Although there is no known portrait of the Parisian maid, this portrait is a good representation of the physical appearance.
As told by Nellie.

My first memory of this life was as of me standing behind my friend Jessica, who was seated. She was a teenager in this, wearing a late 1700s style gown made out of a stiff, heavy white satin embroidered with stripes of pink roses. Her red hair was swept up in one of those exaggerated hairdos that were popular then. I was trying to set bows into her hair, but the silly girl was so excited about the party that she was to attend that she kept turning around to talk to me. I playfully chided her that I could not get the job done if she kept turning around to talk. She would be good for a few minutes after that, still chattering, but looking at my reflection in the mirror in front of her. Then she would forget and start turning around to talk to me directly again. I was wearing a yellow gown and was noticeably pregnant. There was a large window off to my left, which had been left open, the curtains waving in the breeze. I could see a storm front moving in. The window also looked out over a large pond, so I kept an eye out for my husband,.

My husband worked on the estate tending the waterfowl there. The other servants had named him "Father Quack" because of something that had happened to him several years prior while he was a teenager. He took care of a nest of duck eggs after the mother duck had been killed. When the eggs hatched, the ducklings impressed upon him. For many months, everywhere he went, he was followed by a parade of ducklings.

I worked at the estate as a servant, but since he was a farm hand of sorts, we lived on the estate in our own little cottage. We were quite happy with our life together and looking forward to the birth of our first child.

I had red hair, too. I seem to have been the illegitimate offspring of one of the men in the family, probably Jessica’s maternal grandfather. Although I was a servant, there was a feeling of kinship with them, and they treated me reasonably kindly.

Later, I remember a scene with Jessica’s mother in that life. We were standing in a music room with a harpsichord in front of large doors opening out to a terrace. The mother was distraught, and there was a flurry of activity going on in the hall behind her. She handed me a small bag of coins and told me to flee with my husband while we could still do so safely. I asked ”but what about you?” She replied that they had a plan of escape, although from the tone of her voice, she did not seem too confident about it. I know that her family ended up being executed in the revolution. As for my family, I have a vague sense that we emigrated to the New World, probably Canada, but neither my husband nor I lived to a ripe old age.

This does explain some predispositions of mine. I have always had a prejudice against the French, for no reason I could think of in this life. At the same time, French Canadian and American cultures feel very homey to me. I have felt disdain for both the excesses that led to the French Revolution and the power mongers who took advantage of the situation. The Rococo and Neoclassical periods as a whole leaves me cold, although I do like fashions from the late 1780s and early 1790s. I am also very drawn to paintings by Vigee Le Brun, whom I have since found out had a lot of interactions with the family I worked for.