Leonie (10 page)

Léonie nodded slowly.

“Then hurry, change into your other dress, brush your hair, put on some perfume. Oh,
hurry
, Léonie, he’s waiting. Your Rupert is waiting!” Bella was thrilled that at last something was going right for Léonie; she’d seen her crying the night of the party, and though it might only be first-love despair—a sixteen-year-old’s romantic despair, as Loulou had pointed out—still, Bella could remember the first time she’d fallen in love, and how desperate it
was and how marvelous it was—usually both at the same time. “Come on,” she said. “I’ll help you.” She brushed Léonie’s hair and lent her some perfume and held her hand as they walked sedately down the stairs together. “Now, don’t look too eager,” she cautioned on the second flight. “Be a little aloof, a little distant. Make him think there’s a line of other men just waiting to take you out.”

He was there, standing in Madame Artois’s salon, and he was just as she remembered him, his eyes were just as blue, his hair exactly as blond—and the world turned cartwheels just like before. “Oh, Rupert,” she said, forgetting Bella’s advice, “I thought I’d never see you again.”

Bella sighed in exasperation as Rupert took Léonie’s hands in his and they gazed into each other’s eyes, and then he put his arms around her. Closing the door softly behind her, Bella walked back up the stairs, sighing as she went. “The fool,” she said quietly under her breath, “the silly little fool.”

The Café Anglaise was
their
place. They met there every night for supper and every night Rupert waited impatiently, wondering
why
she would insist on being so late. But he forgot everything when she appeared in the doorway, her lovely face anxious until she spotted him, and then the delicious melting smile, the amber eyes gleaming her happiness as he came toward her and took her hand, leading her to their special banquette in the corner, away from the crowd and prying eyes, where he could hold her hand and sneak a kiss without being observed. He was crazy about her, she was the most beautiful girl he had ever known. And she was sweet, oh, so sweet. And innocent. There was no doubt about that. She was completely honest, without guile of any sort, but she was mysterious. When she wasn’t with him, he didn’t know what she did—I have commitments, she said vaguely. He thought perhaps it was her family, that she might have to take care of them and didn’t want him to know. He didn’t inquire too closely, all he wanted was to be with her. He wanted to be with her forever. He closed his mind to thoughts of Puschi and his family—all that existed right now was Léonie.

She was wearing a new dress! It was blue, the blue of the Mediterranean in summer, and he could just imagine her swimming in warm seas, her long, tawny hair floating behind her—of course,
that was it! The perfect place, the old whitewashed inn at Cap Ferrat. He would take her there.

“I’m so late,” Léonie said apologetically. It was sinful to waste a precious moment away from him, but the show had run late tonight. The cabaret was another world, one she didn’t want him to know about. What would he think of her if he knew, if he saw how she was on stage, how she flaunted herself to the audience? She shuddered.

“What’s the matter, darling, are you cold?” He was solicitous, wrapping his arm around her.

“No, no.” She laughed. “I’m not cold. I’m just happy.”

He filled her glass with champagne. They drank only champagne—to match the color of her hair. “I’ve had a wonderful idea,” he told her, “but I’ll save it until after you’ve eaten.”

“No, now, please tell me now.” She kissed his fingers, clasped around her own.

“Later,” he teased. “First you must eat your supper like a good girl.”

Gilles de Courmont watched from his table by the window. He was there almost every night, discreetly hidden behind the decorative little trees and palms. And Verronet waited outside to follow them; so far he had always taken her home. Admittedly, they did drive around in a cab for a long time, but still, he hadn’t taken her to his apartment yet. Gilles sipped the excellent Lafite without noticing, ignoring the food in front of him. He hadn’t reckoned on Rupert von Hollensmark. Without realizing that there was a game to be played, he had lost. But only the first round. A waiting game usually proved to be more profitable in the end. He considered his next moves.

“Do sit down,” Caro sighed as Léonie paced the floor of her sitting room radiating happiness.

“He wants me to go away with him, Caro, to this lovely little inn on the Côte d’Azur. He says it’s beautiful, so quiet and peaceful. We shall be all alone and the sun will shine and the sea is warm and even bluer than the sky.”

“Léonie, it’s
December,
” said Caro realistically.

