Free Anio Szado by Studio Saint-Ex Page A

dog sleds as you do up north, Mignonne. On the other hand, we have culture—such as it is.”
    Weighted down with two bags filled with fabric shears, thread snips, a tobacco tin of straight pins, a measuring tape, and other sundry tools, as well as the two muslins I had made to the client’s measurements as dictated by her former designer, I pointed out the way to the right train.
    Our destination turned out to be an old, sturdy apartment with a square black awning that arched over the sidewalk. The haughty concierge had us wait while he checked with Mrs. Brossard, then he sent us to the elevator, where the operator was equally dismissive.
    At the client’s door, it was another story altogether. A uniformed girl answered with a shy and respectful smile, taking Madame Fiche’s coat, offering coffee—which Madame declined on my behalf—and seeing to it that we were settled comfortably in the parlor. Before announcing our presence, the maid scuttled closer. “Madame Fiche,” she said, “you are the designer of the Butterfly Collection?”
    “Indeed I am.”
    “I heard it was magnificent, Madame. Excuse my boldness, but if I may tell you … I made this myself.” She held out the skirt of her simple uniform.
    I braced myself for Madame’s cruel response. But she took the skirt in her hands and considered it, her seriousness a gift to the girl.
    “Very good,” said Madame. “Carry on.”
    The maid beamed and tripped away with a smile broadening her shapely lips.
    A moment later, a rotund woman entered, a small white poodle squirming in her arms. “Good morning, Madame Fiche.” She bent to release the dog onto the carpet, wheezing softly at the effort, but upon touching the ground the poodle stood on its rear feet, its front paws stretching toward its mistress’s sturdy calves. “Tsk. He has no respect for stockings, and no idea how precious they are.” She scooped up the dog and nuzzled its nose with her own.
    She had inadvertently lifted the front of her dress with the dog; her dimpled knees winked at us.
    “It is lovely to meet you in person,” said Madame, no hint of amusement in her voice. “I have brought with me my assistant—”
    In that moment, I realized that this was Mrs. Brossard, the woman whom I had to fit into the muslin. Even with the generous seam allowances in the larger of the two sizes, there was no possible way.
    “—and we have prepared a preliminary garment for the fitting.”
    “Monsieur Vaudoit gave you the sizes?”
    “Indeed he did, thank you. The measurements he provided were …” With a glance I saw that she was reaching the same conclusion as my own. “Most generous of him to share. And Atelier Fiche is honored to be chosen as your—”
    “Vaudoit is a moron,” said Mrs. Brossard. “You tell me,Madame Fiche, why would a designer show a dress that can’t be made? Why put something on a runway and then refuse to make it for your client?”
    “I trust you are not speaking of the coat I am making for you.”
    “I’m talking about a dress, a pretty summer dress! Why do you think I fired Vaudoit? He’ll make the dress for Mrs. Mitchell; he told her he would. But I asked first, and he refused to make it for me. See if I ever wear a Vaudoit again!”
    Madame Fiche looked shocked. “I have never heard of such a thing.”
    I began, “Maybe the style wouldn’t suit,” but the two women glared at me, and Madame’s expression was chilling.
    “The style,” Madame Fiche said pointedly, “would be perfectly delightful on Mrs. Brossard. As would any. However, as we have heard, Monsieur Vaudoit is a … moron.”
    I asked, “Should I proceed with the fitting, Madame?”
    The client was shaking the dog’s face into her own. “Proceed,” she sang out from behind the white fur.
    But how to proceed? Both muslins were sized for a woman with a waist. I swallowed my reluctance and pulled them out of the bag. “The size,” I began.
    “Is based strictly on Vaudoit’s