Leonie (41 page)

Léonie stared after her as she swept from the room. No more trouble from the de Courmonts! With a shaky laugh she sank back
onto her gilded throne. Monsieur would haunt her for the rest of her days—and Amélie.

Jacques hurried into the room, clutching a small packet in his hands, his face cheerful behind the rimless glasses. “What’s wrong?” he asked. She looked odd, and she was very pale under the bright makeup.

Léonie stared at him. There was still opening night to face. She began to shake, she didn’t know if she could make it. “Oh Jacques,” she whispered, as tears sprang to her eyes.

“For God’s sake, don’t cry,” he gasped, “you’ll ruin the makeup.”

She began to laugh. “Oh, Jacques, but I want to cry.” Her laughter and tears mingled and he dabbed at her eyes feverishly with scraps of cotton.

“Kiss me instead,” he commanded. “It’s easier to redo the lips than the eyes.”

She kissed him obediently and he pushed the present into her hands. “Here,” he said eagerly, “it’s for you.”

Bébé basked under the hot lights around the mirror, peering curiously over Léonie’s shoulder as she unwrapped his gift. The Egyptian gold coin, ancient and worn thin with use, dated from the eighteenth dynasty. He had had it set in a delicate gold band and it swung from a slender gold chain so that she might wear it around her neck.

Léonie traced the delicate worn pattern with her finger, the papyrus scroll and the strange hieroglyphs. It was a reminder that the role she was playing was based on reality. Only Jacques would have thought of it—and only he would have gone to the trouble to find it. It was a gift from a sensitive, caring man and it meant far more to her than mere diamonds.

“Thank you, Jacques,” she breathed, kissing him and leaving red marks on his face, “you’ve made me feel better. You always know the right thing to say and do.”

–
• 38 •

Caro didn’t know who was more nervous, she or Alphonse. He was fidgeting, rubbing his hands together, fiddling with his program, and staring round at the auditorium, though there was no need to worry, it was obviously going to be a full house. They had invited everyone they knew, so that at least Léonie would be sure to get
some
applause. But she didn’t know about
them
—she glanced apprehensively at the rapidly filling balconies. There were groups of girls who had come, she supposed, out of curiosity to see how you looked when you were the mistress of the Duc de Courmont, and there were solitary men, whom she knew must be there to fantasize how it must be to have a mistress like the beautiful Léonie, how her skin felt under your hands, what her breasts were like when you touched them. There were middle-aged women and young mothers, and crowds of young fellows eager for the glamour and sex that was Léonie. And in the circle and the boxes were the others, those who had come to gloat over Gilles de Courmont’s downfall, as his mistress showed herself on stage for all to speculate over. She knew now what Léonie had meant when she had said that their eyes crawled all over her—they wouldn’t, any of them, miss a single detail. With the memory of Léonie’s last stage appearance still clear in her mind, Caro prayed that it would be all right this time. But she had an awful feeling inside that it was all going to be a terrible disaster.

Maroc waited at the back of the stalls, watching the crowds pouring in. Léonie had asked him specially to come, she couldn’t do it unless she knew he were there, she said. Hadn’t he seen her through all the important events of her life? And she needed him desperately for this one. He didn’t know how much help he was going to be, he was as nervous as she had to be. His palms were damp with sweat and he rubbed them fastidiously with his handkerchief.

Since he’d taken the job at the Hôtel Lancaster, he hadn’t seen Léonie as often as he would have liked, though they always wrote. He managed to get down to the Côte d’Azur once or twice a year, but his time was not his own—the job was all-consuming. He had worked his way up to assistant manager and one day he wanted to open his own place. On the stage the safety-curtain slid up slowly as the orchestra began to file into the pit. Not much longer. Oh, God, he hoped she would be all right. She had seemed calm enough half an hour ago when he’d been backstage, but anything could have happened since then.

The orchestra began to tune their instruments, grating on his already taut nerves, and he paced the aisle at the back of the stalls restlessly—could he bear to watch this? He remembered the last time—when she had come to him, broken and humiliated. The house lights dimmed and he took up his position against the wall, arms folded. He wished now he had had a drink.

