Brand

As the morning sun climbed higher, the crowd at the entrance of Dutch's clothing store swelled into an unmanageable, human tide. For two days now, the Van der Linde ladies had been parading through Saint Denis, each a walking, talking advertisement, dropping Dutch's name with every admiring glance. The word-of-mouth campaign had worked a dark magic: the 'VDL' Clothing Store was now a chaotic vortex of humanity, three layers deep inside and outside, a constant, roaring hum of conversation, effectively shutting down the entire street.

It was almost unfathomable, the sheer, manic craze that the opening of a mere clothing store had ignited. Yet, the truth was simple: the designs Dutch had unleashed didn't just entice women; they made men practically demand their women buy them.

Modern clothing, after all, was crafted to showcase feminine beauty, and what better way to achieve that than by instantly seizing the undivided, often drooling, attention of every red-blooded male within a mile radius?

As the minutes stretched, Arthur felt a monumental pressure building, a palpable weight on his shoulders. "Oh, Dutch," he muttered, running a hand through his already disheveled hair, his eyes wide with disbelief, "I don't think we have enough clothes. Look at those ladies down there! They're absolutely rabid, shit! If our clothes sell out, they'll tear us apart alive!"

Arthur was genuinely shocked. If not for this grand opening, he would never have believed Saint Denis harbored such a staggering number of wealthy families, or rather, just rich people. A custom suit or a formal woman's dress in this era cost a princely twenty-five dollars—roughly 1000 dollars in modern currency, undeniably high-end. Their store priced every item at the same, flat rate.

Yet, listening to the eager, almost desperate conversations swirling in the throng, it was clear: twenty-five dollars meant absolutely nothing to this ravenous crowd.

Is this Saint Denis? Arthur thought, shaking his head, a wry smirk twisting his lips. A city overflowing with fat cats! Poor souls wouldn't even dream of spending two months' wages on a single dress!

Hosea, overhearing Arthur's lament, threw back his head and roared with laughter. "Oh, Arthur, do you actually have moments of fear? I thought you were utterly devoid of the emotion!"

Dutch, seizing the golden opportunity, playfully jabbed Arthur in the ribs. "Hosea, are you questioning Arthur? I will not allow you to question him! Because apart from the sheer terror that overcomes him whenever he sees Mary, I assure you, he experiences fear at no other time! He is a true man!" Dutch puffed out his chest, a self-satisfied grin plastered across his face.

"Shit, Dutch!" Arthur sputtered, his face flushing crimson, a wave of genuine exasperation washing over him. He wanted to stomp his foot. He instantly regretted every single life choice that had led him to join the Van der Linde Gang. "Oh, shit! I feel like I'd rather just go rob a bank right now. At least that's straightforward!"

As the two old friends dissolved into laughter, Arthur burying his mortified face in his hands, the main invited guests for the ribbon-cutting ceremony began to arrive.

First to appear were the two Jones sisters, whom they had first encountered on that fateful train. Their eagerness to acquire these magnificent clothes had been a palpable force for days. Now, a red carpet aisle, meticulously carved through the surging crowd, allowed them passage. John, standing guard, nodded curtly, allowing them to glide forward.

"Oh, dear Arthur, you've kept me waiting for so long!" Ms. Camille Jones glided forward, a vibrant, daring dress clinging to her elegant figure. Her eyes, however, fixed on Dutch with a theatrical, almost playful resentment. The subtle hints she'd dropped when she left—the hopeful desires for Dutch to visit her at the Jones Family estate, to discuss the intriguing "friendship between men and women"—had gone unanswered. Two agonizing days at home, and all she'd received was a formal invitation. The indignity!

"Hoo hoo hoo, Ms. Jones," Dutch purred, stepping forward, his smile a blinding flash of charm. He took her hand, bowing gallantly. "I am truly, profoundly sorry. These past two days, I've been consumed. Utterly consumed. Designing a truly beautiful, utterly unique clothing style specifically for you." Dutch paused, letting the words hang in the air, watching her eyes widen. "As a distinguished member of our 'VDL' enterprise," he continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "I've decided to make this distinction even more honorable. So, I am creating an exclusive clothing style named after you. This way, as our clothing conquers the world, I believe Ms. Jones's illustrious name will also spread. World-renowned! I believe only this can truly match the prestige of your unparalleled status!"

