'Any idea who they're from?' Liane asked from the doorway.
Hélène looked up and shook her head wordlessly. Then she reached down and picked up the small white envelope. She pulled out the card. It was engraved with an unmistakable coat of arms. The lion, the salamander, and the crest of the de Légers. She turned the card over. On the back, the blue ink read: 'Tomorrow night at nine. Will expect you at Maxim's. Just ask for my table.' It was signed simply 'Philippe de Léger.'
Hélène sank down into a rickety chair.
'Are you all right?' Liane asked.
Hélène nodded. 'Yes,' she said in a quivering voice. 'You won't mind if. . .if I have a little while to myself?'
Liane shook her head. 'No, of course not. I'm sorry to intrude. I'll talk to you later.' She waved with her fingertips and closed the door softly behind her.
Thoughtfully Hélène turned the card over in her hand, alternately glancing at the crest on the front and the message on the back. She had been in Paris for more than six months now; she was no longer a naive child from the country. In Paris, you learned fast. In six months you knew all there was to know. And she knew that a man like Philippe de Léger didn't invite a girl to Maxim's just because she'd once been in his wife's employ or because he'd once danced with her. Then there was the matter of Maxim's itself.
Maxim's was a restaurant, not only a restaurant but one of the finest in the world. It was on the rue Royale. In the early years of the century the cocottes went there with their gentlemen; now it had turned into a highly respectable place. Everyone went there to see and be seen. The best of society. The tourists. You only had to be rich and not bat your eyelashes at the prices.
She puckered her lips thoughtfully, tapping the card in the palm of her hand. Perhaps a cocotte was what Philippe de Léger fancied, but on the other hand, she didn't necessarily need to become one. More important, the card had no address on it. He had given her no chance for declining.
Hélène smiled to herself. It was probably only a dinner, and here she was making a big fuss about nothing. Going to Maxim's was probably no more exciting for the Comte than going to the corner food market was for her. Keep things in perspective, she warned herself.
Tonight she would stop by the restaurant and wait outside to see what the women were wearing. She had a little money saved up. Not enough for a Dior or an Odile Joly, but enough to buy a simple black dress at Bon Marche or Au Printemps. The red linoleum she'd seen in a little shop on the rue Victor-Masse would have to wait.
Hélène purposely stayed late at the atelier. Before she left at seven-thirty, she put the roses back in the box, tucked it under her arm, and walked down the Faubourg St.-Honore. When she came to the rue Royale she made a right turn, crossed the street, and stayed on the opposite side of the street so that when she got to Maxim's she could look over to the other side. She didn't want to stand right outside the door, looking obvious. Fifteen minutes later, she knew all there was to know. A plain black dress would be perfectly acceptable.
The next morning she got to the atelier at her regular time. By midmorning a series of delivery boys had arrived with boxes. All for Hélène Junot. 'What is going on?' Liane asked.
Hélène looked confused. 'I. . .I don't know.'
Liane lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. She gestured at the boxes. 'Aren't you going to open them?'
Hélène glanced over at them. 'I guess I'd better.'
Liane smiled. 'Don't tell me! You have a secret admirer! Yesterday roses, today. . .' She stopped in mid-sentence, her mouth suddenly hanging open.
Hélène looked distressed. 'What's the matter?'
'You'd better not let Odile Joly see them.'
'But why?'
'The top and bottom boxes. Don't you recognize them?'
'No. Should I?'
Liane smiled grimly. 'Odile Joly would. They're from the competition. Those boxes are from the House of Dior.'
Hélène nodded, and they went over to the boxes. They began with the one on top. Inside was a pair of elbow-length red silk gloves.
'They're beautiful!' Liane breathed. She held one up. Then she smiled sideways. 'He isn't kinky by any chance, is he?'
'I don't think so,' Hélène said good-humoredly.
Next was a box from Germaine Guerin. Hélène took out a red Moutin silk evening bag. The box underneath that one came from Charles Jourdan. In it was a pair of elegant red high heels. The next box held identical red shoes, a size larger. Altogether there were four different pairs, all in different sizes. Hélène began to laugh.
