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  PARIS—AND MY LOVE

  Mary Burchell

  Marianne was young, she was in Paris—that perfect setting for romance—And she was in love with Nat. The only snag was that she was not at all sure of Nat’s feelings for her. Did he have any more than a brotherly affection for her? Could she possibly hope for more in the face of the very stiff competition provided by the glamorous Lisette? It was a good job, Marianne reflected, that she had nice kind Roger Senloe to turn to and to advise her.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “But, madame—” resolutely, Marianne faced the director of the great fashion house of Florian “—if you will not give me a chance to show what I can do, how do you know I am not suited for the job?”

  “It is not necessary to eat an egg in order to know that it is bad,” replied Madame Moisant with her customary candor.

  Marianne blenched slightly at the unflattering simile. But she wanted this job too badly to surrender without a struggle. Besides, there was a streak of obstinacy in her that refused to allow her to accept defeat on what she judged to be unfair grounds.

  “I’ve never been compared to a bad egg before,” she confessed with a rueful smile, “but—”

  “The comparison was purely figurative, mademoiselle.”

  “But won’t you at least tell me why you’re so sure that Monsieur Florian wouldn’t even consider me as a model?” Marianne pressed. “Without being conceited, I know I have most of the qualifications needed for displaying clothes well. And as you see, I have really excellent references from the firm for whom I worked in London. Not an inconsiderable firm, either, madame.”

  “One of the leading stores,” agreed Madame Moisant, with a passing glance at the letters Marianne had placed before her. “Possibly even the leading store,” she admitted a trifle grudgingly. “But I presume that there you displayed dresses that had already been designed and made before you ever came into the picture?”

  “Well, yes. I never had anything designed especially for me, if that’s what you mean. But, you see—”

  “That,” interrupted Madame Moisant firmly, “is exactly what I mean. And that, mademoiselle, is the difference between your work and ours. It is no criticism, you understand, of you or your employers—” For a moment an Olympian glanced condescendingly at the well-meant efforts of mere mortals. “But you are under a misapprehension with regard to the work and purpose of a model in a great fashion house.”

  “A-am I?” Marianne wrinkled her smooth forehead doubtfully, but her clear, beautifully gray eyes looked alert and inquiring, as though even disappointment could not dim her interest in an intriguing discovery.

  “You are not alone in that,” the Frenchwoman told her with a dry smile. “Many people suppose that the sole business of a model is to look beautiful, walk gracefully and display an outfit to the best advantage. But in a great dress house, these considerations are secondary. Hundreds—probably thousands—of good-looking girls can do that. The true purpose of a model employed by a designer such as Florian is, above all and beyond all, to inspire him to fresh design.”

  Madame Moisant paused, with a perfect sense of timing. Then she added, with simple and devastating candor, “You, mademoiselle, are not the type to inspire.”

  For a moment Marianne was silent. Partly from chagrin at being classed as uninspiring, but mostly from the conviction that this time she had been presented with a legitimate and unanswerable argument. Then curiosity got the better of even bitter disappointment, and she asked, on a note of humble inquiry, “Just why would I not ‘inspire’ anyone, madame?”

  “Because,” returned the Frenchwoman unhesitatingly, “you are, in the nicest sense of the word, ordinary.”

  “I ... see.”

  “You are charming, pretty, well-groomed, graceful.” Inexplicably, she contrived to make these attributes sound slightly less than complimentary. “To inspire a great designer one must be unusual, provocative, possibly even interestingly ugly. You are nonetheless charming because you are none of these, mademoiselle. But the plain fact is that neither Florian nor any lesser designer—” in her estimation there were obviously only lesser ones “—would ever look at you and think, ‘Mon Dieu, from this strange and lovely creature a new idea begins to grow.’ ”

  “No,” conceded Marianne honestly, “I suppose that’s true. I think I see what you mean.”

  “Bon,” observed Madame Moisant, who liked people to see what she meant. “It happens sometimes quite suddenly, this awareness that a new type arrives. Only three weeks ago, a girl came up those stairs—” With a reminiscent gleam in her shrewd black eyes, the director gestured toward the curtains that shut off her office from the rest of the great fashion house.

  “She was wearing a coat that hurt—” Madame Moisant closed her eyes as though in recollection of the anguish that the coat had inspired “—and incredibly, cotton gloves. But—” she sucked in her breath in remembered excitement “—her cheekbones! And the curious slant of the eyes! I asked her to wait a moment, and I sent for Monsieur Florian on some pretext or other...”

  She paused so long this time, in the interests of drama, that Marianne felt impelled to ask, “What did he say when he saw her?”

  “He said, ‘When can you start?’ ” replied Madame Moisant, with telling simplicity. Then she folded and handed back Marianne’s references. “Thank you, mademoiselle. It has been pleasant to meet you.”

  The interview was so obviously at an end that Marianne was forced to her feet, still lost in envious contemplation of the good fortune bestowed on the girl with the remarkable cheekbones and slanting eyes. But even then she could not forbear a final appeal.

