The next year was a very hard and checkered one. She first got a place in the workshop of a big dress-maker,—Plumeau’s. She had not been there long when one evening Monsieur Plumeau called her into his private office. He was a white-haired old man, very well-dressed. He told her politely that it was the privilege of his prettiest employées to dine with him occasionally. He called the directress.
“Select for Mademoiselle a robe that suits her,” he then said to the girl. “We will have dinner to-night at the Café de Paris.” He seemed to take it for granted she would accept, and was quite amazed when she walked out with head held high. He shrugged his shoulders.
“So much the worse,” he said. “Dismiss her.”
Margot was given an envelope with her week’s pay and told to look for another place.
It was more difficult to find this time, for she had no reference from Plumeau’s. She was forced finally to seek employment in a great barrack-like building that employed three thousand girls. It was the workshop of one of the great stores on the Boulevard Haussmann, and was conducted with military severity. Her hours were from eight in the morning until a quarter past six in the evening. The work was hard and monotonous; the pay just enough to cover her simple living expenses.
For long months she slaved with her needle, never getting ahead. She became shabby, tired, faint-hearted. When her holiday of ten days came around she had not enough money to go away and spent the time in her room. There were girls around her coquettishly dressed, with men who waited for them every evening. That was all right; nobody minded a girl having an ami who helped her. There were some, however, more elegantly clad who were considered scarcely respectable. Of such a one it was whispered: “Elle fait sa tappe sur le Boulevard.” Margot made no friends amongst the other girls and was always alone.
So passed a year; then to her delight she got a position with a milliner on the Boulevard Saint Michel. Over the door was the name, “Folette.” Everybody stopped to look at the window, her hats were so dainty, so daring. She was renowned for her chic, and even sober men whose interests were far removed from feminine millinery, stopped and stared at her latest creations. Below the shop was the workshop. The girls sat on either side of a long table with boxes of feathers, ribbands, flowers beside them. They sewed, pieced, and basted, chattering happily the while. From time to time Madame Folette would descend to criticise and give suggestions; she encouraged them to develop their own ideas, to be creative.
The girl had been there eighteen months, when, one day, Madame Folette descended to the atelier.
“Margot, I want to speak to you.”
“Yes, madame.”