Free Leonie by Elizabeth Adler Page B

all.” Léonie leaned back against the cushions as the carriage clopped its way home from her first party in Paris, holding hands with Maroc.
    “But you must remember,” cried Bella. It was three o’clock in the morning and they had rushed home, longing to hear about the party, whom Léonie had met, what had happened, and now she didn’t remember!
    “What did you eat?” asked Jolie practically. “Let’s begin with that.”
    “Truffles,” she said, “and strawberries, I think.”
    “Truffles,” groaned Loulou, rolling on the bed in mock agony, “I’d never forget a truffle! And strawberries when there’s snow on the ground—you must remember.”
    Léonie sat up in bed, looking pale and tired. She’d forgotten to wash the rouge from her cheeks and it looked blotchy and unreal against her skin, and the golden eyeshadow had smudged.
    “There’s more to this than meets the eye,” said Bella intuitively, “and I suspect it’s a man.”
    “A man!” They looked at her expectantly, waiting. “Come on now, Léonie, no secrets.” Loulou laughed.
    “Oh,” wailed Léonie tearfully. “Oh, Loulou. His name’s Rupert and I’m in love with him.”
    They stared at one another in astonishment and then back at Léonie, the tears streaming down her face. “Oh, my God,” said Loulou slowly.
    The sky was blue and innocent of snow, pretending to be summer as Léonie raced through the streets toward Serrat. She skidded round the corner of the alley and arrived gasping at the back entrance, leaping up the steps two at a time and throwing off hercoat as she raced down the passage to the salon. Marianne was waiting for her.
    “It’s half past nine, Léonie. We thought you weren’t coming.” Her voice was silky.
    “I apologize for being late, Marianne.” Léonie was penitent, head bowed, eyes downcast.
    “And why are you late?”
    “I don’t know, Marianne.”
    “You don’t know why you’re late?”
    “It’s just that I slept late. I … I didn’t feel very well last night.”
    Marianne pounced triumphantly. “That’s not what I heard,” she said. “I heard you were at a party.”
    How could she know? Léonie glanced at Maroc questioningly and he shrugged. “It was after the party,” she said, “that I didn’t feel well.”
    “It’s just not good enough, Léonie.” Marianne walked toward her cubicle. “You’d better come with me, and close the door behind you.” The salesgirls watched them apprehensively. “As well as being late,” said Marianne, “there’s the other matter.”
    “What other matter?”
    “The red silk stockings.”
    Léonie stared at her. What did she mean? “I understand that you took some red silk stockings yesterday”—Marianne’s eyes bored into her—“without paying for them.”
    “But of course I paid for them! It was all the money I had.”
    “Then you’ll have a receipt?”
    A receipt? She had no receipt, why would she write out a receipt for herself? Too late, she realized what Marianne was getting at. “I must ask you for the money, Léonie—now!”
    “But I told you I paid for them yesterday. I didn’t bother with a receipt, I didn’t think it would be necessary, but I put the money in the till, I swear to you.”
    “I have no record of any such money and the till balanced with the number and price of items sold yesterday.” Marianne sat back in her chair, waiting. “I’m afraid that I must ask you to leave, Léonie. Right away. I shall not do anything about the stockings—you’re a young girl and I would not like to prosecute you for theft, but I can’t tolerate it in this establishment. You may get your coat and go.”
    Léonie stared at her in desperation. “I’ll pay,” she promised. “I’ll pay again.”
    “With what?” asked Marianne, holding open the door. “I want you out at once, and please don’t come back here again.”
    Too stunned even for tears, Léonie put on her coat and walked out into the alley. Maroc was