  “Madame,” she said, “I won’t press my claims as a model further. You’ve convinced me of my unsuitability. But isn’t there any other way in which I might work here? I’ve had varied selling experience and—I know it may sound silly and sentimental—but for two years it has been my dream and ambition to work in Paris. That’s why I’ve perfected my French and tried so hard to—”

  “There are other fashion houses in Paris,” observed Madame Moisant, though in a tone that relegated them to comparative insignificance.

  “But only one Florian,” countered Marianne quickly.

  “True,” agreed the Frenchwoman, complacently but unhelpfully.

  And then, as she said this, the silver gray curtains parted unexpectedly and a man came into the room. He was not handsome. He was not even especially young. But he carried with him an air of such easy authority that, even without the suddenly attentive air of Madame Moisant, Marianne would have known this was the great Florian himself.

  She expected him to brush her and her small affairs from his path. But instead, what he said to his director with a faint, half-sarcastic smile was, “Come, Suzanne, be a little more cooperative—” evidently he was on very good terms with her “—wholehearted devotion is not to be met with every day. What is it that mademoiselle wants?”

  “The usual.” Madame Moisant shrugged disparagingly.

  But Marianne knew suddenly that opportunity was knocking at her door, and metaphorically speaking, she flung that door wide.

  “I had hoped there might be a chance of my being taken on as a model, monsieur,” she said quickly. “But madame la directrice has at least convinced me that that is impossible.”

  “Indeed?” Florian looked genuinely curious. “How did she do that?”

  “She said I was too ordinary to inspire any designer, and I think she is probably right,” Marianne stated, without rancor and without false modesty. “But I still dare to hope there may be a place for me here. I do know a good deal about fashion, monsieur, and I can sell anything.”

  “Such as?”

  “The right
hat to make a woman feel her best, the right handbag to make a simple suit look expensive, and the right gloves to make a social climber look a lady.”

  Immediately a subtle increase of interest showed on Florian’s clever, worn face.

  “Well,” he said good-humoredly, “those are no mean claims, if you can make them good.”

  “She is too young for a vendeuse in the salon,” Madame Moisant interposed warningly.

  “She is, however, the right age to impart gaiety and élan to the boutique,” retorted Florian. “How old are you, mademoiselle?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “You look younger. Any family?”

  “Why—yes.” Marianne was faintly surprised to be asked anything so personal. “I’m the second in a family of four. The others live at home with my parents in London.”

  “And have your parents any objection to your working in Paris?”

  “No, monsieur. Would it have mattered if they had?”

  “It might. Paris is the Mecca of starry-eyed, ambitious daughters. And once I have begun to train someone, it is both boring and irritating to have indignant parents trying to summon her home.”

  Marianne smiled.

  “My parents will not be indignant,” she promised. “Nor will they try to summon me home.” And her heart began to beat hopefully, for surely Florian would not ask all these questions if he had no intention of even considering her.

  “Would you—would you care to see my references, monsieur?” she asked almost timidly, remembering Madame Moisant’s cavalier reception of them.

  “If you please.” He held out a remarkably beautiful hand for them, and added, “Sit down again, mademoiselle.”

  So Marianne sat down once more, and held her breath while Florian leaned carelessly against the desk and studied the glowing statements that her late firm had made about her.

  “They seem to think well of you,” he observed when he had read them. “And now you want to prove yourself in Paris, eh?”

  “Yes, monsieur. If you would be so good—so kind—”

  “I am neither good nor kind, as Madame Moisant here will tell you,” Florian informed her dryly. “I am a hard businessman, with a flair for picking my staff and extracting the last ounce of value from them. But I have an idea—” he studied her with an impersonal attention that was slightly disconcerting “—that you are the girl I have been waiting for for some time. From a business point of view, of course,” he added with a faint smile.

  “R-really, monsieur?” After Madame Moisant’s disparaging remarks, this was balm.

  “You are determined without being offensive, I notice, and you’re quick to seize an opportunity. Also, you have a proper appreciation of your own qualities, which is something quite different from conceit, and very necessary in this world, where the meek go to the wall and stay there.”

  “The same can be said of many girls,” put in Madame Moisant rather crossly. “You speak only of minimum essentials.”

  “True,” agreed Florian calmly. “But mademoiselle possesses also dignity without dullness, style without affectation and, above all, that indefinable something that one can only call ‘quality.’ The British tend to have it more often than most, I have noticed,” he added reflectively.

  “Monsieur Florian, you—you overwhelm me,” exclaimed Marianne.

  “Not at all, mademoiselle,” Florian returned coolly. “I merely state facts. These qualities you have. But if I find you do not employ them as I require, they are useless to me and you no longer interest me. I must warn you that, if you work here, the House of Florian must be your first concern. Which prompts me to ask one final question. Have you a fiancé?”

  “No-no, monsieur.”

  He sighed impatiently.

  “Well, what is the complication?” he inquired.

  “The—complication, monsieur?”

  “Yes. There was a slight hesitation before your ‘No.’ Which means one of three things: either you are engaged but wish to hide the fact, or you are not engaged but wish you were, or you were once engaged and feel nostalgic about it. All of these circumstances could occupy your attention to the detriment of your work, so I had better know the situation now.”

