This will make more sense if you have read the previous part of Justine.
Southern France, Decision Day minus 4
Deep unease woke Justine extra early the following morning, so early it was still dark; something was dreadfully wrong, she felt it in her gut, but it took a minute or so for her mind to surface what it was, and then things got worse. She wanted to run away. Things were getting strange; she was frightened, actually frightened. All these older people, all so strong, all so certain about what they wanted from her, none of them at all friendly, or even conversational; just distant, demanding, controlling.
She should leave, right away.
Only … only … there was a hollow feeling in her belly; they had her things; her money, her ID, her bags. And somehow, she knew, she was not going to be brave enough to demand them from Mme. Creux. Something had happened to her, in that place, in only a few short days. She had become frightened, weak, unsure of herself.
It was new for her, this weakness; she’d been so confident, so strong, so sure, all her life. Where had it gone? How had she lost it so fast? It seemed as if that car ride, Sir Stephen’s attitude to her after once she was in the maid’s uniform, what he’d said … everything since then had worked on her, requiring her to accept that she was low status. And she could have rejected it, could have had the strength of character to see it as just social power games, and refuse to let it define her.
In fact she had done the opposite. Again and again, she had leaned in, let herself be demoted, put in her place, called by anything other than her name, treated as if she was a child, a servant, not spoken to, not consulted about anythng, ordered about without even minor politeness, and now, sexually disrespected— assaulted, actually.
And she had not once, not even in the most simple situations, not in the most obviously wrong situations, made anything but the most pathetic, weak attempts to assert her rights, her dignity, her own needs.
Thinking those thoughts, feeling the shame, the self-disgust at her weakness, desperation about the way everything is heading, her inability to come up anything serious to do about it— let alone believe in her ability to carry a plan forward; in this insupportable position, was she able discover any part of her that thought it could fight back?
No.
More; a voice in her— an aspect of her, was suggesting, ever more convincingly, that she could, she could, just … just let it happen. Go with the flow. Let them have me; be what they want me to be. It’s just a summer job, it will be over soon, and— it was undeniable— a large part of her was tired, tired of always striving, always pushing, always wanting to be the best, to outshine, to succeed, to win.
Here, everyone wanted her to be small, to be compliant, to do as she was told, please them; the most anyone expected of her was to be a good little serving maid. Well, that and open her legs for them, let them sexually manipulate her.
And there was another part of her that was thinking what’s so bad about that? I just had the best orgasm ever, I just had sex with a woman for the first time. Even the spanking was … interesting. About time I had a sex life worth the name.
And there, in the first, palest morning light, the air cold from the night, Justine experienced a crisis— all those conflicting thoughts, their frightening implications, all crashing around in her head, impossible to resolve. She wanted, she so wanted, to get away; she knew she must; without being sure what it was that she must get away from. She felt convinced that there was some malign process in play, some net closing around her, that she must make a huge effort to escape.
Without any idea of how, or what was going on, it was going to end up with her being sexually abused, that much was obvious.
If I stay, everyone here is going to be fucking me.
The certainty just appeared in her head, fully formed. The idea was so horrific that she could hardly let it be in her mind, but it could not be unthought. She was furious with herself for having allowed it. In turmoil, she jumped up from her bed, twitching with the urge to do something, needing to expend some physical energy.
But there was nothing to do in the tiny room, and it was so early she dared not venture down the creaky stairs for fear of waking someone, being asked why she was up so early, and so even that impulse ended up horribly confusing, another sign of her terrible weakness.
She ended up backed into a corner of her room, standing, hugging herself, still dressed in her uniform, horribly crumpled now (another fear— what would Mme. Creux say?), trying not to accept that she was too frightened to save herself, that parts of her wanted to give in, to let it happen.
She wanted her mother.
Not the mother at home; that one was no use. She wanted the mother of years past; the mother who was always in control, always pushing forward, always certain, always capable.
I have never been strong.
Another unwelcome thought, landing equally with the obviousness of something that has always been true, but has never been acknowledged.
I have bever been strong.
