Leonie (43 page)

He was here because he’d heard that Henry Flagler, oilman and railroad entrepreneur, was opening up this young state, parts of which were still a wilderness. Because of his wife’s ill health, Flagler had been forced to spend his winters in St. Augustine and had discovered the delights of both the ideal climate and the long windswept Atlantic beaches. Realizing their potential as winter playgrounds for chilled northerners, he had bought the railroad, extended it south as far as Miami, and intended to take it even farther, right to the furthermost point—Key West.

Edouard zigzagged restlessly across Florida, sometimes on horseback and sometimes catching up with the railroads, wending his way east through the little coastal towns of Daytona and Rockledge, down to the sleepy village of Miami, whose white arches dripped purple bougainvillaea in tropical disarray against the clearest blue sky. Flagler’s grand new hotel was rising from the ground and would soon be completed. Edouard knew there’d be room for more than one good hotel in a place like this and land was cheap—he could take his pick of plots. He bought along a wide stretch of beach reaching back through sea grasses and dunes into windswept rubble. One day, he thought, pacing it with the satisfaction that only his own land can give a man, I’ll build a hotel here that will be better than Flagler’s—better than anyone’s.

It wasn’t easy to get to Key West. The ferry called at dozens of tiny islands that formed the tail of Florida, but the journey was worth it. The town’s ancient Spanish name was Cayo Huesco—Bone Key—so named for its white coral reefs that were pounded
by the waves to a fine powder, the color of men’s bones. The powder mingled with the sea, turning it an astonishing opaque turquoise, and the pretty little port sent forth its fishing fleet on these milky waters, bringing back a daily bounty of shrimp and soft-shell crabs and fish of every sort. Key West’s sandy streets were bordered by wooden sidewalks and lined with shade trees and white-fronted houses, and in the hills beyond, hidden in the privacy of thick groves of magnolias, laurels, and orange trees, were breezy pastel villas, whose only disturbances were the dry rattle of palm fronds and the shrill call of the cicadas.

Calling for a chilled beer, Edouard watched the passing parade from the veranda of the St. James Hotel on Main Street.

What better haven of peace and quiet would he ever find than this? He’d buy one of those houses in the hills and bring Amélie here—she’d love it. Oh, how he missed her. He missed her curling up on his knee, asking for the old stories of when he and her father were just boys at the château in France. Sometimes she’d speak wistfully of her mother, Léonie. “Why did she have to die, Edouard?” She’d asked the same questions, so sadly, so many times. “If my father were such a good swimmer, why couldn’t he save her and himself?” He’d answered her with small protective lies. Léonie had become a myth: the lovely young mother who had died so tragically with her husband. She was just a dream figure in Amélie’s mind—and in his also, almost. Every time he looked at Amélie, he remembered. She was so like her—the same peachy skin, the beautiful amber eyes, and, of course, the same champagne-colored hair.

Edouard stared unseeingly across the blue seas toward the exotic island of Cuba, just a ferry ride away. He felt suddenly very lonely. What I need, he thought with a wry smile, is the love of a good woman. Maybe then I’ll be content!

–
• 40 •

Verronet sighed with exasperation as he searched through the mass of papers on Monsieur’s desk. Something would have to be done, he thought resignedly; it was impossible to find anything these days. There were still papers about the long-dead court case for the child—he had kept them all. He picked up a document and stared at it in amazement—it was a report on a proposed merger of the two steel companies. He thought it had been taken care of weeks ago. Hadn’t de Courmont told him that? The man must be going crazy. Just look at this desk! He pushed at the pile impatiently, who knew what was lost in here. All de Courmont cared about these days were the reports on Léonie and the futile search for that child. He was obsessed with that damned child!
She
was the reason he neglected his business matters. Why didn’t he give up on her—and Léonie? It wasn’t as though he had no other women. God, there was a succession of them—and they cost him a fortune. But he was like a child who’d lost a favorite toy—he only wanted
that
one!

