Free French Passion by Jacqueline; Briskin Page A

sack, maybe. Peering through dim light, I saw it was a human shape.
    A woman.
    She slumped against the wall, snow covering the high peak of her hat and her shawl. I rapped sharply. The carriage jerked to a halt.
    â€œManon, why’re you stopping?” Aunt Thérèse asked. “We mustn’t be late.”
    â€œThere’s a woman. See?”
    â€œThis cold a night—she must be dead,” whispered Aunt Thérèse, crossing herself.
    Old Lucien opened the door. “Yes?”
    â€œHelp me down,” I said.
    Aunt Thérèse was saying, “Let Old Lucien look first.”
    But I’d already started, my brocade skirt and lynx cape trailing behind me in the snow.
    As I neared, the woman looked up. The snow shifted and I saw the hat was a gaudily pathetic heap of artificial flowers. Her young and painted face was shaking with cold. The paint, the hat. She must be a prostitute who’d strayed from the Palais Royale cafés.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” I asked.
    â€œWalking, ma’am. It ain’t easy to find the way, and I sat down to rest my feet.” Her teeth were chattering.
    â€œYou’ll freeze,” I said.
    By then Old Lucien was next to us, muttering, “Be another bad ’un. Paris be full of ’em.”
    â€œCan you stand?” I asked the girl.
    She pushed herself to her feet.
    â€œManon, hurry!” called Aunt Thérèse.
    â€œOne second, Auntie,” I called back.
    The girl had taken a tentative step away from the house.
    â€œCome inside,” I said.
    â€œMe?”
    â€œWho else?”
    Old Lucien, still protesting about “bad ’uns” followed as I led the girl inside, and down to the kitchen; where the fire still glowed. I set a hot wrapped brick at her feet. She kicked off thin, torn shoes, and the brick steamed at the touch of her wet stockings.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” I asked.
    â€œIzette, ma’am.”
    â€œIzette, we’ll talk in the morning.” One of the two serving girls had appeared, yawning, and I said, “See she has hot food and a bed.”
    â€œNot for me, ma’am!” Izette gasped.
    â€œYou,” I said firmly.
    Her chin was pointed, her nose wide, and her crudely applied paint didn’t quite cover her freckles. Her jaw still shook with cold. “But why, ma’am?”
    â€œFrozen, do you think you’ll be a handsome statue for our wall?”
    She blinked. Then she smiled. A wide gamine smile that redeemed her plain face.
    â€œThen thankee, ma’am,” she said without subservience. “I can pay, too. At least, I can iron with a fluting iron, perfect.”
    â€œTomorrow you’ll do my petticoats, then,” I said, and ran out.
    Old Lucien brought the carriage back to the door, helped me in and retucked the lap robe about us. We were again on our way.
    â€œHow is the girl?” asked Aunt Thérèse.
    â€œStaying the night.”
    â€œManon! You shouldn’t have let her. She’s an … unfortunate woman.”
    â€œBut what else could I do? Pack her outside again?”
    â€œOf course not,” Aunt Thérèse said, her plump face creasing into wrinkles of hurt.
    I clasped her gloved hand in my own. “Auntie, it seems so unfair, when we’ve got so much, that a girl my age should be freezing outside our door.”
    Aunt Thérèse sighed deeply. “When we get home I’ll give her a few sous. I must send her on her way. The Comte never would forgive me, letting a woman like that spend the night under the same roof as you.”
    Oh my good, decent, blind Auntie!
    Izette is me, and I am Izette, I thought. She will not be turned out into the night.
    The Court attended the wedding.
    The vast stone interior of Notre Dame was lit by thousands of fragrant beeswax tapers, and in their flickering, swimming glow, the gathering had the pageantry of a magical world. My own salon, previously so