Leonie (25 page)

“Monsieur,” she called. He appeared in the doorway fastening his studs, clasping the onyx cuff links. He was remote, preoccupied, already thinking of the next matter on the agenda, she thought bitterly. And she knew what that was. He was going home tonight after the dinner party, to Marie-France and the children. He spent a meticulous amount of time with his family, despite the fact that he now went his own way so publicly. Once
Léonie had envied Marie-France her security as Monsieur’s wife, but now she understood that she, too, was vulnerable.

She remembered with a shiver the time Marie-France had come to see her. It had been a lazy morning and she hadn’t been prepared for visitors. She’d dressed hurriedly, having Julie pull her hair back as severely as possible, so that she wouldn’t look as if she’d just emerged from some warm, tumbled bed. Marie-France had been pale and composed, with a calm smile playing about her mouth. “I know this is difficult for both of us,” she’d begun, as they sat opposite each other drinking tea from exquisite china cups, paid for by her husband. “But I had to meet you. It wasn’t just vulgar curiosity. I wanted to know what he needed that I couldn’t give him.”

Léonie had gasped with shock at her next words. “Do you love him, my dear?” Léonie had been unable to answer. She’d stared at the pale carpet, wishing she could hide in it. There was no way this gentle woman could know what it was between her and Monsieur.

“It was all right before I met you,” she had told Marie-France quietly, “but now you have a face, one that I’ll remember. And feelings—just like I do. Madame”—she had taken a deep breath—“I understood it was otherwise, but if I am ruining your life, causing you a deep misery, then I shall leave him.”

“Gilles and I have been living separate lives for a long time. There were others, you know, before you. It’s just my children I care about. I won’t have them harmed and I won’t have any scandal.” She had shrugged. “Many men, as we both know, have mistresses. I feel he is lucky to have found someone as young and lovely as you. I have never understood what it was that Gilles needed, but hopefully he’s found the answer.” She had put down her untouched cup of tea and walked to the door, turning to smile at her. “Just remember, though, my children will come first if there should be any conflict.” And with a gentle smile she was gone.

“Yes?” Monsieur’s voice was impatient, interrupting her reverie.

Léonie leaned forward, gripping his hand. “Do you care about me, Monsieur? Tell me the truth, what do you feel for me? Do you care at all?”

“Of course I do, Léonie,” he said as he shrugged on his jacket. “You belong to me.”

She sighed and lay back against the pillows, watching as he adjusted his tie in her mirror. “I’m lonely, Gilles.”

“How can you possibly be lonely? This house is never empty! And you have sixteen people coming for dinner in less than an hour’s time—so perhaps you’d better get out of bed and get ready.”

She had organized a dinner party as a welcome home for him, inviting a mixture of old friends and new acquaintances, but now she regretted it. She needed him, she wanted to be alone with him—to
talk
to him. “Let’s send them all away; let’s not have a dinner party. You and I could have supper together right here in my room.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Léonie. Anyway, the party was your idea.” He checked his watch. “Don’t forget that I want to leave by twelve.”

“I won’t forget.” She pulled the sheet over her head and buried her face in the pillow as Bébé leapt onto the bed, curling up in the curve behind her bent knees. “I don’t know, Bébé,” she whispered, “it’s not that I’m bored, it’s just that there must be something more than this.”

She looks wonderful, he thought, watching her at the foot of the table. Léonie was wearing a black organza dress, sleeveless and high-necked, with a deep ruffle at the throat, and the black emphasized the velvet texture of her bare arms. Her skin had the smooth warm bloom of summer apricots and it still excited him. She was talking intently to some new young man she’d acquired, an artist, she had said when she introduced them, and he watched their heads bent together as they talked. She seemed absorbed in what the young man was saying. He felt a pang of jealousy, though he knew he had no reason—she was faithful. Verronet had a man on her all the time, he had daily reports on her every movement from the time she left the house to the time she came home. What had started out as a game was now a need—he had to know what she was doing, whom she met, and where she went. So consumed was he with the minute details of her life that he wished he could have the man eavesdrop on her conversations.