Léonie was lost for a moment in her dreams, her thoughts turned inward on a vision of Rupert alone with her, in a simple whitewashed room that overlooked the blue sea, and a big white bed. “Oh, Caro, what do you think? Should I do it?”

“Of course you shouldn’t do it! Léonie, think about it, and think about it carefully. It’s the biggest step a girl can take, and it’s one there’s no going back from.” She didn’t want to hurt her, but she must tell her the facts, make it clear that Rupert would not be able to marry her. Love was quite another matter. “I’m sure he loves you, just as much as you love him. But Rupert’s engaged to a girl in Germany. He’ll marry her, Léonie.”

“I know about her, he told me, of course. He didn’t want us to have any secrets,” Léonie said confidently. “But he’ll tell her that he can’t marry her. Not now that he loves me.”

“His father arranged this marriage for Rupert. It’s more than a marriage, Léonie, it’s an alliance between two powerful families—you have more than just Rupert to contend with … you’ve almost got the whole German empire!”

Léonie laughed. “Oh, Caro, you’re so funny. You mustn’t worry about me. Rupert will take care of everything.”

Damn, thought Caro, this is all my fault and it can only end in disaster. Even if Rupert does go against his family and marry her, he will have no money, he can’t afford a wife. A lover is a different matter. Every man can afford a lover.

Léonie glanced at the clock. She would be late for the theater. Thank goodness it would only be for a few more weeks; she had promised Monsieur Briac that she wouldn’t leave until she’d done the circus role. She wished she could tell Caro now that she worked in the cabaret. She looked at Caro longingly, resisting the urge to confess. The fewer people who knew, the better. She never, never wanted Rupert to find out, and Caro might just, even if sworn to secrecy, she might just tell Alphonse, and Alphonse might tell a friend—no, it was better this way.

“Where do you disappear to all the time?” complained Caro. “You’re so busy. You must come and see me more often. Come with us to dinner at Gilles de Courmont’s next Tuesday. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if I brought you along.” She’d get her away from Rupert, take her out a little, let her meet more people.

Tuesday was the opening night of the new show. “I’m sorry, Caro, I can’t. But thank you anyway. I’ll come to see you again next week.” Léonie kissed her impulsively on the cheek. “I can never thank you enough for introducing me to Rupert.”

“Oh, dear, Léonie,” sighed Caro. “I do wish I hadn’t.”

*   *   *

Monsieur le Duc de Courmont had two lives: one formal life at home with his wife, the social events they were expected to appear at together, when she would grace his table for business and political purposes, or when he would be at her side at family events; and another, quite separate, one, where he would go his own way, always alone, meeting the people he chose to meet, playing host at a smart restaurant, returning the hospitality of people whose parties or dinners he might have attended. And the extraordinary thing was, thought Verronet, waiting outside Voisins, pacing the chill December street trying to keep warm, that no one ever refused his invitations. Like him or not, they came. He wouldn’t like to bet on how many
friends
were sitting at that big table right now—and there were two dozen people there. That’s power for you. He smiled smugly, secure in his little niche in that power. Nobody can ever say “no” when you’re
that
powerful.

Caro had always like Voisins, she loved the restaurant’s overblown intimacy, its deep coral walls and swagged velvet drapes, the heavy tassels and gilded mirrors that reflected the smartest diners in Paris. And, for those who preferred privacy, there were the special booths, each one a tiny secluded rendezvous—candlelight, sofa, and table for two—hidden from curious eyes by velvet curtains heavy enough to muffle whispered words of love and the soft sounds of kisses. She had fond memories of those booths.

Gilles had taken a private dining room, and, as usual, everything was perfect. The staff at Voisins were used to Monsieur le Duc. He was civil, prompt, and undemanding; he simply expected the best and they were happy to supply it. “And God help us if we don’t,” said the manager feelingly.

De Courmont greeted his guests, savoring the evening ahead. Anticipation was an enormous pleasure, it always heightened his excitement, whether it was pulling off a coup in business or making love to a woman—the waiting, knowing what was to come, knowing he would win, was at least fifty percent of the game.

