Leonie (2 page)

“I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I didn’t know.”

The collector thrust out his hand threateningly. “Don’t give me that story, you’d better pay up right now.”

Paul Bernard folded some notes in a discreet palm. “The young lady is with me.”

The conductor backed away with a sly smile. “Sorry, sir … I didn’t realize.…”

Paul leaned forward and handed the girl his card. “I hope you will allow me the privilege of helping you? I could see that it might have caused you a problem.”

Paul Bernard, she read to herself. Director, Music Hall Cabaret, place Royale, Paris. He was so smart, so sophisticated; he must think her just a silly country girl! “You’re very kind, Monsieur Bernard,” she said miserably, “I’ll pay you back, of course.”

“What takes you to Paris?” he asked, putting a match to his cigar and settling back in his seat.

“I had to get away.” The words came tumbling out with a suddenness that surprised her. “I couldn’t stand it any longer.…” She wished she’d never said that; what must he think of her now?

“And what sort of job will you get in Paris? Do you know anyone there?”

“No, monsieur.” Her eyes reflected her fear but she lifted her
chin confidently. “But I’m sure I’ll get a job as a waitress. I have experience.”

“Here.” He wrote briskly on the back of his card. “This is the address of a decent boardinghouse. Tell Madame Artois I sent you, and if you are interested, I have a job for you.”

Léonie clutched the card hopefully. “A job, monsieur?”

“There’s always room for a girl like you in the Music Hall.”

What could he mean, a girl like her? And what could she do in a music hall? She glanced at him suspiciously. “But I can’t sing and I can’t dance.…” Her muddy feet loomed larger than ever; surely he must be mocking her!

He smiled. “There’ll always be room in the cabaret for a girl as beautiful as you.”

Beautiful! Now she knew he was crazy—or worse! She recalled the whispered conversations about the girls of the Paris streets and peered at him warily from under her lashes. He didn’t look so bad though, quite kind really. But she didn’t trust him.

The train wound its way slowly through the outskirts of Paris and into the Gare du Nord. As it jolted to a halt she had the door open in a flash, leaping to the platform, bags clutched in her hands. She turned, remembering the money. “I shall send you your money as soon as I can, monsieur, and thank you.”

“But wait, wait a minute …” He held up his hand as she turned to go. “Can I offer you a lift? After all you don’t know Paris.”

“No … oh, no.…”

She was off, running down the platform, apples spilling from her basket, blond hair flying. He watched her push her way through the crowd at the barrier and disappear into the nighttime streets of Paris. “I wonder,” he said to himself as he walked slowly toward the exit, “I just wonder what will become of her.”

–
• 2 •

Madame Artois was a large, square battleship of a woman who ran her boardinghouse with a mixture of firmness and good humor and a definite rule of women only. She’d had too much trouble from the men in the old days, they were always making a play for first one girl and then another; the jealousies had been terrible. Hers was a respectable house, she made sure of that, but she was fond of “her girls”: the young ladies of the music halls and cabarets around town. Madame had been an artiste herself: a long time ago she had sung on most of the stages in Paris, and now she took a vicarious pleasure in monitoring the careers and romantic entanglements of “her girls.”

Madame was also a woman who knew what she wanted from life, and what she wanted at this moment was a kitchen helper. The last one had left that morning—gone home to nurse her sick mother—leaving Madame stranded and the cook furious, refusing to prepare dinner unless she had someone to do the vegetables and the dishes. Léonie had appeared on her doorstep like a gift from the gods. “You’re lucky,” she told her. “It’s not easy to get work in Paris, but I can offer you the job and it includes room and board.” The relief on the girl’s face was so evident that Madame wondered, for a moment, what the girl would have done had she said no. She obviously had come to Paris, as they all did, with no money and no prospects—and no idea of what she was going to do once she got there. At that age, Madame thought with a sigh for the irresponsibility of youth, just getting there seemed to be an end in itself.

“Thank you, madame, I’ll start right away.” Léonie took off her coat hurriedly, before Madame Artois could change her mind. Piling the dishes in the sink, she thrust her cold hands into the
hot, soapy water, feeling her fingers come back to life. She had never thought that doing dishes would make her so happy!

