Chapter 111: The Catwalk Show
"Mr. Balthazar, you can't just look at their appearance," Joseph whispered to his fashion designer. "They are here for a catwalk show, not a ball."
He pointed to the giant runway in the square: "You see, when the guests gather below, they will only see the models' figures, postures, and the clothes they are wearing, but hardly their faces."
Balthazar nodded repeatedly. He had only been introduced to these 'catwalk shows' and 'runways' for two days and was completely clueless.
Recently, the publicity for Fashion Week was in full swing, and the whole of Paris was abuzz with discussion about it.
Thus, after the Fashion Week's recruitment advertisement for models appeared in the newspapers, the ladies of Paris immediately erupted in excitement—to wear the most fashionable and beautiful clothes in the magnificent old royal palace, bathed in countless lights, to be noticed by the upper echelons of all Europe, and to receive a generous remuneration—who wouldn't be tempted by that?
Indeed, there was no such profession as a fashion model in this era, so Joseph had to conduct open auditions among the populace.
For a time, "model" and "catwalk show" became the most popular terms among Parisian women. Actresses, singers, women of the night, and even noblewomen—anyone with a bit of confidence in their figure and appearance harbored the thought of coming to the Tuileries Palace to sign up and try their luck.
After several rounds of preliminary selections screened by Balthazar, the dozens of individuals standing before them were considered the most outstanding among all applicants.
Joseph watched the models, some stiff, others deliberately flaunting their cleavage, and couldn't help but sigh. He stood up, clapped his hands loudly to get the models' attention, and then did what he least wanted to do but had to—demonstrated the catwalk stride.
"Don't use too much force with your hands, just let them hang naturally... No, I didn't mean for your hands to go limp! Fine, put your hands on your hips.
"Don't glance around randomly, keep your gaze empty..."
Although he wasn't proficient at it, he had seen enough to know how it should look. Recalling the countless Victoria's Secret shows he'd watched in his previous life, he could still manage a passable imitation.
After he walked back and forth, the models immediately burst into enthusiastic applause.
Joseph returned to his chair, his face dark, and said weakly: "Whoever learns this first will be promoted to coach, and their remuneration will be doubled."
Motivated by the prospect of higher pay, the models immediately grew serious. Several noblewomen who had trained in dance began to grasp the technique, and their movements gradually took shape.
Joseph let them practice and get a feel for it themselves, then turned to the group of male models on the other side of the hall, gesturing with a raised hand: "Please, all of you, walk it once so I can see."
Dozens of handsome young Frenchmen immediately lifted their long legs, and, coupled with the high heels on their feet, walked the catwalk with an alluring sway, far more gracefully than the ladies beside them.
"Stop..." Joseph felt a pang of exasperation. "Not like that! That's a woman's gait..."
A bold, blonde young man immediately said: "Your Royal Highness, wasn't that exactly how you walked just now?"
Joseph stopped him from speaking further with a murderous glare and turned to his guard captain, saying: "Viscount Clauzel, would you mind taking a few steps for everyone to see, just as you normally walk when strolling through Versailles?"
"Yes, Your Royal Highness." Clauzel quickly moved to the center of the hall and walked forward, head held high, chest out, radiating heroism and power.
Joseph looked at the male models: "Please, everyone, practice like this."
Under a construction shed in the Tuileries Palace square, the audit director of the Fashion Week organizing committee was staring intently at the western hall. Dozens of beauties in exquisite dresses walked one after another across the wooden stage, their gazes fluid like water, their postures alluring, exuding boundless charm.
He unconsciously swallowed and asked the President of the Chamber of Commerce beside him: "Viscount Flesselles, what are they doing over there?"
"I hear it's a method of displaying fashion invented by His Royal Highness the Crown Prince, also called a catwalk show," Flesselles replied casually, but inwardly, he marvelled: 'I truly don't know how the Crown Prince, at his age, came up with such a sensual—bah!—such a brilliant idea.' With this kind of catwalk show, this year's Fashion Week is sure to shock all of Europe.
...
"That despicable, shameless bastard Brienne!" Vergennes slammed the letter in his hand onto the table with a resounding bang. "I swear! One day, I will tear you to shreds with my own hands!"
His attendant heard the commotion and hastily pushed open the door, poking his head in to ask: "Count, are you alright?"
"I'm fine. Get out!"
Vergennes roared, turning his head, his face colder than the pristine white snow outside the window.
The letter was from the Duke of Orleans; judging by the date, it had been mailed the day after he left Paris. However, the postman had evidently not caught up with him, and he only finally received the letter after he paused his journey in Smolensk.
The letter contained only a few sentences, informing him that Anglo-French trade negotiations had officially begun. The negotiating representatives were Brienne and the Census Minister, Nicolet.
Vergennes gritted his teeth, recalling how he had asked Brienne just half a month ago when the trade negotiations would begin. Brienne had told him then that some financial data needed for the negotiations were not yet ready, and they would have to wait for a considerable period.
Shortly after, he had been dispatched to Russia to convey France's 'concerns regarding the Russo-Turkish War'.
He never expected that no sooner had he left than the Anglo-French trade negotiations began.
What was most unacceptable to him was that the one replacing him in the negotiations was none other than that useless 'Transparent Minister', Nicolet!
After a long while, he slumped powerlessly into his chair. He was more than 2,000 kilometers from Paris. Even if he rushed back immediately, by the time he reached Paris, the treaty would undoubtedly have already been signed.
And all that awaited him was the ridicule of the entire Parisian political scene.
The firewood in the fireplace crackled, and the fire burned brightly, but Vergennes felt only a biting cold. He knew his political career was likely over...
...
Mirabeau's villa on the West Bank of the Seine.
Mirabeau hadn't expected the Crown Prince to visit so suddenly, and thus appeared a little all in a fluster when he came out to greet him: "Oh, I am delighted to see you, Your Royal Highness."
He stepped back half a pace with his right foot, placed his right hand over his chest, and bowed respectfully.
Joseph smiled faintly: "I am also delighted to see you, Count Mirabeau. In fact, I've come today because I need your assistance with a few matters."
Mirabeau personally opened the grand door for him: "You know, Your Royal Highness, I am always eager to be of service to you."
Once inside the reception room, Mirabeau invited Joseph to sit and, with great enthusiasm, pointed to the black tea a maid had just brought in, saying: "Your Royal Highness, you absolutely must try this. It was just shipped from the Far East; those cheap Indian goods cannot compare. Oh, right, what can I do for you?"
"Thank you for the tea. The flavor is quite excellent." Joseph raised the fragrant, milky tea cup to Mirabeau and continued: "You may have heard that the government is promoting potatoes nationwide."
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