Leonie (15 page)

Her smile held relief. “Yes,” she said confidently.

She watched while he dressed. He looked so unfamiliar in his suit and tie, almost a stranger. He was to go to Nice to catch the afternoon train, and he explained to Monsieur and Madame Frenard that he was leaving Léonie in their charge. He paid them a month’s rent and gave Léonie the rest of his money, not that there was much left. “I’ll be back, Léonie,” he said, “you’ll see. I’ll be back within a week. I promise you.”

“I’ll try to be patient,” she vowed.

He kissed her and walked away quickly, leaving her standing alone in the cool white room with the big bed. “I love you,” she called, running up the path after him.

He turned at the top to wave to her. “And I love you,” he answered.

–
• 10 •

The first few days will be the hardest, she told herself, after that I’ll be more used to being without him. But it wasn’t like that, she missed him more every day. The first week she had counted the days, waiting until seven had passed before acknowledging that he wasn’t coming back within a week as he had promised. The second week had been stormy, with black scudding clouds and angry rumbles of thunder over a faded, tossing sea and she’d huddled indoors, watching the rain fall on the terrace, counting the seconds between the lightning flashes and the thunder, until they were so close together that it crackled right overhead and she’d been afraid. When the skies cleared she took to going for long walks around the peninsula, wandering inland, finding little hamlets where she would buy fresh figs and goat’s cheese and eat her own picnic in the hills while the butterflies and bees danced over the wild rosemary. At the end of the third week she had heard nothing from him and she began counting her money anxiously. It was disappearing quickly, but surely he’d be back soon.

On the Sunday of the fourth week she sat alone on the terrace, staring out to sea. A sleek white yacht slowly made its way across the bay, leaving a wake of glinting sun-tipped foam. It was the same one that was there every morning. She wondered about the lives of the people who had yachts like that. Rupert had told her of the millionaire whose yacht had a Turkish bath, and who kept a Jersey cow in a padded stall so that his guests would have fresh cream, and another whose yacht boasted a putting green and a theater. Quite suddenly she began to cry. What was she to do? Was he coming back? Why didn’t he write to her? What had gone wrong? She wouldn’t allow herself to think of Puschi; that would be too much to bear.

The following morning she sat down and wrote a letter to Caro,
begging her to find Rupert, please to reply right away if she loved her. She wrote a note to Maroc telling him where she was, and then she walked along the lane and left her letters in the wooden box by the side of the road to be picked up by the mailman on his morning rounds.

The great yacht rode the blue swells of the Mediterranean while the crew of twenty, smart in white uniforms, stood at their positions, waiting for the commands of its master, whether they might make for Monte Carlo or Corsica, or steam further east to the Adriatic or the Aegean, or simply serve him a whiskey and soda. De Courmont paced the deck, staring across the water at the shoreline, at the white square shape of the inn, resisting the urge to use the telescope to peer closer. He was no voyeur. If he had not met Léonie in Monte Carlo he probably would have forgotten her, lost in the time before Gérard’s illness. But now he could think of nothing else. She occupied his thoughts, waking and sleeping—it was disturbing. He must get her out of his system and then he’d be fine. Life would go back to normal.

In the main salon a bundle of letters lay on the table. Léonie’s letters. He’d read them, of course, small pathetic missives from her begging for help. And the letter from Rupert—a plea, asking for more time, enclosing more money. Gilles almost felt sorry for her.

He pressed the buzzer on the speaker. “Sir?”

“Return to harbor at once.”

“Yes, sir.”

Léonie drew the shades and lay down on the bed. It was midafternoon and hot. She closed her eyes and listened to the faint, familiar sound of the sea. There had been no reply from Caro, none even from Maroc. She’d written to her again, even sent a note to Madame Artois asking for help, but no one answered her. Now she knew she was more than just lonely. She was alone. There were no more tears, she’d shed them all, and she lay quietly on top of the coarse white sheet, thinking about dying. It would be quite easy, she thought, you simply stopped breathing. She held her breath for a few moments to see how it felt and sat up gasping for air. How
did
people kill themselves? Poison, wasn’t that how women did it? Women like her who had lost everything, whom no one wanted. It must taste so awful and be so painful. She held her
hands over her stomach, hating the idea, but what else was she to do? Drowning! Of course, that was it. She’d drown. It would be easy. She’d just wade out into that lovely blue water as far as she could and then she’d just keep on swimming until she was too tired. It would be soft, gentle, caressingly easy. She pulled off her dress and stepped into her bathing suit so the Frenards would think it was an accident. She wished she didn’t owe them any money, but she had nothing of value to leave them. She touched the pearls on her neck; of course, there were the pearls, but Rupert had given them to her. Oh, Rupert, Rupert. She stepped onto the terrace, staring out to sea. It looked friendly, inviting. The white yacht was there again. If she swam out far enough, maybe its owner would rescue her!

