Leonie (11 page)

They could hear the orchestra crashing into the first bars of the overture. “I’ve got to go,” cried Loulou, “I’m on first.” She
dashed off down the dim passage that led to the stage and Léonie followed her slowly.

Only four more weeks, she told herself, just four weeks and then I can leave all this. I’ll go with Rupert to the south, to the inn with that big bed in that moonlit room where we’ll begin our lives together, and I’ll
never ever again
in my whole life set foot in a cabaret.

Their party filled the center block of the first two rows of the theater, crowding in together, laughing and chattering as they discarded furs and capes and took their seats, staring in anticipation at the advertisements for hair restorer and cough linctus on the stiff safety curtain still lowered in front of the stage.

The audience up in the balcony was a raucous group, mostly young men who came to see the girls, already rowdy and excited, passing ribald comments on the dancers and showgirls they had seen before. In the stage boxes and the stalls, other men, their white ties and starched shirtfronts gleaming, waited quietly; they, too, were here to see the girls.

After all, thought Paul Bernard from his seat at the back of the theater, that’s what cabaret is all about: girls. He studied his program, linking names to faces, and in some cases bodies, checking to see what his rivals were up to. Of course, his was a classier cabaret than the Internationale, and more subtly presented. He always had excellent singers and he had the best chorus line in Paris. He was here to see Léonie Bahri—he’d noticed her last week when he’d dropped in to catch the previous show and he’d recognized her as the girl from the train—and, of course, she’d looked as spectacular as he had known she could. He’d like to use her in his next show if he could lure her away from the Internationale.

The horse, powdered to perfect whiteness, was waiting in its box by the stage, fidgeting nervously as the orchestra pounded through the first tunes and the dancers dashed on and off the stage on cue. Léonie could hear the audience laughing at Loulou’s song and the applause for her as she finished and began a second number.

The dancer who was to play ringmaster eyed the horse warily as it whinnied and kicked out its back legs, scattering the stagehands.
“I’d be careful with him if I were you,” she advised. “He’s not used to the lights and the noise.”

Léonie patted his neck, stroking his nose gently, and the horse rolled an eye at her. “He’ll be all right,” she said sympathetically; she knew how he felt. Loulou came off the stage and Léonie went across to congratulate her, leaving the horse stomping his hooves in the straw. “Here,” said one of the stagehands bringing over a bucket of water, “drink this, you stupid animal, maybe then you’ll feel better.”

“They’re a terrific audience tonight.” Loulou smiled, pleased with her success. “You’ll have no problems, Léonie.”

The pretty ringmaster stalked the stage cracking her whip as the “beasts” of the circus cavorted around the ring—long-legged girls dressed as leopards and tigers, ponies and zebras. Real little dogs in neck ruffles somersaulted over their backs and clowns in baggy pants and red noses did handstands and backflips along the catwalks.

De Courmont watched Rupert as he applauded, joining in the fun, bending his head to listen to the whispered comments of Marla, whom Gilles had again seated next to Rupert.

The pretty white horse was next, trotting in neat circles, lifting his feet gracefully to the music, tossing his silvered mane and rolling his eyes like a pony in a fairy story as the audience applauded admiringly. To a fanfare of trumpets a masked girl strode into the ring, sensational in silk tights and satin breasts. There was a whistle of approval from the balcony as she cracked her whip, tossing her head so that her plumed hair flashed with silver to match her horse’s tail. Such marvelous hair, thought Caro, and such legs; she stared closer. No, it couldn’t be, could it? “That
must
be Léonie!” whispered Alphonse. It
was
Léonie! So
this
was what she had been doing,
this
was why she was always so busy in the evenings! But why hadn’t she told her? And why hadn’t Rupert told her? Rupert’s eyes were fixed on Léonie. Had he known? She turned quickly to look at de Courmont. Had
he
known? Was this why he had brought them here? His eyes were not on the stage, not on Léonie. De Courmont was watching Rupert intently. Caro could tell by Rupert’s tense expression that he hadn’t known. Léonie had kept her secret well—from everyone but de Courmont; she’d be willing to bet on that.

