Chapter 5 #2
To Bastien’s luck, he was spared the violence when the wrought iron gate of Maison Baudelaire thundered as it opened, and a lanky young man in a dazzling lavender suit poked his head through. “Mademoiselle LeBeau?”
Celine whipped on her heel, shaking her head to remove the haze Bastien had smoked right over her thoughts.
He seemed intent on making her the source of his amusement now that dear grand-père Ménard had cut him off and everything came at a steeper price than Bastien could currently afford.
Even entertainment. Without the inheritance, there were no profligacies, and without profligacies, there was only Celine and Jacques and a grand scandal in the making.
She could excuse their proximity at events with the fact that they would soon be in-laws.
But every day? What reason did she have to meet with Bastien Ménard every day?
Not to mention, her mother would become hysterical if her daughter was rumoured to be having an affair with Heartbreak Boy.
“That’s me,” Celine called back to the young man, quickening her step to greet him prudently.
Bastien, meanwhile, sauntered behind her like a Grande Dame whose step had slowed down over the years due to her heavy skirts. Celine left him at his leisure, pinning her attention on the vestibule by the entrance gates.
“Celine LeBeau,” she supplied, a little out of breath, shooting out a hand to greet him. “I am—”
“Acceptance sheet,” the young man interrupted curtly.
Celine’s hand dropped. Hastily, she shuffled through her sketchbook and plucked out the cream embossed letter. “Ici—”
He practically snatched it from her fingers, letting out a small, curious hum as he inspected it with a swift glance. “All seems correct,” he approved, looking up at her again. Then his gaze wandered off, searching for something beyond her shoulder.
A second later, a furrow appeared on his brow. “I am sure you were aware that a model is required for you to compete, Mademoiselle LeBeau?”
“Yes, and I have one.” Latching her fingers on Bastien’s wrist, hard enough to leave marks, she hauled him into view. “See?” she chimed. “And he’s taller than most.”
“Oui, I do see. But your model cannot be a man. It is against the rules.”
“Rules?” For a minute all Celine could do was stare at him blankly and process that simple word.
She tried to recall the specifics mentioned in her acceptance letter, but she couldn’t remember reading anything about her model’s gender requirements.
Bastien yanked her suddenly to the side, letting another contestant and her model pass through.
The young man at the gate granted them entrance right away.
“Did you, or did you not read the rules?” Bastien asked, slightly agitated.
Celine worried her lip between her teeth. “Yes. Sort of.” She might have skimmed. “But I know for certain that there was not a single mention of the model’s gender.”
“Sort of?” Bastien gritted and, throwing his head back in a grand gesture of distress, he groaned. “This is expected of me, not you.” Then, as though his brief malfunction hadn’t occurred at all, he said, “Leave it to the maestro to fix this,” and pushed past her with a flounce.
Whatever he planned to do couldn’t be good. But Celine had precious few options but to let him try.
“Listen here…”
“Gabriel,” the young man supplied.
“Gabriel,” Bastien repeated, saying the name in such a way that made Celine’s skin crawl with goosebumps. Dear God, was he going to flirt their way in?
“I’m sure we can find some way to bypass this tiny complication. You only need to name your price, although I’m told I can be very persuasive either way.”
“I am sorry,” Gabriel said obstinately, indifferent to Bastien’s twisted charms. “But I cannot allow you passage.”
“But I have to enter!” Celine exclaimed, a little short of shouting the words.
Dread had started burrowing deep in her stomach, making her queasy.
She had come so close to grazing her dream with the tips of her fingers.
She was certain her mother would find out sooner or later, but until that happened, Celine wanted to have a chance at grasping handfuls of her dream before it was wrenched away from her.
“Then I suggest you find another model, Mademoiselle LeBeau. A woman, preferably. You have ten minutes until the—”
“Gabriel!” An agitated voice bellowed from within the house. “What is all this commotion? It’s almost ten o’clock for heaven’s sake, let the people in.”
“W-well, Monsieur,” Gabriel stammered. “You see, Mademoiselle LeBeau can’t enter. Her model is a man.” He tossed a dry look at Bastien. “And a very strange one at that.”
Celine squinted at the silhouette who was just looming into view, though still obscured by the shadows in the dim hallway. Suspecting he was someone in charge to oversee the contestants, she was about to complain again, when she stopped short before uttering anything stupid.
