Chapter 4 #2
“The price is ownership of Maison Baudelaire and ten thousand francs.” And there it was—that little annoyed tick of his jaw that confirmed everything.
He wouldn’t object now. “And since I cannot imagine someone with your lifestyle wanting to find a job, I can offer you a way to pay for your mistakes without even having to lift a finger. Once we win the competition, that is.”
“And you? Ten thousand francs are no small thing.”
The sum was unquestionably awe-inspiring, but Celine wouldn’t require the money anymore if she were to win an already established Maison de mode. She could easily use it to coax Bastien into the deal.
“I only want the fashion house,” she said. “The rest can be yours. But only if you agree to model for me and keep your mouth shut about it.” She put her hand out. “Do we have a deal?”
Bastien took her fingers in his and pulled her closer. “I do not seal my deals with handshakes, Celine.”
She wanted to strangle him. “What else do you want?”
His gaze fell to her lips. “A kiss will do.”
Celine staggered back. “Out of the question.”
Bastien smirked. “You hesitated.”
“I was baffled.”
“You hesitated,” he repeated, adding a musical lilt to the end of his words. “It’s these conditions or no deal, Mademoiselle LeBeau.”
Celine sighed. “If a princess can bear kissing a frog… I can survive kissing you.” Pursing her lips, she seized his hand in hers, turned it around and brushed a kiss over his knuckles. “There.”
He glanced at the lipstick mark. “That wasn’t what I meant.”
“Specify it next time.”
His gaze flickered up, landing on her lips once more. Celine pursed them. “Don’t you have anyone else to torment?”
“I do. But you are my favourite, Celine,” Bastien returned with a smile, squeezing her hand amicably.
Celine retrieved it as soon as she realised his fingers were lingering around hers a little longer than it was necessary. “Why?” she continued. “We hardly know each other. Outside of what we are compelled to know.”
“Of course we do!” he exclaimed, making a show of grandeur. “You are the woman of my dreams, Celine! I should say I know you inside and out.” Bastien laughed wickedly. “Doesn’t my brother tell you that sort of nonsense? You should know, men are most poetic when they’re lying.”
Broiling irritation surged through her nerves. But Celine had spent years moulding herself into the porcelain-looking, properly-behaving society girl. Even Bastien’s vile behaviour couldn’t put a crack through her.
“At least I have someone to tell me that.” she replied calmly. “Even if it’s a lie. Your lovers are already serving another man while you’re here, bickering with me.”
Bastien soured.
Giving him a satisfied shrug of her shoulders, Celine made for the door. Then brought herself to a halt and pointed a dainty finger at her vanity. “Hair pomade. Make yourself pretty again.”
· · ·
Bastien squinted at her figure with contempt as she vanished into the corridor.
The door closed, cutting off the melody that was playing in the dining room, leaving him in the silent solitude of Celine’s bedroom.
Something compelled him to look around, noticing, to his surprise, the lack of fashion paraphernalia, save for a few, familiar-looking, framed cut outs from magazines and a stack of catalogues on her vanity table.
Unfortunately for Celine, Bastien knew where to look. He had already caught the glint of a bag of sequins she had hidden under the bed, along with the frail pages of American magazines peeking from beneath a rug.
“My, my,” he muttered aloud, glancing at the titles: Harper’s Bazaar, Vogue, McCall’s. “You are one intriguing specimen, Celine LeBeau.”
Her insistence on keeping the competition a secret made sense now. Bastien’s gaze wandered to the arrangement of pillows on Celine’s bed, where he spied the gilded corner of a notebook.
“Why does she need all of these?” he muttered, pushing the cushions to the side and reaching for it.
Though Bastien wasn’t in the habit of stealing into young ladies’ rooms and going through their belongings, no matter how depraved Celine enjoyed calling him, he was curious to find anything that would bristle Celine to the brink of lashing out.
She hadn’t lied when she’d said they hardly knew each other.
But if he discovered something that Jacques didn’t know about her, all the better. He flipped through her notes.
They were sketches, he realised belatedly, but not the ones he had seen that night at Folies-Bergère.
The first pages were filled with measurements and mannequin drawings; practice sheets of crooked hemlines and uneven pleats.
Impatiently, Bastien flipped to the middle, where the first gown designs made an appearance.
The hemlines had improved. The messy line art was gone. Still, he found most of the designs a bit outdated and at odds with Celine’s current fashion inclination. Until he looked at a small number scribbled on the top right of the page and realised they were indeed older sketches.
August 1913.
She had been only ten years old at the time.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” Bastien muttered to himself, flipping all the way to the end of the notebook, where her designs had gotten better, more elaborate, almost perfect if he was willing to admit.
And amongst those, he found the one she had applied for the competition with.
Bastien smiled.
He had gotten himself into major trouble, but Celine LeBeau was going to be his way out. What were ten weeks in her repressed presence anyway? In any case, it would give Bastien the opportunity to annoy Jacques to no end.