Under the Stars of Paris Read online

  “Is that so?” Anthea looked round with interest. “Tell me who some of them are.”

  “The girl over there, having a manicure, is from Courrèges,” Mademoiselle Claire explained obligingly. “And the dark, very elegant one who is just finished—she is from Balmain.”

  “And the girl just coming in?” enquired Anthea.

  “Ah, she is probably the most famous cover girl in France,” Mademoiselle Claire said, on a note of almost possessive pride. “She has been to America. She is what you call free-lance,” she added, pleased—and justly so—to show off her excellent English. “Most of the others are on contract to one house or another, and any photographic work or outside modelling they do must be permitted by their employers.”

  “How interesting!” Anthea looked round, studying the types with frank attention. As she did so, she met the equally interested glance of a woman sitting at a nearby table, having the finishing touches put to the exquisitely sleek plaited coronet in which her dark hair was arranged.

  Like almost everyone else in the place, she was slender and elegant, and looked immensely alert and vital. As their eyes met she smiled and very slightly inclined her head.

  Anthea returned the salutation, hoping she had not looked too shamelessly curious about the scene around her. And then, released from the ministrations of her white-smocked attendant, the woman got up with an air of decision and came across to where Anthea was sitting.

  “Pardon, mademoiselle”—unlike Mademoiselle Claire, she did not venture on any English—“are you also in the dress world?’

  “Unfortunately, no, madame.” Anthea too spoke in French and smiled the sweet, rather fugitive smile which had once so charmed Michael. “Only an interested observer.”

  “You say ‘unfortunately’. You mean that you would like to be in it?”

  “I—don’t know. I never thought about it.” Anthea gave a slight, surprised laugh. “I have no qualifications for it.”

  “Except”—the woman turned to Mademoiselle Claire—“that she has the exact colouring—even, I think, almost the exact measurements—of Claudine. I noticed her as soon as she came in. I watched her walk the length of the room, and by nature she walks well.”

  “So?” There was no mistaking the interest—almost the excitement—in Mademoiselle Claire’s voice. “The poor Claudine—she will not be well in time for the Opening?”

  “No, of course not. And it is her own fault. She should never have gone driving with that reckless Henri of hers with the Show less than a week away. She broke her leg, you know.” And the woman spoke as though the unknown Claudine had only had the leg on loan and had no right to break it.

  “It is very sad for her at the beginning of the season,” observed Mademoiselle Claire with becoming feeling.

  “It is very sad for Monsieur Florian,” retorted the other woman sharply. “Eight models created for Claudine—and she was to wear the wedding dress.”

  “The wedding dress!” Mademoiselle Claire was aghast. So much so that Anthea, who was listening to all this with slight amusement but the most intense interest, could not help asking,

  “But surely someone else can wear the wedding dress?”

  There was a shocked silence at this. Then Mademoiselle Claire explained gently, as though to a child—and in English so that Anthea would fully comprehend,

  “The wedding dress, madame, is the last great moment of the Show. As we say, the grande finale of the Collection. No one sees, it beforehand but the designer and the mannequin who is to wear it——”

  “And I also—one day before the Show,” put in the other woman austerely, thereby showing that she understood English perfectly well, even if she chose not to speak it very often.

  “It is the—the final expression of the designer’s art, and must reflect absolutely the personality of the mannequin who wears it. It would be quite, quite impossible for some other type to do justice to it. Only Mademoiselle Claudine, in this case,” Mademoiselle Claire said regretfully.

  “Or someone who looks very like Claudine,” the older woman said.

  Anthea met her slightly narrowed gaze in the mirror. And suddenly she felt light and gay and reckless beyond expression. Like someone caught on a wave and swept irresistibly towards a bright but unknown shore.

  “If I can be of any assistance to you, madame, with my colouring—and my measurements,” she said, a flash of humour lighting her face with an almost roguish expression, “I shall be very happy to do so.”

