Paris - And My Love Read online

  At that most inappropriate moment the waiter arrived with her meal.

  “Oh, no! I couldn’t eat anything. I—I must go,” stammered Marianne, aware of nothing but the urgency of flight.

  “But, madame...” The astonished waiter paused, undecided. “Are you ill?”

  She thought of saying yes. Then she was afraid that might cause a stir that could conceivably draw Nat’s attention. The last thing in the world that she wanted at this moment.

  “It isn’t that,” she managed to say calmly. “I’ve just suddenly remembered a terribly urgent appointment. I can’t think how I forgot. Please bring me my bill—quickly. I’ll pay for the meal, of course. But I must go—I must go.”

  There was no arguing with that note of desperation, and the waiter began to make out the bill, with all speed.

  Even so, the delay seemed interminable to Marianne, who sat there with her head bent, nervously crumbling a piece of bread while she prayed confusedly that she might escape recognition for a few moments longer.

  Only five minutes ago she had longed, more than anything else in the world, to hear Nat’s surprised voice exclaim, “Why—Marianne!” Now she thought she would die of shame if he—and that girl—discovered her sitting there. She had the dreadful conviction that if Nat spoke to her now, the tears of shock and disappointment would become uncontrollable, and she would somehow betray to both of them the absurd and pitiable reason for her presence there. All she wanted was to get away—to get away.

  At last the bill was made out and paid. And reaching for her coat, she slid into it with as little fuss as possible and almost literally fled from the place that she had visualized as the scene of joyful reunion. Instead—instead...

  She walked rapidly, not caring where she was going, so long as she kept away from any brightly lighted streets. And presently, finding herself near a seat on a quiet stretch of the riverbank, she sat down uncaring of the cold, and tried to bring some sort of order into the desperate confusion of her thoughts and emotions.

  Clutching at some remnants of common sense, she told herself that she was making the most ridiculous fuss about very little. Disappointment was understandable, but—why shouldn’t Lisette go out for a casual dinner engagement with an English journalist she might have chanced to meet? And Nat was bound to know heaps of people in his job. Why not Lisette?

  It was unspeakably chilling to have Nat walk past her without even seeing her, of course. Only he had no idea of her presence in the restaurant, so was it so strange that he should fail to notice her?

  Marianne repeated these sensible arguments to herself. But they were just words. Hollow, hollow words, which carried not the faintest hint of consolation. The only thing that was certain and inescapable was that the glorious day had turned into an evening of mockery.

  If it had not been Lisette, she would not have been so frightened and dismayed. With something like a shock, Marianne realized this without being able to explain just why. But—it had been Lisette. And like a picture on a screen, the scene seemed to unroll itself before her again. The lovely, enigmatic redhead walking past with Nat, while she, Marianne, could only sit there and watch.

  She heard herself give a slight sob at the recollection. And suddenly she found the tears were pouring down her cheeks in a shaming, horrifying flood. Panic-stricken, she fumbled for her handkerchief while she heard another of those irrepressible sobs.

  She couldn’t possibly go on like this, she told herself. But she went on.

  And then, suddenly, an unmistakably English voice said, “Excuse me if this isn’t my business. But—can I do anything to help?”

  Feeling that this was the ultimate in shame, Marianne looked up through her tears and saw standing before her the tall, good-looking Englishman who had come into the boutique that afternoon.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Oh,” gasped Marianne. “How awful! You must think me a perfect fool, but—but...”

  “I don’t think you anything of the sort,” the man said kindly. “Everyone feels that way once in a while, I suppose. But if there’s something seriously wrong...” He paused and regarded her with a touch of genuine concern. “You’re English, aren’t you?”

  Marianne nodded.

  “And I’ve seen you somewhere quite recently.”

  She hung her head, not really wishing to be recognized by anyone connected with the place where she was going to work.

  “I know,” he exclaimed suddenly. “You were in Florian’s boutique this afternoon, weren’t you?”

  “Y-yes. But how could you possibly remember? You only saw me for a moment.”

  “Photographic memory,” he assured her with a grin. “And don’t be cross with me for it. People who possess the gift rather pride themselves upon the fact. It’s like being able to raise one eyebrow without the other, or wiggle your ears. It makes you feel exclusive.”

  She laughed faintly at that, and he said, “That’s better. Do you want me to walk on now and mind my own business, or may I sit down and hear if there’s anything I can do to help?”

  “There’s nothing anyone can do to help,” she said with a sigh. But instinctively she made room for him on the bench beside her.

  “That’s hardly ever strictly true, you know,” he told her consolingly. “Practically every problem has some sort of answer. And they usually fall into one of two categories. Shall I guess?”

  “No-no. At least—” she glanced at him curiously “—you can’t guess, can you?”

  “You’d be surprised.” He smiled at her, and his unusually bright eyes crinkled attractively at the corners. “Let me see. You’re scared because you’re broke and in a foreign country, and although you’ve tried for a job—possibly even at Florian’s—you can’t get one. And you don’t know what on earth to do next.”

  Again she gave that faint laugh, because it was not possible to feel quite so awful about things when he reviewed the position so cheerfully.

