Paris - And My Love Read online

  “Phe-no-men-al!” she heard him murmur, with a satisfied pause between each syllable. Then he looked up and said with almost boyish enjoyment, “It was an exciting day, eh, mademoiselle?”

  “Tremendously exciting, monsieur.”

  “What did you like best in the collection?”

  “I, monsieur?” Marianne smiled, somehow touched as well as amused that even her opinion could be of interest to him. “I thought,” she said slowly, “that the most remarkable dress was the red and green evening dress that Lisette wore.”

  “Number sixty-three? But you did not actually like it.” His tone made that a statement rather than a question. “Why not?”

  “I—I did like it, monsieur. At least—”

  “It is a frightening dress on Lisette,” he observed calmly. “But it also fascinates one. I am interested that you feel it so strongly.”

  “It’s partly—Lisette herself,” Marianne could not help saying.

  “Yes, of course. Lisette is a rather frightening young woman. I should not wish a good friend of mine to marry Lisette, shall we say? But—” He stopped suddenly and fixed Marianne with that cool, thoughtful glance of his. “What disturbs you about that, petite?” His faintly cynical tone altered suddenly.

  “N-nothing, monsieur.” Marianne stared back at him with widened gaze, wishing that she could add something casual and amusing, but knowing well that all her anxiety was in her eyes.

  “I—see,” he said thoughtfully. And Marianne immediately had the absurd and incredible conviction that he did see. Almost everything to do with herself—and Nat—and Lisette. “So you and Lisette are in some way rivals?”

  “Oh, no!”

  Then suddenly he smiled, and for an odd moment she thought she glimpsed why Madame Florian had married him.

  “Shall I tell you something, chérie, for your peace of mind?” he said, and although there was an amused glint in his eyes, it was not unkindly. “Our good friends seldom marry the Lisettes of this world.”

  “Perhaps it is enough if they love them, monsieur,” retorted Marianne, before she could stop herself.

  “And he loves her?” Florian shook his head skeptically.

  “S-so he says.”

  “Did he say so to you?”

  “Oh, no. To her. She told me so herself—this afternoon.”

  “She told you? Zut!” Florian laughed contemptuously. “She finds it difficult to tell the truth even if it suits her, that one. She would not think of telling it if a lie would suit her better. Pay no attention to her, petite. I would want something more than the unsupported word of Lisette before I would lose sleep over any statement of hers.”

  “Oh, Monsieur Florian—” Marianne smiled faintly in spite of herself “—do you really mean that?”

  “Of course.” Having pronounced on the matter, he as good as dismissed it with a flick of his well-shaped hand. Then he looked back at the papers before him, and Marianne had the impression that her audience was over.

  “Th-thank you, monsieur.” She got to her feet. “I can’t imagine why I told you so much—”

  “You couldn’t help it,” he said simply, and she wondered quite what he meant by that.

  “But, please—you won’t mention anything about this to anyone, will you?”

  “I never mention confidences to anyone, mademoiselle.” He gave her a dry glance. “There is enough gossip and scandal in this place without my contributing to it. Now go home, there’s a good child, and have a good night’s rest. If today is any indication of the business we shall do in the next few weeks, you need all the rest you can get.”

  She actually laughed at that, and found suddenly that she felt immeasurably cheered. She bade her employer an almost cheerful good-night, and then went away—as many other people had gone from that office before—with the curious conviction that if Monsieur Florian said a thing was so, then it was so.

  I don’t believe there’s anything between Nat and Lisette, she told herself determinedly as she ran downstairs. I believe everything is going to be all right. I have only to call him. He gave me the number himself—

  And then, as though in almost uncanny confirmation of her thoughts, Marcelle said, as she arrived in the boutique once more, “Someone telephoned for you. An Englishman, with a nice speaking voice.”

  “An Englishman?”

  “Yes. He left a number for you to call back. I scribed it on the pad there.”

  “I have his number. Oh, no—perhaps this is his office—”

  Anyway, it didn’t matter. Whatever the number, Nat was at the other end—waiting for her.

  She could have laughed aloud now at the absurd and sulky threats of Lisette. How fortunate that Monsieur Florian had made that intuitive guess—and then reassured her. Marianne found it difficult not to chatter her happy thoughts aloud as she dialed the number with slightly unsteady fingers.

  And she stood there, listening to the ringing tone, it seemed to her that her heart beat in answering rhythm.

  Than a pleasant voice said in her ear, “Hello. This is Roger Senloe speaking.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “R-Roger Senloe?” repeated Marianne, so blankly that her reaction must have carried even over the telephone wires.

  “Well—yes. Is it such a blow?” He laughed, but she could hear he was rather put out.

  “No—no, of course not.” She tried to collect her thoughts, to bring them back from Nat and concentrate them on Roger Senloe. “I’m sorry. I was just—surprised. I—I was expecting someone else to ring, and I thought—it was he.”

  “I’m sorry to be the wrong one.” There was still that mixture of amusement and chagrin in his voice.

  “Oh, no—really, you mustn’t say that. And please forgive my rudeness.” Now she was in better command of herself. “I’m just a bit dazed after the busiest day I’ve ever known, and I don’t think I quite know what I’m saying.”