Slowly she lifted the lid off the big Dior box. She parted the soft tissue paper and let out a gasp.
'My God!' Liane said quietly. 'It's the dinner suit!'
Carefully Hélène lifted the ruby-red silk dinner jacket out of the box. It was bloused and had flaring hips, huge elbow-length sleeves, narrow lapels, and a thin red belt. The matching skirt was narrow and calf-length.
Liane let out a whistle. 'He must be enamored of you,' she stated.
Hélène turned away and stared across the room. She was silent for a moment. 'I don't know. It seems too much to accept.'
'But you can't return it!' Liane said quickly. 'It would break the poor man's heart.' She looked at Hélène. 'He must be very rich.'
Hélène nodded. 'He is.'
Suddenly there was a knock at the door.
'Just a minute!' Hélène called out. Quickly she folded the dinner suit, placed it in the box, and put the lid back on. She looked around, spied a piece of cloth, and quickly draped it over the boxes. Then she wiped her brow and went over to the door.
'Another messenger,' one of the old ladies who worked in the atelier said dryly, gesturing to the young man beside her.
Quickly Hélène signed another delivery slip, took a small package, and closed the door.
Liane looked up. 'Where was he from?'
'I don't know,' Hélène murmured. 'I didn't think of looking at the slip.'
Liane placed her hands on her hips. 'Well, unwrap it!' she ordered.
Silently Hélène undid the ribbon and tore off the paper. She let out a gasp. The leather-covered little box was imprinted with gold letters: 'Chaumet.' With trembling fingers she lifted the lid.
Two diamond-and-ruby earrings in the shape of parrots shimmered against the velvet-lined box.
'Well. . .' Liane said in an impressed voice. 'Now comes the jewelry.'
6
Gracefully Hélène followed the maitre d' through Maxim's. She walked slowly, her full champagne-colored Balmain gown sweeping the floor, her full-length Revillon mink touched with glistening drops of melting snow- flakes. By order from Liane, her hair was in a chignon, offsetting her cheekbones. She wore the canary-diamond clips on her ears.
As she walked, she smiled at the people she knew. Twice she stopped at tables, exchanging cheerful greetings and gossip as the maitre d' waited patiently.
'She's like one of the old time cocottes,' one ancient woman said in a dry whisper, her voice like a wind sweeping across desert sands. She sighed wistfully as Hélène swept by. 'This place used to be full of them. You could hear the satin rustling, I tell you! They wore the most exquisite gowns. That was the way you could tell a cocotte, you know—sweeping gowns, enormous hats. They were worn with pride. It was like the Chinese empress who never cut her fingernails. It showed that she was not a common laborer.'
'I heard she works,' the younger woman beside the ancient one said. 'Although, granted, she doesn't need to.'
'Yes, she's a fashion model. But still she's the closest thing to those darling cocottes. I'll never forget one night in here. . .' The ancient woman's face took on a faraway look. 'It was 1913, 1 think. Or was it 1914? Anyway, one of the cocottes broke a bottle of wine and slashed her lover across the face with it. All because he was with another woman! Those were the exciting days!'
The Comte smiled as Hélène sank down into the red banquette and shrugged off her mink, letting it fall back off her shou
lders. The strapless Balmain gown showed her figure off to perfection. He took her hand and brought it up to his lips. 'You look more beautiful all the time,' he said. She looked into his eyes. The bright blue pools held that intent look that she knew only too well. He lowered her hand and brought it down between his legs. His shaft was swollen hard.
She smiled and removed her hand as a bottle of champagne and a massive silver ice bucket were automatically brought to the table. They spent so much time at Maxim's that no one needed to ask what they would drink. Everyone who worked there knew that they always had champagne first, followed by a bottle of Chateau Hautecloque-de Léger with dinner (if they ate fish, they ordered Chateau Haut-Brion blanc instead), and after a cafe mocha they had Cognac Prince Eugene. Hélène never had more than half a glass of wine and champagne, and only a few sips of the cognac.
