Paris - And My Love Read online

Page 5


  Don’t be unreasonable, she admonished herself, as she walked along the brightly lit Paris streets. What else could he do? He’d already invited her out. He could hardly leave her flat. And still less could he take us both. And she actually laughed a little at the thought of such a gruesome trio.

  At least I know where to find him now. And I know—more or less—why he didn’t get in touch with me before. That nice Roger Senloe was right—her heart warmed a little to the absent Roger Senloe at this thought—Nat felt a bit self-conscious toward me because I am Yvonne’s sister. He would have looked me up all right if it had been easy and straightforward. But with the broken engagement complicating everything, he couldn’t bring himself to make a special effort.

  This reflection soothed her anxious feelings immensely. She was able to tell herself that now everything would be different. She and Nat would meet constantly, with no barrier between them. Lisette was no more than a minor incident in his life. He couldn’t really take anyone of her caliber seriously.

  Or could he? For a moment, Marianne remembered uneasily the indulgent glance he had given when Lisette had chosen to pout and look sulky. On anyone but Nat she would have characterized it as a fatuous glance.

  But I’m prejudiced, she thought. I’m not being cool and objective.

  Then she remembered Roger Senloe saying that it was extraordinarily difficult to be objective and levelheaded where one’s deepest feelings were concerned. How right he was! He was really a very penetrating person—besides being so nice.

  Perhaps as a relief from more anxious speculation, she allowed her thoughts to linger pleasantly on Roger Senloe. It pleased her to think he had spoken so well of her to Madame Florian. And still more that he had evidently made no mention of the real circumstances in which they had met. Even though he and Gabrielle Florian were presumably on very good terms.

  How good, Marianne wondered idly. How did one feel toward a very nice man one had nearly married? And again she could not help thinking that in Gabrielle’s place she would have chosen the Englishman rather than the Frenchman.

  He’d make a much easier sort of husband, thought Marianne with a smile.

  But Florian, of course, had the unique fascination of genius. And what genius! Her mind was back again now at the rehearsal of the fashion show that she had seen that evening, and that prompted a fresh sensation of excited anticipation of tomorrow’s opening day.

  It would be wrong to say that these reflections ousted Nat from her mind. He was there, in the back of her consciousness, during her sleeping as well as her waking hours. But when Marianne woke to a cold, brilliant February morning, in her room high under the eaves, she knew this was going to be a day she would remember for the rest of her life.

  She bathed, dressed and breakfasted quickly. And then, exquisitely trim from her smooth, shining hair to the tips of her admirably cut shoes, she ran downstairs. On the way she was overtaken by Sadie Farrell, a gay young American student who knew about her job at the Florian boutique.

  “My, how I envy you today!” she exclaimed. “Here am I going off to moldy old lectures on medieval French poetry, while you’re going to watch the fashion show of the year and see all sorts of famous people into the bargain.”

  “I shan’t see much of the fashion show itself,” Marianne assured her, smiling. “I’ll be downstairs in the boutique.”

  “But you’ll see all the celebrities going up there?”

  “Yes, I expect so. And I saw the show last night.”

  “You did?” If Marianne had claimed to see Solomon in all his glory Sadie could not have looked more impressed. “What is it like?”

  “Marvelous,” said Marianne, enthusiastically but uninformatively.

  “All frightfully secret, of course?”

  “Oh, yes. No questions answered until after today,” Marianne agreed with a laugh. “Today is the big opening show, of course. Then tomorrow comes the press show in the morning, and in the afternoon there is the show for the big international buyers.”

  “And what do you do in all that?” Sadie wanted to know.

  “Stay downstairs in the boutique, respectfully wafting the distinguished guests up the stairs, lightly spraying them with our new and heavenly perfume, and generally making them feel that the whole thing has just been put on for their special benefit. Then we have to be ready to show and discuss our new stock if they want to see this on their way down again.”

