Leonie (12 page)

“You should have left her alone in the first place.” He flared up angrily. “She was all right before she met you.”

“Oh, Maroc!” Could it be true? Caro wondered guiltily. Had she meddled in the girl’s life? If she had, it was now up to her to do something about it.

Maroc stared at the ground miserably, torn between loyalty to Léonie and his worry about her. The double blow of lost love and hurt pride was taking its toll, diminishing her once-sparkling brightness to muted shadow. It had been five weeks now, and she was growing thinner and more lethargic. She was supposed to get her lunch and evening meal free at the café, but he suspected she didn’t bother to eat, and she never went anywhere—just walked to the café at noon and back again at eight o’clock at night. What was he to do with her? The responsibility was enormous. He
looked hesitantly at Caro. Maybe if she promised not to tell Rupert. After all, she was the only one who might be able to help Léonie.

Caro sensed his hesitation. “Please, Maroc,
please
. I’d do
anything
to help her. She needs another woman at a time like this.”

She was right; Léonie did need another woman. He had done all he could, but women were a mystery, you never knew what they were thinking, what they might do. And he was becoming afraid of Léonie’s black mood. “But you must promise to tell no one else,” he said.

De Courmont was restless. He paced the decks of the liner
Ile de France
, avoiding the companionship of his fellow passengers as much as possible. The outward journey to America was boring enough, but the return seemed even longer. Shipboard life was too relaxed for him after the pace and action that always seemed so much a part of New York. Still, the trip had proved a profitable one, he would be one of the first men in France to get into the motor car industry. The vehicle of the future, just as railways had been not too long ago. He was well pleased with himself.

He thought about Paris, about getting home. He had promised his wife he would be back in time for their elder son’s birthday; Gérard would be six years old—he must see to it that the boy had a good tutor, get him primed for school in the autumn. That fool governess was no good. Of course, Marie-France liked her, said she was kind. Kind! The boy needed knowledge, not kindness. Perhaps he’d try to spend more time with him, go down to the country, ride with him, that sort of thing. Now that they were no longer babies, he should take more interest in his sons—Marie-France had influenced them long enough.

“Morning, sir.” The wireless officer saluted him. “There’s a cablegram for you, sir.”

Gilles tore open the cable and read it quickly. It was another report from Verronet: the same thing, the girl was still at the café. No sign of Rupert. Yes, his plan had worked out very satisfactorily. Léonie would be just about ready for some comfort, a sympathetic listener, a little help; he’d ease her into a little luxury, a little pampering, gradually, until she couldn’t do without it. She’d soon forget Rupert von Hollensmark. A few more weeks of hardship and loneliness wouldn’t hurt; he’d let her wait a little longer … to make his own pleasure all the sweeter.

*   *   *

Caro dusted her hands fastidiously, removing what she felt sure were the imprints of a thousand greasy fingers from the banister of the rickety staircase, where she had thoughtlessly trailed her hand on the climb to the fourth floor. Nevertheless, it was cleaner than she had expected from the outside, and Léonie’s room, though dark, was immaculate. And cold! Caro shivered; how cold it was, even though the sun was shining outside and the sky was blue—these old lodging houses had the chill of a dungeon. Maroc had said that Léonie would be home at eight o’clock and she wandered restlessly around the small room, her high-heels echoing on the naked floorboards, peering out the window at the thankless view of the railway station, lifting the cheap flowered curtain that hid Léonie’s pitifully few belongings: two dresses hanging crookedly from a peg on the wall, a pair of gold boots—of course, she remembered she had worn them at the party—the start of it all. Caro turned expectantly as she heard footsteps on the stairs and the door was pushed open.

Léonie was lost in her thoughts, eyes downcast. It wasn’t the sort of room you entered with any joy for its welcoming comfort.

“Léonie.”

Looking up, she saw Caro waiting, framed by the window that never seemed to let in either light or fresh air—Caro, whose world was jewel-colored and bright, gleaming and sparkling. It was like finding an orchid in a prison. Léonie began to cry.

