Paris - And My Love Read online

  But what the cat goddess said, in a charming, throaty sort of voice, was, “Hello. You’re English, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I’m English.” Marianne smiled at her. “Are you?”

  “No. My mother was English, but my father came from the Levant, and I myself was born in Athens.”

  “Your English is perfect,” Marianne told her admiringly.

  “Yes, I know.” She accepted that as her due. “So are my French and my Greek.”

  “How wonderful to have three languages,” Marianne said sincerely.

  “It’s better to have slanting eyes,” said the cat goddess succinctly, and she went back to her fashion magazine.

  Outside the dressing-room door, Marianne laughed a little and said to Madame Moisant, “Now I see exactly what you mean. She made me feel ordinary indeed. She’s quite wonderful looking, isn’t she?”

  “She is also, if I am not mistaken, a man-eater,” replied Madame Moisant, on a note of calm reflection.

  “A—a man-eater?”

  “Yes. She does not care for her own sex, that little one. She likes to make men mad about her. Well, that is not our concern. So long as she does not try to eat the man of some rich customer, of course. It is possible that we shall have trouble with her.”

  But Madame Moisant seemed to view that prospect with equanimity, and after a moment she went on, in a mood of unusual expansiveness, “Most of the girls are hardworking, ambitious, and rather stupid. This is very good, for then they do what they are told, and Monsieur Florian—and I—” she added in modest parenthesis, “know exactly what is best for them. But sometimes, when the other qualities are too good to ignore, one has to take an intelligent one. Lisette, I think, is intelligent. It is a pity, but—” she shrugged “—one must not ask too much of heaven. With such cheekbones and eyes, one must suffer the rest. Now I will take you to the boutique and introduce you to Madame Rachel who is in charge ... there.”

  The small but significant pause before the last word was enough to tell Marianne that Madame Rachel’s authority was not allowed to trespass in the smallest degree into the realm of Madame Moisant. And when, a few minutes later, she was taken into the boutique and presented to the elegant, gray-haired woman who ruled there, she understood the situation exactly.

  The impeccable and distant politeness with which the two ladies conducted themselves toward each other was more telling than if they had shrieked their rivalry aloud. And when Madame Moisant sought to explain Marianne’s presence, Madame Rachel interrupted, with all the sweetness and chill of high-class ice cream, to say that Monsieur Florian had already been to see her personally and had explained all.

  Sensible man, thought Marianne amusedly, and stepped aside to allow the passage of a tall, good-looking man who had just entered but seemed a trifle out of place in the exquisite surroundings of the boutique.

  “Monsieur Senloe!” cried both the Frenchwomen in chorus. And Madame Moisant added, in her heavily accented English, “Monsieur Florian will be delighted. We hardly expected you in Paris this season.”

  “I hardly expected it myself until yesterday,” was the good-humored reply, delivered in the unmistakable accents of Great Britain. “Is Monsieur Florian free? Or...”

  “But of course—for you. Please come—” and Madame Moisant wafted the visitor up the gray carpeted stairs before Madame Rachel could insert so much as a word on her own account.

  Something told Marianne that to assume a degree of special knowledge on Madame Rachel’s part would, at this moment, be soothing to that lady’s pride. So she said, “Is Mr. Senloe also in the fashion world?”

  “Pas du tout. He is in the corps diplomatique.” Madame Rachel spoke with a touch of graciousness very acceptable after the astringent asperity of Madame Moisant. “He is a very good friend of Monsieur Florian. He nearly married Madame Florian,” she added somewhat irrelevantly, Marianne could not help thinking.

  Feeling that this constituted a curious claim on Monsieur Florian’s friendship, Marianne said. “But doesn’t that make it rather... rather, awkward for them all?”

  “Oh, no.” Madame Rachel shook her head and smiled, a really lovely smile. “Perhaps he still adores Madame Florian nostalgically. But it was all some years ago now. He was what you English call a good loser. Since then he has become the good friend of them both. He is devoted to Monsieur Florian.”

  Marianne felt morally certain that the big, good-looking Englishman would have died rather than describe himself as devoted to any of his men friends. But she let that pass, and Madame Rachel added reflectively, “One is always either devoted to Monsieur Florian or wishing him dead. There is no middle way.”

  And, while Marianne stored away this interesting bit of information about her new employer, Madame Rachel proceeded to show her something of the boutique.

  Marianne had at one time worked in the exclusive gift shop of her London store, and she was not quite a stranger to the kind of merchandise displayed in the Florian boutique. But it was all on an even more attractive and intriguing scale than anything she had previously handled.

  Here there was no sign of the leisured diplomacy that was required in the salon upstairs. Customers came and went, saw what they wanted almost at a glance and frequently completed their purchases in a matter of minutes. Though some, of course, chose to wander around inspecting, inquiring and comparing.

  Scarves and gloves, handbags, a few special cosmetics and a great deal of wonderful costume jewelry made up most of the stock. Though once the new collection went on show, Madame Rachel told her, they would also be selling a certain number of exclusive “separates.”

  “There is little here at the moment.” Madame Rachel shrugged. “But in two weeks—all will be changed.”