Caro gripped Alphonse’s hand tightly as the lights went down, casting a final glance at their friends—at least they knew what to do: they were to applaud whatever happened. The piano picked out the first notes of the overture, the violins joined in, and the buzz of excited conversation faded into expectant silence. It was time to begin.

Léonie had been all right until Jacques had left. He was to conduct the orchestra for her and he needed to check that the musicians had their parts and that all was in order. He was meticulous about his music and he wanted to leave nothing to chance.

Now there was just Paul Bernard left, and her dresser, still fiddling with the tissue-thin silk of the gown. She glanced at the clock—the orchestra was playing the overture, that meant there was a half hour before her entrance. The first part of the show was filled, music hall style, with other acts—dancers, a comedian, showgirls, a big splashy stage set, all spangles and glitter. “But why,” she had asked Paul, “why can’t it just be me? Shouldn’t I go on myself and do what I’m supposed to do? After all, that’s what they’re here for.”

“You have to make them wait,” he’d explained, “build their anticipation and their excitement … make them want you a little bit more. We’ll give them all the brash, flashy dance routines and then we’ll present them with the contrast: a solitary woman alone on stage. You’ll be magnificent, Léonie.”

She stared in the mirror. Yes, she looked magnificent. The trouble was that inside she didn’t feel magnificent. Oh, Jacques, she thought desperately, could you have been wrong? How do I become “another person”? I don’t think I can do it.

Paul dropped a light kiss on top of her braided head. “Keep calm.” He smiled. “You’re going to be fine.”

“Am I, Paul?” Her eyes betrayed her panic.

“Everyone feels like this on first night,” he said gently. “We’ll all be here to help you through it, Léonie. You’re not alone. Jacques will be there in the orchestra pit—you’ll be able to see him—your friends are in the audience. Courage, my girl.” He waved as he made for the door to check on the progress of the show. Courage, he thought apprehensively to himself. He hoped she’d make it.

The dressing room was filled with flowers—masses of yellow roses from Caro and Alphonse, enormous bouquets of summery-smelling flowers from Paul, and delicate camellias from Jacques—even her lawyer had sent roses. Their perfume filled the room; if she closed her eyes she might imagine she were in a garden. There was one scent dominating all the others, even stronger than the camellias; it came from a spray of jasmine that had arrived just a few minutes ago. It lay in front of her on the dressing table along with a note. The familiar writing, severe and unelaborate, loomed from the paper. She read it once again. “I haven’t forgotten you, Léonie.” It was signed, simply, “Monsieur.”

Paul appeared at the door again. “It’s time, Léonie,” he said.

She took a deep breath and with a final glance in the mirror at the woman who was not her, she turned and faced him. “I’m ready,” she said, lifting her chin arrogantly.

Paul had been right. The audience were primed for her, eager for their first glimpse of the mistress of France’s richest man. She waited at the side of the stage as Jacques picked up the signal, the stage lights dimmed, and the music began. Remember Loulou, she murmured to herself as she lifted herself taller, shoulders back and down. Flaunt it, she had said. She gripped the animal’s chain tightly, wrapping it around her wrist, and with the panther padding at her side strode arrogantly on stage.

The audience gasped as she faced them, challenging them to look at her—at this exotic creature—different from them, grander, more powerful. The big cat lay docilely at her feet and
the amber spotlight encircled them intimately as she raised her arms, allowing the tiny crystal pleats that formed the sleeves of her tunic to spread like a fine golden fan. There was a murmur of comment, a ripple of applause from the stalls, and the silence of stunned admiration from the balconies. They didn’t know what they had expected, but not this: this wasn’t just a pretty girl who’d made it the hard way, or the poor distraught young mother, or the humiliated, discarded mistress of a ruthless man. This was a being from another world.

She began to sing, a small soft song of a woman in love, of how she loved her man, how she loved to touch his skin, how she felt when he lay next to her holding her.

Alphonse glanced quickly at the audience. They were riveted, leaning forward, eager to catch her words—listening for nuances and underlying meanings—captured by her low, rough, flagrantly sexual voice.