She heard a faint sound, a soft pattering, and then a low purr as a kitten rubbed itself against her feet. It was small and dainty, the most feline and feminine of kittens, chocolate brown with pink pads on its paws and a sweet pink-tipped nose. It rolled at her feet, making playful passes at her, and Léonie smiled. It looked familiar, the aristocratic arch of its back and the sleek little triangular head. Of course, it was exactly like the Egyptian cat, the “doll” of her childhood. She bent to stroke its fur. It was
so
soft, the softest fur she had ever touched. The kitten licked her hand with a rough pink tongue, purring loudly. Thinking of her father, Léonie began to cry, the tears falling onto the kitten’s fur, spiking it as it licked them away, still purring. Her father had left her, too. This was the second time in her life she’d been abandoned.

She picked up the kitten gently. It lay on its back in her arms, staring at her with slanting golden eyes, waiting. It was her kitten. It had chosen her. She walked back into the room and lay down on the bed again, thinking.

–
• 11 •

The window of the jeweler’s shop on boulevard des Moulins was a sparkling treasure chest of emeralds, diamonds, and rubies and Léonie hesitated at the door, uncertain of her reception. The salesman hurried forward with a smile, wondering what she could want, but he was used to all sorts in here. This was Monte Carlo, where the most unlikely people won great sums of money and the first thing they wanted was to buy some expensive jewel as a symbol of their new wealth. On the other hand, he thought, as she produced the little pearl necklace, there were also those who lost.

“Would you please tell me what these are worth?” Léonie asked timidly.

“Of course, madame.” He tested their weight in his hand, holding them to the light to examine their color. They were genuine but inexpensive. “A very pretty necklace, madame”—he smiled—“but not, I’m afraid, worth very much.”

“How much?”

“Well, not more than a hundred francs, madame.”

“Would you buy them from me?”

He hesitated, it would be a hard item to get rid of, not the sort of thing his customers would be looking for, but she was so young and looked so desperate. “Very well,” he said, “if it’ll be of any help.”

Léonie breathed an enormous sigh of relief. “Oh, thank you. I don’t know what I would have done if you’d said no.”

“Do yourself a favor. Don’t go back to the tables and gamble. You’ll only lose again,” he warned, as he handed her the money.

“Gamble? But I didn’t gamble.”

She bent down pulling something else from her bag on the floor and he peered curiously at the statue. Egyptian, obviously, and very old. Yes, he’d bet that it was genuine. Now where had she got
that from? “Here’s another.” She set a second one on the counter beside the lion-woman. It was a cat, Bastet, the sacred cat of Egypt, he knew that much, but the first was a mystery to him, though his guess was that it, too, was a goddess. He handled them carefully. “Where did you find them?”

“They were my father’s. He was Egyptian. My mother always said that they were very old. I wondered if you knew if they are valuable?”

“I’m afraid that I can’t speculate as to their value, but I would be willing to bet that they’re genuine and are indeed very old. You should take them to Paris, to the department specializing in Egyptian studies, they might be able to help you.”

“Then you don’t want to buy them?” She’d hoped so badly that they would be worth a lot of money, that they would save her.

“I’m afraid I have no idea what they’re worth.” He hesitated. “Look, I’ll offer you a hundred francs for them both. I’m taking a gamble, but if it’ll help …”

A hundred francs was a hundred francs more. Should she do it? She stared down at the floor—they were all she had, all that was really hers. The kitten poked its head out of the bag, sniffing inquiringly as it woke up, rubbing against her ankles and tangling the ribbon she had tied round its neck as a lead. “No,” she said positively, “I’ll keep them. But thank you anyway.”

“Not at all. It was a pleasure, madame.” He was as courteous and smiling as though she’d bought the crown jewels, escorting her to the door and opening it with a flourish as she said good-bye and walked off down the street, trailing the kitten on its pink velvet ribbon. He wished her luck.

