Paris - And My Love Read online

  His voice answered her immediately, and she was so relieved that she broke into quick, eager explanation.

  “Oh, Nat—it’s Marianne. I’m sorry I cut you off so abruptly last night, but I was getting nervous, keeping Roger waiting, and—”

  “Is he such a tyrant, then?”

  “No, of course not. Don’t be silly! Only—well, never mind. When am I going to see you, Nat? It seems such ages since we had a really good talk.”

  “It is ages,” he assured her. “Much too long.” And all at once his voice took on all the old warmth and interest. “What about this evening, Marianne? Are you free?”

  “Yes, I’m free. But I thought you—”

  “That’s all right. What I was expecting didn’t turn up. Why don’t we drive out along the river? I know a nice little place, about an hour’s drive out, that doesn’t depend too much on fine summer weather for its charm. How about it?”

  “It sounds ideal to me.”

  “Then meet me outside the Opera in half an hour. I’ll be driving a small red—but what am I talking about? You know the old bus, of course.”

  “Oh, Nat, have you got your own car here with you? How nice. It will be like old times.”

  “Not too much like old times,” he growled, and she remembered Yvonne and felt sorry for him.

  “Just enough to make us feel at ease,” she said, “and not enough to spoil a new chapter in any way.”

  “Very nicely said!” He laughed good-humoredly. “In half an hour, then.”

  It was all going to be perfectly all right! She actually hummed to herself in her happiness as she got ready. And so eager was she not to keep him waiting that she was at the rendezvous ten minutes before time.

  He arrived very promptly, however, and was evidently pleased to find her ready waiting.

  “Hop in,” he instructed her. “I’m not supposed to wait here, and that French cop has the eye of an eagle and the tongue of a macaw.”

  Obediently Marianne got in, and the car shot away again, threading its way through the traffic in a way that excited both her admiration and her alarm. There was no question of any sustained conversation until they were clear of the center of the city. And then, before she could introduce any subject of her own choosing, he asked almost defiantly, “Were you very shocked about Yvonne and me?”

  “No, Nat.” With difficulty she prevented herself from saying it had been the greatest moment of her life when she heard the news of their broken engagement. “I’m truly sorry if either of you felt deeply hurt. But I was never very happy about that engagement.”

  “Weren’t you really?” He turned his head for a moment and looked at her. “Why not?”

  “I thought she left you too often on your own for her to be really in love with you. And I couldn’t see you as the husband of someone who put her work first.”

  “Then you don’t blame me?”

  “No, Nat—of course not! People must settle these things for themselves. If you and Yvonne decided you couldn’t make a go of it, I can’t see that it’s the business of anyone but yourselves. Particularly as neither of you treated the other badly.”

  “I’m glad you feel like that.” He gave something like a sigh of relief, and for a moment he took one hand off the wheel of the car and patted her hand affectionately.

  “Oh, Nat! Did you worry about my attitude?”

  “A bit—yes. You and I have always been such good friends—you’ve always been the most wonderful confidante and safety valve. I couldn’t bear the idea that all that was over.”

  “There was no question of our friendship being over,” said Marianne, trying to decide if it were a compliment or not, to be regarded as a wonderful confidante and safety valve. “Was that why you didn’t make it your business to find me in Paris?”

  “I suppose so.” He smiled rather remorsefully. “Too stupid to mope around without doing anything about it, wasn’t it?”

  “It was rather,” she agreed sympathetically. But then she remembered Lisette. And something stronger than herself made her say, “But you did find some compensation, didn’t you?”

  “Did I?” He looked surprised. “What do you mean?”

  “How about the charming little redhead at Florian’s? To her incredulous astonishment, she actually managed to make that sound light and amused.

  “Oh—Lisette!” He laughed. “She is charming, isn’t she?”

  “Very,” said Marianne coldly.

  “You mean you don’t like her?”

  “I don’t really know her well. I suppose she’s more a man’s girl than the kind of girl who tends to be popular with her own sex,” Marianne stated, in a tone that she strove to make objective.

  “I could imagine that.” Nat grinned reflectively, and she clenched her hands to keep herself from demanding why. “She’s quite enchanting, in her own way.”

  “You mean you’re—sweet on her?”

  “Oh, Marianne, for heaven’s sake! I’ve only just emerged from a broken engagement. You don’t surely expect me to start getting entangled with someone else in a matter of weeks?”

  “N-no. No, of course not.” She bent her head and with difficulty kept herself from bursting into tears of relief. “I just thought—I was a little worried about you. Some men do silly things after—after the kind of experience you’ve had.”

  “Such as getting engaged to the next pretty girl they meet?” He looked amused.

  “Well—at least they throw around casual assertions that they love someone else, more or less to boost up their own morale, I suppose.”

  “I’m not that sort of man at all,” Nat stated unequivocally. “Now let’s leave the subject of broken engagements and talk about ourselves.”

