Leonie (16 page)

“Certainly, sir.” The croupier raked the plaques and gold coins into a box.

He was going, now what should she do? She counted her plaques—ninety francs. She still had forty in her purse, but she needed more, lots more. Wasn’t this what they called a lucky streak? Like Rupert had had in Baden-Baden? Oh, God, she wished she hadn’t thought of Rupert. The excitement drained from her and miserably she pushed forward her next plaque.

De Courmont sipped his whiskey, watching her as she leaned across the table. Her hair was tumbling from its pins, falling in thick springy waves down the elegant length of her back. He wanted to touch it, to smell its scent—it would smell of fresh clean air and sunshine, and so would her skin; no, that would be denser, more exotic, and it would feel smooth, so smooth. He signaled Henri, the manager, hovering nearby, anxious to please this distinguished client in a salon full of rich and prominent men. “A table for two, Henri, in the alcove and a magnum of Roederer Cristal”—he glanced at Léonie—“in about half an hour, I think.”

She was tired and hungry, and she was losing. She must have been sitting there for hours. She stretched her back and glanced around the room. Where, oh, where was the man who’d disappeared for dinner, taking her luck with him? Why hadn’t he come back? She stared at the green baize table—she was down to ten francs, even the forty francs she had kept in her purse were gone. She fingered the purse again to check if there were anything left, but it was empty. She looked around her. Chandeliers glittered on gold coins tossed easily across the green cloth by men who seemed not to care about the result, laughing when they lost and laughing when they won. It all appeared so lighthearted, was no one else playing for such high stakes as she? All or nothing was as high as you could go. She stared down at her two remaining plaques—ten francs. Money was meaningless, it only translated into other things—food, rent, shoes—it was so little. She thrust the plaques forward onto red nineteen, closing her eyes as the wheel spun.

De Courmont moved closer, watching over her shoulder as the ball dropped into red nineteen. He sipped his whiskey, smiling. He had time.

Léonie’s eyes flew open in shock—her luck had changed! Boldly, she placed her plaques again on red nineteen, waiting breathlessly, not daring to look. She won again. Exhilaration swept over her; of course, this was how the game was meant to be played, you could never be cautious and afraid. Scooping her winnings into a pile, she divided them and placed half on red, oblivious to the woman pushing into the empty seat next to her, laughing loudly and tossing remarks over her shoulder to her companion as she thrust forward a handful of plaques. Her fringed shawl swept across the table. “I do beg your pardon,” she smiled at the croupier.

“Not at all, Comtesse,” he answered politely.

The comtesse’s number won and Léonie watched her place another bet. Again the comtesse won. Léonie pushed forward ten francs following the woman’s next bet. It lost. Fool, she should have trusted her own judgment. She chose a number and placed ten more francs on it. It lost. What should she do? She had ten francs left, she should leave now. She dithered nervously over the board, then taking a deep breath she pushed her two remaining plaques onto red nineteen—her lucky number, luck only favored the bold, she remembered. The comtesse leaned over her to place her bet at the last moment and Léonie sat back closing her eyes, waiting for the rattling sound of the wheel to stop. Red nineteen! Oh, thank God, she’d won. She’d quit now, leave right away before she lost any more. She reached forward to scoop up her winnings and the croupier looked at her in surprise.

“But your bet was
seventeen
, madame, nineteen was the winner.” Léonie stared at him blankly as he pointed to her stake; it was on seventeen! The comtesse reached forward, and her fringed shawl drifted across the table, sending the plaques flying. Too late Léonie realized what had happened and she stared in horror at the woman, sipping her champagne and laughing carelessly with her friends. Panic seeped up Léonie’s spine in a hot wave—she’d lost it all! No, not quite. She put her hand on her thigh, feeling the five francs she had tucked into her stocking. Yes, it was still there. She hesitated, caught in the gambler’s dilemma. Should she? Wasn’t it her last chance?

“Bad luck, mademoiselle.” The voice was vaguely familiar. She turned and looked directly into the eyes of Gilles de Courmont.

They were blue, a darker, deeper, more serious blue than Rupert’s, unreadable and masked even though he was smiling at her.

“Do you remember?” he asked. “We met at the Café de Paris.”