  The other woman flushed slightly, which Anthea took to be a sign of excitement, since she could not imagine that anything ever caused this sophisticated creature embarrassment.

  “It is a risk—a gamble,” she muttered in rapid French. “But he is a gambler. Perhaps it is less of a gamble than to create and make for Héloïse at this late hour. And she does not look a bride, Héloïse. Young, but not virginal. Why should she?” the woman added in cynical parenthesis.

  Then she turned to Anthea and spoke in slow but exact English

  “Mademoiselle, I am Suzanne Moisant, the Directrice of Monsieur Georges Florian, who is, as you know, the greatest dress designer in Paris.” She paused here, as though she thought someone might dispute this, in which case she would know how to deal with them.

  As Anthea, however, was probably the only client in the place without any passionate local loyalties, she merely inclined her head respectfully and appeared ready to accept this statement at its face value.

  “You have heard of our plight,” Madame Moisant went on. “It is possible for perhaps four of Claudine’s models to be distributed among the other girls, but the other four, including the wedding dress, remain essentially for Claudine or her type. It seems to me that Monsieur Florian would at least want to see you and try you in one of the models.

  “If,” added Madame Moisant frankly, “you are too fat, or you walk like a camel when you know you are observed, or if in some other way you are impossible, we will thank you for your trouble and part senza rancor. If, on the other hand, you are remotely to be considered as a substitute for Claudine, you will have an opportunity of taking part in the most important dress show in Paris next week. Does the idea appeal to you?”

  “Enormously,” Anthea said, hardly able to keep from breaking into a pæan of joy.

  “Then can you come over to the salon as soon as you are ready, please? There is no time to lose.”

  “I’ll be with you in half an hour,” Anthea promised, determined to obtain the address from Mademoiselle Claire, rather than admit to Madame Moisant her ignorance of something which, she felt sure, that lady considered should be known to all the world.

  Hardly had the Directrice of Florian turned her back than Mademoiselle Claire broke out excitedly,

  “Madame, if this should happen to you! It would be the most dramatic thing of the season. An unknown English girl to wear the wedding dress at the Florian show!”

  “I don’t really believe it yet,” Anthea murmured. “Anyway, I may be quite impossible.”

  “No, no! It must be this way!” the other girl declared. “The story is too good not to be true. I will make you so beautiful that Monsieur Florian will accept you immediately. You will see.”

  And, indeed, so well did Mademoiselle Claire complete her work that when Anthea emerged from her hands, half an hour later, she certainly looked more exquisitely radiant and lovely than she had done since the first knowledge of Michael’s love had provided its own beauty treatment.

  Carrying her hat, and conscious that her chestnut brown coat would probably look all wrong from Monsieur Florian’s point of view, Anthea left the hairdressing salon, accompanied by the most fervent good wishes of Mademoiselle Claire, and walked the short distance to the imposing, elegant building which had the one word FLORIAN cut in deep capitals in its façade.

  On the ground floor was the boutique where, as she made her rather shy entry, she was aware of a fascinating array of costume jewellery, scarves, gloves and in
credibly expensive-looking dress etceteras.

  “Madame Moisant is expecting me,” she explained, with far more composure than she felt, and was wafted up the long, mirror-lined staircase to what were evidently rarer regions above.

  As she reached the top of the stairs she stepped on to a square landing where there were two or three desks, each with a black-clad vendeuse sitting behind it. These women, who did the actual selling of the models, were by no means all young, and the one who came forward to attend to Anthea was an elegant and well-preserved forty-five at least.

  Hardly waiting to hear Anthea’s repeated request for Madame Moisant, she conducted her along a narrow corridor, carpeted—as were the stairs and landing—in thick soft grey, and ushered her into a room where Madame Moisant, now wearing very smart horn-rimmed spectacles, was also sitting behind a desk.

  She removed her spectacles without a word, surveyed Anthea as though from an entirely new angle and said to the vendeuse who had accompanied her,

  “You see what I mean?”

  “But of course, Madame Moisant. It is only a question of the hip measurement.”