“It’s Léonie.… It’s Léonie, Caro’s friend from the party.”
The whispered name flashed around their group and de Courmont settled back into his chair, a smile on his lips. “You knew,” whispered Caro.

He shrugged. “I thought it would be a nice surprise if you saw your little protégée doing so well. Look, she’s going to begin.” Caro turned to Alphonse and raised her eyebrows inquiringly. What was he up to? Alphonse shrugged; he didn’t know. She stole another look at Gilles—his eyes were on Rupert, who was sitting bolt upright staring at the stage, obviously shocked at seeing his Léonie, half-naked in the cabaret.

Léonie ran across the stage and vaulted lightly onto the back of the cantering horse, jumping off again neatly as it circled the ring. “Bravo,” cried the American millionaire, applauding enthusiastically. “Bravo, Léonie”—the others joined in, calling her name and cheering her on as she performed her small feats of bareback horsemanship. She was really quite good, once you got used to her appearance. Rupert joined the applause and Caro saw that he was smiling again, enjoying Léonie’s small success.

De Courmont leaned forward; he hadn’t expected this, he’d wanted Rupert to be stunned, to be outraged by her appearance, shocked that she was not the virginal seventeen-year-old girl he was enamored with. This was meant to expose the “real” Léonie, to shatter Rupert’s dream.

Could it be, Caro wondered, that Gilles doesn’t want Rupert to have Léonie? Surely not, he barely knows Léonie—or does he? He’d been at that party, too. She frowned. Something was wrong and she couldn’t put her finger on it.

The horse is too nervous, thought Léonie, gripping the trace tighter as she swung herself on its back, it’s scared of the applause. It’s those people in front, they’re waving and shouting. What
are
they doing, don’t they see they’re upsetting the animal? She balanced herself warily on one leg and raised the other, toe pointed in bareback rider pose, as she circled the stage, peering across the footlights. Could that be Caro? and Alphonse? She wobbled dangerously. And all those other people she’d seen at Caro’s, a whole group of them? And, oh, God, oh, no, don’t let it be true! There was Rupert! He was smiling and cheering. The smart woman next to him leaned over and took his arm, whispering in his ear, making him laugh. They were laughing at her!

She wanted to jump off the horse, to run away, to escape, but
there was no way out. She had to finish her act. It was almost over, thank God. Oh, what would she say to him? He was with that woman. Would he ever want to see her again now that he knew? Now that he’d seen her in this costume, this awful, humiliating costume! The music slowed and the white horse trembled as the trumpet began a fanfare, kicking its heels suddenly as Léonie attempted her final pose. She lunged forward, just righting herself in time to save herself from falling.

It was as she raised her arms aloft in a final flamboyant pose that she realized that the gauze so well placed by Loulou had slipped and so had her tight bodice. Her naked breasts were displayed to the entire theater. And to Rupert. Oh, God, Rupert!

The audience went wild, they stomped and whistled and applauded, jolting her from her first frozen immobility, and she clutched her arms frantically over her bosom. Over the racket she could hear a new noise, a strange hissing; the footlights spluttered and steamed as the foaming liquid hit them. The nervous horse, filled with water earlier, had chosen this moment to relieve itself, flooding center stage and sending the dancers leaping and giggling out of its path.

The audience howled as Léonie stared with horror at the group in the center stalls. Their heads were thrown back as they roared with helpless laughter, applauding and cheering. Rupert, too, was laughing; he was laughing at
her
—they were all laughing at her—she wanted to die. She just wanted to die. She leapt off the horse and ran from the stage, tearing through the dancers standing in the wings, pushing Loulou away. She had to escape, to get away.

Only Caro wasn’t laughing. She was watching de Courmont. He was smiling quietly. “I didn’t realize it would be quite this amusing,” he said.

–
• 6 •

Maroc hurried down the alley at the back of the rue Montalivet and into the connecting one at the corner, threading his way through a network of narrow streets that became increasingly dirty and mean as he made his way home. The shabby lodging house stood back from a busy intersection near the railway station, and he had chosen it because it was the cleanest he could find. The landlord was a meticulous old man who insisted on his lodgers being the same; he would have no garbage left in the halls, no cooking smells from the tiny communal kitchen, and each tenant had to wash his own window once a week and pay his rent on Friday. Those were the rules and you either lived with them or you left. But the old man asked no questions and took no interest in the personal lives of his lodgers, and it had been the cheapest place he could find for Léonie. When she had come to him that night, he had understood at once how desperate she was and had taken her in without even asking what had happened, or why.

