Leonie (32 page)

“She says she’s not interested in food anymore,” said Caro, breaking into his thoughts, “nothing tempts her.…” Well, that was true enough, she thought with a sigh. Léonie wasn’t eating in a desperate attempt to stay thin so the pregnancy wouldn’t show.

“She must see a doctor,” he said anxiously. “I know just the man.”

“I took her to a doctor this morning.” She hesitated. “I’m afraid what he said was not good.”

Oh, God, what was she saying? He pushed back his chair standing over her, gripping her shoulder. “Caro … what’s the matter with her, what is it? Tell me, for God’s sake.”

“It’s her lungs, Gilles, the doctor says that it’s tuberculosis.”

Léonie. His lovely Léonie was ill, maybe even …

Caro turned her head away, not wanting to meet his eyes. “There is a good chance that she can be completely cured, Gilles, but she needs expert care. She must go away at once to a sanatorium in the mountains. The doctor says it’s essential for her to have complete rest and quiet, that she may have no visitors until he gives his permission. It could take months.”

“Then I must speak with this doctor. She must have the best man, Caro, the most expert treatment.” He tried to quell the panic rising in him—he had to save her.

“This doctor is the best. He has his own clinic in Switzerland and his work is the most advanced of any in the field. He’ll take care of her, Gilles, you can trust him. If you wish, you can speak with him yourself.” She knew she could trust the doctor to confirm their story—he had already been well paid.

It was exactly as she had said. Dr. Lepont merely confirmed her story, adding that the presence of Gilles and Caro, distressed as they were, would be harmful to Léonie’s delicate state of health. She must have no visitors at all until he gave permission. But they mustn’t worry, he had his own private sanatorium in the mountains, he would take her there himself, and his team of doctors
would supervise her treatment. He would keep them informed of her progress, naturally, but she must leave right away.

“Do whatever is necessary,” Monsieur replied quietly. “But Dr. Lepont, I want her back
cured!
”

He walked the streets of Paris for hours, cursing himself for not knowing she was ill, for not noticing sooner. He remembered the night when his son had almost died. It was only then that he’d known how much he cared for him. And he remembered Léonie at the inn, when she had held him in her arms all night. No, oh, no—Léonie couldn’t die!

He took her to the station himself, making sure she was comfortably installed in the special compartment he had reserved for her. Léonie watched him anxiously as he paced the platform waiting for Dr. Lepont.

He lavished departing gifts on her, soft ruffled nightdresses and robes, a fur rug for her bed, the latest books for her entertainment in the long hours she was to spend alone. The train puffed clouds of steam along the platform and Bébé on her knee growled softly and settled closer.

He came back with Dr. Lepont. “I shall be in the next compartment, madame,” said the doctor with a smile. “I’ll keep my eye on you, don’t worry.”

He left them alone discreetly as the conductor began slamming the doors.

“I expect you to return as my old Léonie,” Gilles said, gripping her thin shoulders, his deep blue eyes commanding her.

“I shall, Monsieur,” she replied obediently as he kissed her, “I promise you I shall.”

She watched him from the window, one arm raised in farewell as the train pulled away. As he disappeared from view, she sank back into the cushions with a sigh of relief. Maybe it would work out after all.

–
• 28 •

There’s no denying it now, thought Léonie, running satisfied hands across the low bulge of her belly. And I love it, I love it. I want to have a dozen babies. I’d like to spend the rest of my life being a mother. “Imagine, Bébé, that I can grow a child. You should try it, my kitten. We must find you a husband.” A husband. Her spirits crashed from elation to dejection as they had so often since she had come to the little chalet on the grounds of the sanatorium. There had been times when she had felt so isolated and sad she wanted to die, and peaks so high that she had felt invincible, promising herself she would keep the child, that Monsieur would accept it as his and everything would be wonderful. But, of course, it was all just a dream. The reality was that she was almost eight months pregnant and the child had no father. Worse, she was to give it up as soon as it was born.

