Paris - And My Love Page 9

  “Yes, indeed.” Gabrielle Florian greeted Marianne kindly, and then turned to her husband. “I brought along the rose spray, Georges, in case you wanted to see how it looked.”

  “It will not be needed until tomorrow,” Florian murmured abstractedly. “None of the valuable stuff will be left here overnight.”

  “I know. But I thought you might like to see the effect—”

  “Yes, yes.” Gently but firmly, Florian put her out of his way, a little as though he had not really noticed who she was, and went on with his work.

  Gabrielle Florian shrugged, laughed and turned to the other two.

  “We came too soon,” she remarked to Roger. “For half an hour longer we still don’t exist.”

  “It won’t be long now, madame,” Marianne said, with a smile. “And meanwhile, please could I see the rose spray? I’ve heard such a lot about it, but I’ve never seen it.”

  “Why, of course.” Obligingly, Gabrielle opened a jewel case she was holding, and Marianne exclaimed aloud with admiration and delight.

  “I usually wear it as a shoulder brooch, on a black evening dress,” Madame Florian explained, turning the case this way and that, so that the light caught the brilliants and struck curious shafts of color from them.

  It was quite a large spray and beautifully fashioned. But what made it particularly lovely was that the flowers and leaves were poised on such delicate stems of platinum wire that they actually trembled and shifted, as though they had some life of their own.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it before,” Marianne said.

  “It’s very unusual. That’s why I felt I should lend it for this occasion. My husband was rather against the idea, and, I believe, Madame Rachel, too.”

  “But we’ll take the greatest care of it,” Marianne promised.

  “I’m sure you will,” Gabrielle Florian said with a smile.

  And then her husband seemed to become aware of her, and called her to his side to give her opinion about something, and Marianne and Roger were left alone together for a few moments.

  “Well, how’s boutique life?” he inquired, smiling down at her indulgently.

  “Wonderful. I’m enjoying it immensely.”

  “That’s fine. And—everything else?”

  “Well...” Even there, in the midst of the preparations for the Charities Fair, Marianne was tempted to start pouring out her troubles to him, for that was the effect this big, smiling Englishman seemed to have upon her. But recollecting just in time that this was no place for extended confidences, she contented herself with saying, “Not quite smooth sailing. But I’m hoping to—to clear things up soon. I’ll—I’ll tell you another time.”

  “Will you really? I’m flattered.”

  “Why?” asked Marianne simply.

  “That you place so much confidence in me, I suppose.”

  “Oh—that? It seems the natural thing to do. I mean—”

  “No, don’t explain it away,” be begged her with a laugh. “That’s a very nice compliment. I had no idea anyone valued my discretion and judgment so highly.”

  “But of course they do! Ask Madame Florian,” Marianne told him.

  But he smiled and shook his head slightly.

  “I—think not. Not nowadays,” he said. And for a moment he glanced across, with a sort of impatient tenderness, toward the fair-haired girl who was in such earnest colloquy with Florian.

  Why, thought Marianne, in sudden wondering realization, he’s still in love with her! And somehow the discovery gave her a slight shock.

  No one stayed very long after that. Florian expressed himself as satisfied with the arrangements, as far as they could take them at this point, and Marianne and Madame Rachel were sent home, with the injunction to come in an hour later in the morning, as there was no knowing how late they would be working the following evening.

  To complete Marianne’s pleasure, she was given an extra pass for the fair, and this she decided to hand on to her American neighbor, who had so ardently wanted to go when she first mentioned the occasion.

  “You angel! You little gold-plated angel!” cried Sadie, embracing her when the ticket was handed over. “I’ve been dying to go, but couldn’t possibly rustle up the money for it. Do you really mean that, out of all Paris, you’re going to let me have this?”

  “Yes, certainly.” Marianne laughed, and reflected that, out of all Paris, there were very few people she knew well enough to invite. There would have been Nat, of course, if only—

  “Don’t any of your colleagues want it? Not that I’m going to give it up, now that I’m actually clutching it in my hot little hand,” declared Sadie.