“You—you are—”
“The one and only, Mademoiselle LeBeau.” As he stepped outside, Celine could only hold her breath and wait for his next words. “Claude Baudelaire,” he said simply, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.
Celine had only ever seen pictures of him, but he looked just as polished in real life too.
Though he had a simple attire, as far as the black suit and his black shirt went, his brocade vest was stitched with thousands of Tiffany Stone beads creating a marble effect that caused both Celine and Bastien to stare at him in awe.
Monsieur Baudelaire’s right hand flexed around the carved cane he was using to support himself as he extended his other one to Celine. “Can I have a look at your application form, Mademoiselle LeBeau?”
“O-of course.” She handed it to him utterly stupefied, acting like a marionette on strings.
“And the issue?” he asked after reading through it.
“Well,” Celine started, shaking off her stupor. “I see no problem with it, Monsieur. My model has agreed to represent gowns, and, as far as the rules are concerned, it is all that matters. There was nothing stated in the application form that the model has to be a woman.”
Gabriel tapped a finger rapidly on the application slip. “But it says gowns. Right here.”
“It’s all right, Gabriel.” Monsieur Baudelaire placed a hand on the young assistant’s shoulder. “No need to harangue our contestants. Now, Mademoiselle LeBeau, I’m assuming this gentleman with you is…”
“My model.” Celine tilted her head towards Bastien. “Bastien Mé—”
Bastien savagely shoved her out of the way, reaching his hand out for a shake. “Bastien Reneau. A pleasure.”
Celine blinked—partly from being manhandled like a sack of potatoes and partly from the abrupt identity change. Reneau? What is he on about?
If Bastien had ruined both of their chances to compete she would—
Monsieur Baudelaire had gone rigid—lips parted, eyes darting up and down, taking Bastien in full, like he was searching for some sort of answer on his person.
Celine peered at him too, but all she could see was the loose tie and a semi-faded kiss mark right underneath his jaw. Nothing shock inducing—though for someone who was just meeting Bastien it might have had such effects.
Monsieur Baudelaire called suddenly, “Gabriel, find me all the papers. We shall confirm this little loophole and if it stands true”—his eyes darted from Bastien to Celine—“then I see no reason why you cannot enter, Mademoiselle.”
· · ·
To Celine’s relief, the loophole did, in fact, exist.
Monsieur Baudelaire ushered them inside and told them to join the other contestants in the main hall.
Celine slowed her pace and took in the long corridors of Maison Baudelaire.
She had only ever been to his boutiques—all of them, as though they were a temple of worship—but never inside the actual fashion house.
Her breath caught a little in her throat as they passed through the hallways.
There were impressive picture frames lining the walls, showcasing designs of the most famous gowns Maison Baudelaire had produced over the years.
She marvelled at the sharp and confident pencil lines of each sketch. There were no wobbles that showed indecision, no faint marks that proved an eraser had been used. There was only talent and precision, and beyond this corridor, she knew, the actual gowns were displayed inside glass cases.
Celine peered over her shoulder to check on Bastien. She still couldn’t get over his lie and the peculiar encounter that had followed between him and Monsieur Baudelaire.
“What was all that out there, maestro?”
“Hmm?”
“Why did you tell him your last name was Reneau?”
Bastien, hands hidden in his pockets, only tipped his chin at one of the golden plaques underneath a framed design. Celine’s eyes grazed the engraved name with such curiosity, that she abandoned his side and silently strode towards it.
Adalene Reneau
Celine looked up. The sketch was the first gown she had ever attempted to recreate, before she had started assembling original ones from her own imagination. Adalene Reneau had been her number one idol since she could remember, and now…
Bastien approached with some sort of undefined emotion rippling beneath his features. Celine’s eyes moved from him, to the name written on the plaque, to Bastien again. Realisation settled in. Her hand came up to her mouth.
“You’re—you’re her—”
“Son?” Bastien finished for her, looking bored. “In the flesh, darling.”
Celine’s jaw slacked open. “But—but—how didn’t I know about this?”
She had heard slivers regarding Monsieur Ménard’s previous wife: the woman had passed away when Bastien was still very young.
That was when his father remarried—Jacques and Ana?s’s mother.
Any additional information about the previous Madame Ménard had never been catered to Celine.
She felt a little foolish for not knowing it was the Adalene Reneau.