Leonie (26 page)

“I didn’t mean it,” she said in the silence.

“I won’t discuss it,” he replied stiffly. “Except to say this: my children are with their mother, my wife … and those are the only children I intend to have. What is between you and me is another matter.”

They drove the rest of the way in silence, dinner forgotten, climbing the steps of their house together, each heading for their own room. Bébé ran toward her anxiously; Léonie picked her up and held her comfortingly close, but there were no tears. She was not going to cry any more tears for Gilles de Courmont. She recalled her own brave words as she had waited for him to come to her at the inn: she was going to be her own woman. She had played him at his own game and won then. Well, she was tired of being the docile, waiting Léonie.

–
• 22 •

Maroc sat at a table outside La Coupole waiting for Léonie. The café was crowded and noisy and the white-aproned waiters hurried at a reckless pace between tables, balancing metal trays of beer and
citron pressé
, brandy and coffee, somehow keeping track in their heads of everyone’s tab as money clinked busily into the little saucers left for their tips. The iron-curlicued awning kept out the shower of rain that had suddenly darkened the midday sky as Léonie ran toward him, clutching Bébé, who refused to get her feet wet in the rain.

Panting, she brushed the raindrops from her hair. “Oh, Maroc,” she said, kissing him on the cheek, “I’m so glad to see you.”

They met regularly, once a week for lunch at some brasserie or inexpensive café. She had told him in the beginning that even though he was to be her butler, he was also her friend and they must never forget that. And he knew she valued their friendship as much as he did. She told him everything, pouring out her heart to him, and he watched over her in the house, observing Monsieur, wondering how she could stand his coldness. In Maroc’s view she was imprisoned in that wonderful house, trapped in a luxurious life-style—and not only by Monsieur, but also by her own needs.

“Let’s have cheese,” she said, “and lots of crusty bread, and a bottle of white wine … I’m starving, Maroc.”

She was exceptionally cheerful, he thought, calling the waiter. “You look happy today,” he said, watching the man who had just taken a seat at the next table. Hadn’t he seen him before? He couldn’t place the face, but the thought nagged at him.

“I’m thinking of going to the inn for a while,” she said. “I’d like to see how the garden is looking and I want to put in a new kitchen. It’ll make Madame Frenard’s life easier. I’ve got lots of
plans for it, Maroc; it’s going to be even more beautiful. I’d like to extend the terrace and make the steps wider so there’s easier access to the beach, you know how difficult that slope can be just before you get to the house.… Oh, I forgot, you’ve never seen it. Well, soon you will … and you’ll be my guest, not my butler.”

He was glad to see her looking happier. She’d been so quiet the week Monsieur had left, never leaving the house, barely even leaving her room. And now here she was, bouncing with energy again. “Is it making new plans for the house that’s cheered you up?” he asked.

“That and my new approach to life.” She broke off a chunk of bread from the baguette, buttering it lavishly. “I’m leading my own life from now on, Maroc. I’m no longer just a ‘lady in waiting’ for Monsieur.”

He’d observed all their battles, knew her secrets. He knew Monsieur. “I hope you’re not going to do anything foolish, Léonie.”

“Like take a lover?” She grinned at him mischievously. “I’m not looking for one, but …” She shrugged her shoulders.

“Léonie, you can’t do that! Don’t you wonder what he might do if he found out?” Maroc leaned across the table and grabbed her hand. “Listen to me, Léonie, he’s dangerous.”

“What can he do? He’s made me an independent woman, he can’t throw me out because the house is mine, I have enough money, and,” she added confidently, “men like Gilles de Courmont don’t kill their mistresses. But don’t worry, Maroc, I’m not looking for a lover. I’m simply going to use my time the way I please. I’m not sure what that means, but I’m tired of this fantasy world.” She reflected bitterly on her lack of education. She was improving, thanks to Monsieur and to her own addiction to books and newspapers. Now she could converse on current events and discuss the latest novels or criticize the newest opera or play, but she feared she would never catch up on those lost childhood years when she might have learned so much more. Yet there was time, and her instincts were good. She knew what she liked, and if her conversation wasn’t that of a scholar, at least it was bright and amusing. “I wish I could paint or write books or sing … that’s real. But as I don’t do any of those things, maybe I can help some of those who do. There are lots of struggling artists who need someone to buy their work and Monsieur has enough money to become a patron. Perhaps I’ll even start my own gallery.…”

Léonie was carried away on a wave of enthusiasm and it seemed harmless enough. She fancied herself a patron of the arts now, and why not? She had good taste, and plenty of money.