He couldn’t forget how she had cried; the tears had seemed an unending torrent, blotching her skin, puffing her lovely face, until he became worried that she might never stop. But she had, eventually. Then she’d told him the story of her humiliation, of her nakedness and her shame and how they had all laughed at her, laughing together. She never wanted to see any of them again, even Caro. When Léonie said that, he knew the depth of her humiliation. She adored Caro, she was her idol, she was everything Léonie longed to be. It was Maroc who had sneaked back to Madame Artois’s and collected Léonie’s things, slipping in after dinner when he knew Madame Artois would be alone in her sitting room, enjoying her brandy. There had been no one around. And it was he who had found her the job—it was only as a waitress at the café opposite the station, but at least it was work and
she had welcomed it. She would never, never, she told him passionately, go back to the cabaret again. And she had sworn him to secrecy. He knew nothing about her, he had no idea where she was, he was to tell no one.

Verronet sat at a table by the door in the Café du Gare, lingering over a cup of what must surely have been the worst coffee in Paris. He was getting tired of spending so much time in this dreary place, the windows were perpetually steamed from the bubbling pots in a kitchen that smelled of too many layers of grease, and the woman who presided over the immense cash register near the door was beginning to look at him suspiciously as he sat for an hour at a time, ordering nothing but coffee. Weakly he summoned the waiter. “Brandy,” he said, “and make it a large one.” Catching her eye on him, he added hastily, “and a piece of that cake.” He stared distastefully at the tired chocolate confection in its glass case under the zinc counter. Surely de Courmont must be satisfied by now that the girl did nothing other than come here to work and leave again when she had finished, heading straight back to the lodging house without speaking to anyone. Her routine had been the same for over a month now, and she was unlikely to vary the pattern. The young boy was her only friend and he was harmless. But de Courmont did not like it. He wanted her to have no one to turn to so that he could come along and save her. Verronet shrugged. What did de Courmont expect him to do about the boy? He was just a kid.

Caro was consumed by guilt and worry—it was her fault. If she had been less busy, less wrapped up in her social rounds, more caring, perhaps Léonie would have confided in her. She would have advised her against any association with a man like the manager of the Cabaret Internationale. Time and time again she told herself Léonie’s public humiliation could have been avoided. But she blamed Rupert as well as herself for what had happened. “You’ve monopolized her time, and yet you say you didn’t even know what she was doing! How could you Rupert, how could you let her do that?”

“I swear I didn’t know, Caro.” He was so miserable, so abjectly sorry, that she had relented. They had hurried backstage together that night, but Léonie had gone, thrown her coat over that astonishing costume and disappeared into the night. “I couldn’t stop
her,” Loulou had told them. “She just pushed me aside and ran off. She must have gone home.”

But she wasn’t at home, Madame Artois hadn’t seen her, and when she heard their story, she told them bluntly that she wasn’t surprised the girl had run away. “Poor child, and her so modest,” she had said, recalling her blushes as the girls had made her try on the dress that time. “To expose her in a costume like that in front of all those men!”

Caro had no idea where to search. At first they just hoped that she would return, but she didn’t. Then the answer came to her in a flash. “There’s only one person,” Caro told Alphonse, after weeks of worrying, “only one person that she might trust. Maroc. It must be him. Why, oh, why,” she wailed, “didn’t I think of this sooner?”

At Serrat Maroc lurked in the background, avoiding her eyes, and she knew she was on to something. “I’ll need the boy,” she ordered, “to carry my parcels.”

“Of course, Mademoiselle Montalva.… Maroc!”

He came forward reluctantly and followed her outside. “Tell me where she is,” she demanded.

“I don’t know what you mean … where who is?” he parried innocently.

“Léonie! And
of course
you know.” He was silent. “Look, Maroc, I’m here because I want to help her. I feel responsible for what happened. I should have kept an eye on her. I should have known what was going on.… I must help her, and so must you.”