All the arrangements had been made. The nurse would take the baby from her at birth and then it would go to friends of Madame Frenard’s sister, who lived in Menton, and who had promised to look after it as though it were one of their own. They were good people, simple and kind and already with three children—one more would just add to their happy little family. And, of course, she had made sure that there was a generous amount of money in the bank at Menton, enough to take care of the whole family. Léonie’s child would not be deprived, she had seen to that.

She had tramped the eucalyptus and pine-studded hillside behind the chalet endlessly, thinking about life, about the baby, coming helpless into the world, as unwanted as she herself had been, and she had shed bitter tears for yet another child born without love. But at least you’ll be taken care of, you
will
be loved, she promised, even though I shall never see you again, after the beginning.

Time had passed slowly in the tiny Swiss village nestled in the clutch of jagged peaks that pierced the sky with white-tipped fingers. The early autumn air was clear and touched with frost, and she would sit on the veranda warmly wrapped against the chill, watching the squirrels running through the branches and feeding the bright-breasted robins her breakfast crumbs. And with the approach of winter the sound of bells rang through the valley as the cows were brought down from the high pasture before the snows began.

The color returned to her face and she ate everything the doctors said she should, going for long walks with Bébé in the hills behind the chalet until her body became too clumsy for such an effort, and then she strolled the grounds of the sanatorium, avoiding the village just in case there might be any strangers, though she felt confident there weren’t.

Monsieur was allowed to write to her once a month and she opened his letters eagerly. They were always the same, brief notes saying that he hoped she was stronger and feeling better and that he looked forward to seeing her when she was well enough. They were always signed simply, “Monsieur.” What does he do when I’m not there? she fretted, stalking the isolated hills. She wanted it all to be over so that she could be back with him, secure now in the fact that he loved her, that everything would be all right as soon as they were together again.

Quite suddenly late in the eighth month, the pains began. At first it was just a low ache in her back, which she ignored, but then the cramp hit her and she gasped, surprised by its intensity—this child was determined to be born now. Like her, it had waited long enough.

Now that the time was here she felt afraid, and taking Bébé she sat on the veranda for a while, gazing at the familiar mountains. Their immensity calmed her, putting what was to come into its proper perspective: mortals gave birth and mortals died, but the mountains watched over them forever. The act of creation was something that happened every day; she was a woman about to do the thing she was meant for, to give birth to a child.

The night seemed so long, spaced between periods of calm and peace and a frenzied battle with pain. She hadn’t expected
this
pain. Did the child have to fight its way out of her body, wasn’t there some easier way? She lost track of time, drifting between the contractions, hoarding her strength for the next onslaught—she
would beat it, she wasn’t going to give in and cry that she could take no more. She pushed and panted her way through the pain-filled night, and with the dawn the baby was there. She heard its cry as the nurse took it and she laughed in triumph, lying exhausted in the tangle of her long, sweat-soaked hair.

Then she saw her daughter for the first time—and she loved her instantly.

“Just leave her with me for a little while,” she pleaded, holding the tiny, blanket-wrapped, day-old bundle that was Amélie. “Just let me have her for a week.”

The nurse looked at her helplessly. “But you said, madame …”

“I know, I know, but now I can’t. Don’t you see, she’s the most beautiful baby in the world? I just need to hold her, to look at her for a while longer.”

She touched the baby’s hand, smiling as the slender, starlike fingers gripped hers with surprising strength. Tenderly, she kissed the wisp of blond fluff on her head. Oh, yes, she thought, this is my baby and no one is going to take her from me.

The doctor came to plead with her and she lifted the child from the crib at the side of her bed, clutching the infant protectively like a wary animal, in case he should try to take her away by force.

“Of course I won’t do that, Léonie,” he said gently, “but it’s up to you to weigh the circumstances. I know that it’s difficult for you right now, you’ve just given birth, but you must keep in mind what’s best for the child. Remember the reasons you came here. The decision is yours. No one will take her from you—you must do that yourself.”

