Chapter 15 #3
“I would, if it wasn’t so much fun seeing her blush at all the things I tell her.
You know what happens to the girls who fall for me,” Bastien said with terrible apathy, and waited.
There was a brief moment when he saw something flash across his brother’s eyes.
Hurt or jealousy or a mix of both. But it turned Jacques’s expression cold, unflinching.
And feeling a little fratricidal, Bastien decided to be cruel and push further.
“I hope, for your sake, that you know how to deal with broken dolls, Jacques. We wouldn’t want our sweet Celine to stay broken forever, would we? ”
If Jacques wanted war, war he would get. And Bastien knew just where to strike. And when.
I expect you at the annual soirée tonight. And dress properly. He flicked a piece of lint off the cuff of his sleeve. “I’d hang around, but I have important business to carry out.”
· · ·
When Celine returned home, her mother was already waiting in the living room, reading glasses on, another bridal magazine between her fingers.
The windows had been left open, despite the approaching evening, and the curtains fluttered in the soft breeze, carrying the scent of jasmine bushes planted underneath the balcony.
Celine discarded her heels and trench coat by the entrance and sauntered inside in her stockings. She delighted in the feeling of the plush carpet under her soles; the subtle thud that her footfalls made as the sound got swallowed up before it could announce her presence.
Perhaps it was the reason why her mother continued leafing through her magazine, not bothering to lift her eyes from the page and greet her daughter.
Celine held back a sigh. Just once she wished she could return home and have Madame LeBeau bombard her with questions.
Did you have fun today, my darling?
Have you eaten yet?
I can warm something up while you describe all the excitement for me.
And then she would do it. She would curl next to her mother, conveying everything to the minutest detail, stopping only to take another bite of her food.
She had almost done so after their first challenge at Maison Baudelaire.
He liked my design, maman, she had wanted to say. I made it through to the second round. I don’t need to marry Jacques to keep our family name shiny. I can do that myself. I can make a name for myself.
But the reply would have never met Celine’s expectations. Her mother wouldn’t have been happy, nor proud. She would have been furious, and the next day Monsieur Baudelaire would have received a letter saying that Celine LeBeau was withdrawing from the competition.
Another similar evening rose in the back of her mind—the night she had scratched her wrist raw every time her mother had asked if something was wrong, and Celine had replied with a shake of her head, until she couldn’t take it anymore and had asked to be enrolled at the fashion school.
The slap that had accompanied the refusal rose from her memories, too. Celine’s cheek heated up. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see the imprint of her mother’s fingers manifest on her skin as well.
She dared a glimpse at Madame LeBeau now and bit down on her tongue.
Just this once, she would keep lying.
The guilt was worth it. The disappointed look she would receive when the truth was finally out would be worth it too.
Feeling a sudden weight of drowsiness fall on her, Celine dragged herself over to the divan opposite her mother’s lounge chair, and flung herself over the soft, white paddings.
Another swoosh of paper.
The rest of the living room dwelt in silence, save for the chirping of the cicadas outside that had somehow found themselves within the city’s buzzing life.
Celine was half inclined to stay like that for the rest of the night: seep into the couch and become one with the silent furniture.
Sometimes it was the only way she and her mother could coexist in the same room.
But the silence had to end sometime.
Madame LeBeau finally lifted her eyes. A disappointed sigh left her lips like smoke. “Can't you wear something less…” Celine waited for her mother to stop distorting her face at the dress. “Less....revealing?”
“It's April, maman. The exposed back keeps me cool.”
“That exposed back is going to earn you another headline. Do you want degrading nicknames to start pouring in?” she demanded.
Celine bit down on her tongue harder, refraining from telling her mother she was, unfortunately, still known as The Vampire.
That the nickname seemed determined to cling to her side.
“We'll see if you can return it after Francine finds the receipts.”
“What if I don’t want to return it? Fashion is how I express myself, maman.”
Madame LeBeau lifted a stern brow. “Find a medium of art to do that.”
“Fashion is art,” Celine bellowed. “More than, in fact. It combines all the other mediums into one.” There were times when she knew how far to push her mother on this.
