Paris - And My Love Page 8

  After the boutique had closed for the night, she and Madame Rachel went upstairs to Monsieur Florian’s office, and here they found their employer already sketching out the overall design for the stall that was to represent the Florian boutique.

  “We shall be showing part of the collection during the evening,” he explained. “But on this occasion it will be the boutique that will be of more immediate importance. It naturally leads itself more easily to anything like a fair.”

  “Undoubtedly,” agreed Madame Rachel, unable to hide her satisfaction in the thought that, on this occasion at least, her part would be more distinguished than that of Madame Moisant.

  “It is necessary—” Florian tapped the sketch in front of him “—to strike a good balance between a display, an advertisement and a charity stall. For though, of course, charity takes first place on this occasion, it .would be idle to overlook the fact—” he smiled dryly “—that all exhibitors also regard this as a splendid opportunity for advertisement.”

  “Charity, as the English say, begins at home,” observed Madame Rachel, firmly if not very aptly.

  “In the center, here,” went on Florian, refraining from taking up this much abused generalization, “we shall have the actual display that is intended to attract attention. Nothing will be for sale in this section, but it will represent the absolute flower of our costume jewelry.”

  “You mean—the pick of what we have in the boutique, monsieur?” inquired Marianne, leaning over with enormous interest, to regard the sketch.

  “Not only that. One or two of our regular customers have offered to lend specially beautiful pieces that they have bought from us in the past. In fact—” he shrugged, as though not altogether pleased “my wife insists on lending, as the center piece, the brooch that I gave her as a wedding present.”

  “The rose spray, you mean?” Madame Rachel’s tone hovered between pleasure and consternation. “It will be a great responsibility.”

  “I think so, too. “But—” he shrugged again “—Gabrielle insists. And, of course, it will make a wonderful exhibit.”

  “Is it so beautiful?” Marianne looked from one to the other with a smile of genuine interest.

  “The most beautiful piece of costume jewelry ever produced in Paris,” Madame Rachel said solemnly. “And that, of course,” she added, “is to say the most beautiful produced anywhere.”

  “It’s very lovely,” Monsieur Florian agreed, more moderately. “But—to continue.” He turned back to the sketch. “On either side, and to the front, we shall have the things that are actually for sale. The prices will be slightly higher than usual, since the whole thing is for charity. And we, of course, will take only a nominal profit, as our contribution. This will mean repricing everything for the occasion. You understand, mademoiselle!”

  “Yes, monsieur,” Marianne said obediently.

  “It will also mean at least two very late nights for those taking part. Both the night before the fair, when all is arranged, ready for display, and then on the night of the fair itself. We shall sell during the intervals of the Opera Gala, and also at the end of the performance. I wish to have you as Madame Rachel’s chief assistant. I hope that is agreeable to you?”

  “Why, of course, monsieur!” Marianne wondered what would have happened if she had said it was not agreeable to her.

  “Bon! We shall dress you, of course, for the occasion,” added Monsieur Florian almost carelessly, and Marianne gave a little gasp of excited pleasure.

  “How wonderful!”

  “Well—” Florian gave that faintly indulgent smile “—you also will be part of our advertisement. You will be wearing evening dress, naturally. And I think—” he studied her thoughtfully “—I think number seventeen in the collection will be the right one for you.”

  “Number seventeen?”

  “She is not yet experienced,” explained Madame Rachel, with the good-humored air of one apologizing for a child who had forgotten her party piece. “She does not remember the dresses by number. It is the gray, with the gold tracery. The line is classic and the draped—”

  “Oh, yes, I know! It was a wonderful dress!” exclaimed Marianne, with an enthusiasm that drew a smile from both of her employers. “Monsieur Florian, do you really mean that I’m going to wear that?”

  “I think so. We will have a faintly bluer gray for you, and the gold must be the real corn gold of your hair. You should do us credit, mademoiselle.”

  “Oh, Monsieur Florian, I’ll try to.”

  “Is the Englishman coming to the fair?” inquired Florian, with an air of simple curiosity that people found endearing or maddening, according to whether they liked Florian or not.

  “The—Englishman, monsieur?”

  “The one who owned the pen,” explained Florian unexpectedly.

  “Monsieur—h-how did you know?”

  “Monsieur Florian knows everything,” observed Madame Rachel, as though taking some sort of credit for that herself.

  “You flatter me, madame,” murmured Florian. “I do a little inspired guessing. That is all. And after one has observed the world as long as I have, it is easier to make two and two into four than it is for some other people. I think you must arrange that he comes, mademoiselle. You will undoubtedly be looking your most attractive.”

  Marianne laughed a little protestingly and flushed. “I will see what I can do, monsieur,” she said.

  Madame Rachel looked faintly curious, but refrained from asking questions. Not from lack of inquisitiveness, but because, unlike Florian himself, she considered it slightly beneath her dignity to show interest in the private concern of her vendeuses.

  Further details were discussed at some length. Then, when Monsieur Florian was satisfied that both Madame Rachel and Marianne had the whole thing very clearly in their minds, he dismissed them both with a word of apology for having taken up so much of their own time.

