Free Mata Hari's Last Dance by Michelle Moran Page A

It’s exquisite, unlike anything I’ve ever worn before. I stand still while she sketches me, first my front and then my back. Jeanne talks while Madeleine works.
    â€œI want to hear all the gossip at Callot Soeurs. What tidbits do you have for me?”
    â€œAbsolutely nothing.” Madeleine continues drawing. “It’s incredibly boring right now. No infamous customers, no shocked matrons, no scandalous women.” She nods at me. “Until today.”
    We all laugh.
    â€œI was telling Mata Hari how successful you’ve been, Madeleine.”
    â€œHave you? I suppose mine is an underdog story.”
    â€œI can appreciate that,” I say, and something in my tone of voice makes Madeleine look up from her paper. I’ve been too honest. “Similar past. Similar triumphs,” I admit.
    â€œI didn’t know that,” Jeanne says, looking at me expectantly, wanting more.
    â€œI don’t talk about it,” I say. Perhaps I’ve talked too much.
    â€œWomen like us prefer to forget we had a past. Too painful,” Madeleine says, saving me. “We’d rather create.”
    She has no idea how true this is.
    Madeleine puts some finishing touches on her sketch and shakes her head. “You’re striking,” she says, speaking as though to herself. “But of course, you already know this.”
    The compliment feels significant coming from her. She’s seen so many beautiful bodies and women. And she’s made a great success of her life. Tragedy didn’t force her to live in the ashes of her burned-out former life.
    â€œThis sketch”—she holds it so that I can see it—“will advertise this sheath dress in the Sunday papers. Look for it next month.”
    I can’t wait to tell Edouard. Of all the things! I’m a model in the Sunday papers!
    â€œSo where are the two of you going next?” Madeleine asks.
    Jeanne looks at me. “I don’t know. Are you tired?” she asks.
    â€œNot at all.” I feel invigorated.
    â€œHave you stopped by Paris Nouveau?” Madeleine asks. “There are some truly beautiful pieces there right now.”
    So that’s where we go, passing by a line of fancy boutiques with glassy storefronts and heavy oak doors. At Paris Nouveau Jeanne buys me a cashmere sweater in baby-doll pink, a muted gray dress, and a simple black coat. From the shop, she places a phone call to someone to collect our bags. I can’t imagine who the operator is connecting her to, but five minutes later her chauffeur appears.
    Outside, horses still amble down the cobbled streets, but it’s the cars that dominate, at least today. They make nearly as much noise as the carriages, yet I prefer their smooth, glossy exteriors and how they make moving seem effortless. I note that many pedestrians don’t like them but I still want one. I wonder if Jeanne has a carriage as well, or whether the car is her only vehicle now.
    She takes me to the restaurant Le Grand Véfour and we slip into the padded leather booths. Then she whispers to me about all the famous people who have dined here. Apparently, all of Paris has been. Even the Callot sisters.
    A young man approaches our table. I have never seen anyone with eyes like his—so clear and blue. They are hypnotizing.
    â€œJeanne, I haven’t seen you here in months,” he says.
    â€œI’ve been keeping far too busy, Marquis.”
    She offers him her hand and he kisses it slowly. Then he steps back to look at me.
    â€œMata Hari,” Jeanne says, “may I introduce you to the Marquis de Givenchy. The most charming and eligible bachelor in France.”
    He leans forward to bring my hand to his lips and inhales my perfume as he does. “What is that?” He is still holding my hand. He closes his eyes. He inhales again.
    â€œThe scents of Java,” I say. “Tobacco,” I tell him. “Vanilla, cedar