“Oh, Léonie, my poor Léonie.” Caro wrapped her arms around her, cradling her head, kissing her hair, offering words of comfort. “It’s all my fault,” she cried guiltily, “I was your friend. If only you’d told me about the cabaret, I would have helped you, advised you, warned you. Oh, Léonie, it need never have happened.” Her tears mingled with Léonie’s and they sobbed together in relief. “The worst is over,” she consoled her. “You’ll come with me. We’ll work it all out.”

Léonie pushed her away, her eyes red-rimmed and wide with panic. She bore so little resemblance to the golden girl of the party, to the star of the cabaret, that Caro was shocked. She could see now how thin the girl had become, the bones of her face projected sharply and her thin shoulder blades protruded from under the cheap blouse. Her hands were red and chapped from washing dishes and her hair, dragged back into a coil on her neck
and anchored by a dozen pins, lacked the luster and the wildness that had always sent it floating free with a life of its own.

“I can’t ever see Rupert again.”

Caro wondered what to say. She didn’t want her to see Rupert again, it would be far better for all their sakes if she didn’t, but he was so miserable, so terribly unhappy. He came daily to see if Caro had heard anything, and each time she sent him away with no news he seemed to become a little older, a little sadder. There was no doubt he was a young man very much in love. She hardened her heart. She’d seen young men in love before, and she wouldn’t have Léonie hurt a second time.

“You need never see him,” she promised. “We could work it out, Léonie, just come back with me. I promise I won’t let him know you’re there.”

Léonie felt so
tired
suddenly. It was all too much. Too many decisions, too much emotion, too much despair. How nice life would be without it, a life where she need never feel love and despair and passion and hate and humiliation. Where everything just jogged along pleasantly. How easy, a life without love. She looked around her small room. It had never seemed a place of refuge, it had given her nothing, offered her no warmth, no comfort. One day she would find a place that did that, a place of her own.

“Leave everything,” commanded Caro, “you need nothing of this. You’ll start afresh, a new beginning.”

Léonie hesitated. “Just these,” she said, “I need them.” She picked up the small bag, hugging it to her. It was just as Maroc had brought it to her—she hadn’t bothered to unpack. She would never part with the two Egyptian dolls. They were all that truly belonged to her. As they slammed the door of that miserable room behind them and walked together down the stairs, Léonie wondered what the next tenant would think when she discovered those little gold boots.

–
• 7 •

The Baroness von Hollensmark loved to gamble. There was something about those green baize tables and the delicate flutter of cards in expert hands, the tension of the players and the impassive faces of the croupiers—and all those lovely colored counters and gold coins scattered across the cloth—that still gave her a thrill. “I’m eighty years old,” she said gleefully to Rupert as he pushed her chair through the foyer of the Hotel Grand Park, “and I’ve an arthritic hip to thank for getting me back to Baden-Baden. Your grandfather used to bring me here often. Of course, he came for the races, but I always liked the casino best.”

It had been fifteen years since she was last here and she still half-expected to meet some of her old friends, though, sadly, most of them were gone now, many killed more than twenty years ago in the Franco-Prussian War. Rupert adored his grandmother. Grandess, he called her, mixing her two titles. She’d always been the member of the family he’d been closest to; he had spent long, lazy summers at her castle overlooking the Rhine, and it had been she who had comforted him when he had been sent away to school, she who had promised to look after his pony and his dogs—and she hadn’t forgotten. He’d been happy to escort her to Baden-Baden for treatment for her arthritis. Of course, she had her little entourage, her maid and her nurse, but she enjoyed the company of her favorite grandson.

Grandess sighed with satisfaction. Thank goodness the casino was still the same, things seemed to change so quickly these days. The Venetian chandeliers were as glitteringly beautiful and the tables as busy as in the past; the women were still pretty and the men, in white tie and tails, as solidly handsome. The ceilings still had the same floating cupids and clouds and the carpet was satisfyingly
thick and red. “Now,” she said happily, “I think we’ll start with chemin de fer.”

