The Memory of Scent (11 page)

‘Remember when I used to sit for old Puvis, and he would
turn me into Greek nymphs? Now that required a bit of imagination. He even managed to conjure me up as a scrawny young boy a few times. I have scars on my body from when I used to ride horses, back when I was lithe and acrobatic. It doesn’t exactly lend itself to the alabaster look, and yet there I was, marble-like and crowned with eucalyptus leaves.’

‘Well lucky you. I once ended up as a gin-soaked spinster, slumped in a darkened alleyway. The very idea!’

Maria bundles up her drawings with the string again and makes two bowls of coffee. ‘So tell me about you and the dashing George.’

I glance down and brush some invisible crumbs from my skirt. ‘We’re on a project together; that is all. And you have not been released from it either.’

Maria clears her throat as if trying to dislodge something while I blow on my coffee with more intensity than the temperature of the coffee demands. I do know that George sees me as more than just a companion. I know by the way he holds my gaze. I know he is trying to decide if I am worth the effort or not.

‘Fleur, do you not like him?’

‘I have seen dozens of men like George pass through Montmartre. You know there are plenty of unwanted babies belonging to laundry girls and passing students. You know how so many girls have pinned their hopes on these heady romances only to be forgotten once the train pulled away. There is usually a ticket in their pocket and that is what determines how long the relationship will last. What makes you think George is any different?’

‘He obviously likes you.’

‘Of course he likes me, Maria. He is young and carefree. Liking women is what he does. I know this sounds crude,
but I listen to the men in the café and they would put it in anywhere and often times, in anyone, just to be boastful and because it feels good. Thrusting away their ardour with no more thought or care than if they were going for a stroll. Will he fall in love with me? Maybe, and what then? He is going to take a penniless waitress and model home to his big house and wealthy parents? Is that how you see this ending, Maria?’

‘Come on Fleur, you’ve been with other men, often less interesting and definitely not as handsome. Why don’t you just enjoy his company, for however long that is?’

‘Somehow it would seem harder to do that with George. Look, I’ve arranged to meet him again at Agnes’s café on Wednesday. I can put his brain to use. Will you come? I feel sure that Babette is my patchouli girl. She is uppermost in my mind at the moment. I cannot allow myself to think of George in any other way.’

Maria merely raises an eyebrow and begins to clear the cups away not saying another word. I rub my thighs and try to take a deep breath to compose myself. Kissing Maria on both cheeks, I leave and walk slowly home. I should proceed with more urgency because
Maman
can get disorientated if she has been left alone for a long period of time.

I feel a little unseemly loitering in the shadows like this but it is the only way I can watch Fleur’s front door. There is a gaiety of purpose amongst all the strollers as they randomly criss-cross the streets and alleys. I am distracted by them and they are blocking my view. Was that a stooped old lady coming out her front door in her bare feet? This isn’t right. I strain to see, but she is gone again. No, this is not a good idea. I hoped that if I stopped by here for a little while it might grace me some time before I decide my next move, but standing here in the shadows with my little Japanese-print bag, I know I would just be one more burden for Fleur and her mother. It simply wouldn’t be fair. So there is nothing for me but the crumpled address that I kept, the one Cécilia sent to me, as I need somewhere warm and welcoming.

I have enough of a sense of the city to hail an omnibus I know to be travelling in the right direction. The driver reins it to a halt and I climb into it. People are moving along the
footpaths in a shimmering distortion as the light from the gas lamps illuminates them on their way and speckles their shadows. As the traffic clatters along, among this ballet of motion, I see one short stout woman in a kerchief, selling something from a basket strapped over her neck. Are they roses? She looks detached. No one is interested, least of all her. Must she come to hate those roses at the end of a long, weary night, and must they come to represent utter defeat and an empty stomach? There is a bundle of blankets in a doorway behind her and something stirs among them. Is it a dog? Is it a child? We trot on.