  Like Madame Moisant—like Florian himself—she spoke as though in two weeks’ time night would become day, winter would become spring, and the whole world would begin to live again.

  “Tomorrow, Mademoiselle Marianne, you shall observe and learn. There are three other vendeuses besides yourself. Celestine, who is away this afternoon, Jeanne, who is checking stock, and Marcelle, who is, as you will observe, showing our most expensive handbags to madame, who will eventually buy a small boutonniere. She wastes time, that one.”

  But the tone was more indulgent than any Madame Moisant would have used in similar circumstances, Marianne felt sure, and it occurred to her that possibly her life down here in the boutique would be a good deal easier than it could ever have been upstairs.

  Presently, realizing that she had occupied as much of Madame Rachel’s time as was suitable, she said goodbye, and having promised to be at the boutique in good time in the morning, she stepped out into the crisp, keen air of the late February afternoon.

  In almost every season of the year, and almost every hour of the day, Paris has her individual charm for those who love her. And, as Marianne walked up the long slope of the Avenue Marceau, it seemed to her that there was pure magic in the tingling freshness of the air on her cheeks, the first faint curtain of approaching twilight, and the glimmer of the single early star that hung motionless above the Arc de Triomphe.

  “I’m the luckiest girl alive,” she told herself. “I’m to live here, in Paris. I’m to work for the great Florian, and somewhere in this same enchanted city, Nat is living and working, too.”

  At last she could bring that wonderful, incredible, glorious fact into the forefront of her mind again. During the last few hours Nat had, perforce, been at the back of her consciousness, though never entirely absent from it. Now she could revel afresh in the knowledge that he was here, in Paris—and all the more so since the events of the afternoon had assured her future here.

  Even now it was hard to believe there was no longer anything wrong in thinking of Nat with tenderness and hope, instead of the guilty sense of anguish that had pursued her for months. For, if you are foolish enough—or unfortunate enough—to fall in love with your sister’s fiancé, what can you do but struggle
to hide your remorseful heartache behind a casual, friendly manner?

  It was not as though she had ever been anything but deeply fond of Yvonne, who was the nicest and gayest of elder sisters. That was what had made it so awful when she had found herself falling for the thin, dark, vivid charm of Nat Gilmore.

  And then, as though that were not enough, when Yvonne’s somewhat erratic hours at the television studio impelled her to break an evening engagement with her fiancé, the most natural solution to everyone appeared to be that Marianne should accompany him instead to whatever play or film he had to review for the newspaper on which he worked.

  She had both treasured and dreaded those evenings with Nat. For, although she enjoyed every perilous moment of them, she knew quite well that she was playing with the most dangerous fire.

  Nat was completely unaware of all this, she knew. He was in no way a philanderer, and would probably have been embarrassed and appalled if he had guessed that his fiancée’s younger sister adored him. Instead, he treated her with an easy, good-humored affection, and made her the safe recipient of his occasional grumbles whenever he considered that Yvonne put the interest of her work too obviously before the interests of himself.

  And all this had gone on for more months than Marianne cared to remember.

  When she had told Madame Moisant that for two years she had dreamed of working in Paris, this was true. For it was at least two years since she had first had the exciting idea. Unquestionably that ambition had faltered during the early days of her devotion to Nat. But common sense had finally brought her to the realization that in her Paris plan lay the solution to her unhappy dilemma.

  So, steeling herself to the painful decision, Marianne had announced her intention of leaving her London job, allowing herself two or three weeks’ winter holiday in Paris—to get the feel of life there and to perfect her already very serviceable French—and then to trying her luck with one of the big fashion houses, preferably Florian’s.

  Her parents had raised no objection, and it had occurred to Marianne that possibly her mother at least suspected something of her younger daughter’s problem. Yvonne had pronounced it a wonderful idea, and her two young brothers, Henry and Basil, had both approved the plan, on the principle that a sister in Paris could be very useful, especially during school holidays.

  Unexpectedly, it had been Nat who had made the only energetic protest, and his frank dismay had pierced her heart.

  “Why, Marianne, what can you do in Paris that you can’t do equally well here?” he had demanded. “And anyway, to be completely selfish—what am I going to do without you?”

  “You’ll manage very well,” she told him, with a cheerful callousness she was far from feeling. “And you’ll see a lot more of Yvonne. If I’m not there to fill the gap usefully, she’ll have to make herself more easily available. Perhaps I’ve been around just a little too much in the last few months.”

  “You couldn’t be,” he told her quite simply. And those were the three meager words that Marianne clung to for comfort when she finally made the agonizing break.

  Paris enchanted her from the very first day. All the same, whenever a letter arrived from her mother—the only reliable correspondent in the family—she searched it eagerly for even a passing reference to Nat. But she searched it in vain. Possibly her mother thought he was a subject best left alone. Even her references to Yvonne seemed unnecessarily sketchy.

  Then, only that morning, a letter had come from Yvonne herself. And even now, as she walked along the crowded Paris pavement in the deepening twilight, with the golden street lamps beginning to twinkle through the leafless branches of the trees, Marianne caught her breath afresh at the realization of how that letter had changed her life.

