Leonie (3 page)

Léonie faced them anxiously, hoping that she looked all right—their silence was unnerving.

Finally Loulou raised her glass in a toast. “I salute you, Léonie,” she said. “You are beautiful. And I have the feeling that after tonight, you will be a different person.”

It was the second time someone had called her beautiful. Could it be true, or was Loulou joking, too? Léonie walked across the salon and stared in the gilded mirror that covered one wall. She looked just the same, or did she? The new hairdo emphasized the firm line of her jaw, baring her pretty ears and cascading down her back. The rouge hollowed out her cheeks. Her eyes looked larger, their amber gleam deepened by the color of the dress, but it was just her, still her own face. But the dress was wonderful! Even though it was too big, it seemed to cling in the proper places, making her look taller, curvier, pinching in prettily at her waist. Yes, it made her look quite different. She didn’t mind that it was a little short, it was the most beautiful dress she had ever owned.

“She’s like a young cat, who doesn’t yet know how to use her claws,” Bella murmured into Loulou’s ear.

Madame Artois watched in silence. The unkempt child who had shown up on her doorstep had taken on a new dimension. Paul Bernard had seen her allure right away, of course; that’s why he had helped her. And, of course, he was right.

Léonie peered closer in the mirror, her excitement growing. Yes, she did look better, pretty even. She swirled in the dress straining to see how it looked at the back, patted her upswept hair, ran a finger along her cheek to see if the pink came off. “Oh, thank you, thank you all,” she said at last, tears falling down her cheeks and spoiling the rouge. “You’re all so nice, so good to me.”

“Nonsense.” They laughed. “It was fun. And you’ll never be the same again, Léonie!”

“Well, what do you think, Madame Artois?” she asked, posing before her.

“I think,” sighed Madame Artois, “that I’ll have to find myself
a new kitchen helper, and we’ll have to find you a better job. Tomorrow I’ll speak to Madame Serrat at the lingerie shop on rue Montalivet. I heard she was looking for an assistant and you’d probably do as well as anybody else.”

“
Really?
Really, Madame Artois?” Léonie couldn’t believe it. “Oh, thank you, thank you.” She threw her arms around Madame Artois and kissed her, and then she kissed Loulou, Bella, and Jolie. “I’ll never forget this night,” she promised.

Léonie’s interview at Madame Serrat’s was the most important topic of conversation among the girls that week. They were determined that she should get the job. “Although I don’t know what you’re worrying about, Léonie,” said Loulou. “I could get you into the cabaret in a minute.”

Léonie laughed at her words. Of course it wasn’t true, and besides, the idea of the cabaret was frightening. Madame Artois had said that she would enjoy working at Serrat and there would be prospects for promotion to a proper salesgirl if she did well. Meanwhile, any spare moment they had the girls helped her. Jolie taught her how to do her hair herself, though more demurely, this time wrapping it into a smooth blond chignon, and they had added a band of deeper bronze velvet to the hem of the dress to make it longer, and a matching velvet collar. The shoes were a problem—none of the girls had any to fit her and obviously she couldn’t wear her old ones. Finally, Madame Artois took her to the store and she bought a pair of neat black shoes with small heels, like the ones she had seen the other girls wearing, though she was shocked by the price. “Look upon it as an investment, my dear,” advised Madame Artois. “Those shoes will put your feet on the proper road to success.” Bella and Jolie made her practice walking in the unaccustomed heels so she wouldn’t trip, and she was surprised how elegant they made her feel. For the first time in her life she wasn’t ashamed of the size of her feet. Madame Artois gave her a pair of fine cotton lisle stockings as a good-luck gift and Loulou presented her with a small gilt brooch with a pretty amber stone in its center. “It’s not worth anything,” she said, dismissing Léonie’s thanks, “but it suits the dress.”

Léonie left the house early on Saturday morning wearing her new dress and Madame Artois’s second-best brown wool cape with the tiny fur collar. Her interview was at nine-thirty and at nine-fifteen she paced the rue Montalivet anxiously, passing the
shop for the tenth time, becoming more nervous with every minute. She hadn’t realized that Serrat would be so intimidatingly smart. The tall windows were lined with rose velvet and a rose-striped awning, inscribed with the name Serrat in deeper pink letters, formed a protective half-moon across the curved marble steps. As she watched, a young boy emerged to sweep the pink carpet that led to the glass-paneled door. He added a final polish to the gleaming brass doorplate then disappeared inside. It must be almost nine-thirty now, she thought, approaching the shop nervously and following him through the door.

