Leonie (4 page)

“Léonie! Hand me that note!” Marianne’s voice was low and menacing. She thrust out her hand. “Give it to me!” Léonie looked around in panic for some escape—the other girls busied themselves at their counters pretending not to notice and Maroc had disappeared to eat his lunch in his usual place on the back steps in the alley.

“What note?” Her voice trembled and she backed away, keeping her hand with the note behind her.

“The one from Mademoiselle Gloriette’s young man. I saw him writing it and smiling at you behind her back.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” lied Léonie. She was
not
going to give her that note, she knew she would use it to get her sacked. Forgive me God for the lie, she prayed, but I
can’t
lose my job.

Marianne took her arm and wrenched it forward. The note was in the other hand and Léonie leaned back against the cabinet and pushed it through the slit in the middle drawer. Marianne’s grip was hurting her and she held out her other, empty hand. “You see, I have nothing.”

Marianne glared at her silently for a moment. “I
know
you were flirting with him and I
know
there was a note. I’ll tell you now, Léonie, that if I catch you again you’ll be dismissed instantly. I won’t have girls like you pushing yourselves forward in the salon with the customers! Stay in the background where you belong.”

“But I wasn’t—”

“Don’t answer me back—and of course you were! I’ve seen the men looking at you, flaunting yourself around with all that hair tumbling down over your eyes. Get it cut if you want to keep your job!”

She returned to her cubicle near the door and Léonie could see her at her desk, sipping tea. Marianne was white with rage, her hands trembling so that the tea slopped over the side of the cup.

Putting her fingers down the front of the drawer, Léonie retrieved the note and tucked it up her sleeve. Slipping out through the back door, she ran down the dingy passage to join Maroc in the alley.

The tears pushed at her eyelids as she sat down beside him, refusing the enormous sandwich he offered, spilling out the story of Marianne’s attack.

“Don’t cry, Léonie,” he said sympathetically, “she’s not worth it, she’s just jealous of you. I’ll bet that in all these years at Serrat no one has ever written her a note asking to take her out. Don’t let her make you cry, please!”

“I’m crying because I’m so angry! It’s so
unfair
. I know the parcels were tied properly … and I never even looked at that man until he sent me the note … and it’s not just today, Maroc! She’s always picking on me. Oh, what shall I do? There’s no way to please her. I’m not pushing myself forward.
I’m
the one who should be jealous of
her
. If I had
her
job, I’d be the happiest woman in Paris.”

“Would you? I wonder.” He offered her a twist of paper containing two melting chocolates. “Here, these are for you. They’re Madame Serrat’s best truffles from Tanrades. I thought they might cheer you up.”

“Oh, Maroc, you are so sweet.” She leaned over and kissed him and he grinned at her happily.

“Well, are you going to meet him?”

She was shocked. “Of course not.”

He threw the crumbs to the waiting pigeons. “I had to give you the note, but I hoped you wouldn’t go. Don’t waste yourself on men like that—they’re no good.” Their glances met, and she could see he was serious. “Life has a lot more to offer someone like you, Léonie, you’re different, special.”

He sounded so wise, so grown up. “How do you know so much for a fourteen-year-old?”

“I’ve lived on the streets all my life.” He shrugged. “I know about things … more than you do.”

Her wrist hurt where Marianne had gripped it and she rubbed it thoughtfully, thinking about that young man—it was exciting that he had wanted to see her. Cheering up, she began to eat Maroc’s sandwich. “I’m going to try to keep out of her way in the future, and I’ll tie my hair even tighter. I’ll even chop it off if it means keeping my job.”

“Please don’t cut off your hair.” He put up his hand and touched it gently. “It’s wonderful … like a great tawny mane. I can’t imagine you without it.”

She sighed as they walked down the passage, back toward the salon. “I won’t, Maroc—unless I have to.”

Carolina Montalva swept into Serrat in search of white lace stockings, groaning as Marianne bustled forward with a pleased smile. “Oh, God,” she said to the young man with her, “it’s that old battle-ax. I’d hoped to avoid her.”

