Leonie (14 page)

Dinner alone with Marie-France was always hard work, but Gilles put himself out to be entertaining, telling her of his trip, describing New York and Chicago with a vividness that aroused her curiosity. “And the motor cars?” she asked.

He signaled the butler to fill their glasses, sniffing the dense bouquet of the Margaux appreciatively. “De Courmont cars will be on the roads of France next year,” he said, raising his glass, “and in a few years’ time we shall be exporting them to America.”

“So I suppose that you will be devoting all your time to this new venture?”

“Not quite. I do have several other interests that I must look after.”

“Like Gérard,” she suggested, pinning him down with a smile. “He’s very unhappy, Gilles, about being sent away to school. I think he’s too young.”

“Many boys his age go away to school, Marie-France. Why should he be an exception?”

“Why? Because he’s your son … our son. He’s not just any boy … he has feelings. He’s a sensitive child, quiet and very intelligent. Right now he needs his home more than any school!”

“That’s nonsense.” He pushed back his plate and the butler signaled the footman to remove it. Gilles sipped the wine impatiently, his pleasure in it destroyed. How irritating Marie-France was, always so caught up in these small matters. He glanced at her over the top of his glass. She was still a pretty woman, in her own way, small and dark-haired, rather plump now—not his kind of
woman at all. An image of Léonie flashed through his mind. Yes, he must take care of that tomorrow, it would be pleasant to see her at last, to make her his.

A nursery maid appeared in the doorway and whispered in Bennett’s ear. The butler bent discreetly to pass on the message to his master. “You’d better go up, Marie-France,” he said. “Apparently Gérard has a temperature. No doubt he’s fretting too much about school.”

Marie-France looked at him contemptuously and without a word rose and left the room. He sat staring at her empty place, finishing his glass of wine while Bennett waited patiently in the background.

There was no question that the boy was ill. The doctor, summoned in the middle of the night, came at once, wasting no time on the niceties of proper dress. He simply threw his overcoat over his pajamas and grabbed his bag. If Monsieur le Duc had said that it was urgent, then he meant it.

De Courmont paced the floor while Marie-France went in with the doctor. Gérard couldn’t be ill, he was
his
child,
his
boy; he was strong, sturdy. Never had had anything really wrong in his life.

The doctor emerged and Gilles greeted him anxiously. “What is it? What’s the matter with him, Doctor?”

“I’m afraid it’s diphtheria. The boy is very ill. We must set up a breathing tent, and I shall have to put a tube in his throat.”

“A tube in his throat!” Dear God, that was his boy, had the man gone crazy? “You can’t do that … you can’t cut open his throat … he might die.”

“Monsieur le Duc,” said the doctor gently, “if I don’t, he
will
die.”

Gilles stared at him in horror. How could this happen, and happen so quickly? He remembered Gérard opening his present with such anticipation. It had been the first time he had seen anything of himself in his children, until now they had been so much a part of Marie-France. He turned away. “Do what you must then, Doctor,” he said humbly, “but please save my child.”

He waited all that night outside the boy’s door, while Marie-France sat at his bedside watching him. All they could do was wait, the doctor had said, the sickness would take its own time, but the boy was breathing easier with the help of the tube. When he could bear it no longer, he opened the door. In the gray light of
dawn he saw his wife sleeping in the chair, still holding the boy’s hand. Gérard’s arm was clutched around his toy car, holding it tightly as his thin little chest heaved up and down, the liquid rattling grotesquely in his throat. Gilles turned and hurried through the silent house to his study. He watched the sun rise as he finished the bottle of whiskey.

It was two weeks before the boy was pronounced out of danger and another two before he could get out of bed, and even then he was so thin that he could barely walk. His dark blue eyes were enormous in his white face and Marie-France was almost as pale. She seemed to have aged years in the last four weeks and Gilles looked at her, for once, sympathetically. “Thank you,” he said.

“For what, Gilles?”

“For taking care of him so well.”

“I’m his mother … what else should I do?”

“He needn’t go away to school, Marie-France.”

“Oh? Why not? He’ll be better soon … will you change your mind again, then?” she asked cynically. She knew him well.