  “Yes. She looks bigger in that coat, of course,” Madame Moisant said, making Anthea feel like a well-nourished elephant. “Take off your coat and dress, please, mademoiselle, and let us take your measurements.”

  Anthea obediently removed her outer garments and stood, there in her slip while the vendeuse expertly flicked a tape-measure around her. She had the impression that both the women held their breath, and she was not sure she was not doing the same. Then Madame Moisant said in the tone of one thanking her Maker,

  “Right to a centimetre. I thought I could not be wrong.”

  “It is a miracle,” the vendeuse stated reverently, and Anthea blushed and hoped they were not all being rather blasphemous.

  “Bring Number Forty-two,” Madame Moisant ordered in a tone of emotion, and the vendeuse went out, leaving Anthea wondering whether or not Number Forty-two were a person.

  When it arrived, however, it turned out to be a dress of stiffened lace in an indescribably beautiful shade of iridescent green—so shining and exquisite that Anthea nearly cried aloud in her surprise and delight.

  It was lifted over her head, zipped in sheath-like closeness to her, figure, and both women stood back to consider the effect.

  “If only she can walk!” Madame Moisant exclaimed, clasping her hands. “Dear heaven, if only she can walk!”

  “For all the world as though I were a paralytic,” thought Anthea, amused and yet, in some odd way, beginning to catch the infection of excitement. This could mean so much to her—so incredibly much!

  “Come along to the salon,” Madame Moisant said, and the three of them went out of the room and along another thickly carpeted corridor to a long, light narrow room with a raised centre platform running its full length. At the end where they entered there was a small semicircular stage, and a side entrance from this, Madame Moisant explained, led to the mannequins’ dressing-room.

  “Now,” Anthea was instructed. “Start from the stage and walk, at a reasonable pace, the full length of the platform, turn—casually, but so that everyone can see all views of the model, and walk back rather more slowly, turn again, and come off at the side of the stage.”

  Wondering rather frantically what “a reasonable pace” might be, Anthea strove to follow the instructions exactly. But she had to repeat the performance a dozen times before Madame Moisant said,

  “She is not quite impossible.” And then, to the vendeuse, “Madame, will you ask Monsieur Florian to come here.”

  The vendeuse disappeared and, turning to Anthea, the Directrice said,

  “You must not be afraid. You must not mind anything that Monsieur Florian says. He is very nervous just now. A designer’s reputation is at stake every time he shows a Collection. And then—for Claudine to do this to us!” Her voice shook slightly as she contemplated afresh the immensity of Claudine’s lack of consideration.

  Anthea bit her lip and tried not to feel more nervous than ever. Then the vendeuse returned, accompanied by a slight, fair-haired man with beautiful hands, thinning hair, and the air of an exhausted and impatient schoolboy.

  “It is ridiculous and quite useless,” he was saying, in a faintly petulant tone. “Amateur mannequins are the devil at all times, but at the opening of the Collection——”

  He stopped suddenly and stared at Anthea, who was standing at the far end of the platform. Then, in a very quiet but completely carrying voice, he said,

  “Walk towards me—as though you liked me—and were coming to greet me.”

  Somehow, that was suddenly so much easier than obeying Madame Moisant’s detailed, staccato instructions. Anthea smiled faintly and walked towards him, easily and naturally, and because she was conscious that never in her life before had she worn such a becoming dress, her body moved insensibly with a proud and touching grace.

  “Walk away from me and do that again,” Monsieur Florian commanded. And Anthea repeated the performance.

  “Thank you, madame. We shall not need you any more,” he said, and unspeakable waves of disappointment engulfed Anthea, until she realized that he had addressed the vendeuse. Then he turned to Madame Moisant and said, ‘We will see her in the wedding dress.”

  “Already?” Even Madame Moisant was startled out of her habitual calm.

  “Of course.” He looked paler and more exhausted than ever. “If she will not do in the wedding dress, we must begin all over again.”