“I must dash.” She kissed him good-bye. “I’m going to see the new exhibition at the Gallerie Marechaux.”

She set off at a brisk pace down the street, her blond hair flying like a flag behind her, a smartly dressed, beautiful woman who turned heads as she hurried by. He frowned as the man at the next table tossed some money into the waiting saucer and pushed his way through the crowd, disappearing in the same direction as Léonie.
Where
had he seen him before? He remembered suddenly. He was usually to be seen sitting at the café at the corner of place Saint-Georges, opposite the house.

Léonie wandered slowly through the Gallerie Marechaux, staring at the paintings on the wall, occasionally consulting the small catalogue she held in her hand. Impatient with such slow progress, Bébé tugged the lead from her hand and, claws skittering on the polished boards, trotted toward a patch of sunlight in the window. Sniffing the solitary painting displayed there, she dismissed it as uninteresting and, nose tucked under tail, curled herself up for a quiet snooze.

Alain Valmont watched in amusement as the cat arranged herself in front of his painting, noting the long velvet ribbon that dangled from a thin collar of what looked to be diamonds around its neck. Well, the creature didn’t detract from the painting, in fact it added an extra touch of sensuality, it had the same quality of relaxed abandon as his women. He’d been talking to Marechaux, but the man’s attention had been quickly diverted by the woman at the end of the long gallery.

She must be rich, Alain supposed, studying her. That dress was expensive and she wore it with the sort of unconscious ease that breathed money. No jewelry, her hair just tucked into a band and pulled back severely from a surprising profile, not classically beautiful, it was too dominant for that. He analyzed her face with a painter’s critical eye: the chin was a little too firm, the cheekbones flared so widely that the eye sockets were deepened. There were wonderful hollows and angles to that face, and a slumbering eagerness to her expression as she became aware of his gaze and her eyes met his. Oh, yes, she was lovely, there was no doubt about that. Léonie turned to speak to Marechaux. So she was a buyer,
well, he just hoped she would buy one of his. He needed the money.

He lounged in a chair by the window waiting for Marechaux to finish; perhaps he could coax another small advance out of him, he needed paint and the tab at the Café Alsace was getting bigger. Monsieur Lucien was tolerant with his artist customers but every now and then he had to be given something on account—he already had more paintings on his walls than most galleries possessed, all given in lieu of payment.

Léonie couldn’t stand Marechaux hovering at her elbow like that, she’d rather be alone. She wanted to take her time, to look at the paintings that caught her eye, not the ones he pointed out as being of special merit. She wanted to find out what it was
she
liked. And besides, she thought sneakily, I want to take another look at that young man.

He was sprawled in a chair and his feet in their shabby shoes were propped on a second chair as he lay back enjoying the patch of sunlight by the window. He looked relaxed and perfectly at ease. Léonie circled nearer, pretending great interest in a small and muddy landscape. I hope I don’t have to buy this in order to get to know him—she smiled to herself, peering more closely at its tortured trees—I’m not sure it’s worth it.

“You should take a look at the painting in the window,” said Alain, without moving his position. “It’s much better than that.”

She hadn’t expected him to speak to her and she was flustered. He could tell by the way she spoke, hesitating at first and then in a sort of a rush. “Oh, I’m just looking around, I wanted to see everything.”

“The one in the window is mine and it’s by far the best painting in this bastion of commercialism.”

“If that’s the way you feel about the gallery why do you exhibit here?”

“Money.” He opened his eyes and stared at her. “Money, my dear … so that some rich lady such as yourself can come along and buy them, so that I can buy more paint and a little wine and a crust of bread, so that I can paint more pictures to put into commercial galleries like this one. I’m your typical starving artist.” He got slowly to his feet and bowed deeply. “Alain Valmont, madame, at your service.”