The tiny room under the eaves was clean and warm, the narrow iron bed beneath its piled eiderdowns comfortable, and with her meager possessions unpacked the room became her own. Her two dresses hung in the closet, her darned woolen stockings and serviceable underwear lay neatly folded in the chest of drawers, and on top were arranged her half-dozen books and the dolls. Not dolls really, just small, oddly carved statues, but they had been all she had had to play with as a child, and they had belonged to her father. She ran her fingers over the decorative symbols carved around the base. She supposed they were Egyptian, but she wasn’t sure, though the cat certainly didn’t look like the farm cats she knew. It was slender and sleek and aristocratic with a small triangular face and slanting eyes. She had loved that cat so much as a child. And the other doll, a lioness or a woman. A bit of both, really, a lioness’s head on a woman’s body. She had always thought her very beautiful. She wondered for the thousandth time if the symbols meant anything, and if so, what?

She sighed with satisfaction as she surveyed her new home. Last night that icy miserable room by the station had cost her exactly half the total she had allotted for the entire week, and she had been shocked and frightened by the expense. Really, it was all thanks to the man on the train; after all, he was the one who’d sent her here. She would repay him as soon as possible. But here she was, one day in Paris and she already had a job; what more could she want?

Patience, she thought just three months later, leaning her elbows on the windowsill of her tiny room at the very top of the tall thin house on the boulevard des Artistes. I must be patient. She gazed down at the busy streets and squares of Paris spread out below her as if for some exciting game, one that she couldn’t wait to play. But how? What were the rules? What was the magic ingredient, she wondered, that made you “belong” in Paris? It was a scary city, scary and glamorous. The streets were full of cafés and bistros, theaters and cabarets, gambling halls and shops; and the people on the streets looked as though they did exciting things, they were artists and actresses and writers and rich, rich people. And kitchen helpers!

Sighing regretfully, she pulled on her hat and ran down the
seven flights of stairs to the kitchen to pick up the little parcel of lunch she had prepared the night before. It was Sunday afternoon and she was free, and she intended to spend it as she usually did, exploring the city.

She headed toward the Bois de Boulogne, lingering on streets lined with grand houses, peering through their railings to catch a glimpse of the magnificent marble interiors until the glaring eye of a concierge sent her on her way. The crowded café at the corner of the place Saint-Georges looked gay and cheerful. She hovered in front of it, too afraid to go in alone and too thrifty anyway to spend the money. Everyone seemed to be with someone else; was it her imagination or did they all seem to know one another? A couple emerged from the back of the café and strolled along the street, arms linked, chatting intimately, his head bent toward her while she smiled up at him. She was so elegant, thought Léonie, following them, admiring her smart dress and tiny-heeled shoes. Lured by their warmth, their intimacy, she pressed closer, longing to be a part of it, eavesdropping shamelessly on their conversation until they stopped suddenly and stared at her. Embarrassed, she turned away.

She sat on a bench in the Bois and ate her sandwiches, feeding the little city birds who crowded around, watching the magnificent horses and riders as they trotted past, remembering the farm horses she had loved to ride in her home village. The Bois was full of surprises: there was a circus. She paused in front of the poster and ran her finger down the list of performers, her heart beating a little faster, wondering if maybe her father’s name might be there. But, of course, it wasn’t. And there was an outdoor dance hall! She had discovered it on her first Sunday and it lured her back every week, not that she ever went in—she watched from a distance, listening to the music as it drifted over the grass, catching glimpses of the dancers and the girls, like herself, flirting with young men at the tables beneath the trees. How did it feel, she wondered, to flirt with a man? She sighed with frustration as she turned from the scene. Patience, she told herself, I must be patient. One day I’ll be part of it all.

There was no doubt that she was lonely, but Sunday evenings more than compensated for her solitary Sunday afternoons. That was when all the girls were at home, when they didn’t rush off to the theater but instead lazed around, gossiping. The whole house seemed different on Sunday, relaxed and easy. Léonie basked in
the other girls’ attention. She was allowed to linger on the fringes of the group, listening to their talk of their latest romances, and about the stars of the cabarets. It was the best time of the week, and they treated her like their little sister.