'I'm sorry I couldn't meet you at the house,' the Comte said smoothly. He gave an elegant shrug.
Hélène nodded. She knew what that shrug meant. The Comtesse had been in town. She took a sip of her champagne. The only times he mentioned the Comtesse were when he'd been detained by her visits. The Comte reached into his pocket, took out a long skinny box from Van Cleef, and handed it to Hélène. 'Just so that you don't feel too left out, I brought you a little gift.'
She smiled and opened the box. The cool sapphires surrounded by loops of diamonds flashed fire up at her. She took a deep breath. It was the most extravagant gift he'd given her to date.
'Like it?' he asked lightly.
She looked up. 'I love it,' she said softly. Immediately she removed her canary-diamond earrings and let him hang the sapphires around her throat. She reached up and felt their coldness with her fingers. She was glad to have them. Now the canary diamonds could be put to good use. To the same use as she had put the ruby-and-diamond parrot earrings. Then, the next time he gave her a jewel, she would 'retire' the sapphire necklace. It would go where all the other jewels had gone.
Was it possible that seven pieces of jewelry had already gone that route? she asked herself. Could it be possible that she had been seeing the Comte for six months already? That she'd been going regularly to Maxim's ever since then? She would never forget the night she had first come here.
She had followed the maitre d' to the Comte's table, walking her graceful model's walk and staring vacantly ahead. Silently she thanked Odile Joly for making her practice it over and over. Now it served her well. It covered up her nervousness, her trembling legs. It made her look self-confident. Aloof. Blase.
She had been intimidated by Maxim's. The big rooms were all Art Nouveau. They had patinated murals of wine-sipping nymphs. Behind the banquettes were yellow fleur-de-lis lamps overlapping on the huge, swirling wood-and-beveled-glass mirrors. The dim overhead lights looked like inverted umbrellas. She walked past a spiral staircase, wood-edged pillars, black iron columns, and old brass that shone with newness. The tablecloths and napery were crisp and white, the silver flashed, the crystal gleamed. The women were elaborately gowned and decked out in expensive jewels. The men were in elegant dinner jackets and evening suits.
The murmur of conversation suddenly stopped as if someone had switched it off. Hélène could feel everyone's eyes watching her with curiosity. The people were leaning toward one another, whispering. It was almost too much to bear. She knew that the whispers were about her.
'Dior,' she heard one woman whisper.
'She's beautiful!' another added. 'Look at those cheekbones!'
It was a moment before Hélène understood. She laughed scornfully at herself. What a fool she had been to worry. It was they who were in awe of her!
Now she dared look around. She was glad that she had decided to wear the red dinner suit after all. Just one glance told her that she was the most beautifully dressed woman there. Suddenly she felt invincible. Good clothes gave her a confidence she hadn't known could exist.
The Comte rose to his feet, the maitre d' held the table away, and Hélène sat down. The Comte ordered champagne. For a moment he and Hélène just looked at each other in silence.
'It was quite a shock to receive all the packages,' she said haltingly. 'I didn't want to embarrass you by coming here in rags, so I took the liberty of accepting the clothes.'
'I'm glad you did. I knew that they would look stunning on you.'
Hélène opened the evening bag. With trembling fingers she took out the little box from Chaumet. She put it on the table.
He was watching her with amusement.
'But I can't possibly accept these,' she said quietly. 'They're far too valuable.'
He laughed suddenly. 'You're being distressingly correct, mademoiselle.'
She could feel one of her blushes working up. She looked down at the table. As suddenly as the blush had begun, it receded before it could rise to her face. She looked back up, steadily meeting his eyes. 'I'm being dishonest,' she said with sudden wisdom. 'There is no difference between accepting clothes from Dior and jewels from Chaumet.'
He looked at her in surprise. Then he nodded, reached for the case, and lifted the lid. The parrots caught the light from the fleur-de-lis lamps and beveled mirrors behind them and flashed red and white sparks. Slowly he picked up the earrings and put them gently on her ears. 'They look as if they were made for you,' he said, slowly withdrawing his fingers.