  “Our time is yours, monsieur,” declared Madame Rachel somewhat falsely, for she could grumble as much as the next one, really, if she thought she was being imposed upon.

  Perhaps Florian knew that, for he gave a grim little smile as the two rose to go. But, whereas Madame Rachel went out of the room immediately, Marianne lingered for a daring moment and asked impulsively, even breathlessly, “Monsieur, how did you know that the pen belonged to—to Nat?”

  “So the name is Nat? Ma foi, what a name for a hero!” exclaimed the Frenchman disgustedly. “I did not know that he was Nat, mon enfant. Only you yourself more or less told me that you and Lisette were interested in the same man. When I saw Lisette twirling the pen and talking of her English friend, and looking like the small cat who has eaten the canary of someone else, it did not take great intelligence to realize that this was her way of taunting a rival. And you, mademoiselle, were not proof against it. You looked pale and distressed.”

  “Did I?” Marianne was chagrined. “I—I had hoped I hid the fact that I was taken aback.”

  “From most people, perhaps. But not from me,” stated Florian, with curiously inoffensive pleasure in his own perspicacity. “But have courage, mademoiselle. Number seventeen will do a great deal for you. See that Nat—” again he made a slight face “—is present at the Charities Fair.”

  Marianne laughed. “I will, monsieur. But—Lisette will also be at the Charities Fair, no doubt?”

  “To be sure,” said Florian, with a shrug. “But in number seventeen you will not exactly be at a disadvantage. Good night, mademoiselle.”

  And, seeing that she had now presumed as far as was wise, Marianne bade her employer good night and went downstairs. Here she found Madame Rachel on the point of departure. But that lady paused to give her a sharp glance and say coldly, “A good vendeuse, like a well-behaved child, speaks when spoken to, Marianne. You must not think that, because Monsieur Florian occasionally interests himself personally, one may take the liberties.”

  “No, madame, I didn’t think that,” Marianne assured her humbly.
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  “Good. Then we understand ourselves,” said Madame Rachel somewhat ambiguously, and made a good exit.

  When Marianne reached home it was not really as late as she had expected, and since she had the unusual luxury of a telephone in her own room, she decided all at once that she would telephone Nat after all.

  I’d ask him if he’s coming to the Charities Fair, she thought. And then, somehow, I’ll casually introduce the subject of Lisette—and the pen. Though, as she dialed his number with a slightly unsteady hand, she knew perfectly well that “casually” was only a manner of speaking.

  The bell at the other end rang so long that she feared he must be out. But then, just as she was about to give up the attempt, Nat’s voice said abstractedly, “Yes? What is it?”

  “Oh, Nat—it’s Marianne. Am I calling too late?”

  “No, of course not. What sort of time is it, anyway? I haven’t been noticing. I’ve been busy on an article.”

  “Then I shouldn’t really interrupt you—”

  “It’s all right. I’m stuck, so I’m glad of a distraction. What have you been doing with yourself this evening?”

  “Working late,” explained Marianne, happy to be a welcome distraction. “We’ve been discussing plans for our exhibit at the Charities Fair. Do you know about it?”

  “On the fourteenth, isn’t it? At the Opera. A very big affair, I understand.”

  “Yes. I wondered if you’d be covering it for your paper.”

  “Well, it isn’t quite up my alley, but I might work it into something, I suppose. Lisette was anxious for me to come.”

  “Was she?” said Marianne. And, all at once, a cold fury took possession of her. She was sick of the sound of that name—of everything it implied—of all the misery that the owner of it seemed able to inflict upon her. And, without even pausing to think how unwisely she was acting, she went on, “Oh, yes—and speaking of Lisette reminds me—how does she come to be in possession of your pen?”

  “My pen?” She was almost certain she heard a subtle change in his tone. “What pen?”

  “You know perfectly well what pen!” The prevarication only added fuel to her anger. “The one I gave you. I chose it especially for you, and had your initials engraved on it. And now there’s Lisette, smirking around the boutique and openly displaying my pen!”

  “Mine, you mean,” Nat said coldly. “I thought you gave it to me.”

  “Well, I did! That’s why—” Marianne caught herself up and bit her lip, divided between a desire to cry and a desire to go on telling Nat just what she thought of him. “Look, Nat—” she made a tremendous effort to be calm and dignified “—you must understand how I feel about this. There was—”

  “And how about the way I feel at this moment,” his voice interrupted dryly, “with you berating me over the phone like this. I thought we were amicably discussing the Charities Fair, and suddenly I find myself more or less in the dock over a fountain pen.”

  “Not just a fountain pen!” Again she strove to sound calm. “I chose it especially—”

  “You’ve said that before,” he told her impatiently.

  “But, Nat, surely you understand. No one likes to see a—a gift of theirs passed on to someone else, as though it’s of no value.”

  “Oh, Marianne, for heaven’s sake! All this fuss about a pen!”

  She was struck silent with dismay, too confused and unhappy in that moment to be able to decide whether it were he or she who was being unreasonable. Then, steadying her voice with some difficulty, she said, “I’m sorry if I’m making too much of this. But one simply doesn’t give away a friend’s present to someone else, in that casual manner.”

