Leonie (44 page)

“And then there will be presents!”

Sister Agnes laughed. “They’ll never eat their lunch now,” she said. “There’ll be no holding them until they see the presents.”

“Now let me see,” said Léonie, walking around the table. “Whose turn is it to sit next to me this time?”

“Me, me—it’s me.”

“And me … Cécile …”

“Come along then, Cécile, and you, Véronique … let’s see how much lunch you can eat.”

She cut their meat and encouraged them to eat the vegetables, listening contentedly to the chatter of the small events of their daily lives. It was only here that there was any reality to her memories of Amélie.

The idea had come to her out of the blue. Money had begun to flow in—more money than she had thought possible. She had been shocked to see that the Château d’Aureville was for sate—it had always been there, d’Aurevilles had always lived there. Charles had said so. And as long as it still belonged to them it had meant that one day they would come back, but now she knew they wouldn’t, and neither would Amélie. Léonie had never forgotten the stories Charles had told her of his idyllic childhood; it was a house that needed children. If Amélie were never to live at the Château d’Aureville, then other children should have the chance.

The rest had been simple. She had bought the château—discreetly, using the name of one of her companies—and she had endowed it as an orphanage. Twenty-four children who by some unfortunate trick of fate had been left alone and without parents, had found a home here, lovingly cared for by a team of young nuns, chosen for their youth and understanding of childish problems, under the gentle and capable supervision of Sister Agnes. The youngest child was now two years old and had been found on their doorstep, a tiny newborn infant whom they had named Léonie, after their patronne. And the eldest was almost twelve—Amélie’s age. Léonie loved them all.

The day passed too quickly, the presents distributed—cuddly toys and bouncing rubber balls and dolls and toy horses and engines and puzzles and lots of books. There were kites to fly in the wind and colored paper bags of sweets—the latter given furtively and with much giggling behind the indulgently turned backs of the sisters.

The journey home seemed even longer than had the one there. It wasn’t exactly a restful day, and Lord knew she needed rest, but it had been the happiest day she had spent in months.

She had been at the inn for two weeks—two blissfully lazy weeks—gathering strength for the American tour. First there would be the rehearsals and the costume fittings and the new songs and—oh, the million details that she didn’t want to think
about now. Now was for idling, loafing, lazing, hanging around, busily doing nothing important, like drying her hair in the sun and choosing fish and vegetables for Madame Frenard in Saint-Jean, and lying on the terrace after supper with Bébé on her lap.

The sunset was wonderful tonight, she thought sleepily, stroking Bébé’s fur, staring across the darkening sea to the crimson horizon, flecked with fluffy lilac clouds. Her eyes were closing already and she yawned, wondering how she managed to get so tired here at the inn. In Paris she was never tired, perhaps she just saved it all up until she came here. “Early to bed tonight, my darling,” she said, tucking Bébé under her arm and making her way sleepily along the terrace to her room.

Bébé watched from the bed as Léonie braided her hair, waiting for the moment when her mistress would climb in and she could make her way up the quilt to snuggle safe in Léonie’s arms. That was the way it always had been.

Léonie couldn’t remember what it was that woke her. She thought maybe it was because the purring had stopped, or was it Bébé’s strange coldness? The fur was still as soft, the tiny head was still tucked next to hers on the pillow, but Bébé had gone.

She lifted her and held her close, praying that her own warmth would revive Bébé’s already lifeless body, but Bébé was dead and Léonie had lost her dearest, most beloved friend, the keeper of her secrets, sharer of her sorrows, bestower of laughter and comfort. It was as though the tears would never end.

Taking the scissors, she cut up her cashmere robe, Bébé’s favorite soft resting place, and wrapped Bébé gently in its folds. She emptied her carved rosewood chest of the jewels and placed Bébé’s tiny limp body in the casket. Then she took the chest into the garden and buried it in the place where they had always sat together to watch the ocean and the birds and the sky. She planted a tree over the place, a flowering pear that would bloom every spring and always be part of Bébé.

The tour was postponed. She couldn’t work. She was distraught, distracted, limp, without energy.

“She’s mourning for Bébé,” said Maroc to Caro as they stared at her helplessly.