She’d been waiting for Rupert; yes, of course she remembered. They’d gone to Nice later, it had been such a lovely day. Oh, God, what was she going to do, what was she going to do now? “Of course, I remember, Monsieur de Courmont.” With an effort she pulled herself together.

Her eyes were almost tawny, a golden amber, the pupils dark and dilated with panic. He smiled, taking her hand. “I saw what happened,” he said sympathetically. “It was very bad luck, especially as you had chosen the winning number, but I’m afraid the rules are the rules and your money was not on red nineteen.”

She smiled at him shakily as he helped her from the chair. “Would you share a bottle of champagne with me,” he suggested, “to soften the blow?… It’s never pleasant losing one’s money.”

It was as though she had no will of her own; she felt lost, powerless, floating on his arm through the crowded casino with Bébé on her ribbon, as people moved to one side and stared. “Monsieur le Duc, your table is waiting, sir.” Henri waved an imperious arm and flunkies hurried forward to the table in the alcove, dusting the already immaculate tablecloth and polishing fluted crystal glasses, as Henri placed her tenderly in a chair and waited for Monsieur’s commands. “The champagne is ready, sir.”

The room was intimate and relaxed, without the tension of the gaming tables, and Léonie breathed a sigh of relief, touching the delicate petals of the translucent greenish orchids in the center of the table. They felt surprisingly cold. Weren’t they tropical flowers, didn’t they need warmth and jungly places? Perhaps it was just she who was cold. A small orchestra played behind a screen of fronded palms, the banks of flowers creating small islands of privacy, veiling murmured conversations and the clink of glasses.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “for calling you ‘Monsieur,’ I mean.” She was suddenly surprised by the fact that she was sitting in this room with a duke—shouldn’t she be more in awe, even overwhelmed? But he was so easy, so natural—perhaps dukes weren’t any different from other men after all. “I didn’t realize that you were ‘Monsieur le Duc.’ ”

He laughed. “It’s not important. You may call me whatever you wish.”

She believed he meant that. It didn’t matter to him if he was addressed by his title, he simply assumed everyone knew who he was, that doors would be opened for him and wine poured. How wonderful to be like that, to be so supremely confident.

“So, there was no beginner’s luck tonight, Mademoiselle Léonie.”

“No”—she lifted her chin haughtily—“but perhaps another time I shall win.”

“I hope so. Meanwhile, if you are not playing the tables anymore tonight, would you have dinner with me?”

The Café de Paris opposite the casino was crowded and Maurice, the maître d’hôtel, was frantically turning away customers—it was breaking his heart but he’d already squeezed in five extra tables. He’d be relieved when Monsieur le Duc arrived, it wasn’t easy convincing irate and distinguished customers that the empty table was reserved, and he was already over an hour late. But, of course, he wouldn’t dream of giving it to someone else.

Like the Red Sea, thought Léonie in amazement as the crowd in the casino parted to let them pass, waved on by the deferential manager. The doorman, who just a few hours before had refused her admittance, held open the doors and wished them a polite goodnight.

Monsieur le Duc’s arm felt reassuring and she glanced up at him as they walked across the cobbled square to the Café de Paris. His strong profile was severe, the nose slightly hooked and arrogant, and his dark hair waved crisply on his neck. There was a security about his presence, his confidence was absolute. Nothing could ever go wrong when you were with a man like this.

His eyes met hers. “You look sad, Léonie.”

“No … well, perhaps.” She had a sudden urge to confide in him, to tell him things—her secrets.

“Here we are.” They were whisked immediately through the crowded room to their table, under the steely glares of those who had been left waiting, sipping drinks at the bar.

Swirling enormous pink linen napkins onto their knees, the head waiter presented the menus with a flourish, while the sommelier appeared with more champagne.

“We shall both have a dozen Belon oysters and your special
salmon,” said Gilles, without consulting the menu, “and a plate of fresh salmon for the cat.”

Léonie stared at him in surprise. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy it,” he said. “I have the feeling it’s exactly what you need.”

Léonie relaxed, leaning back into her chair. It was comforting to be looked after, to have someone care for you, make decisions; she felt so tired. “You look troubled, Léonie. Won’t you tell me what’s the matter?”

