Leonie (9 page)

They talked it over endlessly but could come up with no answers. Léonie couldn’t think of any man she’d noticed at the party who fit Maroc’s description, and anyway, why would anyone pay to have her dismissed? No, Maroc must be mistaken. It was just Marianne, she had wanted to be rid of her and had seen an opportunity to get her way. And what was she to do now? She was too ashamed to tell Caro she had been accused of stealing and dismissed. Besides, Caro was to leave Paris today and would be gone for weeks.

“You must ask Loulou to help,” said Maroc at last. “Maybe she can get you a job in the cabaret.”

“In the cabaret! Oh, I couldn’t do that, Maroc.”

“Maybe backstage—as a maid, or a dresser?” he suggested.

Léonie needed a job desperately. She had spent all of her small savings, intended for sensible winter shoes, on the gold boots and the red silk stockings. The week had started so perfectly, and now
she was in a worse position than when she had first come to Paris. She had fallen in love with a man who had only been flirting with her, and she had lost her job.

The manager of the Cabaret Internationale was used to girls, all types of girls, from the flashy ones to the innocent, and he stared approvingly at Léonie, liking what he saw. Of course, she’d have to buck up a little and put a bit more spark into it, but with that body and those legs she didn’t have to sing or dance. Put her in a leotard and feathers and the customers would be happy; they paid to see as much flesh as possible and this was excellent flesh. “Being a showgirl is like being part of the scenery,” he told her. “You simply stand on stage in a gorgeous costume and let the audience look at you.”

Léonie’s skin crawled at the thought. “What sort of costume?” she asked suspiciously.

“The same sort all the other girls wear—don’t worry about it, it’ll cover all the necessary parts.” Monsieur Briac laughed crudely. “Anyway, they’ve seen it all before. Now, can you ride a horse?”

“Yes, I can ride.”

“Tell you what, Léonie.” He leaned across the desk and smiled. “Why not start out as a showgirl? We’ve got a new act we’re putting together on a circus theme. If you work out I’ll give you a part in that—sort of a bareback rider. What do you say?”

A bareback rider in a circus. Like her father. Somehow the idea was comforting; it couldn’t be too bad if she were riding the horses. She brightened up. “Yes, I’d like that, Monsieur Briac.”

“Then you can start next week. Have Loulou take you to get fitted for the costumes and come back in the afternoon with the other girls.”

Rupert raced up the steps, past the grumbling concierge, and knocked on Caro’s door. It was answered by the butler. “I’m afraid madame is not here, sir,” he said courteously. “She left with Monsieur Alphonse for the country early this morning.”

Rupert was taken aback. He had come to ask Caro for Léonie’s address—he simply
had
to see her. “Where in the country?” he demanded.

“It’s the Château du Clanard, sir, at Rambouillet, but I’m afraid they were going on from there to London.”

“London!” Rupert stared at him aghast. “I must catch them!” He dashed off down the stairs. He was supposed to be at a meeting at the Krummer office this afternoon, but the hell with it. He
must
find Léonie.

Verronet waited while Monsieur le Duc read his report. It was very brief. There was little to know about the girl and it had been a simple job to find out. It had taken him a week but he knew everything. “Is this all?” asked de Courmont, looking up with a frown.

“Yes, sir. Remember she’s very young, not yet seventeen. I did as you asked, sir, and she no longer works at Serrat.”

“I know, I know.” He threw the papers on the desk impatiently. “And now she’s at the Cabaret Internationale.”

“Opening on Tuesday, sir.”

De Courmont glared at him. There had been no indication of what the girl wanted, needed. He’d thought that she would be more vulnerable after she had lost her job. Well, he’d have to wait until Tuesday and then he’d go to the cabaret to see her. There was no hurry.

–
• 5 •

“There’s no reason to be this nervous,” said Bella, adjusting the sweeping scarlet plumes in Léonie’s hair.

“It’s just stage fright,” comforted Loulou. “We all get it—especially before a new show. All you have to remember is to stand the way you were shown and throw back your cape at the right moment.”

Léonie clutched the blue velvet cape closer, huddling miserably on her wooden chair in front of the mirror. Other showgirls dashed in and out in various stages of undress and she averted her eyes modestly from their nonchalantly displayed nakedness. She wondered how long it took before you got so used to other people seeing you without your clothes on that you didn’t even notice anymore.