“We must find her another cat. A kitten … the same sort.”

“But I’ve never seen one like Bébé anywhere else … she was so small, so brown. I don’t know what breed she was, Maroc.”

“I’ll find out,” he promised. “I’ll get her another kitten. I can’t bear to see her like this.”

It took him a month of intensive searching—no one on the Côte d’Azur knew of any cats like that; where Bébé had come from was a mystery. He went further inland, thinking perhaps she had come from some sort of farm, or the hills, but no one knew. He had to find an expert. Madame Hermione was an expert. She had fifteen cats of her own and she knew immediately what he was looking for.

“They’re Swiss Mountain cats,” she told him as if surprised that he should even ask. “You’ll find them up in the Alps, right on the border. I’d try up near Annecy if I were you.”

He would make the weary journey willingly, if only at the end of it there would be another Bébé.

At Annecy he found another clue: there was a small lake just over the border, nothing much there—a few farms, a few chalets—but it was possible they had that sort of little brown cat there.

He walked around the track by the lake, wishing he had time to enjoy the crisp clean air that smelled of eucalyptus and pine, making his way to the farm at the bottom of a meadow scattered with blue and yellow flowers, hearing the sound of cowbells. As he came to the dairy where the farmer’s wife was busy churning butter, he almost fell over a little brown kitten. She lay on her back waving her pink-padded paws in the air. He had found Léonie’s cat.

She was only a shade darker brown than Bébé and a little lighter on the belly and under the chin, but she had the same triangular head and oblique yellow eyes, and she was just as soft. She snuggled in Léonie’s arms as though she belonged there, purring trustingly. Léonie hadn’t thought it possible that she could love any cat after Bébé, but this one was irresistible.

“Oh, Maroc,” she said, “how can I ever thank you?”

“There’s no need,” he said with a smile. “As long as you’re happy.”

“I’ll never forget Bébé,” she vowed.

He sat down beside her and took her hand. “Nor should you,” he said, “but this is a different one … a chocolate color kitten. And look, she loves you already.”

The tiny paws were kneading her arm affectionately and Léonie smiled through her tears. “Chocolat,” she said, “that’s her name.”

The loneliness without Bébé had been unbearable, the rooms at the inn empty of her mischievous presence, the terrace silent without the skittering paws, and the bed sad without her small comforting weight. She hugged the new kitten to her tenderly; they would be friends.

–
• 42 •

Sebastião do santos was enjoying Paris. He liked everything about it: the street life of terraced cafés and bistros, the
bal musettes
where you could meet girls and dance and drink a little, and the open spaces of the Bois and the Luxembourg Gardens and the bridges and the
bouquinistes
in the
quais
, where you could find wonderful old books for a few sous. He was happy, immersed for weeks on end in draftsmanship and blueprints and the buildings ancient and contemporary that made his architectural studies come alive at last. He enjoyed his freedom away from the confines of home and family, living in the world’s most fascinating city in the company of his new friends.

His rooms were in a crumbling old stone building that opened onto a cobbled courtyard guarded by a fierce concierge, who watched with an eagle’s eye to see that the young men were not bringing back girls—though the fact that she was almost stone deaf and disappeared every evening at eight, shutting herself away in her apartment with a bottle, meant that his rooms were the venue for many a rowdy party. Like the one they’d had the night before.

Sitting up in bed, he ran his hands through his thick straight blond hair and walked yawning across to the window, throwing it open to let in the fresh morning breeze.

He inhaled deeply. Gérard was still asleep on the couch. “Come on, wake up,” he called. “I’m hungry.”

“Ugh” was the only reply.

Sebastião laughed. “I’m off to the Dôme for breakfast, are you coming?”

“Oh, all right … I suppose so.” Gérard emerged grumbling from beneath the blanket, blinking his dark blue eyes at the bright morning sun. “How can you eat after last night?” he said, surveying
with distaste the row of empty wine bottles on the stained table. “Where is everybody?”

Sebastião shrugged. “If you mean the girls, they left before the dragon was up … they’re terrified of her.”