Léonie eyed him cautiously. There was a fascination about this tall emaciated young man with the penetrating greenish eyes that
made her unsure of herself. He wasn’t handsome and he certainly wasn’t smart—in fact, staring at his paint-stained fingers and unshaven face, she wasn’t even sure that he was clean! But he was attractive. “Show me your painting, Monsieur Valmont,” she suggested.

“It’s in the window, though I think your cat is attracting more attention from the passersby than my painting.”

Bébé rolled onto her back and stretched, displaying her perfect slender furry belly and elegant limbs, turning her head to one side with coquettish charm, making them laugh.

“She’s like every woman I’ve ever known,” he commented. “No matter how angry you might be, when they flirt like that, you can forgive them anything.”

Léonie avoided his gaze and looked instead at the painting. The woman lay in bed amid a tangle of sheets, a delicate back and a swirl of hair—nothing much to it, just a few brush strokes, a veil of color, pale yet passionate. It held a feeling of intrigue, she didn’t know why, it was quite innocent really. “It’s very interesting,” she said, slightly at a loss to know what to say to an artist who stands waiting for your judgment. “I’d like to see more.”

He hunched his shoulders and turned away. “I only give Marechaux one at a time, that way he can claim it’s unique and ask more money.”

He was attractive, this young man. He was dark and thin and vital, with a tense expression and eyes that seemed to notice everything, every detail of her face, her body. “I’d like to paint you,” Alain said suddenly.

“Paint
me?
”

“You’re different. I like the bones of your face and the length of your spine, the way your body arranges itself—like the cat. Of course,” he added, “you realize that I paint only nudes.” He watched her face for the reaction, smiling as she blushed. So this rich girl could still blush, could she? “Think it over,” he said with a casual wave of his hand as he made for the door, “Marechaux has my address.”

Léonie looked again at the delicate painting in the window. It was disturbing, but she couldn’t think why.

She went to the desk and told Monsieur Marechaux that she would buy it without even asking the price. “Oh, and by the way,” she added casually as she made out the check, “you’d better give me that young man’s address. I may have a commission for him.”

*   *   *

Place Mirabeaux was not squalid, as she had expected, nor was it seedy. It was just worn down to the gray poverty of the respectable people who made up half its tenants and the negligent life-style of the artists who were the other half. Léonie wished suddenly that she hadn’t worn the white kid shoes, they looked so clean, so unscuffed and out of place. She pulled off her white gloves hastily and hid them in her purse before knocking on the door. There was no answer and she shifted nervously from foot to foot. Of course she shouldn’t have come and of course she wasn’t going to let him paint her, but she wanted to help him and she liked the painting. She had propped it up on the table next to her bed, examining it carefully under the light. It was more complex than she had first thought, it had taken layer after layer of brush strokes to achieve the veiled texture, and the girl was so eloquently alive, even though she was relaxed. She wanted to see more, perhaps buy another.

She knocked again. “Oh, for God’s sake, come in if you must, the door’s open.”

“Hello,” she called, peering inside, “it’s me, Léonie Bahri. We met the other day at Marechaux’s.”

He didn’t turn from the canvas he was priming. “Have a look around if you want. I’ll be with you when I’ve finished this.”

She looked around the big bare room. Its whitewashed walls were splashed with color where he had tested his palette and adorned with dozens of canvases. The big window on the far wall filtered a cold gray light through its grime-encrusted panes and she wondered with a smile if that was the reason his paintings had that particular quality of veiled color. She gave a pleased sigh, it fitted exactly her romantic idea of how the studio of a struggling young artist should look. She liked it, she liked the smell of paint and thinner, the piles of canvases, the sketches made quickly and tossed aside. Feeling bolder, she prowled the room examining the canvases, some completed, others started and abandoned. It was exciting, seeing these living paintings, quite different from staring at them on gallery walls. And
she
felt different in this room, it had an energy that was lacking in her rooms, in her life. She stared again at the paintings. They were all of women, sullen half-beauties in cluttered feminine disarray—displayed on tumbled beds in cramped, darkened rooms. There was a quality to their nakedness, she could feel it, they emitted vibrations of sexual energy, either of
love just consummated or just about to begin. Do I look like that for Monsieur? she wondered fleetingly.