Too tight.
* * *
Just before the hall clock strikes five, Elisabeth Leboeuf —Lisette as she is called now —wakes up in the attic room where she sleeps with Rose and Marianne, all on one mattress. In the room next door, the two lackeys and the night watchman share a proper bed.
Rose and Marianne are still asleep when Lisette washes her face and hands and heads downstairs, mindful not to fall. The attic can only be reached by the service stairs, which are narrow and uneven, especially at the top, where Lisette has tripped a few times already and scraped her knees.
In the kitchen she starts the fire and wakes the scullery maid, who curses her and refuses to get up until threatened with a beating. Together they bring pails of water from the pump in the yard and prepare the servants’ breakfast. The lackeys demand thick chunks of roasted beef, followed by pastries and candied fruit. The cook is satisfied with a cup of hot broth and a slice of bread with butter. Rose and Marianne want soft-boiled eggs. The night watchman, back from his duty, demands an omelet, which, thankfully, only the cook is allowed to prepare for him.
It is her third week at Deer Park and she no longer finds it odd to be called Lisette.
She knows many things by now.
She knows that Deer Park is smack in the middle of the town of Versailles. The noise of hammering and of weights dropping to the ground is that of construction; a few streets away, the new church of Saint-Louis is being built. The big palace of Versailles, where the king and queen live, is farther away, but some of its outbuildings are scattered all over town: the king’s kennels, the tennis court, the queen’s stables and the townhouses of some of the courtiers. Marianne and Rose say that at night, if Lisette strains her ears, she might hear the royal orchestra playing for the king’s guests, but what Lisette hears is the squealing pigs and bellowing cattle being led to the royal abattoir.
When the servants’ breakfast is over, Lisette waits on Madame Bertrand, whose morning wishes include wine, bread, a bowl of jam and coffee with frothy milk, all on a tray, with no spills. At eight o’clock, Lisette rushes upstairs to rouse the two élèves, empty their chamber pots, and lay the breakfast table for them and Mademoiselle Dupin. This is a protracted affair with silver cutlery, good china, serviettes, and there is a lot of washing up afterward. Then Lisette helps the chambermaids with their chores, cleaning the fireplaces, dusting the rooms and making the beds. The chambermaids never praise her, but Lisette doesn’t mind. It’s enough that they call her La Jeune, The Young One, ask if she has a fellow waiting for her back in Buc and laugh when she protests that she doesn’t.
For the rest of the day, a maid-of-all-work is at everyone’s beck and call. Sometimes she sweeps and scrubs the kitchen floor, the hall and the doorstep; sometimes she runs errands for the cook or the chambermaids; sometimes for Mademoiselle Dupin or even for Madame Bertrand herself.
Lisette doesn’t complain. She does what she is told to do, fast and with diligence. She knows to clean the grate first and take the ashes out before dusting and sweeping. She shuts bedroom doors when she cleans the corridors. She doesn’t leave smudges on the windowpanes when she washes windows. She is also good with needle and thread, knows how to take a garment in or darn a tear so it is almost invisible. She knows how many chocolate pastilles she can take from each room without raising suspicions. None if they are artfully arranged. One or even two if the élèves themselves leave a messy pile.
Her only enemies are dust, soot, rust, insects and the bad smells for which she has an acute nose.
Deer Park may not be as grand as the château her mother told endless stories about, but it has its share of schemes and intrigues. Marianne and Rose talk of hiding bonnets or fichus. If they are missed, they will retrieve them with beautifully enacted triumph, garnering praise for their good eyes. If they are not missed, they will disappear for good. Madame Bertrand has a deal with a wine merchant who trades the good bottles from Deer Park cellar for lesser ones and pays her the difference. The night watchman who began working for Monsieur Lebel ten years ago has just bought a house in Paris, for 3,450 livres, and is renting rooms for 15 livres a month. Where he got that kind of money is a compelling and frustrating source of much speculation.
Madame Bertrand has been kind to Lisette. She has twice given her a sou to buy herself a ribbon and a string of red beads—for her mother’s sake, she said, for the good times they used to have together. She has also given Lisette things she no longer wants: a bonnet only slightly torn, a chipped china platter with a gilded rim and a hat pin with a beautiful crystal top.
“Keep your head on your shoulders, girl,” Madame Bertrand says, “and you will not go wrong here.”
Madame’s dove-gray dress is Lisette’s favorite. One day it will be yours, Lisette, Madame has said three times already, though never with Marianne or Rose present so it might not count for much. As she is helping her mistress dress in the morning, Lisette always puts a bit more rouge on her cheeks. To blend with the reddened skin, she always says, the result of Madame falling asleep on the balcony and getting sunburned. I call it the result of having a drop too many, Rose has said.
The two élèves at Deer Park believe that their master is a Polish count who keeps rooms at the palace on account of the queen, but Lisette, like all Deer Park servants, knows that is all a sham. Their true master is the king of France, King Louis himself, who came to Deer Park only once, masked and wrapped in a black cloak, thinking himself invisible, though Michel spotted him in the service corridor upstairs, peering into a room Lisette had cleaned and dusted that very morning.