It was clever of him, she thought moodily, as the days passed. Of course no one would take the baby from her. Only she could make the decision. But what if she left Monsieur? She could keep the baby. A thrill of fear chilled her. And what sort of life would a child have, anyway, as the illegitimate daughter of a woman like her—a kept woman? No, Amélie was better off with a normal family, with brothers and sisters to play with and a mother and father who would love her. Léonie knew she had no choice.

But she would keep her just for a little while longer, a month perhaps. Surely a month wasn’t too much to ask. She could take
the baby south to the inn, to the sun. It would be spring there, the mimosa would be in bloom. A baby would grow plump and healthy with all that fresh air. Just one month, she promised herself, and then Madame Frenard can take Amélie to Menton.

–
• 29 •

Monsieur paced restlessly through the big house on the place Saint-Georges. Everything was immaculate, the polished tables gleamed, the gauzy silvered curtains hung in neat folds, shading the spring sun from the unused rooms, and empty grates waited for a warming fire.

He didn’t come here often, it reminded him too much of the gloomy house in the country when his mother had gathered up her friends and departed, taking with her all the sparkle and glow that had for a short while brought his world to life.

He felt the same now as he wandered into Léonie’s room, touching the smooth, cream-colored bedspread and the pillows, imagining the imprint of her head and all her lovely hair, that wonderful hair. The scent of jasmine lingered in the closet and he stared at the dresses hanging there, at the crystal Fortuny dress she’d bought to wear in America, remembering how she had looked in it when she had worn it for him that evening of their parting, how he had wanted to punish her.

He lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He had no contact with her. There were no more daily reports, no secret details of her life. There had been a time when he couldn’t live without them, when he’d needed to know everything, when he’d been obsessed with knowing what she did every minute of the time she wasn’t with him, but now all he wanted was that she might get better, that she would live. He couldn’t bear it if she didn’t.

It was difficult to sleep in his old room at the house on Ile Saint-Louis. He stayed up most of the time, working until he was so exhausted that sometimes he fell asleep at his desk. He closed his eyes. At least here he felt closer to her. He felt at peace.

*   *   *

It was dark when he awoke, but he didn’t feel rested. He leaned over and turned on the lamp, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. There were a couple of books on the bedside table that she must have been reading before she left—should he send them to her? he wondered, flicking idly through the pages. A note slipped to the floor and he picked it up, looking at the writing curiously. It was addressed to her at the inn, dated last September. He opened it and read it quickly, and then again more slowly. It was from a man: Charles. He enclosed money for his room and board at the Frenards; he called her magical, beautiful and thanked her for a night from her charmed life. It was dated just two weeks before he’d gone to her at the inn, when he’d told her that he loved her.

It wasn’t anger that he felt, it was different. It was as though ice were filling his veins, as though he was cutting off all emotion. He had allowed a chink, a single tiny gap in the armor of defense that had grown over him since his mother had so easily, so carelessly condemned him to a life without her, without love—sending him away to that school, where she hadn’t even come to visit him, never even written. He had never again allowed any woman that kind of power over him—never. Until Léonie.

He folded the note carefully and put it in his pocket. There were few clues. Just the name: Charles. And the fact that he had been a “shipwrecked mariner”—that meant a boat, and not a large one. If he’d been washed up near the Frenards’, it would be a small boat. A racing yacht, for example. Weren’t there races at Monte Carlo at that time of year? Verronet would find out.

And Léonie? What would he do about Léonie? He walked down the stairs thinking about her. First he needed to know the whole story, and then he’d make his move. But he wasn’t going to let her go, he knew that.

“I was right to bring her here, Madame Frenard,” said Léonie, watching Amélie sleeping in her crib out on the terrace, shaded from the sun and wind by her canopy. “Just look how she’s growing.”

The two of them hung over the side of the crib, examining the little blond face, her mouth pursed tightly in sleep as though she were concentrating very hard on it. “Ah, she is beautiful, Léonie, and so like you.”