  “They have chances of other things,” Marianne said. “Except—” She stopped suddenly, thinking remorsefully of Marcelle.

  “Don’t remember any deserving exceptions now,” begged Sadie. “It isn’t any good.”

  “It wouldn’t be any good, in any case,” Marianne said, smilingly shaking her head. “This one has a patient and demanding mother, I understand, who probably wouldn’t let her go.”

  “Preserve me from that sort of parent!” exclaimed Sadie fervently. “Thank heavens mine is back in Wisconsin, and much too busy to be either patient or demanding.”

  But, when Marianne arrived at the boutique the following morning, it appeared that Monsieur Florian could even take patient and demanding mothers in his stride. For a flushed and sparkling Marcelle greeted her rapturously.

  “Imagine! I too am to go to the fair—and sell at the boutique stall. Monsieur Florian has decided it at the very last moment, so that maman has not even time to be ill about it. I mean—” she caught herself up guiltily “—only this morning she said she was feeling better. Monsieur Florian himself telephoned her and explained that he needed another vendeuse, after all, and that he wanted it to be me. And I am to wear number sixty-four in the collection, because it fits me almost exactly. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “Absolutely marvelous!” declared Marianne, from her heart. And she actually kissed Marcelle in her enthusiasm.

  After that everything was excitement and gaiety. The usual effervescing atmosphere in both fashion house and boutique threatened to erupt at any moment in volcanic proportions, and only cold applications of common sense administered from time to time by Madame Moisant served to quell actual hysteria.

  Even so, everything was completed in order and on time. The collection received its daily showing, customers were welcomed, dealt with and wafted on their way, and finally, at the appointed time, Marianne and Marcelle, attired in their Florian finery, went by taxi to the Opera, where Monsieur Florian and Madame Rachel had completed the arrangement of the boutique stall.

  Everything was now in order. And as the mirrored walls gave back endless reflections of the colorful scene, Marianne thought she had never seen anything more beautiful in her life.

  “But ours is the loveliest of all,” declared Marcelle, in a very partisan sort of way. “The other stalls are nice. But no one has a hand like Monsieur Florian.”

  Marianne was fain to agree. And as the first visitors began to arrive, the stall representing the Florian boutique began to be one of the chief centers of attraction. Many greeted Madame Rachel as an old friend, and from time to time the models from Florian’s would drift up to exult with childish openness in the superiority of “their” stall.

  Even Lisette lingered admiringly for some time. And she took the opportunity to say, with insolent carelessness to Marianne, “Nat will not come until later. I told him the collection will not be shown until midnight.”

  “Did you?” returned Marianne coldly, and somehow she contrived to hide her mingled eagerness and uneasiness in the thought that Nat was coming, after all.

  She was kept pretty busy, for Madame Rachel had explained that she herself would often have to spend a while being gracious and social to a customer, and that during that time, Marianne must consider herself in charge.

  Marcelle proved unexpected
ly helpful. But, even so, whenever Madame Rachel sauntered away from the stall with someone—which she did from time to time—Marianne felt her responsibilities weigh heavily upon her.

  On the other hand, there was so much to amuse and delight one, simply in glancing around. And then, during one of those intervals of her being left in charge, her roving glance fell on a familiar figure. Only some yards away, though a gap in the crowd, she saw Nat—and he was looking straight at her, an expression of almost wondering admiration on his face.

  And suddenly she knew that, in the Florian dress, she had impinged on his consciousness for the very first time as a beautiful girl in her own right. Not as Yvonne’s sister. Not as a “wonderful confidante and safety valve,” but as Marianne.

  “Nat!” Forgetting everything else, she went quickly toward him, aware that this was the moment for putting everything right.

  “Marianne, you look absolutely stunning!” He caught her hands in his. “Gosh! I’d no idea you were such a beauty.”