I double check the address as I stand in front of the low iron gate. There is a small tidy garden and a stone path leading to a Gothic porch, walled on both sides with a pointed-arch entrance. I look for the bell pull. It feels like a lifetime since this morning. I had not realised that in among all those nasty, frustrated nuns, there was indeed a kindly one who made it her personal mission to reunite the young prisoners with their families. She had somehow tracked down and contacted my own family. When I stood before the prefecture’s desk and listened in a daze while being told of my release to a family member, I couldn’t take it all in. The painter, it seems, was not murdered near his easel but took a tumble down his stairs, probably in a state of drunkenness. The blow to his head must have killed him. I numbly turned to seek out Paulette and then crushed her into a long hug and even cried when it dawned on me that my former tormentor would have to stay behind in her cell. My next shock was seeing my older sister sitting primly on the edge of a chair in one corner of the visitors’ room, in a fine hat. The ensuing conversation keeps playing over and over in my brain.

‘I had to come in person and sign something to get you out of here, so you are now free. I have decided not to tell mother, and I think it best you stay here in Paris. Papa has been under enormous stress with his business, and he has been advised to take a trip to the seaside for recuperation purposes, otherwise his health will deteriorate. You may come and visit us this summer. My baby is due then, and if I think it suitable, you can live with us and look after your niece or nephew. But only if you do not get into any trouble between now and then.’

I was aware of drawing up to my full length, which is at least a head shorter than my sister and assuring her that I was most grateful for her offer by that I was fortunate to have a few positions to consider in Paris which would keep me well occupied. Not a chance. It is inconceivable that I would remain forever beholden to the ‘good’ daughter and whatever future compromises I would undoubtedly find myself enslaved by. As for being a custodian of her offspring … I don’t think I’d be able to trust myself. I would probably set about corrupting the cherub as soon as it sprang hollering from her practically virginal loins. We walked through the prison courtyard together and out of the large doors which opened directly on to the street where a carriage was waiting. We kissed each other, and I did not wait to see my sister settled in her seat. She didn’t protest too much at my decision to stay, and I could just picture her, hands laced together, sighing deeply and assuring herself that, regrettably, she did all she could but that trying to harness my waywardness would be as pointless and elusive as trying to harness the wind.

I crossed the cobbled road on to the pavement, and turned the corner away from the prison in quickening strides, staring
straight ahead in case I caught the eye of someone with a remit to send me back inside. My step felt so light it was if I could take flight like a butterfly.

But standing in front of this doorway, I am filled with a foreboding of what will happen if I am allowed across this threshold, and yet also a sense of resignation, a powerlessness which in itself is a relief. Taking a deep breath, I tug at the bell pull and the door is briskly opened. I am presuming this efficiency is somehow to guarantee a degree of discretion for the caller and not have them loitering on the door step for others to take heed. A heavy woman with too much rouge on her cheeks, wearing a crisp white apron stares with a degree of confusion at me.

‘Can I help you?’ she asks in a very unhelpful tone of voice.

‘I’d like to see Mademoiselle Catherine. I am … was … a friend of her cousin Cécilia’s.’

‘Catherine. Is that what she is known as, or her real name?’

‘Her real name, I think, no I’m sure.’

The woman opens the door a crack wider and nods for me to enter. She directs me into a small and neat parlour with several round tables positioned in the corners, all covered in pretty tablecloths. I am instructed to wait. There is one large vase overflowing with fresh flowers. I finger some ornaments above the fireplace and glance at the paintings on the walls, all sensual, coquettish nudes done in the style of Rubens with their apple cheeks and dimpled bottoms. I draw my hands down the fringed poppy-red curtains and hold them briefly against my cheek. It is such a pleasure to feel something soft after the iron and metal-edged prison months. I turn towards the door at the sound of someone clearing her throat and there, I know immediately, is Catherine. Although Cécilia said they were nothing alike, I can see a family resemblance;
Catherine is a taller, more refined version of Cécilia. I find myself looking at her fingers, the fingers that Cécilia so coveted, the slimness of which, in her mind, divided the family into such diverging destinies.

‘I didn’t catch who you are.’