A bell tinkled gracefully as she closed the door behind her and stood for a moment gasping at her surroundings. She was in a pink velvet box, the walls and ceiling padded in rose velvet and buttoned with satin. Crystal chandeliers illuminated long glass tables, empty but for a huge bowl of white swansdown scarves and lace collars, silk ribbons and mother-of-pearl buckles. Along one wall was arranged a series of lacy robes, swirling at their hems with feathers or bands of silk and satin, in peach, oyster, lilac, and pistachio, with all the mouth-watering delicacy of sugared almonds. Léonie sighed with pleasure. She wanted to touch them, to hold the smooth satin against her cheek, to drape the silk across her body.

A tall woman came from the back of the shop, smiling. “Yes, madame,” she asked, “may I—” She stopped short, taken aback by the sight of Léonie. “What do you want?” she asked abruptly, her voice accelerating from the practiced obsequiousness of the assistant to shrill irritation. What was this girl doing here, bringing the dust of the streets onto their pale carpet?

“Excuse me, but are you Madame Serrat? I have an appointment at nine-thirty. About the job, you see.”

“The job! Then what are you doing in here? Don’t you know better than to use the customers’ entrance? Anyway, Madame Serrat is busy at the moment.” She looked down her nose at Léonie. “You’d better leave right now before any clients arrive … they don’t want to see your sort in here.”

“Then where should I go?” Léonie asked desperately, edging toward the door.

“Around the back, of course, and through the alley, you silly girl.”

Léonie’s palms were sweating with fright as she let herself out the door, and she paused to rub their mark off the glossy handle
with her sleeve. She caught the woman’s eye on her through the glass panels and fled down the street, searching for the alley. She must have missed it and time was passing. Oh, dear, she would be late! She would lose her chance at the job; how would she ever be able to tell them back at the boardinghouse? Oh, thank God, there was the alley. She spotted it, snaking narrowly between the buildings, and ran through, searching for Serrat’s back entrance. The boy she had seen earlier sat at the top of a short flight of stone steps eating a bun and dropping crumbs down the front of his satin suit. He had changed from his normal clothes into the splendid costume of an Indian prince and his turban sat next to him on the steps, the osprey feather pinned by a jewel to its front, quivering in the morning breeze. His nut-brown skin gleamed next to the pink satin and his black eyes smiled at her. Léonie had never seen anything like him in her life.

He laughed at her surprised face. “Don’t worry,” he said, “it’s just Madame Serrat’s idea of what a smart page boy should wear in Paris. I’m the parcels boy here, I open doors for the customers, pass around the coffee and the drinks, deliver the packages. Madame Serrat saw a picture somewhere of a little blackamoor serving boy, so that’s me!”

“But don’t you mind?” she asked, fascinated by him.

“No, it’s a job, but maybe when I’m older I will.” He looked about fourteen but Léonie didn’t want to seem rude and ask him his age.

“I’m supposed to see Madame Serrat at nine-thirty,” she said, remembering suddenly why she was there.

“Then you’re late, but don’t worry, she’s busy right now. The silks man just showed up from Milan and he’ll be at least another half hour. You can go in and wait, if you like.”

“Would you mind if I sat here with you?” Léonie didn’t care to be alone in there for half an hour—that angry woman might throw her out again.

He could see she was nervous. “How come you’re late if you’re seeing Madame Serrat about a job? I would have thought you’d be early.”

“Oh, but I was. I went to the front door and some woman sent me away … she said I should have known better than to go in there!”

“That’ll be Marianne.” He offered her a crumbling bun from the paper bag by his side. “She’s a real terror. Scares all the girls.”

“But why?” Léonie munched her bun thoughtfully.

“Don’t know. Some women are like that, I suppose. You’ll have to watch out for her, she’s bound to be jealous of anyone as pretty as you.”

Léonie beamed at him. He had called her pretty! “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Maroc.”

“Maroc? That’s all?”

“That’s it. I was born in Morocco. My father brought me to Paris when I was a little kid, four or five years old or something, and then he disappeared. I was brought up by the nuns at the orphanage and somehow I was always known as Le Maroc—the Moroccan one. It stuck and I quite like it.”