  So that was what they did. And very delightful it was, too. But nothing else that Nat said to her that evening could compare with the joy of hearing him say, “I’m not that sort of man at all.”

  It was a lie, then, that assertion of Lisette’s. A cool, barefaced, calculated lie. Florian had been quite right. (Was he ever very far wrong? Marianne wondered respectfully.) Lisette had merely employed her own individual technique for warning off a potential rival.

  At this moment Marianne could have laughed in her relief and thankfulness. But then she felt a slow indignation rising in her. Lisette just did not deserve to get away with this.

  It was impossible, of course, even to Marianne, to tell Nat frankly what Lisette had claimed, richly though she deserved to be shown up. But I'll speak to her myself, thought Marianne. I’ll let her know that I know she lied. I don’t expect it will cause her any real shame, but at least she shan’t go on congratulating herself for having made a monkey of me.

  None of this showed in her manner or expression during the happy evening she spent with Nat. Indeed, most of these reflections came to her only when she was home again and free to think, first how wonderful it was to be in close contact with Nat again, and secondly how nearly Lisette had spoiled everything.

  But of these two reflections, only the first one really mattered. And angry though she was with Lisette, she might well have refrained from really putting her resolution into practice if the perfect opportunity had not presented itself the very next day.

  One of the more favored press photographers wanted a shot of Lisette in one of the deceptively simple “little” dresses for which Florian was famous, and it was decided to have two or three outstanding articles from the boutique on a table beside her.

  Marianne was sent upstairs with a suitable selection—and then there was a long wait, while Florian and the photographer discussed at length some knotty point of display.

  Lisette, appealing and yet provocative in her “little” dress, stood quite near Marianne, waiting while the two men arranged, rearranged and discussed. And suddenly, almost without waiting to choose her words, Marianne said softly, “It was foolish of you to tell me that lie about Nat, the other day, Lisette.”

  “What lie?” Lisette’s green eyes regard
ed Marianne with deceptive mildness, but they also narrowed very slightly, like those of a cat about to spring.

  “You know quite well what I mean.”

  “Me, I am not a thought reader.” Lisette shrugged contemptuously. “And I do not know what you are talking about.”

  She thinks I won’t have the effrontery to put it into words, thought Marianne. And aloud, though still speaking softly, she said, “I mean that it was foolish of you to claim that Nat said he loved you. I was almost bound to find out the truth, you know.”

  “The truth is as I said it,” Lisette asserted, and for a moment the white line of her teeth showed as she pulled back her upper lip in a curious expression of defiance. “You simply make this up because you are jealous of my success with Nat.”

  Even then, the offensive phrase “my success with Nat” had the power to make Marianne wince with annoyance.

  “I’m making nothing up,” she said coldly. “I’m merely telling you what I have now found out. I spent yesterday evening with Nat, and we had a long talk—”

  “About me?” inquired the other girl quickly.

  “Oh, no. You were mentioned, but only passingly,” Marianne told her coolly. And although she knew she was not being very noble or high-minded about this, she felt Lisette deserved that slap. “But as I told you before, Lisette, Nat and I are old friends. We are in the habit of talking frankly to each other. I found there was no question of his being in love with you—or anyone else, incidentally.”

  “That is what he tells you,” retorted Lisette angrily. “With me it is another story.”

  “Well, I think not.” Marianne smiled slightly, glad that she knew Nat too well to have that sort of explanation foisted off on her. “If you want to make up stories for your own enjoyment, that’s your affair. But don’t try to pass them off on me again.”

  “Now it is you who are foolish,” Lisette said, quietly and rapidly, but with the most extraordinary intensity. “It is not wise to make of me an enemy.” In her anger even the usual excellence of her English deserted her. “You will be sorry—”

  “Lisette,” called Florian at this moment. “Come here and stop gossiping. We need you.”

  “Yes, monsieur.”

  Lisette glided forward with an air of submission that made the great designer glance at her suspiciously. However, he evidently decided that whatever mischief she was hatching had nothing to do with him, and proceeded to give directions for the pose that was needed.

  Then he nodded to Marianne and said, “All right, mademoiselle. We shall not need you. I will send these things back when we have finished.”

  So Marianne went downstairs again, wondering as she did so if she had really been wise to speak so frankly to Lisette and draw her angry fire. But at least there was some satisfaction in having made a spirited attempt to let her know she was not having everything her own way.

  On her return to the boutique, Marianne was immediately drawn into her own work again, and she thought no more about Lisette for the next half hour.

  But then Lisette came tripping down the stairs, attired for the street—she was one of the few models who could sometimes venture on a real lunch without any threat to her figure—and carrying the things that had been used in the photograph.

  “Here you are, mademoiselle—” she laid them before Marianne “—monsieur said I was to give them to you personally and wait while you checked them.” Marianne proceeded to do this while Lisette stood by, smiling slightly in that secret, pleased way that both disturbed and irritated Marianne. “Yes. This is correct,” she said curtly.

  And, at almost the same moment, a young American girl near her exclaimed, “Oh, my! That’s Monsieur Florian himself, isn’t it?”

