Mademoiselle Chanel Read Free Page B

folded sheet. “Such fine stitches. Who taught you to sew like this, Gabrielle?”
    “My mother. She was a seamstress. I used to help her sometimes.”
    “I can see that. You’re quite skilled. How old are you now?”
    “Nearly fourteen, Sister.” As I spoke these words, I startled myself. How had the last two years passed so quickly?
    She reached out to examine my hands. “You have small hands. Perfect for sewing.” She smiled at me. “If you continue to improve, you could be a mercer’s assistant one day or perhaps even a seamstress yourself, with your own shop. Would you like that?”
    I had never thought of it. To me, being a seamstress meant my mother’s lot, mending other people’s clothes, paltry work that never earned enough. Now that I had decent food every day, I never wanted to be hungry again. But to have my own shop . . .
    “Yes, Sister,” I said quietly. “I think I would like that.”
    “Good. I’ll have you embroider a handkerchief next time. A good seamstress must be knowledgeable in every aspect of her trade.” She gave me a stern look. “That means grammar and math, too, so I’ll expect you to heed your lessons with Sister Bernadette.”
    As she moved back down the aisle, I sagged in relief. If Sister Thérèse thought I might succeed in making my own way, perhaps I could.
    I only became more determined as I saw Sister Thérèse shaking her head over Julia’s pillowcase. My sister might be able to write, but those hands that were so skilled with a pen proved clumsy with the needle. As Julia gave me a dejected look from her seat, blond-curled Marie-Claire, who shared our dormitory and was a favorite with the nuns, always polite while ridiculing them behind their backs, hissed at me, “That stitch on your sheet is uneven. You’ll never be a seamstress. You’ll never be anything.”
    She resented me because I refused to join her circle of admirers and I despised her in return because she teased Julia mercilessly. I had tried to protect my sister, but as her hips widened and breasts sprouted (unlike mine, I was still as flat as a sole) so did the other girls’ envy. While Antoinette lived in the children’s wing, Julia was fifteen, practically a woman, and her beautiful features and timid air made her a target. Marie-Claire and her friends stuffed menses rags in her shoes and danced in circles around her, chanting that she was a bleeder, until I barreled into them and threatened to knock out their teeth.
    I now examined the stitch Marie-Claire had mentioned. Fury suffocated me when I saw she was right; it was uneven. All of a sudden, I wanted to shred the sheet with my scissors but instead I leaned over to her and said, “I know what you do at night under the sheets. You’ll grow up to be a harlot. They’ll have to exorcise you like the devil sisters of Loudon.”
    Though I still didn’t know what a harlot was, reading had taught me it must be dirty, and the horrified flush on Marie-Claire’s face assured me of as much. I gave her a smug smile.
    Marie-Claire wasted no time in telling Sister Thérèse: “Gabrielle Chanel is a beast. She says I’m possessed and called me a harlot.”
    “Gabrielle!” exclaimed Sister Thérèse and she marched me to the abbess’s chamber.
    “Is this true what I hear?” asked the abbess, a plump woman with a belt of keys affixed to her waist.
    “Yes, Reverend Mother,” I said, thinking that just as I had discovered my purpose, I was about to be cast out for my wickedness.
    “Well, no proper lady uses words like that. And where did you learn such things?”
    “The library, Mother. I . . . I like to read.”
    “ ‘Read’?” echoed the abbess. She didn’t realize that by now I could have recited the exploits of Charlemagne and the history of the convent from its founding by Étienne the Penitent to its desecration in the revolution, and I didn’t want to boast, as that, too, would be improper.
    “Do you read often, my child?” Her