  “Oh, thank you.” She laughed for sheer happiness. “It’s the dress, really.”

  “It’s nothing of the sort. It’s you. Let’s get out of this bedlam and go somewhere where we can talk.”

  “No, I can’t. I’m in charge—” Suddenly she remembered her responsibilities and actually turned to go. But he held her hand tightly still.

  “You can’t go yet. I must talk to you. Marianne, I’m confoundedly sorry about the other evening—”

  “Oh, it was my fault, too! I shouldn’t have nagged you, I was so ashamed of myself afterward.”

  “You didn’t need to be. I deserved to be kicked. I meant to explain—”

  “Nat dear, it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters if we’re friends again.”

  “Doesn’t it?” he said slowly. “Is that really how you feel?”

  “Yes, of course. Only—I must go. I simply must go, Nat. I’m not supposed to leave the stall while Madame Rachel is away. Marcelle can’t cope on her own.”

  “But when can I see you to talk to you properly?”

  “Perhaps later. If not, call me up tomorrow evening. Oh, Nat, I’m so happy to be friends again! Only let me go now.”

  He laughed at that and drew her quickly against him and kissed her before he let her go.

  He had kissed her sometimes before, of course, only in a brotherly sort of way. This was not in a brotherly way. And as she almost ran back to the stall, she seemed to feel the firm, warm touch of his lips still on her cheek.

  She was happy and bewildered and remorseful, all at the same time, but the one thing that mattered was that she and Nat were friends again. Perhaps—more than friends.

  To a flustered Marcelle, who was trying to cope with two customers at once, she murmured a contrite apology. Then, automatically, she cast a quick, comprehensive glance over the stall. It all looked lovely still. Everything—

  And then suddenly she gave a gasp of incredulous horror.

  Not all of it looked lovely still. In the center stood an empty velvet stand. Madame Florian’s rose spray brooch had disappeared.

  CHAPTER SIX

  For one frightful, panic-stricken moment, Marianne really thought she was going to faint. Then her heart began to pound in slow, heavy thuds, and she felt the blood being pumped back into her pale face. But she still stood there, transfixed by the sight of that empty stand.

  “What is it? For heaven’s sake, Marianne, what is wrong?” Marcelle, free now from the importunities of her two customers, came to stand at her side. “Have you had bad news or something?”

  “It’s—the brooch.” Marianne found she had a curious difficulty in forming words. “Look! Madame Florian’s rose spray brooch is gone!”

  “Nonsense! it can’t be!” A curious, almost greenish pallor spread over Marcelle’s face, and for a moment Marianne regretted having drawn her attention to what had happened. But the shock would have been the same if she had suddenly noted the loss for herself.

  “But it was there—not five minutes ago,” Marcelle whispered. “And only I was at the stall serving. They’ll say it was my fault,” she added, with the hopeless certainty of one who was used to blame.

  “No, they won’t,” Marianne asserted stoutly. “The fault was mine. I was in charge while Madame Rachel was away. It was my responsibility. I shouldn’t have left the stall.”

  “Then why did you leave the stall?” Marcelle asked distractedly.

  “I went to speak to a—a friend.”

  “Was that all?” Marcelle sounded incredulous.

  “It was rather important to me. But never mind that now. The point is—what are we to do? It—it couldn’t have slipped down, could it?”

  In the forlorn hope that it might have done so, the two girls probed anxiously among the other things on the stall, but with no result. At the same time, they had to preserve a semblance of all being well, and be ready to attend to any customer who might choose to stop.

  Fortunately, at this point, repeated fanfares from the grand staircase proclaimed the fact that the really distinguished guests were arriving. With one accord the crowds began to make for the stairs, and Marianne and Marcelle had a few minutes in which to consider what they could do.

  “You didn’t notice anyone pausing unduly long near the stall, I suppose?” Marianne asked hopelessly.

  “Not really. How could I? I was busy serving. But of course there were people coming and going all the time. It—it could have been any of them. Except that surely no one would steal on an occasion like this?”

