Free Belle Epoque by Elizabeth Ross

you’re a repoussoir?” This is the first time I’ve seen Marie-Josée look genuinely shocked.
    I shake my head. “I have to pretend to be Madame Vary’s niece or second cousin or something, and I’m supposed to make friends with Isabelle without giving the game away. I have to get through dinner tonight and the ball next Saturday.”
    Marie-Josée stops eating for a moment. “I’ve never heard of that happening before, the client being in the dark. They usually pick us out themselves.”
    “Exactly. It makes my job impossible, because Isabelle has made it plain she dislikes me.”
    Marie-Josée thinks for a moment. “How? Is she vain and stuck-up?”
    “No, she’s proud and standoffish.”
    “Don’t kowtow to her; she’ll be used to getting her way. Show some mettle.” She nods at me. “I know you have it in you.” She polishes off the last of my shepherd’s pie.
    “But stand up to her how?” I ask.
    Marie-Josée doesn’t have a chance to answer. Girard’s nasal voice can be heard across the room, and we turn around to see Cécile point to our table. Girard hurries toward us with her mincing steps.
    “Mademoiselle Pichon!” she calls out.
    When she arrives at our table, she glances at my empty plate. “Good, you’ve finished your dinner. Monsieur Durandeau would like to speak to you before you leave. He’s in his private rooms.”
    I nod and exchange a look with Marie-Josée. She pats my hand encouragingly, and I push back my chair and rise to go and face Durandeau.
    I walk along the hall to his apartments, where a light shines under the door; I clench my fist and knock. A muffled grunt bids me to enter. I open the door to find Durandeau at his supper: filet mignon, not shepherd’s pie. It smells unbelievably good.
    “Monsieur Durandeau, you wanted to see me?” My voice has to compete with saliva-drenched chomping. His table is set as if it were in a restaurant, with white linen, silverware and a carafe of wine. There’s even a candelabra on the table to add to the formal atmosphere.
    “Second assignment in a week, and the ball next Saturday.” He manages this utterance between mouthfuls. “The countess must like you.”
    I wonder if I should point out that the countess hired me tonight because she doesn’t trust me and wanted to test me with a group of her friends. “What if …” I hesitate. “What iftonight doesn’t go as planned and she decides not to hire me for the ball?”
    His silverware clatters down on the plate. “Why would you say such a thing?”
    I swallow hard. “I just wondered if a different client might be more appropriate for me.”
    “Give you another client?” he booms. “Impossible. The countess selected
you
, not some other girl.”
    “But, monsieur, I’m not sure this client is a good fit,” I plead, desperate to make him understand. “Maybe when I have more experience …”
    He points at me with his steak knife. “You want to get the commission without having to earn it, more like.” He goes back to attacking his steak, sawing at it with vigor. “I would never contradict the Countess Dubern’s wishes.” He stabs a large hunk of meat and shovels it into his mouth. “She is from one of the most distinguished families in Paris. We’re lucky to have her patronage.”
    “Yes, monsieur,” I say. My posture sinks with compliance. He lectures me about the Duberns’ noble ancestry, but I’m not listening. Watching him tear into his steak, an image surfaces in my imagination—the birth of the agency. Durandeau, seated by the window at his favorite restaurant, wolfs a filet mignon. Outside, two young women stroll by. From behind there isn’t much to distinguish one from the other. They pause and look at the menu board outside, arm in arm, laughing at some private joke. The girl closer to him is average-looking, nothing special; the other girl, who was obscured by her friend, now steps forward, directly into Durandeau’s line of vision. Hegasps.