They had a lot in common. They were both young, and both alone in Paris.

“It’s time for you to go in.” He put on his outrageous turban and grinned at her from beneath the feather. “Good luck. I hope you get the job.”

“Thank you.” She followed him up the steps and through the dingy passage, feeling better. “You know, Maroc,” she said as he left her at Madame Serrat’s door, “you’re my first real friend in Paris.”

“I’m glad.” He smiled.

She squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and knocked on the pink door.

Five minutes later she emerged onto the rue Montalivet as the new assistant salesgirl at Serrat. That whole new rose velvet, peach silk, and oyster satin world of luxury was hers.

“Léonie!” called Marianne in an exasperated voice. “Where are Madame Jourdan’s parcels? Surely they must be ready by now!”

Léonie tied the last ribbon hurriedly. It had only been five minutes and there were three large parcels. First she had to fold the garments carefully and then wrap each one separately. “I’m sorry, mademoiselle, here they are.”

“That’s simply not good enough,” cried Marianne. The attention of the entire shop focused suddenly on Léonie. “Forgive me, madame”—she turned to her surprised customer with a confiding smile—“the girl will redo them.” She tugged at a ribbon. “Look, it’s already coming undone!”

Standing to attention behind Madame Serrat’s vast pink padded
chair, Maroc watched sympathetically. Marianne really had it in for Léonie; she picked on her endlessly, making her life miserable, and she seemed to make a point of doing it when Madame Serrat was in the salon. “What
is
the matter with the girl, Marianne?” asked Madame Serrat. “She seems terribly slow.”

“She’s careless, madame, just careless.” Marianne was all apologetic smiles. “I’ll finish the parcels myself.”

“Come here, Léonie,” commanded Madame Serrat. She inspected the girl standing in front of her. She was shabby but neat and attractive in an odd sort of way, though her hair was a mess! “How long have you been with us now?”

“Four months, madame.”

“Four months, eh? Long enough to know how to tie a parcel I should have thought! You must do better.”

“But madame, it’s just that …” Her eyes met Maroc’s over the top of Madame’s chair and he frowned warningly. “I’ll try to do better, madame.”

“And do something about that hair … tie it back. We can’t have it flying all over the place like that.”

The salesgirls watched sympathetically, powerless to do anything. It was useless to complain to Madame Serrat—Marianne was her right hand and she would hear nothing bad about her.

Blushing from such a public humiliation, Léonie returned to her task of tidying the long glass-fronted cabinets. Marianne was the one flaw in her happiness at Serrat. Why, oh,
why
did she pick on her so? Heaven knows she was doing her best. Besides, there had been nothing wrong with those parcels. She folded the sets of satin chemises and knickers and smoothed the pleated lawn nightdresses, arranging the rosettes and ribbons neatly at the front and returning them carefully to their drawers. Many of the garments were custom-made, but they always had a large stock of beautiful ready-made things. Gentlemen liked to come in and buy presents for their lovers. She opened the top drawer and peeked at the sexy corsets in daring black and slithery red satin, crisscrossed with enticing ribbons, and wondered for the hundredth time
who
wore them, and
where?

“Léonie.” Maroc slipped a folded piece of paper into her hand. “It’s from the gentleman with Mademoiselle Gloriette,” he whispered. “He was watching when Marianne caused that scene.” Gloriette, the new star of the Carnavalet Cabaret, always had her lover of the moment in attendance when she shopped.

Hiding behind the cabinet, Léonie opened the note and scanned it quickly. “Don’t worry,” he had written, “she’s only jealous because you are so very pretty. May I take you out to supper some evening to make up for it?” She looked up in surprise; he was watching her—a tall, good-looking young man with curly blond hair and an air of confidence—standing behind Mademoiselle Gloriette, who was busy choosing fabrics for her new gowns. He smiled and raised his eyebrows inquiringly and she turned away in embarrassment, feeling the blush rise up her face annoyingly—it always gave her away!

She turned back to her cabinets, her heart pounding with excitement. A man had written
her
a note, asked to take
her
out to supper! Of course she wouldn’t dream of going, but what a story for Loulou, Bella, and Jolie; she couldn’t wait for the day to be over so she could rush home to tell them; it was so
thrilling!
She heard Gloriette say good-bye and then the bell as the door closed; she turned quickly to peek at them through the window.