  “I daresay not.” His tone was sympathetic now. “That was really why I called. I know what these opening days are like and how flat out everyone is by the end. I wondered if you would like me to take you out for a quiet meal somewhere, or if you just want to go home to bed.”

  A quiet meal—with someone else doing all the ordering and arranging! Suddenly Marianne realized she had had little to eat all day and that she was ravenous.

  “Oh, that sounds simply heavenly! I’m not at my scintillating best, but if you really mean it—”

  “Of course I do. Unless the other chap—the right one—” she could not really resent the note of amusement in his voice “—intended to take you.”

  “No. At least, we hadn’t made any arrangement.”

  Rapidly she decided that she would telephone Nat another evening. Tomorrow evening—or, at any rate, sometime when she felt less exhausted and more able to deal with a problematical situation.

  “I should love to come,” she told Roger Senloe firmly. “Where shall I meet you?”

  “I’ll fetch you in my car in ten minutes’ time, if that’s all right.”

  With difficulty she kept herself from saying that nothing could be more all right, and she replaced the receiver, with the odd feeling that this was the only bearable ending to a thrilling but wearing day.

  Nice, undemanding Roger Senloe! She didn’t have to pretend with him, or keep her feelings under strict and anxious control. She didn’t have to wonder distractedly if he were in love with Lisette, or if there were some subtle way in which she could find out the real truth. She could just relax, metaphorically sit back and let him do any worrying there might be.

  “You’re going out this evening?” Marcelle watched solemnly as Marianne added a rapid touch of makeup to her pale face. “I don’t know how you have the energy.”

  “I wouldn’t have known five minutes ago,” Marianne admitted with a laugh. “But sometimes it’s easier to go out, and let someone else do the arranging, than to try to work things out for oneself. With the right kind of man—”

/>   “Ah, yes—with the right man all is different,” agreed Marcelle, her face lighting up unexpectedly. Then she added, with almost naive curiosity, “Are you very much in love with him?”

  “Not in the least,” said Marianne heartily. “That’s why I’m going with him.”

  “I do not understand,” Marcelle began gravely. But at that moment the telephone rang again, and as Marianne and she were now the only people left in the boutique, Marcelle said obligingly, “I will answer it, while you finish getting ready.”

  But hardly had she taken up the receiver before she observed, “It is for you. Your beau back again.”

  “Oh...” Feeling suddenly that she could not bear to be done out of her pleasant relaxation now, Marianne hurried over to the telephone. “Hello, Roger! Is anything—”

  “Roger nothing,” a familiar voice replied. “This is Nat speaking.”

  “Nat!” Her whole being glowed with rapture and delight. “How wonderful! You only just caught me. I was putting on my hat.”

  “Well, I knew you’d be late. Lisette told me it would be a long day for all of you today. But I thought I’d chance it now.”

  “Yes—of course.” The mention of Lisette served to cool her eagerness slightly. “It’s been a wonderful day. But a killer, too. We’ve only just closed the boutique, and some of the girls are still working upstairs.”

  “Lisette seemed to think she might be there until midnight,” Nat agreed. “I wondered if you and I could make a date of it this evening.”

  Because Lisette was unavailable, Marianne wondered uneasily. And then she dismissed the thought as unworthy.

  “Nat, I’m sorry. I’ve already arranged to go out to supper with someone else.”

  “Have you really?” He sounded disappointed. “With Roger, I presume?”

  “Yes. How did you know? Oh, of course, I greeted you as Roger, didn’t I?”

  “You did. And spoiled my evening.” He laughed, but he also sounded as though his evening were really spoiled.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” she said again. “I wish I’d known beforehand.”

  “You mean you’d have ditched Roger for me, if there’d still been time?”

  “Certainly not! I’m not that sort of girl. I mean I wouldn’t have accepted his invitation, which was given only five minutes ago.”

  “Only five minutes ago!” Nat sounded really vexed. “Can’t you get out of it?”

  “No, of course not. But let’s make another date, Nat. How about tomorrow evening?”

  But Nat didn’t seem to know how free he would be on the following evening.

  “Then some other evening in the week when you do know you’ll be free.”

  “It’s a bit difficult—”

  She had a sudden and almost savage impulse to say angrily, “Lisette will be working late every evening this week, if that’s what’s troubling you!” But somehow she refrained.

  And, at that moment Marcelle made a signal to her and said quietly. “Your friend with the car is outside.”

  “Nat, I must go—I’m sorry. Roger has arrived to collect me. But I’ll call you. Or you call me. But not here during the daytime.”

  “You are hedged around with restrictions, aren’t you?” he said crossly.

  “No more than Lisette is,” she returned a little curtly. And then she hung up.

  She was ashamed of herself, as soon as she had done that. And she was annoyed to have shown she was annoyed. But there is always a point at which control snaps, and very seldom is it at the wisest point.

  Marianne turned to find Marcelle regarding her with solemn interest. Marcelle regarded most things and people with solemn interest.

  “He is the man you love,” she observed with conviction. “Why do you not go out with him?”

