“Too bad you’re so thin. I feel I could do big things with you. But I must, I must! We’ll fatten you up if it takes a year. Listen, I’m going away to-morrow to Morocco. I’ll be gone a month. In that time I want you to get fat. Do nothing, eat lots, read, amuse yourself. Turn your angles into curves. You hear?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Now, don’t forget. If you’re not round and smooth by the time I come back, I will have no more use for you. Then it’s the street. You know what that means. Go!”
She went, and later on she heard him instructing the housekeeper.
“I’m going to-morrow, Madame Mangepain, to Morocco, and I want that girl to be plumped up. Fatten her as you would a chicken. She’s going to be my favourite model. I can do great things with her. Great things! Let her do no work. Wait on her. Feed her dainty dishes. Buy her fine clothes, silks and that sort of thing. Books too. Don’t let her move about too much. Remember, it’s for my sake not hers. I rely on you, Madame Mangepain. And I say, address her as mademoiselle.”
He left next morning and Margot felt a huge sense of relief. It was as if something corrupt had gone out of the house. She could not get over this feeling of pourriture even when she was posing for him in the big studio. Perhaps his breath was so fetid, that it pervaded every room he entered.
When he had gone, her life changed completely. Madame Mangepain said to her at supper:
“Don’t get up to-morrow morning. I’ll bring you your breakfast in bed.”
“Oh, no, madame.”
“I tell you I will. It’s the Master’s orders. I’ve been told to serve you and I will ... mademoiselle.”