  “Who says I gave it to her, in a casual manner?” he retorted impatiently.

  “Well, she has it, doesn’t she?” cried Marianne, beside herself with indignation and distress. “There she is, flaunting it around. The pen that I gave you—that you might have set a little value on—that—”

  Suddenly she stopped speaking, aware that there was a chilling silence at the other end.

  “N—Nat,” she said timidly. And then, more urgently, “Nat!”

  But there was no answer. Then, slowly, the incredible truth was borne in upon her. There was no one listening. Nat had quietly replaced his receiver.

  “Oh, no!” She actually shook her own receiver before, realizing how ridiculous this was. Then she slowly put it back on its stand.

  “What has happened to us?” she said aloud, though in a whisper, and she sat down on the side of her bed and rubbed her hands together as though they were cold. “We never spoke to each other like that before. I—I almost shouted at him—like a common shrew.”

  She wiped away a few tears with the backs of her hands.

  “I shouldn’t have spoken so. But then, he should have been frank with me! Why couldn’t he just say, ‘I gave it to her. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it, but—’ and then given a reason—any reason—for what he’d done?

  “Oh, it’s too absurd and horrible! All about a pen. That’s what he said himself. Only he made it sound as though I shouldn’t have minded. Perhaps I shouldn’t. Perhaps I should call him and apologize—”

  Her hand went out toward the telephone, but she drew it back. To call again now would savor of pestering him. Besides, she had her pride. Nat still had not explained about giving Lisette that wretched pen, and it was he who had rudely cut the conversation short.

  She would have to wait a day or two before she made any attempt at reconciliation. And perhaps—oh, surely—before then he would himself make some friendly approach.

  For a while Marianne buoyed herself up with this hope. It served to sustain her during most of the following day. But after that, both hopes and spirits drooped unbearably.

  A dozen times she was tempted to call Nat up and make some sort of apology, but a dozen times she resisted. It was not until three evenings later, with her spirits at their lowest ebb, that she finally capitulated. And then, although she let the phone ring for a long, long time, there was no reply. Inexpressibly chilled, she gave it up after that.

  Once more—as when she had been unable to get in touch with him earlier—it would have been even more unbearable if she had not had the excitement of her work to take her mind off her personal troubles. Apart from all the business that the new collection brought to the boutique, there was the question of selecting and discussing what was to be shown on the stall at the Charities Fair.

  Marianne had to be fitted with her dress. And, although it was probable that Nat would now never see her in it, she could not be less than entranced by the picture she presented in it.

  Florian had been quite right, as usual. The dress might have been inspired by and designed for her, and Florian himself expressed extreme satisfaction when he saw her in it.

  “It is perfect.” He walked around her, viewing her from every angle.

  “I’ve never worn anything so marvelous in my life before,” Marianne told him frankly.

  “No, of course not,” he said, just as frankly. And he looked faintly surprised when Marianne laughed.

  “We are supporting charities well,” was the dry comment of Madame Rachel, who in her dignified, faintly austere way also looked superb in the dress Florian had chosen for her.

  During all this time Marianne had seen nothing of Roger Senloe. She knew that he was away in Geneva, and she missed him more than she could have believed possible. If only he had been there, she thought she could have told him about the contretemps with Nat and asked him if he thought she had been unreasonable.

  Somehow, one could tell Roger Senloe things. There was something humorously impersonal about him that made it easy. Besides, after the time he had found her crying on a bench, it was no good starting to be inhibited with him. In some ways he knew more about her than almost anyone else.

  On the evening before the Charities Fair, Marianne accompanied Monsieur Florian and Madame Rachel to the Opera. And for the first tim
e she was able to see what a superb setting this was going to be for the fair.

  The great mirrored hall, where the audience would promenade in the intervals, had already been decorated—simply and yet almost with drama, as only the Parisians can decorate. Arc lights had been installed on the grand staircase, ready to shine upon ascending celebrities, and the great red carpet was ready to be rolled out, not only down the staircase, but outside the Opera, down the steps, to the very edge of the sidewalk.

  “Twenty girls from the top families of France will sell the program,” Madame Rachel explained to Marianne. “And there—” she indicated a small balcony “—is where the trumpeters will stand, to sound a fanfare for the most celebrated of the guests.”

  “It looks wonderful already,” Marianne declared. “Tomorrow, with all the lights and dresses, it will look a thousand times more wonderful,” Madame Rachel confidently prophesied. “Come, now we must get to work.”

  In the great mirrored hall the bare stands had been set up. And with incredible speed and skill Florian himself carried out the blending and draping of exquisite materials, until the skeleton stand was transformed into an exotically beautiful background for the things from the boutique.

  Marianne’s part consisted in little more than standing by, ready to hand whatever her employer required. But she was so completely absorbed in even this minor role that she had no eyes for anything else, until a familiar voice beside her said, “Very glamorous, I must say. And what’s your part in this?”

  “Oh—Roger! How nice!” She turned, smiling, to find both Roger Senloe and Madame Florian surveying the now almost completed stall. “I didn’t know you’d be back in time.”

  “I got in this afternoon. You know Marianne Shore, don’t you, Gabrielle?”