He liked giving these dinner parties; they gave him another opportunity to manipulate people, placing young men next to sophisticated older women, and foreign businessmen next to the most alluring girls, juggling the beautiful people of Paris, sparking off rivalries and love affairs. The results could be fascinating to watch. Tonight he had put Rupert von Hollensmark next to Marla, and he could see it was a good move.

Marla was flamboyant, arrogant, rich, titled, and forty, notorious for her liking for younger men. As Gilles watched she leaned closer to Rupert, affording him an even better view of her spectacular bosom. Even a man as in love as Rupert couldn’t remain unaware of that body, or of her reputation for never wearing underwear. Marla fired any man’s fantasies. She leaned closer, fingers resting lightly on Rupert’s thigh, asking him some question. Gilles smiled. No young man was safe with Marla. He’d chosen her well.

Caro was flirting with the American millionaire. Why was it that Americans always wanted you to know how many millions they had? he wondered. This one had made his in oil and railroads—a useful combination. He’d left his yacht at Monte Carlo and was dividing his time between losing his dollars in the casino there and spending them on more earthly delights in Paris. Caro already had him so charmed that he thought he must surely be the most attractive man in the world—she was an expert flirt. She glanced up and caught his eye and he smiled at her.

There was a buzz of conversation and laughter as the wine flowed; he could almost sense the women relaxing, like flowers in the sun, while the men basked in a glow of well-being and good food. Two dozen people. Could he call any of them friends? The men were mostly business acquaintances, the women, well, some of them he knew more intimately than others. Gilles smiled, enjoying himself. His party was a success. But the best was yet to come.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” He commanded their attention. “Friends,” he added smoothly, “I have a surprise for you. We are going to a cabaret.”

“A cabaret? What fun. Where?” they clamored, eager for excitement.

“There’s a new show opening tonight. I’ve heard it’s quite spectacular—amazing costumes, extraordinary girls, wonderful dancers—I thought it might amuse us.” He smiled at Rupert, enjoying himself.

Léonie paced the dressing room tearfully in her high white leather boots, raging against the manager. “How could he—how could he, Loulou? Just look at me—look at this
costume!
”

Loulou stared at her. The white tights fit her like a second skin and the stiff white satin corselette, pulled tight by silver laces,
pinched her waist, pushing her bosom upward until it spilled out at the top in two emphatic half-moon curves. A white leather belt, studded in silver, was slung low on her hips and padlocked strategically with a large silver heart. She carried a silver whip with a thin white thong and her blond hair was tightly tied back into a long plume plaited with tinsel strands exactly like the tail of the white horse she was to ride. She looked spectacular, a white virginal rebel from some masochistic dream of de Sade.

“It’s too late to do anything about it now, Léonie. I don’t understand why you didn’t complain at the fitting.”

“But it didn’t
look like this
at the fitting. The top came up to here and it wasn’t pulled as tightly, and there was supposed to be a little tutu to cover the tights—not this—this padlock! Oh, Loulou!” She was near to tears.

“I think if we put a little flesh-colored gauze here”—Loulou tucked the soft fabric over Léonie’s bosom—“it should be all right. That way the audience will think they’re seeing more than is really there—it’s an old trick. Now,” she said, shrugging, “it doesn’t seem to matter anymore.”

“It does to me,” cried Léonie.

“I know, I know it does, but look in the mirror. You see, now you’re completely covered.”

Léonie stared; it did look a little better. “What about
this?
” she demanded.

Loulou examined the belt. It was attached to the tights and there was no way to take it off. “I
can’t
go on stage like this. Oh, I just want to hide.” The tears streamed down Léonie’s face, ruining the elaborate makeup.

Loulou thought for a moment. “That’s exactly what you’ll do. You’ll hide. Wait a minute.” She rummaged through the big drawer that held scarves, gloves, and odd bits and pieces of costumes and pulled out a silver domino mask. “I wore it in a Pierrot and Columbine number last year. Put it on, Léonie, it’s as good as hiding; your own mother wouldn’t recognize you.”

My mother, thought Léonie desperately, never did anything like this—she never shamed herself appearing on stage looking the way I do. She put on the mask and faced herself in the mirror. It didn’t hide much but it was better, at least she didn’t feel so exposed.