The kitten had slept all the way home, curled in her arms like a baby, earning its new name, Bébé. It sat on the bed watching as she pulled the white dress over her head and inspected herself critically. It simply wasn’t fancy enough for her purpose. Maybe the skirt would do, if she had something different on top, but what? She thought of the scarves Rupert had bought her in the market in Nice, long silky bands of color that he’d wound, laughing, around her hair. They had bought half a dozen in different golden shades—amber, bronze, terra-cotta, lemon, and gold. She pulled them from the drawer now, draping the amber one over her shoulders, crossing it over her bosom and tying it at the back. It looked quite pretty. She wound another around her waist and the
golden one low around her hips, pulling it tight so the full skirt frothed from beneath. She stood back to examine the effect. It looked surprisingly good! Should she put one in her hair? No, perhaps she’d just pile it on top, it would make her look older. Bending her head, she brushed her hair forward and swirled it around in a tumble of curls, the way Loulou had shown her, and tucked in a sprig of jasmine. She flung a thin lemon scarf around her neck so that the ends floated behind her. Picking up her purse containing the precious hundred francs, she tucked Bébé under her arm and walked to the door. She hesitated a moment and then opened her purse and took out five francs, which she placed carefully under her pillow, tucking another five into the top of her stocking just in case—though of course she would win. Tonight she felt lucky.

Verronet stared after her in astonishment as the pony cart trotted off down the dusty road with Léonie sitting at Monsieur Frenard’s side. Where could she be going—and in that outfit? She had certainly acquired a taste for the bizarre, this girl. He’d better see what she was up to.

She’d been walking up and down in front of the elaborate wedding cake of a casino for fifteen minutes and Verronet wondered if she would ever go in. He’d already sent a message to Monsieur le Duc, but now it looked as though she was not going to do it. He wished she’d hurry up, he wanted to get to the tables, he’d only been waiting to make sure that she wouldn’t leave the inn before going there himself. He smoothed his starched white shirtfront impatiently; ah, at last. He followed her up the steps, tripping over the little cat on its lead. He could have sworn she was trembling, but she lifted her chin haughtily as she marched toward the door. “I’m sorry, madame; unescorted ladies are not allowed.”

“Oh, I …” Léonie hesitated, thinking wildly of an excuse to get her in. “But—”

“The lady is with me.” Verronet took her arm and led her into the crowded foyer, ignoring the doorman.

“Oh, thank you, it was kind of you.…”

“Not at all, mademoiselle. Good luck!”

He smiled politely and disappeared into the crowd as she stared after him in surprise, wishing he hadn’t left her alone. She took shelter behind a life-size statue of a Greek god, peeking between its marble limbs at the immense chandeliers and curlicued mirrors,
the gilt sofas and thick carpets, the bejeweled women in silk and sable and confident men who talked loudly and knew everyone. Catching a few speculative glances, she tilted her chin defiantly; she wasn’t going to let them intimidate her this time. Tucking Bébé under her arm, she sauntered into the public gaming room, scanning the tables.

It was all much more complicated than she had imagined; there were so many different games and everyone seemed to know how to play them. How did you learn? The roulette wheel seemed easiest and the result was certainly quick and simple, either your number won or it lost. Easing her way to the table, Léonie set the curious Bébé on her knee and took a one franc piece from her purse, snapping it shut afterward. She placed the franc on red nineteen and waited for the wheel to spin. The croupier raked it back to her superciliously. “There is a five-franc minimum, madame, and please purchase your plaques.”

“Oh, five francs!” She fumbled in her purse and took out fifty francs, counting them carefully, exchanging them for ten rectangular plaques. Only ten—they didn’t look like very much! She stared hard at the numbers on the green baize table and finally placed her plaque on red nineteen, waiting while the others placed their bets and the wheel began to spin. The ball fell into black fifteen and Léonie watched the croupier rake away her plaque indifferently. She pushed forward her second plaque, placing it again on red nineteen. Again she lost. Third time lucky, she thought, parting with another five francs. But it wasn’t and she glanced down at Bébé in dismay; she’d lost fifteen francs in five minutes, what should she do? She still had thirty-five francs in plaques and another forty in her purse. She waited, not placing a bet, watching others to see what they did. The man on her left seemed to have plenty of money, he had a whole stack of plaques—a wall of them! She watched him place a casual pile on black, sipping his drink unconcernedly as the ball fell obediently into place and the croupier pushed an enormous pile of plaques toward him. The man couldn’t lose. He was betting on squares and areas marked around the table that she didn’t understand—not just the colors and numbers in the center—she’d follow his bet. Léonie pushed forward two plaques onto his number and waited breathlessly. They’d won. She flashed him a grateful smile, but he didn’t notice. This time she placed three plaques, feeling the excitement rise as she watched the spinning wheel. She won. Oh, she’d known
she would win! Exhilarated, she leaned over the table, absorbed in the game, pushing her plaques back and forth less cautiously, sometimes losing, but mostly winning. She pushed twenty francs onto his numbers and sat back, enjoying herself. It was the most she’d placed yet and she felt sure it would win. But, no! She glared at the man as he pushed aside his winnings. “Keep this for me, Louis,” he said. “I’m off for a bite of dinner.”