It had been her mother, all along. And when her father had gone, her mother had collapsed. She, Justine, had seemed strong herself, taken her ability to be strong for granted. Now, that apparent strength was exposed as no more than a habit, not real strength of mind, of character; it hadn’t been strength at all, but just the autopilot.
She wanted to cry; tears were there, but something in her wouldn’t let her give in to them; she must, must find a way out that she could believe in— that she could believe she could achieve.
She was there for a long while— she had no idea exactly, but she was shivering when something came from the reeling tangled thoughts, an idea crystallised;
Mme. Danika.
She would ask for a meeting with Mme. Danika at the earliest moment. Mme. Danika would make things right. If Sir Stephen was the head and the captain of the group, she was the backbone. If Mme. Danika would listen to her, she would be safe. She would go to her, as soon as possible, and say that she had decided, for personal reasons, that she needed to go home.
Somewhere, deep in Justine’s mind, she was aware that this was not really a solution, but simply an appeal to Mme. Danika to step in as if she were Justine’s mother, but the short term relief was so welcome, she needed it so much, that she told herself everything would be alright.
And, indeed, it was alright.
At least, that’s what she told herself that night, getting herself ready for bed.
It was alright. Except that she knew it wasn’t.
It had been a difficult day, emotionally difficult, physically difficult too; so tired was she, her bum shockingly sore, bruised, her sex puffy and tender, her mood confused, suppressed panic, self-hatred, fear, all working in her at different times. And all the time on duty; needing not to bring down disapproval on her head. That was weakness, too— why should she care if these people thought ill of her? Apart from Sir Stephen, they were all strangers; not one of them had been nice to her (well Chanxin, afterward … but, well, after beating her hard with a hairbrush and basically raping her).
It was exhausting, round and round, but the truth was, that she did care about their aproval; it had become a hard thing in her, non-negotiable, the need to perform well for them, and indeed it kept her going, got her through.
It had, though, been very hard.
Firstly, in the morning, any attempt even to ask Mme. Creux about seeing Mme. Danika was blocked. Not overtly, and Justine knew that she was not really trying hard enough, not being assertive enough, but every time she started to speak, it seemed that Mme. Creux had something to say to her, or had decided to leave the room. Also, she had no free time in which to take any initiative herself. Having volunteered yesterday to help with the flowers, it seemed that they had become a part of her duties, and then, with an hour to go before it was time to prepare the Salon, a housemaid had had a whispered conversation with Mme. Creux, who had looked over, sharply, at Justine;
“You are wearing the clean uniform? The other was supposed to be good for another two days? Jeanne here says it is in a terrible state.”
“What happened, girl?”
Justine, more frightened, more desperate than it made any sense to be, simply could not think of anything to say but that she was sorry, mumbled something that made no sense, and was brought up short;
“Excuses. That is a black mark for you. You will remember it. Black marks are not a good thing, you will see. So, tell me; how many black marks do you have?”
It was pathetic, like school! Black marks! And yet Justine found herself tearful, voice breaking, as she curtsied and reported;
“I … I have one black mark, Mme. Creux.”
And that was any chance of daring to talk to Mme. Creux gone.
Things didn’t get easier once work started in the Salon; yesterday’s worries that they all knew about Habib, were multiplied by what Chanxin had done to her, and had become a fixation in her mind, rendering her jittery, uncertain, distracted and stupid. Several times she mistook what had been asked of her, once she spilled tea on some papers (the bent-from-the hip position made it much, much harder to deliver drinks, to cope with the messy table, even if she had not been continually distracted by the certainty in her, that they were all looking up her skirt, all thinking about fucking her. By the increasing amount of time, too, in which she had found herself thinking about them all fucking her).
No-one was mean about her mistakes, but she felt them deeply, and this compounded her stress, so that by the end of the day, when they were leaving the room, she felt desperately depleted, fragile and despairing, had no idea how she would muster the strength to get through her remaining duties, let alone insist on having a talk with Mme. Danika.
The issue was solved for her, though; as the party were preparing to leave for their late afternoon drink on the terrace (for all that this was a high powered group, working on an enormous deal, they did no more than four hours concentrated work a day— the rest was desultory conversation, private time, tennis, swimming, sauna, meals— although Justine assumed that at least some of them also worked on their own in their rooms on the first floor), the woman— Mme. Danika— caught her eye.
