Skip to main content

Shopping day

That day I found myself in Paris shops I had never dreamed of entering. It was clear to me from Hildegarde's assertive manner toward my future that I was by no means to be a separate entity from herself and her household.

When she insisted on purchasing a couple of dresses for me I acquiesced, because the clothes I wore were ragged and scarcely decent, and I knew I would be consulting often with her and her family. I knew I was an offense to the eyes of anyone.

Over my tattered garments I wore an extra riding coat of Hildegarde's. It was a rich plum-colored wool, and my fingers traveled over the soft, firm pile continually. I felt warm and suddenly very, very tired, as though something within myself was giving itself up after a long stretch of diffidence and solidarity.

After our initial selections, Hildegarde softly touched my arm. "You are tired. Of course neither of us has had our breakfast. This cafe looks promising."

Hildegarde was aware I had no money. I knew she would never miss the minimal coins my breakfast pastry would cost, but somewhere a warning executed itself in my mind, in the far-back recesses, that I was grown beholden to a stranger, and I was not able to give myself over completely to the novelty and pleasure of this elegant breakfast with a beautiful woman.

Life had taught me nothing was never, ever this easy.

As we savored cafe au lait, buttered croissants and madeleines (Hildegarde found cookies fair breakfast game) on the streetside terrace, I noticed a mother and daughter inside the cafe near the window.

The girl might have been around my age. Her honey-colored hair was wound at her nape. Her high-collared dress was olive-green and set her complexion admirably, full, cherubic cheeks, and slanted green eyes. Her refined brows were clearly groomed.

My own dun-colored hair was braided down my back. I owned no mirror, but I knew my face was gaunt, aged before my time, and colorless.

She looked so very comfortable, this girl. I must have stared hard, for she looked at me, and embarrassed, I glanced away quickly. Her eyes were cold, nearly hostile.

I was a different creature from these other girls. My life had made me so. I knew my relations with others would never be easy. I knew also that the woman opposite me was of singular character. Her action toward me were deeply benevolent, and yet when I fully considered her it was not without trepidation.

There was a sense in my lungs that since she had taken me into her custody, I had not drawn even a full measure of air. I felt trapped. Yet escape her?

Popular posts from this blog

The secret to a happy home

I finished Marion Harland's guide tonight and I wonder ceaselessly at two things. 1. She is so down on America! Even more than I am. She complains of things in which I am so well-steeped I could not see them for what they were. In particular, American style and cookery. It is true that our food, which we count as so much more generous in portion than the overseas counterpart, is as coarse and indecorous as it is plentiful, but as an American woman I cast up my hands and declare I would rather spend my time on something else. She makes an interesting point about American women's fashions. In France women wear what looks good on them, and in America women wears what comes off the manufacturing line in the latest style. It is very conformist, and I have to admit I feel it in myself, for I would be embarrassed to wear something that is "out" even if it flattered me better. 2. Harland's other point I feel clearly from last night's experiences. I looked in my journ...

Blanche, a re-telling of Snow White

I began this story after reading a collection of short stories by Angela Carter. “Snow White” has always been a favorite tale of mine and I have placed this re-telling in nineteenth-century rural Louisiana. Near Vacherie, Louisiana, there are not only swamps but also old beautiful plantations. Some of them are restored but others are abandoned and ruined. The places I have seen captured my imagination and I combined them with my impression of Snow White as an object of envy and lust. My heroine Blanche is a hard-working girl who longs to be rich and to live in New Orleans, where her father was born. She is threatened constantly by the attention of the rustics who live around her. Her stepmother beats her when she finds Blanche in Jean-Jacques’ arms. When Blanche runs away from home she is beguiled by Philipe de la Roche, who persuades her to live in New Orleans in a fancy house with seven women. Blanche does not realize that the women are prostitutes. The farmer Jean-Jacques, who love...