It was like a blinker going off somewhere in the distance, alerting Celine that if she pressed a little longer something or someone would burst. And there were other times when Celine herself threatened to burst if she didn’t speak her mind.
“I am not returning the dress,” she said, point-blank. “It shows who I am.”
“Oh, don’t be absurd, Celine. You can’t possibly wear that thing again. It’s vulgar.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I have yet to witness a man drop to his knees because he’s seen my bare back, maman.” Leaning back, feigning disinterest, Celine began examining her nails.“Then again, the day still has four hours left. Who knows what will happen.”
“Do not tire me with your liberal spirit tonight. We will not discuss this again.” Returning her focus to her magazine, she flipped a page, the subject of outrageous dresses forgotten. “Do you have your costume ready?”
“What costume?” Celine shot back.
“Honestly, Celine.” She folded the magazine in half with an irritated flap and set it aside. “For Ménard’s philanthropic party. Jacques sent one over for you. There was something about Rome on the note…I can’t be too sure.”
Celine cursed silently. Just when she thought she could finally relax.
Frankly, she had forgotten all about the soirée.
Her everyday agenda was lost somewhere in the recesses of her brain, and had it not been for Ana?s’s subtle reminders on the telephone, she would have surely missed half of the things Jacques had arranged for her lately.
She remembered him talking about tonight’s costume party, though.
But he’d said he wanted them to go as Paris and Helen.
“Rome?” Celine repeated slowly. “I thought—”
“Oh, what am I saying.” Madame LeBeau slipped off her glasses, pinching the bridge of her nose.
“You have been out all day to have seen it when he dropped it off. Francine!” she screeched.
“Do take out Celine’s costume from the box and iron it.
We leave in an hour, she must have it ready.
” Then she turned towards her daughter once more, scrutinising her like she could read the lines of Celine’s brain if she looked long enough.
“Tell me, what do you do out all day? It’s like you try to avoid me intentionally, Celine. ”
“Of course not, maman,” Celine stammered, working her brain to find a lie that wouldn’t come apart as easily as a house of cards. “I was helping Ana?s find a mask for tonight.”
Her mother only hummed. “Go on and get ready. You shouldn’t make Jacques wait.”
Only too glad to leave, Celine pushed herself off the divan and scuttled up the stairs and into her bedroom.
She found Francine all giddy and smiling, lifting a single rose up to her nose to take in the scent of its petals. “What has gotten into you?” she asked, closing the door behind her.
“Nothing, nothing. It’s just been so long since someone gave me flowers.”
Celine considered her with some amusement. “Look at you, courting a secret admirer.”
Francine placed the rose on Celine’s bedside table and hinted at the flat box resting on the bed. “The secret admirer is yours, Mademoiselle. He was kind enough to gift me a rose for my secrecy.”
Roses. Secret admirers. Masquerades.
“It almost sounds like Shakespeare,” Celine mused.
On the bed rested a deep blue box, wrapped in pink ribbons and filled with rose petals. Celine scattered them away, basking in their lovely perfume as she rummaged for a note to see who had sent it. Her fingers grazed the edge of the paper. She pulled it out.
Cleopatra wanted Mark Antony to think of her every time he came upon a rose.
I already think of you every time I see or smell any kind of flower.
But for the sake of the masquerade, let me find you by following the scent of roses tonight.
-J
Celine’s heart skipped a beat. She brushed off the rest of the petals and lifted a flapper dress designed like a sparkling kalasiris.
The bright turquoise and lapis jewels glistened like water when she measured the dress to her body and gave a little twirl.
Mark Antony and Cleopatra were no Paris and Helen, but she preferred them better.
And her short hair would fit the costume perfectly.
“Monsieur Ménard sure knows how to surprise a lady,” Francine said, still twirling with her rose.
Celine smiled at her. “He sure does.” She would tell him tonight—about the competition. She had bid her time long enough, now Jacques deserved to know. “Oh, by the way, please hide my dress for me when I leave. And tell my mother it’s on its merry way back to the shop.”
Francine patted her shoulder. “As you wish, Mademoiselle.”