Why, he wondered, had she said she was lonely? She was never alone. But at least she was mostly with people he knew, like Caro and Alphonse. When he was away she went to parties or to the theater, he didn’t keep her in prison—though he’d like to. The
thought lurked in the back of his mind. He’d like to lock her away and keep her just for himself, then he’d be sure he’d never lose her. She belonged to him—hadn’t he just proven that upstairs in her bed? He could still excite her, make her want him. She was wanton, his Léonie—the Léonie that only he knew.

She wore her hair loose, floating around her shoulders like a mantle of light, and she tossed it back impatiently. Her long amber eyes watched him watching her, and she smiled. Bending down she picked up Bébé and placed her on a corner of the table next to her. She knew he hated the cat to be on the table. Pouring some cream, she allowed the cat to lick it from her plate, glancing at him from under her lashes. His expression didn’t change, he sipped his wine and continued to watch her with dark unreadable eyes.

Damn, she thought, why doesn’t he at least
react?
I want him to be angry! To shout at me, yell, throw things—strike me! I can’t bear this indifference, isn’t he human? Doesn’t he know we are allowed to show our feelings? Sometimes I think he feels nothing. The only time he’s out of control is when he makes love and then I’m not sure it’s pleasure he’s experiencing—it’s certainly not happiness.

The young artist was sketching on the stiffly starched linen napkin, a quick pencil study of Bébé, sitting on the corner of the table licking her whiskers. “But it’s charming.” Léonie laughed, pleased with the result. “I shall save it and have it framed.” She had deliberately seated him on her left in an attempt to provoke Monsieur, hoping it would make him jealous—someone new, a stranger in her life. She leaned closer to him, smiling. “Tell me,” she said, “what’s it like to be an artist? Is inspiration very hard to find?”

Monsieur signaled Maroc to fill the wineglasses as the hum of conversation flowed around the table. The bosomy opera singer on his right and the pretty young actress on his left began in desperation to talk to each other across the table, unnerved by his silence.

He had been away for a month and he missed her. Life was empty without her. Before it had seemed full to overflowing, with everything neatly in its place, everything under control. There had been Marie-France and the children, and then there had been his real life—his business world. The part allotted to women had had its place, but it had never taken over, business had always come first. But Léonie had crept into the corners of his mind and
lingered there the way her fragrance—the sweet, earthy scent of jasmine—lingered in his nostrils. She had invaded his world, his public life and his private fantasies. He wouldn’t allow it! He must keep her in her place. She was vulnerable, he knew what she needed to keep her happy. He’d show her the new property in the Loire. She had fancied a vineyard and this one was for sale—that would excite her—and he would give her the new share certificates tonight. He glanced down the table—and he’d have Verronet put someone on to that young man.

–
• 21 •

Caro felt sure that Léonie would wear a track on her beautiful sapphire blue Aubusson rug if she paced its length one more time—she’d been there for an hour already and so far she hadn’t sat down once.

“Please stop,” she begged her, “you’re wasting your time fretting about Monsieur. You have to accept that this is the way he is.”

“But, Caro, I never know if he even cares about me! Oh, I know”—she sat down abruptly on the couch next to Caro—“I shouldn’t grumble, I made my bargain and I have everything any woman should want.” She threw the envelope of securities onto the couch between them. “Even these! I have a beautiful house filled with beautiful things. Look at me: I’m one of the best-dressed women in Paris, the envy of other women because I live with Monsieur le Duc. I have everything I want … or so it seems. Do you know, Caro”—she leaned forward, whispering the words—“no other man has even made the slightest advance toward me … I don’t even know if I’m desirable anymore.”

Caro was shocked. “Doesn’t Monsieur desire you?”

“Yes. Yes, he does, but sometimes I wonder … I’m not sure why he wants me, whether I’m even really there for him or whether he’s just lost in his own needs and desires. And why should he want me, Caro, if he doesn’t love me?”

Caro put her arms around Léonie as she began to cry. “Please don’t, Léonie,” she said, stroking her hair. “He’s a strange man. I don’t know if he’s ever felt love for any woman. But I do know that he’s obsessed by you—I’m willing to swear that he thinks of you all the time, that he
needs
you.”

“Then let him tell me so … oh, why doesn’t he tell me so?”
Léonie sat up and dried her eyes. “Damn it, I’m never going to cry over another man. I swore that when Rupert left me.”

