Lisette

Chapter 24 ~ Never Fallen in Love Before

"I like the sound of the a la Psyche coiffure!" I said, having found a 'MODES' section. "Lots of plaits, surmounted by a butterfly. Apparently the Marquise de S***, whoever she is, had her hair done like that."

"Well, with the spare ribbon we bought, we could probably fold some of it into a sort of butterfly to go in your hair. It won't be quite the same as one glittering with all diamonds and rubies, with the wings set en tremblent, but I'd imagine that's a little outside of your budget!"

"And a ribbon butterfly is probably going to be easier to achieve than ribbon shells like Madame D****."

"Ooh! Ribbon bows in hair are fashionable too! More fashionable than garlands of flowers flowers during this winter. You'll be a little behind the times, but aren't we all? Not like we can afford the fabric for the big puffy sleeves that all the ladies seem to be wearing at the moment. Thinking of which, what does the dress look like when you're wearing it?"

"I don't know! I haven't tried it on yet - it's back fastening, and I can't do it up by myself."

"I'm sure Enjolras would be more than willing to help you!" she grinned. "Go on - get it out, and let's see how it looks on you!"  

Without needing much encouragement, though still trying to feign a certain amount of reluctance, I pulled the dress down from its cupboard and, handing it to Musichetta, shrugged off my jacket. As she did up the hooks and eyes down the back of the bodice, I carried on flicking through the magazines. An oddly shaped poem caught my eye, from one of the editions in February: 

Vois  cet  auteur  et sinistre et bisarre ;
Il a tout l'eclat d'un astre aux cieux.
C'est Hugo !  son style barbare
T'offre des vers rocailleux.
Oh! combien on t'envie,
Ronsard nouveau ,
Horrible, beau,
Un si haut
Genie !
O !
Grand Hugo,
Un  sot te  crie :
Haro  !  !  haro  !  ! !
Rien jamais ne  t'irrite.
On  te  critique   en   vain  ;
Tu suis toujours ton chemin ,
C'est bien ! on dira : quel merite!
Il    vainquit   la    critique   ;   il   etait
Victor de nom , il fut vainqueur  de  fait.

Looking over my shoulder to see what I was interested in, Musichetta commented: "Oh, Victor Hugo! They can't seem to make up their minds whether they like him or not in Le Corsaire. One day they're publishing his poetry, the next, they're saying that he can't write anything worth a damn. Or, rather, I think it was something along the lines of his poetry lacking no reasonable meaning, that it respected neither common sense, nor language, nor the ear, and that he takes weirdness for originality."

I couldn't help laughing. "I'll have to ask Jehan what he thinks of him! Is he one of the romantics?"

"I think so. I'm not sure if he's written any plays, or if he's only written poems... We ought to go and see a play one of these days. I'm sure we could arrange a big party of us. There." She turned me around to face her. "Beautiful. And I'm sure if I come over on the afternoon before the ball, I can put the front part of your hair in papers so you can have ringlets on the day!"

"That would be lovely, if you don't mind? I've never really had the chance to do anything interesting with my hair - I wouldn't know where to begin!"

"If you're going to Sceaux by Coucous with us, and catching it from the Place Louis XVI, you could always go through the flower market on the Ile de la Cite, and get some flowers for your hair, too. We can play around with arranging them once we get there, especially if we go early."

By this point, I was only half listening, and instead taking advantage of being able to twirl in the dress. Over the top of both of my petticoats, and with its own white cotton underskirt beneath the fine printed muslin, it held itself out. Not as wide as the fashionable skirts, but who has time for starched petticoats? The light cotton fabric swirled out prettily as I turned, and the frills at the shoulder flared out too.