The atelier boasted a sweeping marble staircase, its iron balustrade and railing made of twisting vines, with leaves and even the occasional thorn. The stairs’ plush steel-gray carpeting extended into a runway, lined by delicate silvery chairs arranged in rows. Maggie found her way to her seat, which had her name written in calligraphy on a tag tied with ribbon to the spindle-leg chair’s back.
“Welcome, mademoiselle.” A pretty salesgirl, dressed in a fitted black skirt and white blouse, handed her a small notebook and pencil. “Use this to check off the items you’re interested in.”
She accepted it in her gloved hand. “Thank you.” For the purposes of her mission, Maggie—who’d been aware of fashion but never as attuned to its specifics as Paige—had studied it during her downtime in Paris, exactly as she had once studied mathematics. It was far more fascinating than she’d anticipated, with relationships to news, history, and the arts she’d never realized before. The war had affected fashion, too—because of the fabric scarcities, hemlines were now shorter in both evening and day wear. In fact, no more than thirteen feet of cloth was permitted to be used for a coat and only a little over a yard for a blouse; no belt could be more than one and a half inches wide.
Is fashion in France an act of collaboration or an act of defiance? Maggie wondered. As with the ballet, the last thing the French wanted was for fashion to be moved to Berlin, to be run under German rules and regulations. And French women had vowed to remain chic and elegant, considering it a matter of national pride to maintain their looks, to show the Nazis that they couldn’t take away their beauty, confidence, and self-possession.
Maggie overheard the woman next to her, a patrician blonde, whisper to her neighbor, “I saw Reichsmarshal Goering on the Rue de la Paix this morning. He was coming out of his car with his baton. I hear it’s made of ivory and all the insignia are real diamonds and rubies!”
Hearing Goering’s name again, Maggie caught her breath.
The neighbor, the mirror image of the first, but brunette, replied, “I heard he bought his wife an eight-million-franc necklace.”
“Well, I was told he wants his wife to wear French couture, rather than German styles, in spite of all the propaganda about ‘degenerate Paris.’ My friend at Poiret told me he picks out the most lavish silk pajamas and lace gowns there.”
“I have a friend at Laroche who says the same—but swears they had them made in such a large size that it’s possible Goering’s keeping them for himself!”
As the women put their hats together and giggled, the clock ticked, and the crowd grew increasingly restless, even as flutes of Champagne were passed from silver trays. Finally, a woman with a glossy platinum-blond chignon and a triple strand of pearls as the only ornament to her severe black frock walked down the stairs, pausing on the next to last step. Instantly, the room hushed.
The woman smiled to her audience, then spoke in Italian-inflected French. “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the House of Ricci.”
All applauded as the woman beamed, her arms opening. “I am Madame Ricci and today we’re presenting designs that we hope you will love as much as we do. They’ll show that, despite the times, French beauty and Parisian haute couture still thrive.”
Madame Ricci raised one plump arm toward the top of the staircase, and someone put a needle to a phonograph record. A Lucienne Boyer song began to play, and the first model descended. An elegant, long-legged young woman with an unseeing gaze, she glided down, her pelvis thrust forward and her chin high. She was wearing a flame-colored wool suit trimmed in black fur and a tiny black top hat, and held a large white card with the number 1. The audience watched intently as she promenaded down the aisle, then twirled, and posed. There were clicks and explosions of light as flashbulbs popped.
One by one, more young women holding numbered cards made their way down the staircase in dresses and suits of rich browns, blacks, and crimsons, all trimmed in furs—Persian lamb, mink, sable. The upcoming fall season’s silhouette was elongated and narrow, and, as a nod to utility, topped by last year’s hats. As more models walked down the stairs, there were oohs and aahs of appreciation, as well as furious scribbling in the little notebooks.
One model appeared in an evening gown of midnight velvet and bugle beads, with a froth of red, white, and blue chiffon peeping out from beneath the skirt. It was a poem of elegance—of specifically French elegance. Resistance! Maggie thought, with a jolt of delight.
Around her, the audience responded, crying out, “La, la!” and “Voyez c’est formidable!” One fat gentleman thumped his cane against the floor, while the German officers in attendance looked on impassively.
“Ah, this one should be on the cover of Vogue,” the woman next to Maggie whispered of the dress, her pencil scratching against the paper.
“Alas, French Vogue’s folded,” replied her neighbor.
“No!”
“It’s true—the editors refused to collaborate, and then the Nazis shut them down.”
The last outfit of the collection was a wedding dress, a white confection of lace and organza. As the model passed, a German officer in the front row reached out to touch the fabric, as if the young woman were a mere walking mannequin, not a living being.
Maggie studied it, impressed by the beauty of the image and by the technique and hours of stitching it must have taken to construct. But did she want it? Could she see herself, someday, wearing a bridal gown, walking down an aisle—or going to a courthouse in a simple suit? Marriage was, after all, most young women’s life goal. And yet, the image left Maggie cold. That’s because you need to be in love first, dummy.
When the parade was over, Maggie wrote a few scribbles in her notebook, for appearances’ sake, then, out of habit, stuck the pencil through her bun.
The shopgirl reappeared. “May we help you with anything, mademoiselle? Did you see anything you like?”
“The wedding dress was lovely,” Maggie replied, voice wistful. Don’t be a fool, Hope. “But, alas, not for me,” she added as she made her way out. Maybe someday…She tried to picture who might be waiting for her at the end of the aisle. Durgin? John? Someone she had yet to meet?
First, though, I need to find Elise. And she shook her head, as if to clear it of such unprofessional longings.
And the best place to start is the Hess family’s apartment.
—
Sarah had left the Hotel Crillon the night before with a feeling of dread and dismay. The evening had been a disaster.
As soon as the driver dropped her off at the flat she shared with Hugh near the Palais Garnier, she decided she was too easy a target there. She made her way instead to the Opéra House. In the pale moonlight and blue-painted streetlights of the blackout, she let herself in by the stage door. She had the heavy black bag slung over one shoulder.
In the women’s locker room, she had changed quickly out of her evening clothes and back into her dress of the day before, along with raincoat and scarf, rubbing at the red welts the bag had left on her shoulder. She gave the middle finger to the portrait of Pétain, then lay down on one of the low benches. But she couldn’t sleep. Horrific images of Hugh with Fortner haunted her.
In the morning, before any of the staff or dancers arrived, she’d made her way swiftly to the H?tel Ritz. She avoided the main, German-guarded Place Vend?me entrance, arriving instead via the French-only Rue Cambon doors.
“I’d like to speak to Mademoiselle Paige Claire Kelly,” she told the tiny elderly man at the desk. He was nearly hidden behind an urn of orchids. “My name is Madame Sabine Severin.”
“Of course, madame.” The little man picked up the telephone receiver and dialed the room; after the seventh ring, he hung up and shook his head. “I’m afraid Mademoiselle Kelly is not here now.”
“Merci.” Sarah gritted her teeth. “Do you happen to know when Mademoiselle will return?”
The clerk shook his head, looking truly regretful. “No, I’m sorry, madame.”