Free Petite Mort by Beatrice Hitchman Page B

me, was a monstrosity. A clanking figure made of metal, the size of a child. Someone had painted a crude face on it: red for the lips, blue for the eyes, though the paint had run on the mouth before it had dried, and it was this that made me squeak.
    André’s laugh rang out, and he stepped forward. ‘Do you like her?’
    I watched the automaton come towards me. It was nothing to be afraid of – stage-magicians used them. But this one was unfinished: though its legs marched smartly, its arms were mismatched pieces of metal and hung by its side. It wheezed up to me, fell over onto its side and froze, fixing me with its blue eyes.
    André peered down into its face. ‘Back to the drawing board,’ he said.
    ‘Did you make it?’ I asked. ‘What for?’
    ‘Work,’ he answered, and for some reason, the room felt flat and irritable.
    ‘I was sorry to hear about your wife,’ I prompted.
    He looked at me. ‘Adèle, she’s not dead. She just needs a rest.’
    I decided to press my advantage, and crossed to him, placing my palms on his chest. ‘You have something to tell me, don’t you? That’s why you sent for me.’
    His hand slid under my breast.
    ‘No,’ I said, pushing him away, ‘tell me what you want me for.’
    He sighed. ‘Very well,’ he said.’It is an offer of some importance, after all.’ He was looking at me strangely, I thought, his lips twitching. ‘You will make a wonderful new assistant for my wife,’ he said.
    In the corner, the automaton convulsed and then was still. ‘Are you—?’ I said. ‘Are you joking?’
    Smiling, he shook his head.
    From the stairwell outside the apartment, I heard an entirely new sound. High, yet girlish: it sounded like Mathilde laughing.
    Shuffling from the ground floor caught my attention. I peered down through the banisters, and saw Monsieur Z rustling on his newspapery bed; he looked up at me and grinned, revealing pink and toothless gums. ‘Happy,’ he cackled, and indicated upstairs with his chin.
    I opened the front door and stepped inside. The hall was in darkness, but a wavering, flickering light – candles – came from the salon. I hesitated, listening – and heard low chatter: Camille’s voice, as though telling an anecdote. And then again, Mathilde’s giggling.
    I peered round the corner so that I could see into the salon.
    The first thing I saw was that the furniture had been rearranged. The dining table had been dragged to sit cross-wise in front of the fireplace, and the large mirror from over the fireplace placed on top of the table, so that the mirror’s back was supported by the mantelpiece. Mathilde’s family miniatures lay piled carelessly just inside the door. The room waslit by two candles, one on either side of the mirror; and on the dining table were scattered an array of pots of powder and kohl.
    Mathilde was sitting up to the table, facing the mirror, expectant and child-like; Camille was to her right, leaning in to dab at Mathilde’s eyes with a finger greased with Vaseline. Agathe stood behind Mathilde, watching the proceedings. Even she was smiling, enchanted at Mathilde’s transformation.
    When she saw my movement out of the corner of her eye, Mathilde swivelled to look at me. She was painted chalky white, with black swirling details on her cheeks, and one black tear-drop eye: a pierrot.
    Camille stood back, smiling. Her glance flickered to the corner of the room, where I saw the squat black valise she had arrived with.
A skill
, she had said the night she arrived:
I’ve got a skill.
    ‘You weren’t the only one who was clever,’ Camille said. ‘I’ve taught myself. I used to practise on the little ones after school.’
    ‘You never told me,’ I said.
    Camille tossed her head, which meant,
you never asked.
    ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ Mathilde said, ‘Isn’t it exciting – you can find her employment at Pathé! Surely some of the directors could make use of Camille?’
    ‘The actors do their own,’ I said