  “It sounds heaven to me. Why am I still at university?” groaned Sadie. “What’s particularly lovely in the boutique this season, Marianne?”

  “Everything,” declared Marianne, promptly and loyally. “But best of all is the costume jewelry, I think. I’ve never seen such beautiful stuff.”

  “I’ll have to come in and see it, even if I can’t afford to buy any,” Sadie said.

  “Do. But we’re also having a terrific display of it at the Charities Spring Fair in a couple of weeks’ time. It’s going to be a splendid affair, from what I hear. A lot of top-grade stuff will be on show, quite apart from what is for sale.”

  “And will you be in charge?”

  “Not in charge, exactly. But I hope to be there. It’s in the evening, you know, at the Opera. A gala performance in the theater itself and a sort of luxury trade display in the Hall of Mirrors.”

  “Oh, Marianne! I suppose it’s going to cost the earth and a half to get in?”

  “To the gala performance—yes, I suppose so. But I don’t know about the fair itself. I’ll see what I can do,” Marianne promised. And then she had to bide Sadie a hurried goodbye and to go on her way, for it would never do to be late on this day, of all days.

  When she arrived at Florian’s, excitement was already running fever-high, and Celestine—who had been upstairs on some errand for Madame Rachel—reported that tears were already flowing in the models’ dressing room. Two of the girls had even be understood to say that they felt too overwrought to go on.

  “They will get over it,” declared Madame Rachel, unmoved. “It is always like this. It makes them feel sensitive and important.”

  “But doesn’t it drive poor Monsieur Florian nearly mad with worry?” inquired Marianne sympathetically.

  “No, no. Madame Moisant would never let him hear of a little thing like that,” Madame Rachel assured her. “Only if one of the girls were to throw herself out of the window would she mention the matter. And this would not happen.”

  “Then it’s Madame Moisant who does the worrying?” suggested Marianne curiously.

  The other lady shrugged.

  “She is well paid for this worry,” Madame Rachel stated significantly. “And anyway, she knows quite well that the moment the girls have to go out and face their public, all will be smiles and tranquillity. Not one of them would be so silly as to spoil her makeup with real tears after a certain moment in proceedings. Even pique and envy take second place to vanity and self-interest.”

  Marianne gave a slightly shocked laugh.

  “It sounds terrifying,” she remarked.

  “It is merely part of the day,” returned Madame Rachel calmly. “Nevertheless,” she added a trifle smugly, “it is better to be down here, where all is sane and tranquil.”

  “Sane” and “tranquil” were not quite the words Marianne would have used to describe the boutique on this particular morning. For, though infinitely elegant, it was rather small and, with everyone moving about on some last-minute task or other, it seemed to be buzzing with activity.

  However, at last no one showed signs of breaking into tears. And when at last the first guests began to arrive for the great fashion show, Madame Rachel, with her minions in attendance, received and wafted onward these fortunate creatures, in the manner of a queen detailing her ladies of honor for social duties on an occasion of international importance.

  In this way, Marianne found herself personally conducting one of France’s most famous actresses up the thickly carpeted stairs, to deliver her almost literally into th
e outstretched hands of Madame Moisant.

  It was all very emotional and exciting. Something between prize day at school and presentation day at court, Marianne could not help thinking. And over it all hung the smiling suspense usually associated only with the opening night of a much discussed play.

  Now people were coming thick and fast, and Marianne had just returned downstairs for the fourth time when a familiar voice at her side said, “Hello. How are you enjoying the world of haute couture?”

  “Oh, Mr. Senloe—” she turned eagerly to greet him “—how nice! I didn’t know you came to the opening show.”

  “I don’t usually. It’s not really up my alley. But I promised Gabrielle I’d come this time. She vows it’s going to be Florian’s biggest success yet.”

  “I shouldn’t wonder. I thought the rehearsal marvelous last night.”

  “And you’re enjoying life here?” He stood looking down at her, his gray eyes kindly.