  “No. You’re wrong, as a matter of fact. I did badly want a job in Paris, it’s true. But this afternoon I got one—almost the ideal one. I’m to work in Florian’s boutique.”

  “Are you really?” He looked interested. “Well, that should be a reasonably paying job, so your trouble can’t be financial.”

  “N-no.” She shook her head and looked down at her tightly clasped hands.

  There was a slight silence. Then he said kindly, “Has he gone off with someone else?”

  “Wh-what?” She looked up, so startled by his perception that she was almost frightened.

  “Don’t look so scared. It wasn’t awfully difficult to guess. It’s always either love or fear that makes one think the bottom’s dropped out of the world. And I know how you’re feeling. It happened to me once—”

  “Oh, yes, of course!” Suddenly she remembered Madame Rachel’s somewhat indiscreet disclosure.

  “What do you mean—‘oh, yes, of course’?” He looked taken aback in his turn.

  “She married Florian instead of you, didn’t she?” said Marianne before she could stop herself. “Oh, I’m—terribly sorry!” She clapped her hand over her mouth a moment too late.

  He looked rather quizzical.

  “As a matter of fact, she did,” he replied dryly. “But how did you know? Does Florian boast of his success to casual callers?”

  “Oh, no!” Marianne was quite horrified at this picture of her imperturbable employer, even if it was hardly offered seriously. “No, it was just—oh, dear, this is going to sound dreadfully gossipy, I’m afraid—”

  “Boutiques are hotbeds of gossip,” he assured her, still in that dry tone of voice.

  “I—remarked on you, after you had gone upstairs. Asked if you were in the fashion world or—”

  “Good Lord! Do I look as though I am?”

  “Not in the least,” Marianne hastened to assure him. “That was why I was curious, I expect. Anyway, someone said you were a great friend of the Florians. And—and then added the information that
you ... nearly married Madame Florian.”

  “So much for the naive belief that one’s private affairs can remain one’s own,” he observed with a slight grimace.

  “I’m terribly sorry. I had no right to make such a remark.” Marianne spoke with real contrition. “I wouldn’t have, I’m sure, if we hadn’t started to talk in this extraordinarily frank way.”

  “Well, it hasn’t been one-sided,” he agreed with a good-tempered little laugh and shrug. “I rather asked for it by questioning you so closely—”

  “Oh, but you meant it so kindly,” Marianne interrupted quickly. “I—I’m glad you did.”

  “Are you really?” He looked amused, but touched. “Look here, why don’t we go somewhere a bit warmer to finish this conversation? Come and have a meal with me—or have you already dined?”

  “N-no,” said Marianne, wincing as she recalled the dreadful moment when she had sent away the meal she had ordered. “I haven’t had anything to eat. But I don’t think—I mean, I didn’t think—”

  “You didn’t think you’d ever be able to eat anything again,” he amplified for her knowledgeably. “But now you’re beginning to feel shamefully hungry, in spite of a broken heart.”

  She laughed, in spite of herself. “How did you know?”

  “By observing human nature for more years than I’m going to tell you. Let me see—” he glanced around “—there’s quite a good place not so far from here. The average tourist hasn’t found it yet. But it’s a favorite with foreign journalists and diplomats and—”

  “Oh, no!” exclaimed Marianne before he could get any further. “Do you mean the Secret de Polichinelle?”

  “That’s the place. Don’t you like it? I thought—”

  “It isn’t that.” She hesitated. Then, unable to stop herself, she blurted out, “He’s there now. With—with another girl. That’s why I came away.”

  “Oh, Lord, I am sorry!”

  “No—it’s all right. You couldn’t possibly know. Only it’s almost uncanny that you should suggest the same place.”

  “Not really, you know. Foreign visitors of a certain type tend to gravitate to the same places in any city. And journalists and minor diplomats always know the same spots. But of course we’ll go somewhere else, in quite another district.”

  And raising his hand, he summoned a passing taxi and helped her in.

  She paid no attention to the directions he gave. They hardly mattered. She only knew that he had promised to take her right away from the place where Nat was possibly now looking into Lisette’s green eyes—and she felt instinctively that she could leave the rest to him.

  “By the way, it’s about time I introduced myself,” he said, as they drove through the lamplit streets into a much gayer part of the city. “My name’s Roger Senloe.”

  “And mine is Marianne Shore. But, in a way, I’d almost like you to—to forget all about me, once this evening’s over.”

  “I should find that extraordinarily difficult to do,” he told her gravely. “But if you mean will I please keep my mouth shut about everything you’ve said, I give you my word on that.”

  “Thank you. It’s not that my little affairs are of any special importance or interest,” she admitted humbly. “But you know Monsieur Florian, and I’m going to work there, and if you told him about this, as a piquant story—”

  “I never tell Florian piquant stories,” he assured her solemnly. “For one thing, our views on piquancy differ quite a lot. And anyway, remember that if your secret is partially mine, my secret is entirely yours.” And he turned his head and smiled at her mischievously.

  “Oh, well—yes. I suppose that’s true.” She found herself smiling in return. “Though of course I wouldn’t dream of saying anything about that. And anyway—” she glanced at him diffidently, but with real interest “—suppose Monsieur Florian knows—about you?”