He was serious. “You know best. Do what you think is right for both boys. I’ll trust your judgment.”

She stared at him in astonishment.

“I think we need a holiday,” he announced suddenly. “Gérard needs some good sea air to bring back his appetite, and you do, too, my dear.” He touched her shoulder lightly, almost tenderly. “We’ll go to the south. The yacht is waiting. I’ve already told the captain to expect us. We shall all go to Monte Carlo.”

–
• 9 •

Léonie sat at a table outside the Café de Paris in Monte Carlo waiting for Rupert. It was still quiet, too early for the fashionable lunchtime patrons, and she sipped her coffee in peace, enjoying the breeze, throwing crumbs to the little birds waiting patiently for the rich pickings from this smart café. Only one other table was occupied, by a man indulging his two sons with ice creams. She could hear the children laughing, bickering happily over the cherries on top, and she turned to watch with a smile. The man was half-turned away from her and she could see only his profile, but there was something naggingly familiar about it. Hadn’t she seen him somewhere before?

She hoped Rupert wouldn’t be too long. He’d gone to the post office to pick up his mail. She hoped there would be a letter from Caro. It had been six weeks since they had left Baden-Baden so precipitously, six amazing, glorious, wonderful, happy weeks, but still she hadn’t heard a single word from Caro and she was worried. I knew it was wrong, she thought, I should have talked to her before I left, but Rupert insisted. It all happened so fast; when we’re in Paris we’ll go see her, she’ll forgive me then, she’ll understand.

“Excuse me, but didn’t we meet at Carolina Montalva’s?” It was the man from the party, the silent one. She recalled how he’d watched her as she stood by the door, afraid and wondering whether or not to go in. But now he was smiling at her, holding out his hand to her. She held out her hand, feeling it gripped in firm cool fingers that sent little tremors of unexplained excitement through her body.

“Gilles de Courmont, mademoiselle.” The two little boys watched curiously, spooning up their ice cream. His eyes were dark blue with heavy brows, and his skin was smooth, faintly pink
under the tan from a recent shave. Her eyes dropped to his chest, where the dark hair curled in the open
“V”
of his crisp shirt. He was an attractive man.

“Are you alone?” he asked.

“I’m waiting … for a friend.”

“I see. And is Caro here, too?”

“No, she’s in Paris, I believe.”

“Well then”—Gilles gestured toward the bay—“I would be happy to have you and your friend dine with me one evening on my boat. As you can see, I’m here with my boys.”

She smiled at them and they wriggled uncomfortably under her gaze. “I’ve promised to take them to the Oceanography Museum,” he said, “and they’re impatient to be off. The boat’s name is
Bel Ami
. Leave a note with the captain if you can manage dinner one evening. I’d be happy to have some company.”

He waved, smiling as he collected his boys, and they departed noisily, heading across the square. How different he is from the way I imagined him at the party, she thought idly. I thought him so sinister—but it’s not that. He’s interesting, mysterious—different.

There
was Rupert! He was walking quickly, hurrying toward the café, a bundle of envelopes in his hand. “Darling,” she called, waving to him, banishing thoughts of de Courmont from her mind. He kissed her hand and quickly took a seat. “Anything for me?” she asked anxiously.

“I’m afraid not.” He glanced at her worried face. “It’s all right, I’m sure Caro’s just busy. When we get back, I’ll explain that it was all my fault, that I’m a bad influence on you.”

Léonie laughed, he always made everything seem all right. He ordered coffee and put the letters on the table. She could see that two of them had German stamps and she stole a look at his face, but he said nothing. She knew that they had to be from home, maybe from his fiancée. She dreaded the letters from Germany, he was always so quiet afterward, and he looked worried although he said nothing to her. His eyes met hers and he smiled. Taking her hand, he said, “Let’s go to Nice. You must see it.”

She was happy again, she knew the small trip would be fun, it always was when she was with Rupert. She touched the single strand of tiny pearls at her neck—she only took them off when they went swimming and then she hid them under a special rock. Rupert had put them on her himself. “A girl’s first jewels should
be pearls,” he’d said as he clasped them and stood back to admire her pretty neck, adding a kiss or two. “I want to give
you
a present,” she said now as they left the café hand in hand.

