“Yes?”
“My birthday dress,” Celine ventured softly. “It wasn’t Chanel.”
Madame LeBeau stared at her for a heartbeat, before a smile broke across her face. “It was lovely, my darling.”
They were shortly interrupted by someone clearing their throat. “Forgive my intrusion, Mademoiselle LeBeau. I only wish to impart a few words.” Monsieur Baudelaire inclined his head towards the backstage. “I won’t keep you long.”
“It’s alright.” Madame LeBeau patted the small of Celine’s back. “I will wait for you at home.”
Checking the grip on his cane, Monsieur Baudelaire dipped his chin in greeting and led Celine away. The backstage appeared a different world now that everything worth seeing was standing on the other side of the room.
Monsieur Baudelaire paused by the spiral stairwell that led up to his office and faced her. “I hope there are no hard feelings, Mademoiselle LeBeau.”
“O-of course not!” Celine hurried to say, slightly taken aback. “Elise is an incredible designer. I am sure she will do justice to Maison Baudelaire’s name and reputation.”
He indulged her with a soft laugh. “I am glad you share the same opinion. But I didn’t want to talk to you about Mademoiselle Sartre. The reason why I didn’t choose you today, was not because I thought you weren’t capable enough. I truly believe you are a talented designer, Mademoiselle LeBeau.”
Humbly, Celine said, “I had a good model.”
“You did at that. That is why I am counting on you to chase after your dream in Maison Reneau.” Gracefully, he placed a signed cheque in her gloved palm. “As far as I am aware, Adalene’s House has not been operating in ten years. You will need funds to repair a decade worth of disuse. This should be enough to cover all of it.”
Celine gaped at the cheque and the zeros written on it. At last, confusion prompted her to say, “But…I did not win.”
“When I first announced this competition, I was looking for someone with profound talent to inherit my legacy, not just someone who would string up a skirt and a shirt and disregard what fashion is truly about. Mademoiselle Sartre proved that. But so did you. I saw your work this past ten weeks, your progressive ideas, your talent—making a dress look as elegant on a man as it would on a woman is no small feat. It would be a shame for the fashion world to miss out on someone of your ambition. Besides, I believe Mademoiselle Sartre will be delighted at the thought of having a worthy competitor.”
Celine looked at the cheque again. For one, delirious moment, she considered handing it back. The offer was more than generous, but… “Monsieur Baudelaire—I appreciate this beyond words, but if you are offering it because of—”
“Rest assured, my dear. Adalene’s offspring had no influence over this decision.” He folded her dainty fingers overthe slip of paper. “Monsieur Olivier is also receiving his share of funds to advance his career. But between us, do keep an eye on that MonsieurMénard.” He winked. “He’s going to get himself in quite a bit of trouble without you.”
“I will,” Celine promised, flashing a bright grin that showed all her teeth. “And I won’t disappoint you either.”
• • •
She found Bastien at the end of Rue Cambon under a patch of shade, brushing off the glitter and the sequins from the leather seats of his car. He wasn’t doing a very good job. The more he brushed, the more stubbornly they seemed to cling to the fabric.
He was still grumbling at the sequins when Celine slid in front of him, placing herself between the car and Bastien.
“See, Celine,” he said, dropping his efforts and planting his hands on his hips. “It’s not really my fault that I find your reaction strange. People who lose aren’t usually this elated afterwards.”
“They would be if they still got a little something out of it.” Theatrically, she waved the cheque in front of him. “Ta da!”
Bastien followed her movements with a look of confusion, which quickly turned into pure horror. “D-did you rip it off of Elise’s cold, dead hands?”
Celine rolled her eyes and refrained from slapping some sense into him. Rue Cambon continued to vibrate with activity, customers and journalists alike roaming back and forth along the street. They would think she was a sore loser who was taking the anger of defeat out on her ‘poor’ model.
“Congratulations, darling. How amazing you are! How will I ever be able to repay you?I believe those are the words you were looking for.”
Bastien looked askance at her. “Dramatics do not become you.”
She shrugged.
“Where did you get that?”
“Claude Baudelaire gave it to us to reopen Adalene’s studio. But”—Celine pushed it towards him before Bastien could inquire further—“I want you to have it. I want you to set things right with your grandfather first.”
A moment passed between them, filled with sunshine and the sound of boutique bells ringing with every door that opened and closed. Then Bastien bent away from the cheque as though it was an open flame. “No.”
“It is my end of the deal,” Celine said adamantly. “It is yours to take.”