“We must do something about Léonie,” said Loulou, sipping her brandy and spreading herself more comfortably over the big plush sofa in the salon. It was another boring Sunday evening and Léonie had just brought in their afterdinner coffee. She paused in surprise.

“What do you mean, Loulou?”

“Well, look at you. You’re really not bad-looking under all that hair and those awful clothes.” Loulou put a finger under Léonie’s chin and tilted her face up toward the light. “Yes, in fact you’re very pretty. Don’t you think so, Bella?”

Bella inspected Léonie. “I wish I had skin like that,” she said enviously. “You’ll never need to use powder, though a little rouge, here, just under the cheekbones, would show up your eyes more.”

Jolie came to stand beside Bella. “And the hair … look, it needs to be swept up on top like this.” She took a handful of Léonie’s hair and held it above the girl’s head, demonstrating how it might look.

“But it won’t stay,” protested Léonie. “It never does, no matter how many pins I stick in it.”

“My dear, that will be part of its charm.” Bella smiled wickedly. “A little ‘tumbled’ … a little ‘unkempt’ … yes, it would be a very charming look for you. A nice contrast to the innocence.”

“Now, you girls, be careful with Léonie,” warned Madame Artois. “She’s not going on the stage and I don’t want her to look ‘common.’ ”

“Madame Artois,” said Loulou indignantly, “are you saying that we look common?”

“Of course not, but you look like stage girls and Léonie’s not that. I don’t mind you helping her to look better, heaven knows she needs it, but take care with her.” Madame Artois liked Léonie. She didn’t want them spoiling her and making her too sophisticated—she’d seen too many young girls end up as weary women, old before their time, worn down by too many years in the chorus, too much drink—and too many men!

“Bella, get the makeup box and a hairbrush,” instructed Loulou. “We’re going to transform Léonie.”

“Sit down here, Cinderella,” said Loulou, offering her a chocolate from the large box given her by her latest admirer. She was a tall, fleshy girl with a wide crimson mouth and an easy laugh, and she was popular in the cabaret, well known for her audacious songs. She was more than a little “risqué,” yet she looked wholesome, a perverse combination that was very attractive. And she was generous—she liked Léonie, felt sorry for her, really, she supposed. They all did; she was like the kid sister they had left behind at home, or maybe the innocent they had once been. Loulou applied the rouge with a light hand, sweeping it across the cheekbones, adding a touch on the chin, a little on the temples. Bella studied the result carefully and then added a slick of gleaming bronze along the curve of Léonie’s eyelids while Jolie wielded the hairbrush relentlessly, pulling her hair up and back until Léonie howled in protest. “Beauty is painful,” misquoted Jolie severely. “But it’s always worth it!” she added with a laugh.

“There, Madame Artois, what do you think?” asked Loulou as they stood back to admire their handiwork.

It was extraordinary how different Léonie looked, thought Madame Artois. “I think it’s a little flashy,” she said finally.

“Flashy! It’s discreet—a nun could get away with that makeup.”

“A nun would not want to, my dear. However, you do look very pretty, Léonie.” Léonie put up a tentative hand to feel her hair.

“You see, it’s already coming down,” she protested.

“No, no, Léonie, that’s the way it should be,” Jolie reassured her. “It’s meant to tumble a little.”

“Why don’t you take a look in the mirror,” suggested Loulou.

“No, not yet, wait a minute.” Bella sped up the stairs, returning a few minutes later carrying a woolen dress in a soft apricot color, high-necked and deceptively demure. “Here, this might fit you,” she offered. “It never suited me, but it’s just the right color for you.”

“Oh, Bella!” Léonie was overwhelmed. “Do you really mean it?”

“Of course,” said Bella, pleased that Léonie liked it so much. “It should fit you quite well, although it may be a bit big on the bosom … and, of course, it’s going to be a bit short.”

“Hurry, Léonie, try it on,” said Jolie impatiently.

They helped her off with her layers of clothing until she stood
in her woolen chemise and drawers, shrinking from embarrassment under their collective gaze.

“You know, you have a good shape,” said Loulou, “it’s just hidden under all those layers of wool!”

Bella lowered the dress over Léonie’s head, careful not to disturb her hair, and buttoned it up the back, swinging her around to inspect the result.