  This time it was Madame Moisant who went away, and after a moment, Monsieur Florian said, “Come here, mademoiselle.”

  Anthea came obediently to stand in front of him.

  “You understand that, though you are a complete stranger, I am having to trust to your honesty and discretion to a degree I would not use with my closest friends. The secrets of every Collection are guarded—with the utmost jealousy, but the Wedding Dress”—somehow it had acquired capitals when spoken of in that quiet, tired, urgent voice—“is the most closely guarded secret of all. I have no choice but to share this with you now. Today is Friday. The Collection will not be shown until Tuesday. Can I rely on you to guard this secret as faithfully as we do ourselves?”

  “Of course,” Anthea said gravely. “I promise you, monsieur, that whether you engage me or not, I shall know nothing of the two dresses I have seen when I go out of here.”

  “Bon!” He turned away and said nothing more to her until Madame Moisant returned, carrying over her arm what looked to Anthea something like a cloud of morning mist, sparkling with the dews of dawn.

  “Come!” she said peremptorily, and led Anthea into the empty dressing-room behind the little stage, where she expertly peeled off the green lace dress and, with the deftest and lightest of touches, arrayed her in the fabulous wedding gown.

  Then, and only then, did it come over Anthea, with a wave of ironic bitterness, that she was being given the exquisite shadow in place of the precious substance. The most beautiful wedding dress in the world—but no wedding, no Michael!

  She started to say something confused about not being able to go on with it after all, but, with a purposeful air, the other woman thrust her out on to the small stage. At the end of the long platform Monsieur Florian stood, and as she hesitated, he said,

  “Come, mademoiselle. And remember you are a bride.”

  She found herself walking forward. She knew that her smile must be tremulous and her dark eyes misty with unshed tears. But the age-old compulsion of the show which must go on was for the first time upon her. She walked towards Monsieur Florian as she would have walked towards Michael if things had been different.

  “Bravo, bravo!” she heard the Frenchman say softly. “Almost too much heart, too much humanity. But, my God, if she can do that each time!”

  Then he turned to Madame Moisant, hovering in the background and said briskly,

  “That will do. Take the dress from her. Engage her on the usual terms.
She will wear all Claudine’s models except Nineteen and Seventy-four, which are too sophisticated. The show for the work-girls tomorrow will give her something of a rehearsal. Now all we have to do is to name her.”

  “My name is Anthea,” said Anthea timidly.

  “Anthéa?” He gave it its French pronunciation. “Possible, but it is unlucky to use your real name. With that hair like a flat halo she should have the name of a saint or an angel.”

  Incongruously, Anthea thought of the phrase, “Michael and all the angels”, and at the same moment Monsieur Florian said,

  “The archangel, of course! Gabriel, Let her be Gabrielle.” Then he nodded to her briefly and went away.

  So bewildered and excited was Anthea by all that had happened to her that she had some difficulty in concentrating on the details of her subsequent interview with Madame Moisant. But she emerged from it with a confused impression that she was to earn a salary that would keep her in very reasonable comfort if she continued to live simply. In addition to this she would have a commission on each sale of the various models she was to display.

  What was quite clear in her mind was the fact that she must be at the salon at half-past nine the following morning, for further coaching, and that there would be a private showing of the Collection for the benefit of the work-girls.

  “It is not often done,” Madame Moisant explained. “But it is a good idea. Started by Balmain,” she admitted grudgingly. “The girls always complained that they did all the work but never saw the finished Collection. This year they were promised their own show, provided they finished the work by the Saturday before the opening. Now you had better go home, Gabrielle”—she smiled suddenly and attractively, “rest and don’t over-eat.”

  With so little money in her purse, Anthea followed out this advice perforce, returning to her small attic room with the feeling that she had lived through a month’s experiences since last she left it.

  The next day she presented herself at Florian’s, with outward composure and inward trepidation. This time she was introduced to her fellow mannequins—all occupying the crowded dressing-room behind the salon, chattering, laughing, complaining and, in one case, weeping copiously.