“The dress thing again?”
Madame LeBeau cleared her throat. “Whether you two like it or not, I won’t have speculations about my daughter thrown around like breadcrumbs for pigeons to peck at. The modiste has all her measurements, and if Celine’s waistline widens a little, she will immediately think—”
“Maman,” Celine whined. “Jacques and I haven’t—”
She cut herself short when Madame LeBeau brought her fork down on the table, rattling the china. The room settled into a strained silence.
Monsieur LeBeau, visibly uncomfortable, loosened his tie. “Best listen to your mother,” he said and picked up his paper again. Her father had never been up for difficult conversations.
Feeling a little foolish for her outburst, Celine slouched further into the chair. Belatedly she noticed the dark wells of shadows underneath his eyes. The marks of tiredness seemed to have deepened since the last time Celine had really taken the time to assess him. Her heart lurched. The stress from dealingwith his clients and preventing an imminent bankruptcy was leaving a mark on his health, while Celine stood there, in front of him, complaining.
Her mother was right. They were counting on her engagement to Jacques and the connection with his family to fix this, and she had to try her best. And…it could have been worse. They could be offering her like a ewe to a wrinkly old man.
“All I meant, maman—”
“I know what you meant, Celine.” Madame LeBeau folded her arms. “But that vampire thing was bad enough, I won’t have any other rumours spread about you.”
Celine held her mother’s gaze for a brief moment. There was nothing in there that came as a concern for her daughter. Part of it, sure. She had birthed her, after all, and twenty hours of pain and labour ought to count for something, but the main concern still remained the good name of the LeBeau family.
Which Celine was going to fix—by herself.
Her gaze slid to the clock again. If she wanted to make it to Maison Baudelaire before Bastien, she had to leavenow.
As if reading her thoughts, Madame LeBeau said, “What was Bastien Ménard telling you the other night?”
Celine held back a grimace. “Nothing of importance.”
“Talk to him at family dinners, but not so much when other people are around. You know what they say about him.”
Oh, she knew. Still, “Don’t you think all those people are exaggerating? They say things about me too.”And they’re half right, but that is currently beyond the point. “He’s not all that bad.”
“You’re right,” Monsieur LeBeau agreed absentmindedly, not lifting his eyes from the paper. “Bastien is a nice boy.”
“I will not repeat myself,” her mother insisted, and looking at her, Celine knew a three hour long tongue-lashing was in store for her.
“D’accord, d’accord.” Pushing herself off the chair, Celine tried to hastily make an exit by excusing herself. “I have to go. I have some plans for today.”
“At this hour?”
“Yes…I…am looking for…a present!” Celine lied quickly, resisting the little itch to scratch the inside of her wrist. It was her tell-tale sign whenever she was lying—which was unfortunate for her poor skin. “I’m compiling a list. Jacques asked me for it—he wants to make sure he gets me something I will have use for…since my birthday is coming up.”
Her birthday was almost two months away, but every excuse that had the word Jacques in it was bound to be approved by Madame LeBeau, however farfetched it sounded.
“Before you leave”—she handed Celine a wet tissue—“clean up that kohl from your eyes. It’s unbecoming.”
“Ugh,tu assassines l'individualisme, maman.” But Celine took the tissue nonetheless, too excited for her first day to keep the fight up.
• • •
Her heels clicked down the cobblestones of Rue Cambon, sparkling with morning mist. It was quite early for the boutiques that lined the sidewalk to be bustling with customers, albeit the helping hands were already operating and dressing up the mannequins inside. Warm lighting lit up the designs and jewelleries, and Celine drew her bicycle closer to the storefront, lingering before the windows for a few minutes, enjoying the new clothing line from Chanel even though her face was painted on all the posters that decorated the displays. She made a mental note to drag Jacques through the store tomorrow—as payback for all the times he had dragged her along to the Jockey Club—when chatter from the opposite side of the street reached her ear.
A group of girls had gathered around a Morris column, looking at the theatre posters and, Celine noticed with a delay, one of hers wearing the latest design fromLanvin Modes. Being theGlamour Girlof the magazines had evidently made Celine appealing to all the popular brands, especially Maison Lanvin, whose designs she had been wearing ever since she was a child. None of them, however, knew that she wanted to join their ranks one day.
Turning away quickly so the girls wouldn’t see her, Celine continued down the street, towards Maison Baudelaire.
She found Bastien leaning against the wall, quietly smoking a cigarette with a book in his hand. A frown stretched across her face when she noticed he had cracked the spine and folded the volume in half.
Who did that to books?