His voice was low and sympathetic and she stared into his dark blue eyes, hypnotized. Champagne floated in her veins, bubbling in her head. “It’s just that everything has gone wrong lately … everything.” She was on the verge of tears and he leaned across the table and took her hand.

“It’s always better to talk about these things, you know, and I’ll bet you’ve had no one to talk to.” It was true, she had had no one to talk to, no one at all, except Bébé. She glanced at the kitten crouched under her chair, hungrily licking salmon from a silver plate, totally absorbed in her own pleasure. At least Bébé was happy.

She began to talk, whispering so that he had to bend closer to hear her, the words and sentences confused and jumbled. “Begin at the beginning, Léonie,” he said gently.

It took less time to tell than she had thought—it was surprising how hopes and dreams and fears and pain could be reduced to words that fitted into only thirty or so minutes. The plates of oysters sat untouched and Gilles signaled the waiter to remove them.

The relief was immense; she felt purged, clean of all secrets. Rupert had gone and she must face up to it. There was no more hope, she knew it now. But there was no need to die, either. She would begin again, get another job, make a fresh start. Monsieur de Courmont had helped her just by listening. She smiled at him gratefully. “Thank you.” She clutched his hand impulsively. “It must have seemed silly … a stupid little story that happens a thousand times every day.”

“And now,” he said, kissing her hand, “now that it’s over … will you fall in love again?”

“Never!” Her voice was emphatic.

He smiled as the waiter placed fresh oysters in front of them. “Well then, perhaps we should begin our dinner.”

*   *   *

Léonie lay in the big bed with Bébé curled up on her pillow, still purring softly, even though she was asleep. It was the hour just before dawn when the sky was still a gray haze and the air was chill as the night-cooled sea waited for the sun. She stared out the window, lost in her thoughts. She’d been surprised when he had put her in the cab. They had strolled along the waterfront together, looking at the stars and talking of her childhood, of the stories she’d heard about her elusive father, and of Normandy, and then he had suddenly signaled the cab and put her in it, lifting Bébé in beside her.

“But aren’t you coming with me?” she’d asked foolishly, as he paid the driver, instructing him to take her home.

“I’m afraid not.” He had waved good-bye as they drove off, and she’d turned to watch him through the back window as he strode away across the still-busy square. She’d been disappointed. Didn’t he want to see her again? She was surprised that she should ask herself such a question—she was in love with Rupert. He hadn’t kissed her, or even put his arm around her—he’d made no move at all—he’d just been kind and sympathetic.

She tossed restlessly as the first glow of the sun appeared and the sky began its rapid change from gray to flawless blue. Had she wanted him to kiss her? Was that why she was disappointed? No, of course not—she dismissed the thought angrily—but then why was she filled with this trembling excitement just thinking of his lips on hers? She was being foolish—he had just been kind to her, and she was grateful for someone to talk to, someone who understood. She would probably never see him again. Just as the birds awoke, she drifted into sleep, and for the first time she didn’t dream about Rupert.

–
• 12 •

Léonie had awoken late and had been irritable all day. Madame Frenard, as kind as ever, had brought her coffee and fresh bread, but she hadn’t felt like eating. Finding the five-franc piece under her pillow, she gave that, together with the five francs from her stocking, to Madame to pay something toward her rent. “I’m going to get a job,” she assured her, “I’ll be able to pay you soon.”

With Bébé trotting eagerly at her heels, she rambled along the chalky path that rounded the peninsula of the Point Saint-Hospice, thinking of Monsieur de Courmont.

“Gilles,” she said out loud, as Bébé paused in surprise. “Gilles.” Somehow it felt uncomfortable, too familiar for such an important person. “Monsieur” was better. She climbed down the slope, dangling her dusty feet in the cool water of a rock pool, watching while Bébé fished with a cautious paw in a vain attempt to catch the myriad tiny sea creatures lurking beneath the green moss. She and Rupert had come here often. She remembered him, stretched out flat on his stomach poring over the pool, fascinated with the abundance of life it contained. And they’d made love there behind the sea grasses with just the blue sky overhead and never a soul to see them. Her flesh recalled how it had felt, naked in the sunshine, warm and sweating, loving and gentle, as though they were a part of the earth itself. She stood up briskly, she was not going to think about it.