Rupert watched Grandess enjoying herself, allowing his mind to wander back to the previous weekend. It had not been a success. Puschi had wondered why he hadn’t been writing to her and why he was so distant. It wasn’t her fault. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, he just couldn’t forget Léonie. It had been three months and there was still no trace of her. He had wanted to hire an investigator but Alphonse had forbidden it, saying that if Léonie didn’t want him to find her then he should accept that. She knows where you are, she could come to you, he’d said. Obviously, Léonie doesn’t choose to do so. Alphonse’s words had a ring of logic that Rupert had been forced to accept, but he still found himself searching through the faces in the crowds hoping to see her. He never did. He’d thrown himself into his work, burying his dreams in the complexities of expanding markets for Krummer—his future father-in-law’s steelworks—working hard and late with a new dedication that had earned the surprised approval of the directors of the Paris offices. That was the reason her father had been so pleasant this weekend, despite Puschi’s complaints.

“He’s working hard, my dear,” he’d told her. “He’s a busy man,” he added approvingly, as talk had shifted to the possibility of an autumn wedding.
An autumn wedding
. Oh, God! He loved Léonie. He would try to see Caro again when he got back to Paris, though she was so elusive these days, always away in the country.

“Excuse me, sir.” Grandess’s nurse was at his side. “It’s time for the baroness to go to bed, sir. She has a treatment first thing in the morning at the spa and she needs her rest.”

“It’s only been a couple of hours,” said Baroness von Hollensmark testily, “and don’t treat me like an old lady. I don’t like it, I’m not old yet. I can still win at the tables.”

“I’ll come back with you,” volunteered Rupert. “Keep you company.”

“No, no, there’s no need to, Rupert. Unfortunately the woman is right. I do have to be up early and they tell me that the treatment is tiring. You stay here and enjoy yourself. Here, take these.” She pushed the pile of chips toward him. “Try your luck. See if you can break the bank for us.”

Rupert bent to kiss her cheek. She smelled of eau de cologne and pink powder, just as he remembered. He watched her disappear down the vast chandeliered corridor and turned away, feeling
suddenly very lonely. The night was still young—and still empty. Gathering up the chips, he returned to the chemin de fer tables.

It had been Alphonse’s suggestion that she take Léonie to the spa and Caro had leapt at the idea. Of course, it was the perfect place, a health resort that offered diversion, too. It was exactly what she needed, and besides, she didn’t know how much longer she could tolerate hiding away in the country. No matter how beautiful Rambouillet might be, it was
quiet
. Baden-Baden was
fun
, she’d told Léonie, and what they both needed was a little fun.

While fun wasn’t exactly what she felt like, Léonie enjoyed the lovely old town on the bank of the river Emz, and the hotel was so grand and so beautiful with its distant views of the Black Forest from the terrace. What she liked most of all was the swimming pool. She’d discovered it on her first morning, exploring the labyrinthine corridors under the Hotel Grand Park, wandering through echoing halls filled with faintly sulfurous steam and past swirling baths of mud, where white-coated attendants performed miracles on tired flesh. The lofty swimming hall with its twin marble colonnades had been empty, filled with the faint slap and rustle of the pool, transparently blue and inviting. She’d stared at it, imagining how it would feel to swim, a lovely cool world of soothing sensations where you might float suspended in soft mineral-filled water, just letting it take your weight, hold you, caress you. If only she could swim! She dipped a tentative toe in the pool, longing to be able to cast off her clothes and dive in, to cut cleanly through that blue water.

“Why don’t you take lessons,” Caro had said practically. “There’s an instructor at the pool and the exercise would be good for you.” So, early every morning, when it seemed the rest of the world was still sleeping, she walked alone through the vaporous halls for her lesson. The pool seemed so much bigger when you were
in
the water and not standing on the edge. By the end of the first week, she could swim a width, enjoying the sensation of her own strength as she made her way slowly through the water, excited by the feeling of power at conquering a new element. She was determined to become a really good swimmer, and after her lesson she stayed on to practice, only leaving when the pool began to fill up at midmorning.

“I’m surprised you’re not permanently crinkled,” commented Caro, “you spend so many hours in the water.” Still, she was
pleased—Léonie was looking better. She had gained back the lost weight and her hair, though it smelled faintly of the pool, had regained its luster. The next problem was what to do with her. Léonie was not just a problem to be resolved, she was a friend, a little sister—the odd attraction that she had felt that first snowy afternoon had become true friendship. “You are the first real woman friend I’ve ever had,” she told Léonie. “I confided all my secrets the first time I met you. And now that I’ve found you, I’m not about to lose you so quickly.”