La Belle Mort

By: Maxwell Cynn

Oradour-sur-Glane, France

In the fall of 1943 Simone Saint-Claire's life was just beginning. She was seventeen, and in spite of her natural tendencies as a tomboy, had blossomed into a stunningly beautiful young woman.

“Simone,” René shouted to his daughter. “It's time to go.”

“Coming Papa,” Simone answered from the barn. She was excited about going into the village. It had been months since she ventured off their little farm.

“We have a lot to do today, daughter,” René yelled, his voice impatient.

Simone ran from the barn, gracefully clearing the fence with her long stride. René cringed.

He could imagine his little girl wrapped up in the wire fence, tumbling headlong into the mud, arms and legs splayed in all directions. But she had bounded over the low fence like a gazelle. She was no longer the clumsy little girl of the previous fall - or even a few months earlier.

“Simone,” René chided his daughter, seeing her in her brother's old clothes. “You can't go to market like that. Go put on a dress.”

“None of my old dresses fit, Papa,” she countered. Not that she wanted to wear them anyway. She was more comfortable in pants and shirt.

René indulged her boyishness in clothing, as in everything else. Over the summer he had let her do as she pleased, wear what she wanted. He didn't know anything of women's fashion, and at work on the farm the sturdy pants were, as his daughter argued, more functional.

Simone had been born with hair as black as a ravens wing, and as soft and smooth as Chinese silk. It had aways been her most attractive feature, even through the years when her body grew in disproportionate ways. “You're all arms and legs,” he had teased her then.

Her eyes were as dark as her hair – deep wet pools of obsidian, so dark the pupils could not be discerned from the iris. Through her teen years that combination had given her the look of a wolfhound pup – all legs and wet, lovable eyes. The comparison was made more than once by her schoolmates. That comparison no longer fit.

The summer spent working in the vineyard had bronzed her skin and built her muscle. The once awkward and clumsy child moved now with the grace of a big cat, the proportions of her frame evening out into startling perfection.

“You have grown into quite a lovely young lady, Simone,” René said,as if he was realizing it for the first time.

“Don't tease me, Papa,” she replied, blushing. “My arms and legs have grown so long, even Jon's pants no longer fit.” She looked down at her worn pant legs which stopped midway between her knee and ankle.

“The rest of you has filled in rather well also, daughter,” René said with a slight blush, noticing her full breasts threatened to burst the buttons of her blouse. “Maybe we should buy you some new clothes while we are in town.”

***

Simone's father had done his best raising a headstrong daughter, alone. Her mother died very young. Simone had never known her except for fleeting memories of her touch, her face, her eyes, her scent, the voice that sang her to sleep - even after so many years she could hear it late at night.

Simone's father dropped her off at the dressmaker's shop. He spoke to the woman in hushed tones Simone couldn't hear as she looked through the delicate dresses.

“Give her whatever she wants,” he said, handing the woman a pouch of money. “It is all I have, now, but I am on the way to market if it is not enough. Please, make my daughter beautiful.”

The woman understood. The ladies in the small village helped when they could, blaming Simone's boyishness on not having a mother to nurture her. The woman just smiled. “I will take care of her, René.”

“Listen to Madame Tourough, daughter. Dresses, not pants, you need clothes for school.”

“Yes, Papa,” she said grudgingly. She had never liked dresses. You can't climb trees in a dress. But she would make her father happy. He tried so hard to give her girlish things, though she preferred rough pants and stout boots like her brother.

René Saint-Claire left his daughter in the capable hands of the seamstress and hurried off to market. Madame Tourough began gathering things from some boxes behind her table. “First let's get you out of your brother's clothes and into some proper garments.”

They went into the back room and Simone stripped down. It was good to get out of the tight pants and shirt. She would never complain, but she had grown out of them months ago. She stood naked in the fitting room, a pile of ragged clothes at her feet.

The woman handed her a pair of fine cotton panties and Simone put them on. They were so soft, not like what she bought for herself at the general store. “What is this?” she asked, when Madame Tourough handed her a silky piece of cloth with straps.

“It's a brassiere, Simone,” Madame said patiently. “Have you never worn one?”

“No,” Simone said shyly.

“Well, your breasts have grown. They are too large now to go without.”

Madame Tourough helped Simone into the lacy bra. She liked it. The bra held her full breasts firmly, like the too small shirt, but it also supported them from beneath. It would be much more comfortable, when she was running after her brother, without her breasts bouncing around. She wasn't sure she liked how it lifted them. They seemed even bigger.

“You have a very nice body, Simone,” Madame Tourough commented. “You have matured since I saw you last spring. The boys will look at you differently now. You have grown into a woman.”

Madame Tourough helped Simone into several elaborate dresses. “You are a very beautiful young woman, Simone,” she commented. “It is a joy to dress you.”

Simone blushed. “I'm a farm girl, Madame,” she said shyly, “not a woman of Paris. I can not work in these fine clothes, and I'm sure Papa can't afford them. I need simpler dresses, if I must wear dresses.”

“Very well, dear,” The seamstress conceded. “Perhaps I am getting a little carried away. You are just so lovely in my dresses.”

Madame fetched some more functional dresses and Simone tried them on. “These are much better, Madame,” Simone said smiling.

“I could give you a sack to wear and you would be beautiful,” the woman mused. “You are as lovely in these simple farm dresses as you were in my best gowns.”

Simone found a pair of knee high boots she fell in love with. “I don't think your father will approve,” Madame Tourough scowled. “He wants you to look more feminine.”

Simone put them on anyway. “I can at least try them on.” Simone pulled the high black boots up her calves. They fit perfectly.

“I must admit,” Madame said in surprise, “they look quite stunning on you, dear.” Madame ran off to find a dress that would go well with the boots. The dress she found looked a bit short for the current style and sensibilities. It was hard finding one that didn't, given Simone's height. With the boots, Madame Tourough thought, it would be alright.

Simone picked out several dresses and pairs of shoes, along with a couple more bras and half a dozen pair of the soft panties. She wore what she considered to be the least girlish of the outfits and Madame boxed the rest up for her. She included one of the finest of her dresses.

“Papa can't afford such a fine dress, Madame,” Simone argued, “and when will I ever wear it?”

“Take it, dear,” the kind woman insisted. “It is a gift from me. No one could ever look as beautiful in it as you do.”

“Thank you, Madame. You have been so kind. Papa will be very pleased.”

“Tell René it was my pleasure,” she said, handing Simone the almost empty pouch, “and it didn't cost him all his savings. I'm still not sure he will like those boots,” she continued, looking at the knee high boots Simone had insisted on, “but they do look good on you.”

Simone left the dressmaker's shop and made her way to the market, with all her boxes, to find her father. Her dress was a pale white chiffon that barely covered her knees, from there the black boots gave contrast and accentuated her long sculpted legs. The soft material of the dress followed the perfect contours of her body like it was custom made for her. Simone looked like a goddess strolling down the road.

“You are the vision of your mother, Simone,” René sighed when he saw her, “only taller.” He looked down at the heels on her boots. “Madame Tourough let you buy boots?”

“Only this pair, Papa. There are sufficiently girlish shoes in the boxes.”

René gave a “humph” looking back up at his daughter. She was nearly six feet tall in the spiked heels. They did look nice on her, though. He smiled, not letting her see, as he turned away.

“I need something for winter, Papa,” she argued.

“Yes, daughter,” he replied. “Let's go back home and you can show me what else you spent my money on.”

There was mirth in her father's voice and she knew he was only picking at her. She ran along after him. Strangely, she looked forward to trying on her new clothes. She felt pretty for the first time in her memory, and she liked it.