  Marianne laughed a little vexedly.

  “Monsieur Florian, I am not engaged, I have never been engaged, and I have no immediate prospect of becoming engaged. With that I think you must be satisfied,” she said firmly.

  “So?” He stared at her for a moment with those cold, uncomfortably observant gray eyes. Then suddenly he smiled—a singularly attractive smile—and said, “Perhaps even an employer has no right to ask more. When can you begin work in the boutique downstairs, mademoiselle?”

  For a moment Marianne could not believe that he had uttered the magic words for which she had been envying another girl only ten minutes earlier. But then she pulled herself together and said eagerly, “Whenever you say, Monsieur Florian. Next week—tomorrow—now, if you like.”

  “Now is a little too early,” he said, again with that slight smile. “But tomorrow would be good. The new collection goes on show less than two weeks from today, and the sooner you are familiar with the boutique, the better. In this firm, it plays an important part. Madame Moisant, arrange the terms of mademoiselle’s employment. Then take her around and show her whatever you think advisable. She is engaged. What is your name, by the way, mademoiselle?”

  “M-Marianne, monsieur. Marianne Shore.”

  “Marianne?” He repeated the name reflectively. “It is charming—and suitable.”

  And, apparently having decided to leave whatever other matter had brought him into the room until later, Florian made a slight gesture of farewell and went away.

  “You are a fortunate girl,” observed Madame Moisant severely.

  “Oh, I know it!” Marianne said fervently.

  “It is as well. But now,” went on the director, “it will be necessary to prove yourself. Monsieur Florian’s standards are high. Many people,” she added, in case Marianne should be getting any inflated ideas of her own worthiness, “find them unattainable. But—we will see how you shape up. First we will talk business, and then I will take you around.”

  Necessary though it was to be realistic about her living expenses, Marianne would have said yes to everything, even if the terms had been less generous. As it was, although Madame Moisant assured her dryly that she would be expected to earn every centime of her salary, she felt she was being very fairly treated.

  And then, in a haze of happiness and relief, she followed Madame Moisant from the office, deliciously aware that she was no longer a visitor on sufferance but a member of the staff.

  Marianne had been long enough in the fashion world to have shed most of the more popular illusions. She knew, for instance, that what the outside world characterized as “glamour” was merely the dazzling final result of grueling work, endless patience and rigid discipline. And she knew that what appeared to be an elegant and leisurely display of sweetness and beauty often screened crises and heartburning behind the scenes.

  But the crowded workrooms were new to her, with their hundreds of girls—they were all girls, Madame Moisant informed her, whether sixteen or sixty—stitching away for dear life on ravishing materials. From the humblest junior scuttling about picking up pins, to the most exalted fitter intent on hairline exactness, everyone was working with almost ferocious absorption.

  Matching, tucking, ruching, pressing, humbly hemming or ambitiously embroidering, with the delicacy of artists, on exquisite flounces and panels. The hum of conversation was unceasing, but hardly anyone looked up from her work, even when the director passed.

  From the workrooms Madame Moisant took Marianne through one or two of the unexpectedly small fitting rooms to the great salon itself—empty now, but magically evocative of fantastic fashion shows. With its silver gray curtains, its faintly flushed lights, its delicate paneling and its almost decadently luxurious carpet, it seemed to be waiting in a sort of
insolent languor for the inevitable moment when it would come to life and justify its existence, as the perfect shell in which the shimmering pearls of the fashion world would be displayed.

  Down the center of the long room ran the inevitable raised platform, ending in the small circular stage on which the models would execute their final pirouettes before disappearing through the curtains into the dressing room beyond. Madame Moisant now took Marianne through these curtains, observing as she did so, “It is, of course, the dead season now, so far as fashion shows are concerned. Most of the girls are upstairs being fitted.”

  One or two, however, were lounging in the dressing room, either sitting with their feet up or studying their reflections in the long wall mirror, while they changed a hairstyle or altered their makeup.

  “This is Mademoiselle Marianne,” Madame Moisant informed them en bloc. “She will be working in the boutique.”

  One or two of them returned Marianne’s comprehensive smile with a flicker of greeting. But she had the curious impression that, for them at this moment, only a fellow model would really impinge on their consciousness.

  As they turned to go, Madame Moisant paused beside a girl whose incredibly beautiful red gold head was bent over a fashion magazine.

  “This,” she said to Marianne, “is Lisette, of whom I told you earlier.”

  At the mention of her name, the girl raised her head, and Marianne saw instantly that here were the cheekbones and the slanting eyes that had earned Monsieur Florian’s immediate interest.

  It was understandable, she thought. For not only was the bone structure of the face flawless, the lovely slanting eyes were of a clear, translucent green, in strange, intriguing contrast to the red, faintly sensual mouth. The girl could not have been more than twenty, but the enigmatic expression of those eyes seemed to hide the knowledge of the ages. Even so might some exquisite cat goddess of ancient times have looked upon her adorers. Cool and completely inscrutable.