  Yvonne had written:

  I ought to have written to you earlier, but things have been rather difficult. And now I’d better tell you right away what has happened. Nat and I have decided we can’t make a go of it. There wasn’t any terrific quarrel or anything like that, and, although I’m a bit blue, it’s no good pretending that I’m shattered—which just goes to show he was never the right man for me. The fact is that I just love my work—and possibly my boss—better than Nat.

  I hope he doesn’t feel too badly about it. I don’t think he does, for he made no protest when I told him how I felt. He just said quietly that he wasn’t entirely surprised, and that if the break had to come, this was the best time for it, as he had been posted to Paris by the paper, and expected to be away at least three months.

  I couldn’t help thinking that Paris was rather providential, as you are there. And I shouldn’t be surprised if you find yourself playing your familiar role of comforter in my absence. Be nice to him if you do run into him, Marianne. Or perhaps you have run into him already, for all this happened ten days ago! He’s rather a darling. Only he’s not my darling.

  Be nice to him! Be nice to him! In the whole wide world there was nothing Marianne wanted more than the chance—the right—to “be nice” to Nat, and she hardly knew whether to laugh aloud or to sit down and cry when she read her sister’s airy injunction.

  What she did do, since she was practical as well as romantic, was to decide that this was the day on which she would go out and find herself a job. For if Nat were to be working in Paris during the next few months, then Marianne was going to be there, too, if she had to sweep streets in order to do so.

  This, then, explained her resolute determination in the face of Madame Moisant’s attempted rejection of her. And this also explained the lightness of her step and the irrepressible smile on her lips as she walked homeward now through Paris to her modest pension.

  If she were to stay in Paris indefinitely, Marianne supposed she would eventually want to find a small apartment, or at least a room, of her own. But for the time being she was well satisfied with a reasonably large attic bedroom in a tall, old-fashioned house where bed and breakfast were provided for students and others of limited means.

  It was no hardship to her to have to go out for her main meals. On the contrary, she loved exploring, and she had already found one or two places where, in unpretentious surroundings, one could eat remarkably well.

  Tonight, however, she thought, as she changed in her bedroom under the eaves, called for something in the nature of a celebration. She would go somewhere special. But where?

  And then, as though by inspiration, she recalled hearing one of the more prosperous students refer to a particularly attractive restaurant, which he described as “just across the water from Notre Dame.”

  “Writers and people like that go there,” he said. “It’s quite a favorite haunt of foreign journalists. Not a tourists’ stamping ground, but the kind of place recommended to each other by people in the know.”

  Was it conceivable that someone “in the know” had already recommended it to Nat? Might he not be one of the foreign journalists who went there?

  In her mind’s eye she already saw him sitting alone at one of the tables. And then she came in and went up to him and just said “Hello, Nat!” And that was the most wonderful moment in an utterly wonderful day.

  Indeed, there was something so right about it, so entirely in keeping with the pattern of this incredible day, that Marianne suddenly knew that she was going to see him there. It was as though something or someone outside herself assured her of the fact.

  And so, later, when she judged it was about the right time to find Nat having his evening meal, she ran all the way down the four flights of stairs from her attic room, and out into the enchanted streets once more. Here she allowed herself the unusual extravagance of a taxi. And, after a breathtaking and somewhat terrifying ten minutes, she found herself set down before a rather more intimidatingly handsome place than she had expected.

  However, with the curious conviction still upon her that it was here she would meet Nat again, she pushed open the door and stepped boldly inside.

  The place was already more than half-full, but it did not take
her more than a few moments to realize that Nat was not there. Even so, she told herself with certainty that he would come and, when a waiter approached her to show her to a table, she said, “I’ll sit here near the door. I’m expecting someone.”

  She did not order her meal immediately, but sat there sipping a glass of wine and absently breaking and eating pieces of crusty bread. Then, after a while, the first faint chill crept over her and she thought bewilderedly, what am I doing? I’m perfectly mad, sitting here waiting for Nat to walk in. Why should he? There are dozens—hundreds—of other places where he’s just as likely to be. The odds against our choosing the same place are tremendous.

  At this point she summoned her waiter and ordered her meal, telling herself that she would simply enjoy a quiet little celebration on her own. But she was glad that the meal seemed likely to take some while, and still her glance turned eagerly, hopefully toward the door every time it swung open.

  Inevitably, her earlier mood of elation had cooled, but in spite of all the arguments she recited to herself, she was not really convinced of failure. And when, for the twentieth time, the door swung open and she saw Nat standing there, narrowing his dark eyes for a moment against the sudden bright lights, she almost cried aloud, “I knew it!”

  Then he moved forward, and with a sense of indescribable shock she realized that he was not alone.

  It was so totally unexpected, so different from anything she had planned or foreseen, that for a second she hardly took in his companion as an individual at all. Then suddenly everything seemed to shift into focus again. And, with a chill sense of dismay like nothing else she had ever known, she recognized the red gold hair and the slanting green eyes of Lisette.

  So complete and numbing was the shock that she could only sit there and stare. Then, when she realized that they had passed—that Nat had passed within a few yards of her without even noticing she was there—it seemed to her that she actually heard her world crumbling.