Free Bride of New France by Suzanne Desrochers Page A

andeven then they keep to the elevated centre of the road to avoid the sludge from the ditches on either side.
    “Is this Tailleur Brissault some sort of duke or prince?” Laure asks as they near the shop. “What is his connection to the King’s court?”
    “No, he is a tailor. Not even a good one.” Laure looks at Madame du Clos, who goes on. “Even the cut of his suits is mediocre. But he provides something noblemen have a hard time finding at the Palace … poor girls.”
    “But there are poor girls all over, on every street corner.” What a ridiculous notion that anyone should find a shortage of poor women in Paris. There are all types, tall, short, pious, crass. On their journey to the tailor’s shop, they must have passed three dozen destitute girls.
    “Yes, but the noblemen prefer the ones that Brissault selects and cleans up for them. He calls them his sewing assistants. But their skills have nothing to do with sewing.” Laure is unsure why Madame du Clos is bringing her to this man who sounds despicable.

    Tailleur Brissault is there when they enter the shop, crouched at the haunches of a nobleman. Both men turn to look at the women entering through the door. Laure can see the tailor’s eyes straining to make them out. Judging by what Madame du Clos just told her, Brissault is probably trying to assess them. Laure guesses that Madame du Clos is in her forties although she has never dared to ask her age. She is short and heavy, with soft features and gentle eyes, like a kind grandmother. She does not look at all like the sort of woman who would be a sewingassistant to this Brissault, but her dress is made of calico, a good material, even though the cut is more outmoded than the one Laure is wearing.
    “Tailleur Brissault, how do you do today?” Madame du Clos’ voice is stern. She remains standing near the door.
    “What brings a fine lady such as you to my shop? Come on in so I can get a better look.” Laure can tell the latter part of his comment is addressed to her even though he speaks to her instructor. She wonders why Madame du Clos had her dress up to see this ugly man. He is like an enormous cat, even to his rounded midriff.
    His shop is easily three times the size of the workshop at the Salpêtrière. Brissault’s shelves and tables are overflowing with bright silks, plush velvets, and cottons. His hangers are filled with finished men’s suits, as well as women’s whalebone stays and dress skirts. These are all items that seamstresses are forbidden to make. Many of the scraps from the tailor shops get resold in the riverside markets to women like Madame du Clos so they can make hats, purses, and hair ribbons.
    In Brissault’s shop, five or six apprentice tailors work cross-legged on the table. None of them glanced up when the women entered. They must be accustomed to the arrival of high-ranked people and so do not find the women to be interesting. Laure recognizes Gamy, the pin merchant, and he tips his hat to Madame du Clos when he sees her. Gamy is seated near the door waiting for Brissault to finish up with the Duke.
    The Duke is wearing a powdered wig, breeches, and an embroidered velvet jacket. He is more magnificent than the archers in their uniforms. Laure wonders if this intimidating man is really seeking a pair of pants from Brissault’s shop.
    Madame du Clos wastes no more time with formalities.“I have with me a letter for the King written by this young lady.”
    “What sort of letter? Not a petition on behalf of the seamstresses, I hope. The King is quite satisfied with the way clothing is being produced.” Brissault rises with a loud intake of breath. “There we are, Monsieur le Duc. I think that does it.”
    The nobleman’s two guards step forward. They draw back again when the Duke waves his hand at them.
    “No, nothing like that. I am not here to interfere with your … business.” Madame du Clos says the last word as if she is spitting something rotten from her