Caro held up the envelope. “What’s this?”

“His welcome home present to me.”

Caro opened the envelopes and scanned the contents rapidly. They were share certificates—all in companies owned by de Courmont. She placed them carefully back in the envelopes.

“Well, at least he takes good care of you.”

“But it’s not enough, Caro. I dress the way he likes to see me dressed, I wear the jewels he gives me, I throw the right parties, invite the people he chooses, I go with him when and where he wants, and I’m always there—waiting—when he needs me. I’m the perfect mistress,” she said bitterly. “I am everything he wants me to be. I feel as though he’s created me!”

“Léonie, that’s not true. You are
you.
”

“I envy those young people I invite to my parties, the opera singer who studies every day, and the pretty young ballet dancers who are struggling to make a name for themselves. At least their lives are real. I’m part of a fantasy, Caro. It’s one long game—a tug of war. Sometimes I think I should take a lover.” She resumed her pacing of the rug. “There was a young man at dinner the other night.…”

“You must be crazy,” Caro said quietly. “No one cheats on Gilles de Courmont.”

“I’ve never even kissed another man since I met him.” Léonie was lost in her own thoughts, carried away by the torrent of her own words. “I think about Rupert sometimes, about how young and innocent we were, and how lovely it was.”

“Rupert left you, Léonie, have you forgotten that?”

She had shocked her into silence. “I’m warning you now, Léonie, that deceiving Gilles de Courmont would be a dangerous game. Why do you think no one makes a pass at you—it’s not that you’re not attractive or desirable. It’s because they’re
afraid …
afraid of Monsieur! He’s known as a ruthless man in business and I’ve seen how he is with women, he can turn to ice in a moment and leave you wondering why, what it was you did that upset him. But a lover … my God, Léonie, you must be crazy! He’ll never let you leave him!”

Léonie stared silently at the floor, and Caro took her hand, feeling sorry for her. “Anyway,” she added, “remember you made
a bargain. A contract, you told me. Isn’t Monsieur keeping to that?” She held up the stocks and shares.

Léonie sat down with a sigh, her anger exhausted. “I suppose you’re right, Caro.”

The crowd of smartly dressed people swarmed out from the theater onto the rue Royale laughing and talking about the show they had just seen as they drifted slowly down the street. Monsieur signaled the waiting driver. “No, please, let’s walk,” suggested Léonie, “it’s a lovely night.”

“Very well, if you’d like. I’ve booked a table at Voisins.”

“Why don’t we go to La Coupole, it’s full of interesting people, artists and writers.”

“I like Voisins and I thought you did.”

“But we always do the same thing, go to the same places—see the same people. You never take me anywhere different.”

“Nonsense.” He took her firmly by the arm, hurrying her across the street.

“Anyway, you’re here so rarely.”

He laughed at her grumbling. He knew she was angry because he was leaving for New York.

“I think I’ll leave you,” she said, testing him.

He kept on walking. “Of course you won’t,” he said.

“Why won’t I?”

“Why should you? Don’t you have everything you want?”

“Do I? Do I, Monsieur?” She willed him to say he loved her. Say it, say it, her mind throbbed with the words.

She stopped, forcing him to turn and face her. The tree-lined street was cheerful, the brightly lit cafés filled with people enjoying themselves. There was a snatch of music in the air, a feeling of gaiety. “Take me with you to New York,” she begged, “let me come with you just this once … please, Monsieur.”

“I can’t do that, Léonie.”

She didn’t bother to ask why not. The answer was always the same.

“We’ll go to the south for a few days when I get back.”

“But that’s not what I want,” she said bleakly.

“What do you
really
want?” His eyes bored into hers, dark and unreadable.

She wanted to force him into revealing himself, provoke him
into a reaction that was more than passion. She wanted to be loved by him. “I want to be with you. I love you, Gilles.”

He turned his face away. “I told you in the beginning, Léonie, there was to be no talk of love.”

“I’d like to have a child.”

For the first time his face showed real anger as he stared at her, his eyes blazing. “That is the most stupid thing you have ever said, Léonie. You are my mistress, not my wife.” He walked to the curb and hailed a cab. She climbed in sullenly. The words had just come into her head out of the blue, and they had reached him. At least he was angry.