Dutch didn't bother with flimsy excuses for his absence; he simply dropped a tactical nuclear bomb of flattery and ambition. Ms. Camille's breath caught in her throat. As Dutch's final words fell, her face flushed a deep crimson, and her entire body trembled, a delicious shock coursing through her. Her eyes, wide and disbelieving, fixed on Dutch's charming, smiling face. She stammered, unable to control the tremor in her voice, "Oh, Mr. Arthur, oh, Arthur. Did… did I just mishear something? Oh, dear, could you… could you please repeat that?"

Dutch's smile widened, a triumphant gleam in his eye. He savored the moment, then, with impeccable delivery, repeated his earlier words. "Oh, dear Ms. Jones, you did not mishear. I am indeed creating a garment named after you. This, you see, is the privilege due to our distinguished members, just like these three garments," he gestured vaguely towards the dresses worn by Dorothea, Ann, and Alice. "Your name: Ms. Camille Jones, will spread throughout the world with our clothing!"

GASP!!!

As Dutch's words were repeated, a collective gasp rippled through the Van der Linde contingent. Ms. Camille's heart, she swore, nearly seized up. My name will spread throughout the world with the clothing?

What kind of impossible concept was this? Given the undeniable, classic nature of Dutch's designs, his garments possessed the raw potential to become templates for all future fashion, master copies for countless derivatives. This meant that once a garment named after her was launched, whether people bought or merely made clothes in the future, they would inevitably, invariably, know her name!

For example: "Oh, dear, I simply adore this style of clothing! This garment is a striking variation of the Ms. Camille style. Just look, what an exquisite design!"

Or: "The Ms. Camille Jones style clothing, officially launched by the 'VDL' Clothing Store, is a true classic, a masterpiece that has inspired countless subsequent fashion forms. It is rumored that a fascinating, long-standing story lies behind the naming of this garment, a tale of how Mr. Van der Linde unexpectedly encountered the enchanting Ms. Camille Jones on a train, and thus…"

No matter the exact narrative, one fact was undeniably certain: Ms. Camille would achieve international renown through the promotion of Dutch's clothing store. If not truly world-renowned, her reputation within America would become nothing short of legendary!

Even those unscrupulous pirated clothing factories, eager to cash in on the trend, would inevitably emblazon the name "Ms. Camille Jones" on their counterfeit garments. This, Dutch knew, was the true power of widespread reputation. And the sheer, unfathomable benefit it would bring to her family's already colossal wealth? Ms. Camille didn't even dare to imagine.

My goodness, she thought, her mind reeling, how can Mr. Arthur's mind be so brilliantly inventive? Whose twisted genius conceived these utterly insane, yet undeniably effective, publicity tactics?

Ms. Camille was completely stunned, her mind a hazy blur, as if she had just smoked a generous pipe of opium. She communicated with Dutch like a puppet on strings, her movements stiff, her words uttered in a daze, then blankly followed his instructions to wait nearby, as bewildered as a simpleton.

Meanwhile, Ms. Dorothea and the two other ladies, their faces glowing with a self-satisfied pride, had also arrived, bringing along a carefully curated selection of genuine noblewomen, eager to witness the spectacle.

"Oh, Arthur, dear, it's so good to see you!" Ms. Ann, ever the aggressor, stepped forward, bypassing Ms. Dorothea entirely. She practically enveloped Dutch in an embrace, planting a fierce, lingering kiss squarely on his cheek.

Ms. O'Shea, standing nearby, practically fizzed with barely contained rage. Her chest heaved, her hands clenched into white-knuckled fists, her eyes blazing with an almost homicidal fury. She yearned to grab a shotgun and blast Ms. Ann's head clean off her shoulders.

"Oh ho ho, Ms. Ann, thank you for coming! Ms. Dorothea, and the rest of the ladies, I am deeply honored by your presence!" Dutch released Ms. Ann with a smooth, practiced motion, then bowed gallantly to the entire glittering group of noblewomen before him.

It seemed Norton Lemieux had, after all, managed to keep Dutch's true identity under wraps from the general public. Or, perhaps, everyone was simply pretending. After all, Dutch's public persona was Arthur Callahan, and to address him as "Dutch" in front of outsiders would be a profound disrespect to his carefully constructed façade.