“
You
are my present … you’re all I want,” he said, smiling again and tucking the letters away in his pocket.

I still find her fascinating, thought de Courmont, as the guide explained the complexities of marine equipment to his wide-eyed sons. Marie-France had returned to Paris and he hadn’t really thought about Léonie in weeks—not since the night Gérard had become so ill. Verronet’s reports from Baden-Baden and Léonie’s letters he’d stolen from the letter box by the inn at Cap Ferrat had lain unread on his desk. Until now it had all been a game, anyway, tracking her, setting her up, stalking her like a wild animal, but she was beautiful. He remembered her golden face and amber eyes, and now her tawny hair was streaked lighter from the sun. It had been months since he’d thought of a woman. He’d busied himself with his sons, spending time with them—under Marie-France’s cynical eye—that brush with death had frightened him, it was something he couldn’t control, it was stronger than he. His thoughts returned to the girl. He wondered if von Hollensmark’s family knew of his new liaison. He doubted it. Wasn’t Rupert engaged to be married to Krummer’s daughter? Gilles savored the thought of his old business enemy’s embarrassment when he heard the news, and as for the von Hollensmarks, he could almost guarantee their reaction.

He called the museum guide over and tipped him lavishly. “Look after them for half an hour,” he instructed. “I must go to the telegraph office.” He strode across the square planning his moves; he could put the right pressure in the right place. The von Hollensmark family needed that alliance, they couldn’t afford to see their only son wasted on a nobody.

The following morning the telegram lay next to Rupert’s plate like an unexploded bombshell, drawing Léonie’s eyes toward it no matter how hard she tried to pretend. Rupert sipped his coffee and stared at the sea. “Aren’t you going to open it?” she asked finally, unable to bear it any longer.

“There’s no need. I know what it says.”

Léonie was quiet. She had a good idea of what it said, too. What she had really meant was, What was he going to do about it? She
looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to come up with a solution. She trusted him, he was so clever; of course he’d know what to do.

Rupert paced the terrace impatiently, talking fast, thinking as he went. “I’ll have to go back, Léonie, right away. It’s the only honorable thing to do. I must tell Puschi myself. You do understand that, don’t you, my darling?”

Her eyes were wide with panic; he couldn’t leave her alone, what would she do without him? He took her in his arms. “Oh, my little love, it’s all right. I shall come back to you. You mustn’t worry. You know that it’s you I love.”

“But Puschi …?” She was afraid.

“She
is
my fiancée, I have an obligation.” He thought of the letter in his pocket from Grandess. She had been the only one to whom he’d told the whole truth, that he was in love with Léonie and wanted to marry her. He had thought that Grandess could be trusted; she was always honest with him, always sympathetic. But this time she had told him how wrong he was, that he was harming both Léonie and Puschi. His family had expected better of him; what had happened to his sense of honor, to his family duty? He had thought that she, of all people, would have been on his side, and now it seemed that he had no ally. He hadn’t written to Puschi yet, only sending a note to her father saying he was ill and needed rest. He had been putting off the moment to tell them and somehow the days had slipped into one another and it hadn’t been done.

Léonie put the telegram into his hand. “Open it,” she demanded.

He hesitated, reluctant to read what he feared it said, but her eyes insisted, and he ripped open the envelope. He read the message quickly and crumpled it into a ball and stuffed it into his pocket. It was signed by Herr Krummer and his father, and it commanded him to return at once, or they would see to it that he was without a penny. She watched him expectantly. “Just as I thought,” he said. “My father wants to see me.”

Léonie pushed back her chair and walked to their room. Lifting his bag from the top of the armoire, she began taking his shirts from the chest, folding things neatly, and packing them in the brown leather valise. He watched for a moment, feeling helpless and afraid. He loved her so much, he wanted to marry her, he
hoped he would be able to come back, that he could work it all out.

“I’ll wait here for you, Rupert,” she said with a brave smile, picking up his brushes from the chest, searching the room for anything she might have forgotten. There were his bathing suit, his sandals. “I’ll leave them here,” he said, “for when I get back.”