I stride over to her. ‘My name is Babette.’ I say this while glancing over Catherine’s shoulder to see if anyone could be listening and lower my voice almost to a whisper.

‘We, Cécilia and I, met, well, we came across each other at Saint Lazare.’ This seems to have concentrated her attention as Catherine closes the door and motions for me to sit down. ‘She was a very good friend to me. I miss her. She sent me this address and told me you were here.’

‘Is there something wrong with her?’

‘Oh I’m so sorry. I thought you would have heard. She’s dead.’

Catherine drops her head slightly, then, composing herself again, raises her perfectly arched eyebrows.

‘I suppose that was to be expected at some point.’

She stands up from her chair with the same effortless elegance that I witnessed at Madame Gouloumes’ Boarding House for Young Ladies. I think you must have to practice this while balancing a book on your head.

‘I thank you for telling me this and appreciate you stopping by. I will think fondly of her, poor thing.’

‘No, you don’t understand. She gave me this address because she believed I would fit in here, that I would find this a suitable place to stay … and …’

‘You do know where you are? You know what we do here?’

‘Yes, yes. But I have nowhere else to go. When my sister came to claim me from the prison she made it perfectly clear
that I wasn’t welcome to go home, as I had shamed the family.’

‘It is not up to me to let you stay. I shall have to talk to Madame.’

She glides slowly from the room, her skirts barely ruffling. I am suddenly feeling more nervous than I have at any point up to this. I notice a small fly on the wall, and focus all my attention on it remembering the vow I had made to myself. The clock ticks loudly and menacingly, yet I have no sense of how much time has passed when the door opens and a tall lady with a tight glossy chignon and a warm smile enters followed by Catherine.

‘Step back a little, girl. Let me look at you.’ And so begins a curious stand-off, a mutual appraisal, she of this stranger who has just turned up on her doorstep, me of the type of woman who would run such an establishment. She looks like a youthful aunt, not quite having reached the stage where you kindly describe women of a certain age as ‘well preserved’. She does not appear to have to make too much effort in her presentation. I expected someone older and plumper, perhaps swathed in yards of crinoline or, God help us, red satin, with a red cupid-bow lip painted on a white powdered face. I expected garishness, a caricature.

What she thinks of me is hard to judge. I do a small twirl for her as self-consciously as if I were a little girl showing off a new pair of boots. I twirl because it somehow seems expected. Then she does an odd thing – she steps forward and hugs me warmly. My arms dangle awkwardly by my sides. As her embrace softens, I step back.

‘My name is Babette, Madame.’ She smiles, as if she had been expecting me.

‘Thank you, Catherine. You mustn’t keep your gentleman waiting.’

Before leaving the room, Catherine gives me a look that is hard to determine. Was it scorn? Perhaps jealousy? I can see a young man loitering in the hallway holding his hat in his hands. Madame gestures for me to sit down.

‘How old are you now, Babette?’

‘Sixteen, Madame. Seventeen in a matter of days.’

‘And you think you want this life? Do you realise that this is a path which once committed to, is impossible to veer from? That you are unlikely to be able to mix in respectable company without the constant worry you will be unearthed? That it is unlikely you will ever find a husband?’

‘I have given this some thought.’ This was an outright fib because I have given it barely any thought at all, except that I considered it a preferable alternative to living in disgrace with my sister. And truthfully, if that sweet Fleur girl was living in any better circumstances, I would have prevailed upon her for a little while. Besides, I am ruined already and I just feel so tired that I cannot even think straight.

‘Have you no family that perhaps would be in a position to talk you out of this?’

‘Madame, I am alone here.’

‘Well, if you work hard, you will be able to look after yourself as you get older.’ The Madame rang a bell and the heavy lady who had first answered the door came into the room. ‘Hélène, find Babette some outfits. I think that lavender dress would be lovely on her.’ Madame takes hold of both of my shoulders. ‘We are a girl down, so there is room for you here. We will have to get you registered with the prefecture, but beyond that, there should be no concerns.’

I feel a wave of relief that I am entrusted to something where any decision making has been removed from me. This is soon followed by an even stronger sense of dread.