So, in making my way to the dressing-room, I was prepared, to the extent of these uncertain and summary impressions, for something peculiar.
But I must confess that I had no idea of that which really awaited me.
Madame was writing letters at a little jewel of a desk.
A large skin of white astrachan served as a carpet for the room.
On the cream silk walls I was astonished to see engravings of the eighteenth century, more than licentious, almost obscene, not very far from the very old enamels representing religious scenes.
In a glass cabinet a quantity of old jewels, ivories, miniature snuff-boxes, and gallant little Saxon porcelains, deliciously fragile.
On a table, toilet articles, very rich, of gold and silver. A little yellow dog, a ball of silky and shiny hair, was asleep on a long chair, between two mauve silk cushions.
Madame said to me:
"Celestine, is it not?
Ah! I do not like that name at all. I will call you Mary, in English. Mary, you will remember?
Mary, yes; that is more suitable."
That is in the order of things.
We servants have not a right even to a name of our own, because in all the houses there are daughters, cousins, dogs, and parrots that have the same name that we have.
"Very well, Madame," I answered.
"Do you know English, Mary?"
"No, Madame. I have already told Madame so."
"Ah! to be sure. I regret it. Turn a little, Mary, that I may look at you."
She examined me from every point of view, front, back, and profile, murmuring from time to time:
"Well, she is not bad; she is rather good-looking."
And suddenly:
"Tell me, Mary, have you a good figure ... a very good figure?"
This question surprised and disturbed me.
I did not grasp the connection between my service in the house and the shape of my body.
But, without waiting for my reply, Madame said, talking to herself, and surveying my entire person from head to foot, through her face-a-main:
"Yes, she seems to have a good figure enough."
Then, addressing me directly, she exclaimed, with a satisfied smile:
"You see, Mary, I like to have about me only women with good figures. It is more suitable."
I was not at the end of my surprises.
Continuing to examine me minutely, she cried, suddenly:
"Oh! your hair!
I desire you to do your hair otherwise. Your hair is not done with elegance. You have beautiful hair; you should make the most of it.
A fine head of hair is a very important matter.
See, like that; something in that style."
She dishevelled a little the hair on my forehead, repeating:
"Something in that style. She is charming. See, Mary, you are charming. It is more suitable."
And, while she was patting my hair, I asked myself if Madame was not a little off.
When she had finished, being satisfied with my hair, she asked:
"Is that your prettiest gown?"
"Yes, Madame."
"It is not much, your prettiest gown.
I will give you some of mine which you can make over. And your underwear?"
She raised my skirt, and turned it up slightly.
"Yes, I see," said she; "that will not do at all.
And your linen, is it suitable?"
Vexed by this invasive inspection, I answered, in a dry voice:
"I do not know what Madame means by suitable."
"Show me your linen; go and get me your linen. And walk a little ... again ... come back ... turn round ... she walks well, she has style."
As soon as she saw my linen, she made a face:
"Oh, this cotton cloth, these stockings, these chemises,—horrible!
And this corset! I do not wish to see that in my house. I do not wish you to wear that in my house. Wait, Mary; help me."