The only things he cared about with any passion, besides Léonie and her daughter, were his automobiles—and thank heaven for that, at least he still kept those under his personal control—almost everything else was delegated these days so that he could follow
her
around Europe. Whenever Léonie went off on one of her tours, he’d disappear for a few days here and a few days there. He simply couldn’t keep away.

Ah! Here was what he was looking for—the breakdown of the component prices for the new limousine they had scheduled for production next autumn. As usual, rubber cost more than steel, more than almost any of the other items on the list. Those tires were becoming prohibitively priced. He thought about the rubber
for a while, something must be done about it—he’d speak to de Courmont when he came in. He had a couple of ideas.

Monsieur stood at the back of the darkened theater not watching the stage, lost in his thoughts. He was there every night, as he always was when Léonie was in Paris. This was the last night of her third season and she grew more accomplished each time. He brooded on her success—it was more than success, she had become a cult, a celebrity. She was treated like a queen wherever she went, not just in France but all over Europe, and he’d heard a rumor today that she was to go to America. America! How often had she begged him to take her there. And now she was her own woman; she set fashions for others to follow, they copied her style, her hair, her look. Even the one who was waiting for him now in the blue suite of the Hôtel Crillon had blond hair, swinging smooth around her shoulders in the same long Egyptian bob that Léonie had.

The usher glanced at him disinterestedly—the man was always there, never took a seat, said he preferred to stand. Maroc noticed him, too. He checked every night to see if he was there—Léonie always asked him. And the spray of jasmine was delivered every night, too; the dressing room was choked with their scent. But, oddly, she refused to throw them away. He glanced at his watch as Léonie paced onto the stage, facing the audience with her usual challenging stare. They were running five minutes late tonight, he must find out why. He’d been Léonie’s manager for three years now, organizing her tours, coordinating the production with Paul Bernard, helping her find new music and new designers, making the deals for ever-increasing sums of money, amounts now so large that even he was astounded that theater managements agreed to pay them. But they did—and they begged for more. They had traveled Europe together, and soon they’d be off to America where, even though she was still an unknown quantity, the management had guaranteed the substantial amount of dollars he had demanded. It was exciting: she had conquered Europe and now she would conquer the New World!

Léonie’s private life, when she had time for it, was very much her own, as simple in contrast to her public person as she could manage. Any free time she had she spent at the inn, her refuge from the people and the publicity that followed her everywhere.

He glanced at Monsieur. He was watching her intently. She
hadn’t spoken to him for well over ten years and yet he still came every night to see her. Shaking his head in amazement at the power of the man’s obsession, Maroc slipped through the door and made his way backstage.

“Sir.” Verronet gave a tentative cough.

De Courmont looked up from his desk wearily. “What is it now, Verronet?”

“It’s about the tires, sir … for the new cars. You remember I spoke with you about it before. The price is now truly prohibitive.”

De Courmont sat back in the green leather chair and considered the matter. It was true. The cost of rubber seemed to increase every time he checked it, and the manufacturers hiked up their prices accordingly—and then some. Their profit must be enormous.

“I know you’ll agree with me, sir, when I say that the amount spent on tires for our cars is completely out of proportion, but I have an idea. There is at present no way to cut our costs, but with the expansion of the automobile industry, perhaps we should think seriously of becoming manufacturers ourselves—we could supply Europe with tires and associated products, undercutting the present prices and at the same time reducing our own costs. There’s a large margin of profit to be had. Here are some figures, sir. It’ll take a bit of work, of course, but I’ve been doing some research and I think if you considered buying your rubber direct from Brazil—perhaps even taking over a plantation—it would be more than viable.”

De Courmont listened. Verronet was a good man, he was loyal and he had the schemer’s instinct for a loophole in a contract or an advantageous deal. Picking up the little scarlet model of the new de Courmont limousine from his desk, he balanced it in his hands, liking its crisp clean lines, the lack of gadgets and clutter that had spoiled the first cars. This was sleeker, longer, and with a lot more power. He remembered when he had given Gérard and Armand little models of the first car—wasn’t it that time when Gérard had been so ill? He had hoped Gérard would follow him into the business, but he was set on becoming an architect. Armand would take over the business, he loved the cars.