  Marianne was silent, unable to share this charitable supposition.

  “How are we going to tell Madame Rachel?” Marcelle was nearly crying. “And, still more, Monsieur Florian?”

  “Let me worry about that,” Marianne said resolutely. “You’re in no way to blame, Marcelle. And I’ll see no one goes for you.”

  “But why should you?” The other girl still seemed unable to believe in the possibility of being cleared.

  “Because I’m not in the least like your patient maman,” retorted Marianne bluntly. “If only I knew—”

  And then, with a feeling of immense, if illogical, relief, she saw Roger Senloe making his way toward them.

  She signalled urgently to him, and as soon as he came within speaking distance she exclaimed, “Oh, Roger, thank heaven you’ve come! Something awful has happened.”

  “What? One of the other designers set up a better exhibit than Florian? My word, you girls look attractive!”

  “Never mind that now! I mean something really awful. Madame Florian’s rose brooch has disappeared—been stolen.”

  “Good Lord!” Immediately his lazily indulgent smile changed to something like consternation, and his glance went to the empty stand. “Does Florian know?”

  “N-no,” said Marianne uncertainly. “No one knows yet except us. It’s only just happened.”

  “When you were both busy selling?”

  For a moment Marianne was most sorely tempted to say a simple yes to that. If she did so, no one could blame her. She could take refuge in the story that, like Marcelle, she had been too busy to notice what was happening. Madame Florian had taken a calculated risk in lending her brooch. She had just been unlucky.

  But—she glanced at Roger’s grave face—one didn’t tell lies to Roger. Nor to Florian, come to that. The sorry truth had to be told.

  “I wasn’t selling,” she said deliberately. “The responsibility is mine, I’m afraid. I left the stall, in Madame Rachel’s absence, which I was not supposed to do. I ran across to ... to speak to Nat. And when I came back the brooch had gone. It wasn’t Marcelle’s fault. She had to attend to two customers because I was missing. She couldn’t do any more.”

  “I should perhaps have kept better watch,” Marcelle suggested, timidly but loyally.

  “You couldn’t do more than you did,” persisted Marianne stubbornly.

  “That seems a pretty fair statement,” agreed Roger gravely. “Where is Madame Rac
hel?”

  “I’m not very sure. One of the real vips wanted her, and she left me in charge. That was when it happened.”

  “Then I’d better get hold of Florian. He’ll have to know eventually, and the fewer intermediaries the better. I suppose the thing was insured, along with everything else here. But of course it’s the sentimental value that one can’t replace.”

  “I know,” Marianne said dejectedly.

  “Well, cheer up. I’ll find Florian. And if Madame Rachel comes back first, I’d be inclined not to rush into explanations. She may not notice the loss at once.”

  Roger went away, and the two girls made another forlorn search, which was interrupted by the return of Madame Rachel, in a brisk and cheerful mood.

  “All goes very well,” she observed to her two young vendeuses, who secretly thought that all went very badly. “It is a pity that one cannot also hear the performance, but this is not what we are here for. I peeped into the house from one of the upper boxes, and the scene was splendid. Indeed, in Paris we know how to put on a gala!”

  “Yes, madame,” agreed Marianne with an effort, while Marcelle could not even produce a simple word of agreement.

  “Have you been busy?” The director of the boutique swept an all-seeing glance over her two assistants and their stall. As she did so, she emitted a sharp little scream, and Marianne found herself wondering why on earth they had supposed that the empty stand would escape Madame Rachel’s eagle glance.

  “The rose brooch!” she gasped. “Madame Florian’s brooch! It is gone!”

  “Yes, madame,” said Marianne again. “We—we have just discovered the loss.”

  “You have just discovered it! And you stand there saying, ‘Yes, madame,’ and ‘No, madame,’ as though nothing has happened!” cried the infuriated director—inaccurately, for no one yet had dared to say, “No, madame.”