“Justine— that’s your name, girl, isn’t it?”
Her voice was friendly and gentle enough, but cool and dry, giving nothing away.
Justine was immediately, automatically attentive, as she had trained herself to become in her au-pair work, swallowing the desolate feelings which welled up in her at the woman’s inability, or lack of will, to even remember her name (or worse, she was being intentionally disrespectful, making a point about how unimportant Justine was. She had learned, au-pairing, that it was always the women you had to work hardest to please, take care to give no suggestion at all to that there was anything in your head but concern for their happiness);
“Yes, Madame, what can I do for you?”
“Nothing really— I just want a little word, in my study. You have not been yourself, today, girl; not meeting your usual standard?”
Justine found herself making incoherent apologies for her failures in a way which was as shaming as the failures, and she was stupidly grateful to Mme. Danika for interrupting her, kindly enough, to brush the matter off with a smile and some cliche words of encouragement, which, worse still, had Justine begin weeping, pathetic, unable to stop herself for a few moments, despite desperately not wanting to be so weak.
Again, Mme. Danika was kind;
“My dear, you’re having a bad day, aren’t you? Do stop that silly crying, though, and come through to my study; we’ll find you a tissue and mend your makeup. You made so much effort with that today— such an improvement, it would be a shame to ruin it.”
The makeup had been another thing in the morning. She had forgotten Mme. Chanxin’s lipstick and eyeshadow until she was on the stairs— had to run back and apply it. The day had been full of upsetting little disasters like this, so that she had been continually in recovery from some stupid thing or another.
In Mme. Danika’s study— she was the only one with a working room to herself— once the make-up was done (Mme. Danika having taken charge and worked with casual skill for a minute or two), she had apologised to Justine (though withut sounding in the least sorry), Mme. Danika had made her wait, looking directly into her eyes, her hand still inder Justine’s chin, effortlessly controlling.
The small, slightly sneering, knowing smile on the woman’s face as the seconds had stretched into an emotional ordeal for Justine as she became horridly certain that Mme. Danika knew everything; knew about her fantasies about Stefan, about her weak acceptance of M. Habib’s assault, the ease with which Mme. Chanxin had made her submit. Justine desperately, urgently wished to look away, to hide from the piercing, penetrating gaze, but she was weak, powerless, trembling; her mind empty, almost (or, more accurately, so full of a hundred conflicting, confused, silly thoughts that nothing could be fixed upon), so that all she could do was wait, and try not to let herself doen too badly.
At last, she was casually released;
“The rule in here is the same as the Salon, I’m afraid— servants may not sit on the chairs. But you’ve been on your feet all day, and I know you’re feeling a little troubled, so why don’t you fetch a cushion from the sofa and put it by my chair, here— you can kneel.”
She was the same as Chanxin— only even more smoothly controlling— somehow there was no way that Justine could resist ending up kneeling on the floor beside her, having to turn her head if she wanted to look at the woman. It was an obviously demeaning imposition, but requested with such clarity and certainty that it would have required rudeness not to comply, rudenness which Jusine had not even a small part of the self-confidence to deliver, and when Mme. Danika said;
“Knees apart, there’s a good girl,” quite as if there were an acknowledged rule about this too, which Justine should have known, which Mme. Danika was being generous and kind to remind her of, Justine complied immediately, not knowing why, and worse, feeling distinct but unsettling pleasure as she knelt.
Picture: Justine kneels
Her mother had used exactly the same approach with her when she had been younger. Everything which was in fact an iron requirement had been phrased with the gentlest, most reasonable seeming words, spoken in tones redolent with implications of kindness and care. Failure to attend to what was demanded, though, brought swift and clear disapproval, also delivered in kind and reasonable terms, but always lacerating to the soul.
Finding being treated thus as comforting, reassuring, safe, Justine knew, was not something to relax into. Except that, that was exactly what she did do.
Which meant that she failed to do as she had planned, and make sure to say what she needed to say to Mme. Danika immediately— not to risk not being allowed time to say it before Mme. Danika left (for she was certain that this would not be a long conversation; Mme. Danika was always to the point, not one for small talk).