  “Oh, yes, indeed!”

  “And—the other matter? Did it straighten out all right?” He sounded genuinely interested, rather than curious.

  “The other—? Oh, well, I think it will. You were quite right—” she dropped her voice and spoke rapidly “—he did feel self-conscious because of his broken engagement. That was why he hadn’t looked me up. But we met by chance last night—”

  “Only last night?” His eyebrows went up.

  “Yes, but—it was all right then. He explained, and we arranged to meet soon. I think it’s going to be all right again.”

  “I’m so glad.” He smiled. “But I mustn’t keep you. I’m sure you’re greatly in demand.”

  “It’s all right, really. We’re supposed to be welcoming all of the guests.”

  “But not to concentrate on one.” He laughed. “I know the drill, you see. Well, I’ll look out for you later, if you’re not too busy.”

  And with a friendly little nod he went on up the stairs, while Marianne turned, in obedience to a tap on her arm from Madame Rachel, to attend to another distinguished visitor.

  Chatter and laughter, greetings and exclamation now filled the salon and spilled down the stairs, to meet further waves of similar sound and excitement coming up from the boutique. Everyone seemed in high good humor. Though, according to Madame Rachel, who had given Marianne some worldly comments beforehand, much of this seeming good humor covered a great deal of professional envy and malice.

  Finally the hour for the opening struck, and comparative silence fell on the assembly upstairs. Everyone but the latest of latecomers had now arrived. Every inch of the salon and the passage leading from it to the head of the stairs was crammed. Far away, Marianne heard the penetrating tones of Madame Moisant, and although she could not distinguish the words, she knew that the first model was being announced.

  Something between a rustle and a sigh passed over the company. The show had begun.

  So long as they kept a watchful eye on the boutique, the girls were allowed to stand on the stairs to catch a glimpse of each model as she paraded not only through the salon, but along the passage as far as the head of the stairs before turning back to the dressing room.

  Even to be on the fringe of the great show was something. And the extraordinary thing was that, without words or any clearly definable means, the subtle awareness of yet another Florian triumph began to drift through the rooms and to permeate even to the boutique.

  It was not only the frequent applause heard from afar, though there was plenty of that. It was not even the occasional exclamation or comment that one heard from the people seated nearest to the head of the stairs. It was something quite intangible, but also quite unmistakable.

  “I begin to smell the perfume of success,” remarked Madame Rachel with a knowledgeable little movement of her head. And Marianne thought she knew what was meant.

  The show ended in a storm of applause for the superb wedding dress. And then it seemed that suddenly everyone was released from a sort of spell. Chairs were pushed back, talking broke out afresh. There was a good deal of kissing and gushing. “Especially from those who were green with envy,” as Madame Rachel said. And then down the stairs streamed the guests once more—those who were not lingering to discuss future sales—and the boutique was filled with eager inquirers and admirers.

  For the rest of the day Marianne had not a moment to herself. All was activity, gaiety, congratulation and a great deal of business. She caught sight of Roger Senloe once more, but only from a distance, and she was not able to exchange more than a smile with him over the heads of eager customers. However, he made a significant upward movement of his thumb, to indicate that he thought the show a success, and she nodded in agreement.

  There was a ceaseless stream and counterstream of customers and staff, the incessant ringing of telephones, the coming and going of photographers. Then from time to time one or other of the models would come down, clad in photogenic glory, to be posed and photographed on the steps of the famous fashion house.

  On more than one occasion Lisette made her appearance. And finally she came down wearing the breathtaking red and green evening dress.

  “It is to be in color,” she informed Marianne, who happened to be within speaking range while Lisette stood waiting for the photographers to prime their cameras and arrange their lights. “I am glad. It is for the cover on one of the leading magazines. Now Nat will really see me as I would wish—on every paper stall in Paris.”

  “How nice,” said Marianne. But she knew from Lisette’s small, secret smile that she had not sounded at all as though she thought it nice. How could she?