“Sir?”

He glanced up. “What is it now?”

Verronet held his temper in check. “The rubber, sir, for the tires. If you’re interested I’ve found a couple of contacts in Brazil, there are several estates producing the high grade ‘Pará’ rubber we need. It must be the hardest quality and I understand that it only comes from the southern banks of the Amazon—the northern reaches grow only ‘weak’ rubber. There are several trails, the Agencia Hevea Belem, the Puntamayo Company, and the Oro Velho Trail are the best possibilities. It would necessitate going to Manaus and arranging to purchase an entire season’s production of one or more of these companies at a favorable price.”

It was a good idea. They could put up a factory on the site next to the components’ depot—de Courmont glanced at his watch. The train for Nice left in fifteen minutes; he pushed back his chair hurriedly, reaching for his jacket. “We’ll discuss it later, Verronet.”

“But …”

“Not now, Verronet, I don’t have the time.”

Verronet heaved an angry sigh. It might mean a delay of another month, maybe two. De Courmont never said when he would be back.

–
• 41 •

Monte Carlo welcomed Léonie on her own terms these days—as the star, the celebrity, the glamorous young woman in Fortuny silks and barbaric emerald-studded bracelets and swirling tawny gold hair. Léonie carried off the role with aplomb, smiling at the crowds as she strode through the casino, remembering her amazement that first night she had met Monsieur, when people had moved aside to let the Duc de Courmont pass with her on his arm. Now the crowds parted for her, managers bowed and doormen saluted. And the Café de Paris always held her table.

But fame had its price. She had worked hard to achieve it—and worked even harder to maintain it—and her public life left little time for private pleasures. Jacques, unhappy with the scattered moments spared from her busy life, had reluctantly departed. And here, in her favorite place, she went back to the inn, alone, to that white room still virtually untouched from the day she first went there—just a lamp and a small rug—and maybe, now and then, a man.

Occasionally she would catch a glimpse of Monsieur in the distance, at some smart restaurant or in the casino—and always with some young blonde on his arm. But she ignored him.

It was always easy to avoid Monsieur’s spies when she was at the inn. It was impossible for them to hang around too much and there were limits to how many times they could drive past; anyway, they were becoming lazy. He changed them every now and again, but he knew that she knew about them—they had become almost a token threat, a last hope that she would lead him to Amélie. She knew how to avoid them when she had to.

She was up and dressed before dawn, ready and waiting on the terrace when Monsieur Frenard appeared to drive her to Nice.
The roads were empty and the little white town was just beginning to awaken as they arrived. He dropped her at the railway station and she hurried along the platform to catch her train, praying no one would recognize her. There was no trace of her Egyptian image, no eyes elongated with kohl, no braided mane, no jewels and silken tunics. She was discreet in a plain cotton dress and jacket, her hair pulled back severely and tied with a ribbon at her neck. She was just another woman, a lovely woman with haunted eyes.

The train journey was a long one and Léonie fidgeted for the last hour, unable to read her book, eager to reach her destination. The car was waiting at the station and they drove through the lovely countryside of the Loire, crisscrossed with rivers and dotted with moated medieval houses, toward the Château d’Aureville. The twin stone pillars flanking the big iron gates were empty of their griffins, flown with the d’Aurevilles to grace their new home. But the château looked exactly as it had when the family had left it, only its occupants were different.

A round-faced smiling nun stood on the portico to greet her, embracing her cheerfully as she ushered her into the hall. “The children will be so happy to see you, Madame Léonie,” she said. “They always look forward to your visits.”

They stood up with a great scraping of chairs as she came into the room, two dozen small faces beaming at her, chanting “
Bonjour
, madame,” and waiting, like leashed puppies, for the signal of freedom.

“Come,” she called joyfully, holding out her arms as they rushed toward her with whoops of excitement, clamoring to be the first for her kisses, pushing and shoving to be the preferred one whose hand she would take as she walked to the tables. “All right, all right, now
everyone
has been kissed—and it’s time for lunch. And then …” She smiled at their expectant faces. “And then,” they chorused.