“Mademoiselle Montalva.” Marianne smiled. “How nice to see you.”

Carolina—Caro to her friends—waved her away with an arrogant hand. “No need to bother with me, Marianne, I’m only here for some stockings. I don’t need to take up your time chatting … this child will do, she can serve me.” She sat down on the chair in front of the counter and Léonie turned from the cabinet in surprise. “Me, madame?”

“Yes, of course you. I’d like to see some white lace stockings.”

Léonie glanced helplessly at Marianne, who glared back at her. Mademoiselle Montalva was one of their best customers; she always bought lavishly, ordering everything by the dozen and in every color. She nodded her head. “You know where to find them, Léonie. Please see that Mademoiselle Montalva has everything she wants.” She turned to Maroc. “A glass of champagne for mademoiselle, please, Maroc.” She retreated to her cubicle, watching from the doorway as Léonie brought out the tray of stockings and began to unfold them for her customer. “There are three different patterns of lace, madame.”

Caro smiled at her. What an unexpected little beauty to find in Serrat! She glanced at Alphonse—as she had thought, he had noticed, too. “And which style do
you
think is the prettiest?” she asked.

“
Me
, madame?”

Caro laughed. “Yes,
you
again—which one is the prettiest?”

“Well, I’ve always liked this one the most, it’s so delicate.”

“Then I’ll take those—make it half a dozen pairs—and if you have them in black I’ll take six of those, too.”

“Yes, madame.” Léonie ran eagerly to the desk to make up the parcel—her first sale! She glanced at Mademoiselle Montalva. She was so beautiful, such wonderful smooth black hair swept back, Spanish-style, into a knot on her neck, the black eyebrows like wings over immense dark eyes. And so chic. That ruby-colored jacket and skirt looked soft and expensive. And her shoes, exactly the same color as her suit—and so
tiny!
Maroc said that her lover was very aristocratic and very, very rich. He looked nice, not too tall and not particularly aristocratic-looking, she thought, but nice. He caught her glance and winked at her, and she looked down hurriedly, fearful that Marianne would accuse her again of pushing herself forward. She finished the parcel and returned to the counter, handing it to Mademoiselle Montalva.

“Thank you, my dear, for your advice,” Caro said, smiling, as she took Alphonse’s arm and walked to the door. “By the way, what’s your name?”

“It’s Léonie, madame.” She could feel Marianne behind her, watching.

“Léonie.” She studied the girl. “How very suitable. I must remember to ask for you the next time I come in, Léonie.” Ignoring Marianne, she walked down the marble stairs and disappeared with Alphonse onto the street.

Marianne returned to her desk, speechless, and Léonie retreated back behind the counter. She felt elated. After all, if Mademoiselle Montalva wanted her to assist her next time, that meant she was one step closer to becoming a salesgirl! And she had done well, even Marianne couldn’t deny that.

–
• 3 •

Gilles, Duc de Courmont, glanced at the sky as he emerged from the Elysée Palace. There was no doubt it was going to snow. There was a yellowish cast to the lowering clouds and an edge to the wind that cut through his jacket; he should have worn a coat, but it was too early for this kind of weather. It was the sort you might expect in January, not October. Hunching his shoulders against the chill, he strode purposefully down the rue de Rivoli toward the offices of the European Iron and Steel Company and the third meeting of the day. It was still only ten o’clock and he had already met with two gentlemen from Germany about the joint expansion of the railway links with Russia and had breakfasted with a cabinet minister who had informed him, in confidence, that there was a suggestion that he was to be offered the ambassadorship to the Court of St. James’s in London. Of course, he wouldn’t accept. He had no wish to be stuck in London when his true interests lay in America—damn it, they should have given him Washington! He had already set up his contacts with the new automobile companies there, he could have combined the two perfectly. Who, he wondered, had been against it? He made a mental note to have François Verronet check on it—Verronet had contacts within the palace, he would soon know who it was that didn’t want him in Washington. Of course, he had his suspicions, and he’d bet even money on the minister with whom he had just had breakfast. He’d also have Verronet check on
his
business affairs in America; if the minister was up to something, there was no doubt that he would want his own man in there. No one crossed Gilles de Courmont and got away with it.

