Free Belle Epoque by Elizabeth Ross Page A

“What a hideous creature!” An offensive type of ugliness reserved for a select few this world has seen fit to punish. He can’t help but stare—he is hypnotized by this ugly girl.
    Finally, when he can take no more, Durandeau looks to her friend for some relief from the visual assault. He is calmed by her features, which appear to soften and improve before his eyes. He thinks,
She is pretty this girl, not average at all
. Then the wheels turn.
Ah, the illusion of beauty—the rule of comparisons
. The lightning bolt strikes! He freezes midbite, wanting to hold on to this genius, delight and cunning creeping across his face. The quivering synapses fire to the next thought, his body a bystander to the locomotive of ingenuity thundering through his brain.
Ugly women! An untapped resource until now!
A drizzle of steak blood drips from his mustache onto the white linen. The waiter disturbs his reverie. Durandeau waves him off impatiently, his expression ferocious. He resumes his analysis of the girls, greedily taking in the features of each.
Imagine if you could re-create this experience for other such average women. You could sell beauty!
    “Mademoiselle Pichon.” Durandeau’s voice makes me start, and I’m pulled from my imagination back into his apartment. “You will carry off the dinner tonight and you will attend the ball next week.” He wipes his mouth with a crisp napkin. “Moreover, I want you to angle for another high-profile event with the family. There’s a whole season to exploit.”
    I nod stiffly. The pressure to succeed with Isabelle Dubern feels like a hand clasping my throat, squeezing tighter with each task that’s asked of me. I find it increasingly hard to breathe.

T HE HORSES STOP IN THE courtyard of the Dubern home, and we step out of Madame Vary’s carriage and approach the house. I can’t help but look up in awe at the lights shining; I lose count from how many windows. The front door opens and it’s as though the curtain is rising in the theater on opening night. I am walking toward the dazzle of the footlights, nearly paralyzed by stage fright. We pass through a marble vestibule into an imposing entrance hall. I have never set foot in such a grand home. One servant takes our cloaks and another leads us up the large, curved staircase. As we ascend I take in the paintings lining the wall; the oil paint reflects the chandelier lights, giving the somber family portraits a hint of life.
    We continue down a carpeted hallway where Madame Vary smoothes the skirts of her dress and flashes a quick smile in a mirror—in her case, vanity is a burden that requires constant attention. One advantage of my position is that I don’t needthe reassurance of checking my own appearance. Instead I concentrate on the servant as he opens the double doors to the drawing room, and with my heart in my mouth I step over the threshold. My breath catches in my throat. Tapestries, paintings, velvet curtains and plush settees crowd the room. There is a roaring fire, and gilded mirrors catch the light from a myriad of lamps. This isn’t the petty bourgeois furnishing of the agency: this is luxury.
    A man whom I assume is the count is speaking to two older couples—a tableau of gray hair and pearls sipping cocktails. On seeing us, he immediately gets up and greets Madame Vary. I hover in her shadow as he takes her hand and kisses it in a low bow. Elegantly dressed in white tie and tails and patent leather shoes, he isn’t tall, but he is full of charm and looks at least ten years older than the countess. He gives me a curt bow and immediately returns his attention to Madame Vary; he holds her gaze longer than politeness would require. Parisian manners or flirtation, I can’t judge.
    I’m introduced to everyone, but in my present state it’s impossible for me to retain their long names or how they are connected to my hosts. I register only a kaleidoscope of pampered faces and fragments of