  “Monsieur Florian tends to know about most things,” Roger Senloe conceded. “I see no reason to suppose that I and my affairs constitute an exception.”

  At this point they arrived at the restaurant he had chosen in preference to the Secret de Polichinelle, and Marianne privately gave him full marks for the fact that it could hardly have been more different from the one she had left an hour ago. Small, unpretentious and homely, with checked cloths on the tables, it proved all the same to supply superb food. And she felt herself insensibly relax in the friendly atmosphere.

  He went to some trouble to see that she had exactly what she wanted. But it was not until they were idling pleasantly over the delicious coffee that he said, “Feeling better now?”

  “Yes, thank you. Heaps better. In fact—” mentally she surveyed the situation afresh and was a little surprised to find she had previously viewed it in such a tragic light “—I’m not sure,” she said slowly, “that I haven’t made a ridiculous amount of fuss about very little.”

  “One sometimes does.” He sounded comfortingly matter-of-fact. “It’s extraordinarily difficult to be objective and levelheaded where one’s deepest feelings are concerned. But you excite my curiosity afresh, and I can’t help asking—did he deliberately stand you up for someone else?”

  “Oh—no! He didn’t even know I was there.”

  “Didn’t know you were there?” Her companion looked astonished. Perhaps understandably so.

  “It was just that I’d so hoped—I was so sure—”

  And then, unable to stop herself, Marianne found the words tumbling out, and she was explaining to him all about the months when she had loved Nat, but had had to stand aside and watch him as the fiancé of her sister. With a frankness she would not have believed possible, she told him how she had felt when Yvonne’s letter had come that morning.

  The only things she kept back were the actual names. She told him how hope had flared sky-high, how she had made her position secure by finding work at Florian’s, and then how the absolute conviction had come upon her that, if she went to a certain restaurant, she would see him there.

  “And I was right. The instinct was right. It was all exactly as it should have been. Only—he came with another girl.” And, at the recollection of that awful moment of disillusionment, she stared down bleakly into her coffee cup.

  He had listened attentively to her rapidly told tale. And, now that her voice had trailed off into silence, he actually patted her hand with long, strong fingers.

  “I do see it must have been a frightful shock,” he said. “But the implications are not all that tragic, you know. It’s only ten days since he was turned down by his fiancée; he can’t have had much time to get seriously involved with anyone else.”

  “N-no. That’s true.”

  “On the other hand, a man feels pretty much at loose ends after an experience of that sort. What is more natural than that he should find a pleasant companion and go out for the evening?”

  It all sounded quite logical, put like that. But—

  “It’s odd, that, that he didn’t try to get in touch with me. He knew I was in Paris. And we—we so often went out together.”

  “Perhaps he felt a bit self-conscious about you, since it was your sister who ditched him,” Roger Senloe suggested.

  “Well, yes. I suppose that could be so. In fact—yes, of course, that must be so!” She was surprised now that she had not thought of this before, and the simple explanation of his silence appealed to her as immeasurably cheering.

  “Oh, I’m so glad I met you!” she exclaimed impulsively. “You’ve made me feel quite differently about things.”

  “Have I? Well, that’s fine, and I’m glad we met each other, too. I hope you didn’t mean it too literally when you said a while ago that you wanted me to forget all about you after this evening.”

  “Not—too literally perhaps. Anyway—” she smiled “—you know where to find me.”

  “Of course! At Florian’s. When do you start work?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “Tomorrow, eh?” He glanced at his wat
ch. “Then I suggest I take you home now. You’ll have to make quite an early start, if I know the rules there. And you’ll need to feel your best for the demands of a first day.”

  He called the waiter, paid the bill and had a taxi summoned.

  At this point, Marianne tried to assure him that she could manage on her own, but he would have none of it.

  “No, no. We’ll complete the evening properly,” he told her. And not until they were outside the high, old-fashioned house where she lodged did he finally bid her good-night.

  “I simply don’t know how to thank you,” she said, holding his hand tightly. “It wasn’t just the lovely dinner and—and the talk and everything. It was the way you minded about my being unhappy, even though I was a complete stranger. I expect one day—” she took an unexpectedly wise glimpse into the future “—I’ll forget how I felt in that horrible restaurant. But I’ll never, never forget you or how kind you were.”

  “My dear child, you overwhelm me.” He smiled, but he actually flushed a little, too. “We’ll meet again, I’m sure. But if your affairs progress as you hope, I shan’t expect you to have very much time for me or anyone else,” he added teasingly.

  Then, lightly brushing aside any further thanks, he bade her good-night and got back into the taxi. And as Marianne mounted the long, steep stairs to her attic room she could not help thinking that if Madame Florian had really turned down that nice man in favor of Florian, either she must be singularly lacking in judgment or Florian must be full of hidden depths she had not yet plumbed.

  The next morning, neither the depression of the first half of the evening nor the consolation of the latter half seemed quite so clearly defined. Both inevitably faded before the pleasurable anxiety with which Marianne set forth for her first day at Florian’s.