Free The Collected Stories of Colette by Colette

today!”
    “. . . ?”
    “Well, you grab hold of the breast, like this . . . Don’t be afraid! I’ll explain it to you with a bit of cloth. You grab hold of the breast, here, like this, and fold it, at the bottom, as you press it back as far as you can on the sides. Over that, you put a little brassiere: my 14A, gorgeous! Strictly speaking, it’s not a brassiere, it’s a small piece of elastic fabric for keeping the breast in position. And over all that, you put my corset, my large 327, the wonder of the day. And there you are, with a divine silhouette; no more hips, stomach, or rear than a bottle of Rhine wine, and especially, the chest of a youth. Having the chest of a youth, that’s what matters. But it took some doing to get it that way. Well, Madame, I have competitors who’ve invented a lot of little things: a stretch fabric, an elastic band to compress and tighten the two halves of the rear end, the crotch clasp, but I can say that I was the first to make practical, and truly aesthetic, the arrangement of the ‘folded breast’!”

The Saleswoman

    At the hat shop. With the arrival of a client, the saleswoman rushes up: twenty-five years old, with the eyes of a young tyrant, a tower of blond hair on the top of her head. Her hands, her figure, her mouth, her feet, all are thin to excess, witty, and aggressive .
    “Ah, Madame! At last; you’ve come back to us! I had almost given up hope. I was saying to myself, ‘That’s it! She must have gone to Harry’s to have some Berlin-style hats made for herself!’ But . . . what is that you have on your head?”
    “. . . ?”
    “Yes, that thing with the blue wing on the side and the velour all around it?”
    “. . . ?”
    “What, you made it yourself? All by yourself. Why, that’s incredible, it’s miraculous! If I may indulge in a little joke, you have a future in fashion. Would you do our maison the honor of entering it as trimmer?’
    “. . . ?”
    “The trimmer? She’s . . . well, heavens, she’s the one who puts the linings inside the hats, who . . . well . . . who does a lot of little things. Give me your lovely little ‘creation’; oh, I’ll give it back to you! Here, I’ll give it back . . . let’s see . . . tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow. Exactly, the car is making a delivery tomorrow in your suburb.”
    “. . . ?”
    “Yes, well, in your neighborhood, I meant. It’s so far! I’m just a poor little Parisian girl who never has time to leave her post, you understand. The boulevard shop in winter, Deauville in the summer, the Biarritz shop in September, Monte Carlo in January . . . Oh, not everybody can live in Auteuil. Quick, come with me, I have a nice corner in the little fitting room facing the street. It’s poorly lit? You don’t like being with your back to the light? But it’s the best place for trying on hats! Your silhouette is projected on the window, and with hats, it’s primarily a question of silhouette, this season; one disregards the details. And, you see, you’re between Mademoiselle X, the ‘little diva,’ who’s trying on hats for her tour right now, and Princess Z, who’s just back from the south.”
    “. . .”
    “Yes, that one, the fat old lady. In the shop, we call her the ‘Pink Pompon.’”
    “. . . ?”
    “Because whenever she doesn’t like a hat, she always says, ‘I think it’s missing something, here, in the hollow . . . a little nothing, a little flower . . . a bouquet of pompon roses!’ Mademoiselle X, that one there, to your left, she’s not what you’d normally call pretty, but she has such a good heart!”
    “. . . ?”
    “Oh, a heart of gold. Look, the lady who’s with her, yes, that sort of little shark in black, is a poor friend she’s taken in. She takes her with her everywhere, to her couturier’s, to her jeweler’s; she stays here for hours trying on twenty-five different hats under her poor friend’s nose—to distract