The spotlight faded as her song ended, illuminating only her bowed head. And the applause began, a ripple at first, gathering momentum as people recovered their breath and joined in, dying into stunned silence as Jacques swung into the next number and the stage lights revealed six enormous Nubians guarding a bronze couch. They stood, all of them, well over six feet tall, naked but for golden cloths tied Egyptian style around their loins, their massive chests gleaming a glossy black under the lights and the tight muscles of their abdomens rippling as they moved. Léonie stalked the arena, long-legged and lithe as the panther, as she sang her second song, its barbaric Latin rhythm underscoring the words of the temptation of forbidden fruits, the lure of the forbidden.…

Of course, Maroc knew it was her, but it was a part of her he had never known existed. The audience were loving it; they couldn’t keep their eyes off her, watching her every movement as if to capture it in their minds forever. The door to the foyer swung open behind him and a figure slipped quickly inside; a latecomer, he doubted he’d find a seat now. The man leaned against the wall, watching. In the dimness there was something familiar about the figure, those broad shoulders. The stage brightened and he caught a glimpse of the strong profile: it was Monsieur! He was staring fixedly at the stage, unaware of anything but her. Why was he here? Would he try to see her afterward? Maroc hoped not. It would only mean trouble.

Here, in the dark, it was almost like being alone with her. She
was close to him, just a few yards away on stage. Her gauzy golden tunic gleamed under the lights, the crystal pleats flickering around the curves of her body, skimming her flesh like a warm tongue. She was beautiful, flamboyantly, sybaritically sexual. She was no stranger to
him
. This was the Léonie only he knew. He became annoyingly aware of the audience as the applause and cheers rang through the theater, intruding on his dream. It wasn’t right, these people shouldn’t be here; this was meant for him alone. Didn’t they know she was his? Angrily he turned to leave, he would not endure this exposure of the woman he loved. But he couldn’t do it, he couldn’t leave her—he had to stay to the end. And then what? He remembered the scene with Marie-France just before he left. She had won this round, but he wasn’t finished yet. He’d find Amélie. And then Léonie would come back to him. He fixed his attention on the stage again, drinking in her presence like a thirsty traveler at an oasis. At least now he would always know where she was, for the price of a ticket he could see her whenever he wished—it was a start.

Maroc watched Monsieur watching Léonie, remembering him as he used to be—a tall, arrogant, civil man, always icily polite, always in control. When had the destruction begun? Was it with Léonie? Or was it before then—earlier in his life? Had he been damaged so badly by women that he needed to treat them with contempt, or was it Léonie who had driven him to terrible deeds? He had murdered because of her, he had humiliated himself because of her; look at him now, here in this theater, braving the recognition of the crowds to catch a glimpse of her. He couldn’t let go of her! He was truly a man obsessed.

The last bars of music faded into silence and Léonie and the panther faced the auditorium with identical topaz stares. She stood unsmiling as the audience rose to its feet and the theater echoed to the cheers and bravos. Sweat trickled coldly down her back, whether from exhaustion or fear she didn’t know. She felt numb. The panther stirred restlessly on its chain and she bent and stroked its sleek black head, feeling it throb in a gigantic purr. She knew she had no need to fear this creature, it was a cat and she loved it. Ushers were bringing bouquets to the stage and looking down she caught Jacques’s eye. He smiled encouragingly, and suddenly she felt normal again. It was over. She smiled around in surprise as the audience demanded an encore. Could it be true? Was it really all right? The ice had melted in her veins, she
couldn’t sing anymore. She was Léonie. She tossed her feathered head, laughing out loud as the cheers rang out, and floated off the stage on sandaled feet and a wave of exhilaration, the big cat loping at her side.

Paul clasped her in his arms and kissed her as the dancers and stagehands burst into a spontaneous round of applause. “Wonderful … you were wonderful, Léonie. I always knew it.”

Chilled champagne waited in her dressing room as she pulled the gold band from her head wearily and sank onto her golden throne. Jacques burst through the door, his thin young face lit with excitement, brimming with happiness for her success. He knelt dramatically and kissed her bare feet. “Léonie Bahri, you were amazing … far, far better than at any rehearsal. What happened? Where did it all come from?”

She laughed. “I don’t know—I don’t even know what I did that was different. I suppose I became the other person, the one the audience wanted.”