“Now, stand up and we’ll practice one more time,” said Loulou patiently.

Léonie stood obediently, shoulders and feathers drooping. “Oh, Léonie,” wailed Loulou, “pull yourself together. How badly do you need this job?”

Léonie straightened up. “I need it.”

“Right, then work for it. Now, remember I once told you that you had the right body and that you should flaunt it, well, now’s the time to do just that. One foot in front of the other, that’s right … now! Back with the cape, head up, and smile!”

There was a spontaneous round of applause and laughter as Léonie obediently flung back her head and smiled, posing in her red, white, and blue leotard, sparkling with sequins. Her legs in their wobbly high heels and flesh-colored tights looked even longer, and the leotard fit snugly, exposing half moons of her bottom. “Bravo,” cried Loulou, “that’s more like it. You look stunning!”

“You see, it’s not so bad.” Bella hugged her sympathetically. “It’s just the first time that’s the worst.”

“On stage, please.” The boy popped his head around the door. “Five minutes to curtain.”

The plumes on Léonie’s head trembled prettily as she began to shake; only five minutes.

Rupert headed purposefully down the rue Montalivet toward Serrat. At last Caro had returned and he knew where Léonie worked. God knows what she must think of him, he wouldn’t blame her if she never spoke to him again. She must have thought he didn’t care—but he did. Oh, he did, so much! “
SERRAT
,” there it was. He leapt up the steps. The place was full of women and he hesitated by the door, embarrassed to be the only man in this fancy feminine lingerie shop.

“Sir, may I help you?” A tall thin woman smiled at him. “A present for a lady, is it?”

“Er, no. The fact is I’m looking for Léonie Bahri. I was told she worked here.”

The smile was wiped from the woman’s face so fast that he wondered what he had said wrong. “Mademoiselle Bahri no longer works here.”

“She no longer works here?” Rupert repeated in dismay. “Then, where is she?”

“I’m afraid I’ve no idea. Serrat has no further interest in Mademoiselle Bahri,” she added loftily.

“But you must have her home address.”

“We never give out the addresses of our employees, sir, even after they have left us.”

“You don’t understand”—he put an urgent hand on her arm—“I
must
see her. I was told that you would know where she was.”

“I’m afraid you were misinformed. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a customer.”

Rupert lingered by the door. The woman
must
know where she lived. How could he find out? He walked back down the steps and into the street, turning to look again at the shop as though he might see her suddenly there.

“Sir, sir.…” Maroc ran toward him, panting. “Excuse me, sir, I work at Serrat. I heard you just now, asking Marianne about Léonie. I know where she is.”

“You
know?
”

“Yes, sir. She’s a friend of mine.” Rupert stared at him. This strange boy in his satin suit and plumed turban was a friend of Léonie’s? Maroc stared back hoping he’d done the right thing, remembering how sad Léonie had been since the party.

“Can you take me to her, now?”

“Not now, I have to get back to the shop, but I can give you her address.”

Rupert wrote it quickly on the back of a card. “Madame Artois, 59 boulevard des Artistes.”

“Maroc,” he said, offering his hand, “you’re
my
friend now as well as Léonie’s.”

The Cabaret Internationale was much larger than Gilles de Courmont had expected and more brightly lit, and he decided to stand at the back of the stalls rather than take a seat in the auditorium—you never knew who might be here and he preferred anonymity. The garish rococo theater was a plush establishment, with a proscenium arch garlanded with cherubs and flowers in a complexity of plasterwork that spread gilded tendrils over the adjoining boxes and balconies. The red velvet seats were beginning to fill with a noisy audience—mostly young men having a night “out on the town,” here to see the girls—and the bar on the mezzanine was doing a roaring trade as they rushed to get in a last drink before the curtains rose. He found himself automatically estimating the cost and overhead of running such a place, calculating the turnover—it was a risky setup, he decided rapidly, heavy outgoings, a fickle public. The owner must have had a lucky run to keep the place looking so well and to bring in the crowds. But it wouldn’t take much, a couple of bad months, to be out of business. The orchestra filed into the pit and there was a general flurry as people rushed at the last moment to their seats. Gilles waited until the orchestra sprang into a rousing overture and then made his way to the now empty bar in search of a whiskey.