  Marianne glanced up, to see Florian coming down the stairs.

  “Yes, it is.” She smiled at the girl.

  “Do you think he would give me his autograph?” The girl dived into an immense handbag and produced a small book. “I got the president’s autograph yesterday. But it would sure make my trip if I got Monsieur Florian’s, too.”

  “At least you could ask him,” said Marianne kindly.

  “I will ask him for you,” declared Lisette, who loved to put herself forward, as Madame Moisant said. And as the famous designer came abreast of them, she said beguilingly, “Monsieur Florian, madame would be so happy if you would give her your autograph. She says she will put it beside that of the president.”

  “How flattering for us both,” replied Florian dryly. But he smiled slightly and took out his pen.

  “Oh, Monsieur Florian! This is a great moment for me,” declared the delighted girl, as she handed him her book.

  “For me too, mademoiselle,” replied Florian politely. And then, “I’m sorry, my pen seems to have run out. Has anyone a pen?”

  Marianne reached for hers, but Lisette was quicker. “Here, monsieur—” She produced a pen from her handbag and held it out to him.

  As she did so, Marianne caught her breath on an incredulous gasp. She knew that pen as well as her own, for she had given it to Nat for his birthday, only six months ago.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Marianne had a momentary—and insane—impulse to snatch the pen from her employer’s hand and examine it thoroughly. But, while holding herself in check from such an impossible action, she also had time to reflect that she might, after all, be mistaken. Pens are extraordinarily alike. It was just possible...

  But this one had a slim gold band around the top, exactly like the one she had ordered so carefully for Nat, so that his initials might be engraved upon it. There couldn’t be a mistake.

  Fortunately, no customer occupied her attention just then, so she could continue to follow the situation for a few seconds longer. The autograph completed, Florian handed back the book to its gratified owner and—perhaps in order to stem her too effusive thanks—he added, as he returned Lisette’s pen, “It’s a nice pen, Lisette. English, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, monsieur. An Englishman who is a very good friend of mine gave it to me,” Lisette declared.

  “So?” Florian gave her a thoughtful glance before bowing politely to the owner of the autograph book and passing on.

  For a moment longer Lisette turned the pen reflectively in her hand, and as she did so Marianne clearly saw the initials N.G. engraved on the gold band. There was no further possibility of mistake. The pen was the one she had herself given to Nat.

  Then Lisette replaced it in her handbag, smiled her faintly feline smile and went out into the street, leaving Marianne to cope with the jubilation of the autograph hunter.

  Good training and innate politeness enabled Marianne to respond satisfactorily, but only the surface of her mind was concerned with the customer. To herself she was saying angrily—frightenedly—What does it mean? He couldn’t have given it to her. Not my pen. The one I chose so carefully for him. But if he didn’t give it to her, how did she get it? Even she wouldn’t actually pinch it. Or would she? She might have borrowed it, and then smilingly refused to return it. But he should have insisted! I gave it to him—and I thought he valued it for that very reason.

  At this point she was hard put to it to hold back her tears. But somehow she managed to bid her departing customer a smiling goodbye before she turned away, to stand before a drawer, pretending to put away gloves.

  “What is it?” asked Marcelle quietly beside her. “You look unhappy.”

  “Do I? I’m trying not to,” whispered Marianne in return. But then she burst out bitterly, “What would you feel if you’d given someone a special present and they you found he’d handed it on to someone else?”

  She meant the question only rhetorically. But Marcelle immediately gave it her grave consideration.

  “That depends,” she said earnestly; “on how much I liked the first person.”

  Yes, of course, that was the point! It was because she loved Nat that the situation took on such a harrowing significance. That and the fact that it was to Lisette he
had given the pen. If it had been anyone else—kind little Marcelle, for instance...

  I’m getting things out of proportion, Marianne tried to tell herself. I’m allowing the very thought of Lisette to get me rattled. But why has she Nat’s pen—the pen I gave him—smugly reposing in her handbag?

  One always came back to that question. And during the rest of that busy day it stayed in Marianne’s mind, a constant torment to her. From time to time she assured herself that there was a perfectly simple solution. She only had to telephone Nat that evening and ask him point-blank what the answer was.

  But then she wondered if she were capable of putting the question quite casually—not sounding as though it were a matter of life and death to her. And she was plunged into fresh despair by the realization that she now found it almost impossible to be reasonably unselfconscious about anything to do with Nat.

  She hardly knew whether to be relieved or disappointed when Madame Rachel asked her to stay on later that evening as Monsieur Florian wished to discuss arrangements for the show they were to stage at the big Charities Fair, which now loomed near.

  “You had no engagement for the evening, I hope?” Madame Rachel said. But it was evident that the question was purely academic. Any arrangement would have had to take second place to Monsieur Florian’s requirements.

  “No, madame,” Marianne admitted, and she relinquished the idea of telephoning Nat for explanations, with something between regret and thankfulness.