Leonie Read Free

couple emerged from the back of the café and strolled along the street, arms linked, chatting intimately, his head bent toward her while she smiled up at him. She was so elegant, thought Léonie, following them, admiring her smart dress and tiny-heeled shoes. Lured by their warmth, their intimacy, she pressed closer, longing to be a part of it, eavesdropping shamelessly on their conversation until they stopped suddenly and stared at her. Embarrassed, she turned away.
    She sat on a bench in the Bois and ate her sandwiches, feeding the little city birds who crowded around, watching the magnificent horses and riders as they trotted past, remembering the farm horses she had loved to ride in her home village. The Bois was full of surprises: there was a circus. She paused in front of the poster and ran her finger down the list of performers, her heart beating a little faster, wondering if maybe her father’s name might be there. But, of course, it wasn’t. And there was an outdoor dance hall! She had discovered it on her first Sunday and it lured her back every week, not that she ever went in—she watched from a distance, listening to the music as it drifted over the grass, catching glimpses of the dancers and the girls, like herself, flirting with young men at the tables beneath the trees. How did it feel, she wondered, to flirt with a man? She sighed with frustration as she turned from the scene. Patience, she told herself, I must be patient. One day I’ll be part of it all.
    There was no doubt that she was lonely, but Sunday evenings more than compensated for her solitary Sunday afternoons. That was when all the girls were at home, when they didn’t rush off to the theater but instead lazed around, gossiping. The whole house seemed different on Sunday, relaxed and easy. Léonie basked inthe other girls’ attention. She was allowed to linger on the fringes of the group, listening to their talk of their latest romances, and about the stars of the cabarets. It was the best time of the week, and they treated her like their little sister.
    “We must do something about Léonie,” said Loulou, sipping her brandy and spreading herself more comfortably over the big plush sofa in the salon. It was another boring Sunday evening and Léonie had just brought in their afterdinner coffee. She paused in surprise.
    “What do you mean, Loulou?”
    “Well, look at you. You’re really not bad-looking under all that hair and those awful clothes.” Loulou put a finger under Léonie’s chin and tilted her face up toward the light. “Yes, in fact you’re very pretty. Don’t you think so, Bella?”
    Bella inspected Léonie. “I wish I had skin like that,” she said enviously. “You’ll never need to use powder, though a little rouge, here, just under the cheekbones, would show up your eyes more.”
    Jolie came to stand beside Bella. “And the hair … look, it needs to be swept up on top like this.” She took a handful of Léonie’s hair and held it above the girl’s head, demonstrating how it might look.
    “But it won’t stay,” protested Léonie. “It never does, no matter how many pins I stick in it.”
    “My dear, that will be part of its charm.” Bella smiled wickedly. “A little ‘tumbled’ … a little ‘unkempt’ … yes, it would be a very charming look for you. A nice contrast to the innocence.”
    “Now, you girls, be careful with Léonie,” warned Madame Artois. “She’s not going on the stage and I don’t want her to look ‘common.’ ”
    “Madame Artois,” said Loulou indignantly, “are you saying that we look common?”
    “Of course not, but you look like stage girls and Léonie’s not that. I don’t mind you helping her to look better, heaven knows she needs it, but take care with her.” Madame Artois liked Léonie. She didn’t want them spoiling her and making her too sophisticated—she’d seen too many young girls end up as weary women, old before their time, worn down by too