  “Because I’ve already promised to go out with someone else,” replied Marianne impatiently. “Besides—” she hesitated aware that she actually preferred to go with Roger Senloe at this moment “—the other one is so nice and restful and won’t ask me awkward questions or make me wonder what he means,” she said, in a sudden burst of confidence.

  “These are good qualities to live with,” Marcelle agreed seriously. “It is strange how seldom one loves them.”

  “But one can like them immensely,” Marianne countered. “Good night, Marcelle. Thank you for doing the final clearing. You’re a good, kind colleague.”

  “Also I have no beau at the moment,” replied Marcelle with a slight sigh. “That leaves one free for other things.”

  “Oh, darling, we’ll find you a wonderful beau!” exclaimed Marianne, deciding that Roger must wait just three minutes longer while she reassured Marcelle. “You have such beautiful eyes and such kind, gentle ways—it won’t be difficult. And then I’ll do the clearing up, while you go out to meet him.”

  Marcelle laughed unexpectedly at this, and looked so truly pretty as she flushed that Marianne thought, I don’t believe anyone’s ever called her “darling” before, or told her she has beautiful eyes—which she has.

  Aloud, she asked curiously, “Marcelle, do you live on your own?”

  “No. I live with my maman, who is something of an invalid. She is very patient and does not ask much, so long as I am at home with her in the evenings.”

  “O-oh,” said Marianne, not much liking the sound of this patient maman. “Well, one can always rearrange things, if one is determined. We’ll see. Good night, Marcelle—and thank you for everything.”

  And, gathering up her bag and gloves, she ran out to the waiting car.

  “I’m so sorry! I was delayed for a few minutes and—”

  “Don’t apologize,” Roger Senloe told her. “Just sit back and relax. Do you want to go anywhere special?”

  “You choose,” Marianne begged him. “So long as it’s fairly quiet and no one there wants me to show them bags, scarves, gloves or costume jewelry, it will do for me.”

  He laughed and said, “Leave it to me.” So she willingly did, and presently she found herself sitting opposite him at a corner table in a quiet, homely little restaurant in the less fashionable part of the city, with the most delicious sole bonne femme she had ever tasted before her.

  “Oh, Mr. Senloe, how do you find these places?” she asked with a contented sigh.

  “By looking for them with great diligence, in a city I love and know very well,” he assured her with a smile.

  “And how did you know exactly what it was that I needed, at the end of this glorious but most exacting day?”

  He looked across at her and his eyes twinkled.

  “I practiced quite a lot on Gabrielle Florian, don’t forget.”

  “Oh, yes—of course!”

  “There wasn’t much I didn’t know about fashion house nerves by the time she married him,” he declared, with a wry smile.

  “What a shame—” Marianne began. And then, before she could stop herself, “You know, I can’t imagine why she married Florian rather than you.”

  “Thank you for those kind words.” He grinned. “I’ve sometimes wondered myself.”

  “Was it long ago?”

  “It depends what you mean by ‘long.’ It’s just five years ago tonight since Gabrielle came out with me for the first time, after making a sensation at Florian’s fashion show as a completely unknown model.”

  “You don’t say!” Marianne glanced at him curiously and wondered for a moment if she were taking part in some sort of nostalgic reconstruction for him.

  “And the odd thing is that she, too, really wanted to go out with someone else.”

  “With Monsieur Florian?”

  “Oh, no! He was just her alarming employer at that point. With some fellow she’d once been engaged to. I’ve forgotten his name now, and I expect she had, too. He just didn’t count later.”

  “I see. But there’s one thing I must put right. I didn’t want to go out with someone else. I merely mistook you for someone else on the phone.”

  “Sure?” He smil
ed at her.

  “Quite sure. As a matter of fact, he called up five minutes after you and wanted me to go out with him. And although I wouldn’t have done so anyway, of course, after arranging to go with you, it did make me realize that I actually preferred to go with someone kind and unproblematical like you.”

  “How very nice of you. I suppose some men would rather be regarded as problematical devils than soothing supports. I’ve never been able to decide myself which I would really prefer.”

  “I don’t think one could make a devil out of you, in any case,” Marianne said, regarding him reflectively. “And tonight at any rate I’m profoundly glad of that.” They both laughed then, and began to talk with an added degree of intimacy. And presently they were calling each other Marianne and Roger, and she had told him quite a lot about her family, and he had explained that, as the only son of a minor ambassador, he had inevitably gravitated toward the diplomatic service—a life that on the whole, he greatly enjoyed.

  But even though they chatted enthusiastically, he kept a watchful eye on the time, and firmly took her home before she could begin to feel weary again.

  “I have to go to Geneva for a few days,” he told her, as they bade each other good-night. “But when I come back we must do this again.”

  She said truly that nothing would please her more. And then they parted, and she climbed the long stairs to her room, wondering a little as she did so if he had gone back to his apartment to dream nostalgically of that evening five years ago.

  The next day, if not as hectic as the opening day, was very busy indeed, and Marianne had little time to ponder her own affairs. But the thought of Nat—and the curt way she had parted from him—hovered uneasily in the background of her mind all day. And when she finally reached home that evening, she telephoned to him, even though he had been humiliatingly vague about the time he might have available.