“Justine, I am pleased to say that— even accounting for today’s little troubles— which I’m certain, good girl that you are, you will make sure never to repeat, won’t you? (Justine finds herself nodding earnestly)— we find you most efficient at your duties; Stefan chose well.”
“You have been useful to us, and— I’m sure you don’t need telling— you’re an ornament, too— highly decorative. The gentlemen have not failed to notice your attributes. They’ve requested that you serve us at dinner, tonight. Just you, no other staff; that way we can discuss sensitive issues. Of course, your compensation will be enhanced to reflect these additional duties. “
Justine knows it is foolish, knows that, somehow, this will bring an intensification of their plan for her, but she cannot help feeling pleased, even feels her cheeks warming up, impossible to hide, finds herself smiling;
“Thank you; thank you Madame— I’d be very happy to serve dinner. I’ll … shall … shall I talk to Mme. Creux about it?”
“Do not worry your little head about arrangements, little Justine; they are not your concern— Mme. Creux will talk to you as she finds appropriate, tell you what is required of you. She will also issue you with an evening uniform, which we have decided we can provide for you.”
This was said with a finality which made it clear that Mme. Danika had done with the conversation, which was confirmed by her standing up.
Justine, still on her knees, staring at Mme. Danika’s elegant shoes, had to force herself to speak, feeling as if it was unforgivably rude of her to insist on saying what she had to, right after being given compliments and a pay rise;
“Madame, I’m … please … I … I need to tell you … ask you … something. Please?”
Why had she weakened herself already? she had rehearsed it in her head— ‘tell’, that was the word; assertive.
Heart pattering now— pathetic, to be so worked up!
“Really? I wonder what it can be that is so important that it keeps me from my aperitif? But of course, my dear, of course— what is it?”
Now it was a blessing not to be facing Mme. Danika, because she couldn’t have done it; staring weakly at the floorboards in front of her, Justine made herself speak. No matter that she had rehearsed her lines in her head many times that morning, during the day, they came out much less forcefully than she had intended. Bitterly lashing at herself, much later that evening, she saw that she had in fact invited Mme. Danika to do do what she did— somehow make Justine’s demands into a nothing.
“I … I’ve found it … awkward to … to have my things so hard to get at … for … for my study … books and … and … other things. And … and I … it’s not comfortable not to know where … where my carte d-identité is. It … it just worries me.”
“And … and I … I might … might have reasons … personal, personal reasons to … to need to leave. S… Soon, maybe. I mean … per … perhaps.”
‘Maybe?’, ‘perhaps?’ Really?
The silence that fell after Justine had faded to a weak halt was rapidly hard to bear for the girl. Now, not being able to see Mme. Danika’s body language, her reaction, was a dreadful thing— her mind kept building pictures of a cutting response, evidence of anger or displeasure, mental images she had no way of calibrating against reality. She wanted to look up, to see Mme. Danika’s face, but she dared not. Simply, though she hated herself for her weakness, she had to accept that she dared not even look at the woman.
And so she was all the readier to feel gushing warmth and gratitude to Mme. Danika when she replied in kind and casual terms, as if nothing at all challenging had been said;
“Well, of course, my dear. I really know nothing at all about where your things might be, but I’m sure Mme. Creux can do something about that. And, as for personal reasons— well indeed, life is what it is, and so might such reasons crop up for any of us. Do tell Mme. Creux if anything like that does in fact manifest. I believe your contract has a 2 week notice period, but naturally, if there is anything truly urgent, we’ll be as helpful as we can.”
Mme. Danika had started walking halfway through this, and the last of it was delivered facing away from Justine, as she opened the door to leave.
“Hurry up with those drinks, now! The gentlemen will get tetchy if we keep them waiting any longer. You don’t want another black mark, I’m telling you.”
She needed to tell herself it was alright.
Except that it very much was not alright, it was worse, now that she had proved herself even weaker than she had feared.
And that a large part of her, just as frightened as the rest, was willing, eager, almost, to surrender.
She jumped up— she could not ignore her duties.
It must be alright, Mme. Danika was nice about it.
It would have to do.
Read the next part of Justine.