The men sitting around the oval table sprang to their feet as he came into the room. He had kept them waiting twenty minutes and they were busy men, but not only was Gilles, Duc de
Courmont, president of the European Iron and Steel Company, he was the incisive business brain that had promoted its success to one of the most powerful industrial empires in Europe. Gilles made no apology but got straight down to business. “Very well, gentlemen, the situation is this. The Grunewald Steel Company is in bad financial shape. As you know, it’s family-owned and the younger members took charge three years ago on the death of its founder. It’s not so bad that it couldn’t be saved by installing firm management, but it can also be made worse by wrong advice.” He glanced at the report in his hand, prepared for him by Verronet. There was nothing he didn’t know about the company, not a secret or a single detail of their financial situation. He turned to a second report—the intimate details of Carl Grunewald’s life: his marriage, his children, his women, his losses at the casino and at the racetracks of Europe, and the amounts of his borrowings from the company. There was a younger brother who was fighting to keep the company together, but Carl was doing an excellent job of dissipating the capital.

“Young Grunewald is a distant relative of my wife’s,” he continued. “I happened to meet him—not quite by chance,” he added with a smile, “in Baden-Baden a week or two ago. He confided some of his business problems to me and I offered to send him one of my men to advise him. I also promised to see what I could do to organize financial aid for the company—a loan, perhaps, from the Agence de Credit de Paris.” He smiled. The Agence de Credit de Paris was another of his companies. “Olivier,” he said, turning to the man on his left, “you are the best man for the job. In three months’ time they will be unable to pay the installments on their loan. In four months they will be desperate. I want you to leave next week. You know how to deal with the result.” He was smiling as he put the reports back on the table. “I estimate that it will take us no longer than five months to take over the Grunewald Steel Company.”

It would be satisfying, he thought, to see his old rival finally succumb to his superior power, thanks to the worthless son. You couldn’t trust anyone in this world, least of all your children. He’d make sure to leave his estate so tied up that Gérard and Armand would never be able to destroy what he had built. The European Iron and Steel Company, with its vast foundries and sprawling factories churning out machines, girders, railway lines, and weapons suitable for any war anywhere in the world—he never discriminated
or took sides—would be his monument. He had more than added to the wealth left him by his father, his investments had been wise, he’d spread the tentacles of the de Courmont property holdings from Amiens to Aix and eastward into the Ruhr. No one could ever topple his empire. The next to tremble would be Krummer—he’d always hated the old man. It was his steel that had formed the weapons that had brought France to her knees in 1870, and that defeat was not something any Frenchman would ever forget.

With a curt nod he strode from the room, leaving his executives standing nervously, each eagerly hoping to catch his eye, to glean a rare nod of recognition, a sign of approval. There was none. Gilles was already lost in his thoughts, planning his next moves, into his next game.

The automobile, that new toy of a newly mechanized world, had claimed his interest in a way he had never experienced before. All this—the steel companies, the property interests, the diplomatic receptions, the political maneuverings—was like a series of exercises that he performed, keeping himself on his toes, one step ahead of the competition, beating companies at their own game, pulling contracts like trophies from under their noses. But the cars dazzled him with their mechanical beauty, the passion of their potential power. It was still only the beginning, but he, Gilles de Courmont, would be the man who would take France from its elaborate barouches and pony carts, its horse-drawn cabs and sporty fiacres into sleek, smooth steel more beautiful than the most desirable woman and powered with engines stronger than a dozen horses.

He lunched alone, as he usually did unless there was business to be done, at a side table by the window in the large dining room at the Ritz. They all knew him there, knew exactly what he wanted—an omelette
fines herbes
and a green salad. He always ate the same thing for the same reason all his shirts were white and all his suits were dark gray: it saved wasting time on trivialities. When you had to make as many major decisions in a day as he did, the minor ones, such as what to eat or what to wear, became an irritant. But he always took time to choose a wine, always red, always an excellent vintage—and he always drank exactly one glass.