“You really must change your rooms, Sebastião,” Gérard said, laughing. “How can you put up with that interfering old girl?”

“I like it here. I like this old building … it suits me. Anyway, let’s get going. I’m starving.”

Gérard de Courmont was as dark as Sebastião was fair: dark brown, almost black hair, dark deep blue eyes that always seemed to see more than you meant him to, and a slim, strong-boned face with a touch of arrogance in the profile. He had met Sebastião at college and though he was a year older, the two had soon become friends. He practically lived at Sebastião’s apartment, preferring its freedom to his family’s home.

“You’d better go home this week,” said Sebastião, reading his thoughts, “your mother will be getting worried.”

“She’s in the country most of the time these days, it doesn’t really matter whether I’m there or not.”

“And your father?” Sebastião was curious.

Gérard shrugged. “Who knows. I think he spends most of his time at the factories with the designers—they’re bringing out a new sports car this year.” He didn’t want to think about his father, he rarely saw him these days, and when he did it only made him feel guilty for not going into the business. His father had always lived his life on his own terms—and so would he.

They ran down the stairs together, calling a cheerful
bonjour
to the old woman in her black dress and boots sitting in the courtyard, knitting yet another black garment. “Here,” she called after Sebastião, “here’s a letter for you.”

He looked at the envelope. “It’ll be from Amélie again,” he said with a grin. He loved to get her letters.

“And what will she have been up to this time?” Gérard smiled. Amélie’s letters were a great source of amusement. She wrote constantly to Sebastião, long scrawls filled with details of her daily doings, the rides with Roberto and Edouard along the beach, getting caught in the thunderstorm all the way out at Barra de Tijuca, the direness of exams at school, the exploits of Fido and Minou, and her continuing feud with Diego Benavente. She illustrated these sagas with funny little drawings of herself, a round-faced, fuzzy-haired, skinny-legged girl in boy’s shorts, smiling or
scowling or standing on her head—just so you’ll remember what I look like, she wrote.

The Dôme was quiet and they took a seat outside. Gérard ordered coffee while Sebastião opened her letter. He smiled as he read it, passing it across page by page to Gérard: this time she was in trouble. On one particularly hot day she had cut off her hair, shearing it raggedly above her ears, and a distraught Isabelle had rushed her down to Hellot’s beauty parlor, where they had trimmed it into short fluffy curls that lay close to her head. She was pleased with it, she said, because now she looked more like Roberto, but poor Grandmère had wept for the loss of all her beautiful hair and had gathered up the thick glossy hanks and tied them into braids to keep forever. She’ll soon get over it, she added, because she’s so busy with her plans to expand the Pavillon into a small hotel—sometimes I can’t believe Grandmère, and neither can she. She swears she was meant to be part of the bourgeoisie—being the lady on the high stool behind the cash register in a bistro would have suited her. She complained that Roberto thought she was too bossy and drew a little picture of herself with downturned smile next to it, and another of her face with a huge grin where she told him of her birthday lunch at the Pavillon and the enormous sugar-frosted cake with twelve candles. And now she was looking forward to going to Key West again with Edouard, she loved it there, especially going fishing on the boat and then cooking the catch over a smoky grill on the terrace in the evening—and Roberto was going this time, too. Diego was furious!

Gérard took a deep breath and laughed—Amélie’s sentences and thoughts flowed in one continuous line, leaving the reader breathless but amused.

“I can’t wait for her to grow up,” said Sebastião.

“Oh? Why?”

“So I can fall in love with her,” he replied with a smile.

Gérard looked at him curiously. “I believe you really mean it.”

“If you ever met her, you’d know why. Amélie is a charmer, you can’t help but love her.”

Gérard felt a pang of envy. How nice to have a family like Sebastião’s—united and happy—instead of torn and bitter like his. He sighed; he’d like to meet someone like Amélie one day.

“Why don’t you come back with me for the holidays?” offered Sebastião suddenly. Gérard gave off such waves of loneliness that at times he felt sorry for him. “You’d love Rio. We’ll go down to
the
fazenda
with all the family—we can work outdoors in the fields instead of poring over technical drawings and perspectives all day! And you can meet Amélie.”