  “We went to the Polichinelle last night,” Lisette went on, gratuitously. “It is our favorite restaurant.”

  “Really?” Marianne’s tone was cold and lifeless, and she turned away as though only interested in a customer who was examining some of the wonderful evening scarves, which had been drawing exclamation of delight and admiration all day.

  “It was there,” went on Lisette’s voice behind her, “that Nat first told me he loved me.”

  Marianne turned as though she had been shot, and stared at the other girl.

  “He told you—Nat told you—that?”

  “Most certainly.” Lisette smoothed a fold of her glorious skirt with meticulous care. “This is something I would have you remember very particularly if you should meet him.”

  And, still smiling to herself in that secret way, she went out to the photographers, who were now calling impatiently for her.

  Marianne stood stock-still, even the customers forgotten for some blank and horrible moments. Nat—loved—that girl. Or thought he did, which was just as bad. Particularly as he had not kept his thoughts to himself, but had clothed them in indiscreet words.

  It was there—at the Secret de Polichinelle—that he had told Lisette he loved her. Perhaps on that very evening when Marianne had seen them there.

  Oh, why had she fled from the scene, on that ridiculous impulse of panic and humiliation? Why had she not walked up boldly to Nat and spoken to him? Perhaps she might have saved him from what she could only regard as a disastrous step. Nat—and Lisette! It was not to be thought of! Not after all she had gone through on Yvonne’s account.

  “Marianne!” Madame Rachel spoke in a sibilant whisper, which carried, however, a great deal of authority. “You are forgetting your work. This is not the day or the place for dreaming.”

  It certainly was not. And, with a jerk that almost hurt, Marianne recalled herself to the immediate present.

  “I’m sorry, madame. I wasn’t thinking—”

  “I know.” Madame Rachel’s tone was more sympathetic. “Suddenly one feels blank. But one must smile and be active, just the same.”

  So Marianne somehow smiled and became “active” once more, and presumably she managed quite well, for there were no more reproofs from Madame Rachel. Only at the back of her mind all the time were those words of Lisette—“It was there that Nat first told me he loved me.”
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  Not until a good hour after their usual closing time did Madame Rachel announce that it was time to shut the doors of the boutique on one of the most successful days they had ever had. And even then, activity upstairs seemed undiminished.

  There was still a good deal of clearing up to be done, and presently Madame Rachel gave Marianne a sheaf of papers and told her to take them to Monsieur Florian’s office.

  “You will give them to him personally if he is there. If not, you will find him—or wait until he comes. These are the returns of sale for the day. And they are,” added Madame Rachel complacently, “sensational.”

  “Oh, madame, don’t you want to give them to him yourself, and have the credit?” Marianne smiled at her.

  But Madame Rachel shook her head.

  “Pas du tout! He will want to discuss them. I know Monsieur Florian on opening day. He is like a child with a toy. He cannot hear enough or say enough about the new success. And me—I am dying on my feet. I prefer to die in my bed.” And she smiled cheerfully, looking very much alive—but certainly a little exhausted at last.

  So Marianne climbed the stairs for the hundredth time that day, realizing suddenly that her legs and back and head were aching, and went along to Monsieur Florian’s office.

  She was lucky enough to find him there, and she knew immediately from the almost feverish glitter in his eyes that he was a very well-satisfied man, even though he was pale and worn with the strain of that day and a good many crowded yesterdays.

  “Madame Rachel asked me to bring you these returns, monsieur.” Marianne laid them on the desk.

  “So?” He took them and fan a comprehensive glance over them. “Sit down, mademoiselle,” he said, without looking up. “Today is not a day to stand, unless one is forced to do so.”

  Marianne sank thankfully into a chair, reflecting as she did so that it was not quite true what they said of Monsieur Florian in the firm—that, so long as his affairs went well, he wouldn’t notice if you were dying until he heard the thump as you hit the floor.