'And the payment for all this?' she asked in a quiet voice. 'What is it that you want from me?'
For a moment he didn't speak. He leaned back against the velvet banquette and lit a cigarette. He waved out the match and tossed it into the ashtray. He watched her closely. 'I'm not asking for repayment,' he said finally. 'However, I have a proposition to make. You may accept it or turn it down. I will give you all the time you need to make up your own mind.'
She looked at him questioningly. Her lips were suddenly numb. She could feel that intense electricity she had felt when he had first touched her at Hautecloque, asking her to dance. Only this time he didn't need to touch her. She felt it all the same.
'And what is this proposition?' she whispered, knowing very well what it would be.
He didn't mince words. 'I want you as my mistress,' he said honestly.
She looked at him levelly. So she had been right. He wanted a cocotte. It didn't shock her. It didn't even surprise her. She was only glad that he hadn't been evasive, that he hadn't tried to glamorize the possible relationship, that he didn't try to frost it up with sweet words of love. Besides, he was very attractive. She'd never be able to forget the thrill she had felt when he had taken her into his arms at the ball at Hautecloque. And now that same feeling had been reawakened in her. Who knows? she thought—what the Comte was suggesting could even turn out to be. . .quite interesting.
For a moment her lips tightened. Then she smiled coolly. 'And what would we both gain by such a. . .relationship?'
He brought the cigarette to his lips and inhaled calmly. 'I would gain a mistress,' he said flatly. 'I'm usually in Paris for two days each week. I would expect to spend those evenings with you. As for you, I am prepared to give you the use of a town house I own on the Boulevard Maillot. You would have a certain monthly income and charge accounts at the better shops. You would receive gifts every now and then.'
'But I have a job,' she said evenly. 'I don't want to give that up. It gives me a sense of security.'
He nodded. 'You don't need to give up your job,' he said.
For a long time she sat in silence, her eyes focused on nothing in particular. But her mind was racing. The Comte was offering her a town house in one of the best sections of Paris and charge accounts at God-only-knew what expensive shops. But most important, she could not only keep her job at Odile Joly's but also receive an extra income. Plus 'gifts every now and then.' Jewels, probably. It was the type of offer that any 'nice' girl turned down immediately. Without second thoughts. Hélène knew that being kept by a man would categorize her as a 'mistress' at best—and as a 'whore' at worst. Yet there was another side to it,
one she didn't dare overlook.
Long ago she had sworn to herself that she would seek out and find two Nazis—a sergeant named Schmidt and an albino with a thin, cruel face—perpetrators of senseless violence. She had sworn to bring to justice the animals who had made Maman, Catherine, and Marie suffer and disappear. Finding those monsters would be no easy task. It would take money. Much money.
She had sworn, too, that if she became successful before him, she would help Edmond. He and Jeanne were stuck in Saint-Nazaire with nothing but a bleak future looming in front of them. There would be no way for Edmond to escape Saint-Nazaire. Not on his own. He would need help. Again, only one thing stood between her helping him and not. Money.
And last, but certainly not least, there was her own dream. Her magazine. Starting it would require more money than she could ever lay her hands on in the normal course of events.
She gave a painful inner sigh. Everything she wanted to accomplish took money. True, she had a decent job at Odile Joly's. But she wasn't earning nearly enough as a model to make a single one of her ambitions come true. Probably never would. And worst of all, models had a short, expendable lifespan. Once she began to show signs of aging—then what? Then her future would be as bleak as Edmond's and Jeanne's was right now. It was time to insure her future—time to think of her dream. Time to work fast. Time to make all her ambitions a viable reality.
The Comte's offer would be the first step toward it.
The champagne arrived. Hélène watched the waiter uncork the bottle and pour. When they were alone again, she sipped delicately. Her violet eyes looked at the Comte over the rim of her glass. She had come to a decision.
She would make a deal with the devil.
'Monsieur le Comte'—she smiled softly—'you have yourself a deal.'
Sins Page 33