“You’re missing the beginning, sir,” the barman said, handing him a drink.

“Yes.”

“It’s a pretty good show, sir, but I expect you’ve heard Loulou before. I always think myself she’s better than Gloriette.”

“Really.” His voice was cool, noncommittal. “I heard that there are some new girls this time.”

“Showgirls, yes … they’ll be on in the second act, sir, in the
Parade of Nations scene.” He leaned confidingly across the bar. “You should see the legs on those girls, sir,” he said with a wink, “and the tits—in those costumes you can practically see it all.”

De Courmont tossed back his drink and walked away, suddenly irritated with the man; he paced the darkened area behind the stalls, not bothering to watch the action on stage until he heard the announcement for the Parade of Nations. The orchestra plunged into a rousing Cossack tune and the curtains drew back to reveal a troupe of leaping Russian dancers. Two girls, wearing enormous Cossack hats, high white leather boots, and daringly brief white satin shorts, stood on a catwalk jutting from the stage. Their minute satin boleros gave tantalizing glimpses of fleshy curves, bringing spontaneous applause from the noisy audience, who whistled their approval as the girls raised their arms over their heads in a statuesque pose as the music came to a rousing finale. Gilles stared at the spectacle in amazement; it was so awful that it was almost fascinating. Two black girls, barbaric in beads and bangles, and a new set of dancers performed a mock tribal dance to African rhythms as the girls swung their beads and their hips erotically. Gilles turned away, pacing impatiently as the act continued through Japan, India, and other unidentifiable subcontinents, until at last they came to the finale, La Belle France.

Léonie stood center stage, plumed head bent, hidden from neck to toe in her blue velvet cape while the dancers marched and sang patriotically around her. Gradually, as the music rose to a crescendo, she lifted her head and gazed out at her audience, remote and unsmiling. She was beautiful and proud and the audience watched in silence. The music approached its climax as Léonie stepped forward and flung back her cape, radiating a smile, a glittering vision in red, white, and blue sequins. Despite the ridiculous charade, de Courmont caught his breath. His eyes were riveted on her, an extraordinary symbol of France, as she raised both arms above her head and spread her legs in a pose of victory and triumph, casting her cape to the ground, delivering her smile—and herself—to the audience.

They loved her. They whistled and shouted, wanting to see more, and as the curtain came down he turned away, their lewd, raucous comments echoing in his ears.

He strode down the street and back across town, too tense to look for a cab, and besides, he needed to walk. He knew how he had felt looking at Léonie just now, and he knew that every other
man in that theater had felt the same way. God knows how she had done it: for an innocent sixteen-year-old girl, she projected sex across that stage as none of the other girls had—those legs spread so arrogantly. He quickened his pace angrily. Of course, that was the quality he had sensed the other night at the party; under the innocence was a bubbling energy, a force just waiting to be unleashed. He turned into the courtyard of the de Courmont mansion and stalked angrily through the halls to his study, slamming the door behind him, reaching for the whiskey waiting on a silver tray.

Throwing himself into the big green leather chair, he thought about Léonie. Oh, he wanted her all right—every man in that theater had wanted her—but it was more than that, there was something else about her, something familiar. There was a memory lurking somewhere. He sighed impatiently. Of course, he could go to her, invite her out to dinner, give her presents, but that was all too obvious: he’d be buying her and she’d know it, and he had the feeling she couldn’t be bought. No, there was a better way than that, a much better game to be played. He sat for a long time in the big leather chair, sipping his whiskey and thinking.

“Léonie,” Bella dashed up the last flight of stairs gasping for breath. “Léonie!”

“What is it, Bella?” She stuck her head out from her door. “What’s wrong?”

“You’ve got a visitor, a man! A
gorgeous
man! A blond-haired, blue-eyed man. A Rupert von Hollensmark!”

It couldn’t be him, could it? He didn’t know where she lived.

“He’s waiting for you in the salon. Madame Artois showed him in there herself. Oh, Léonie”—she hugged her excitedly—“he’s lovely. He’s the one, isn’t he? The one from the party … the one you fell in love with?”