September in Paris Read online

  “Thank you.”' Noelle had to force herself to look unconcerned as she stepped quickly through the gap. As she walked to the gates he gave a low whistle, and her cheeks burned with annoyance.

  Alain was waiting at the corner of the street in a rakish silver coupe. He heard her heels on the pavement and sprang to greet her. He too took in the details of her appearance, but his appreciative smile was not in the least offensive.

  “You are ravissante!” he said, bending over her hand. “Now let us be off. If I must bring you home at such a respectable hour, we have no time to waste.”

  “Where are we going, and what are we celebrating?” Noelle asked, as he tucked her into the car.

  “The first is to be a surprise. The celebration is because I have been, given an important commission.”

  “Oh? What is it?” Noelle asked, with interest.

  “Does the name Caspar Alexandras mean anything to you?”

  “Why, yes—he’s the man who owns all those luxury hotels round the Mediterranean, isn’t he? Are you going to paint him?”

  Alain threw back his head and laughed. “Heaven forbid! He is as ugly as Satan—and probably twice as wicked. One does not make that kind of money by being a man of scruple. No, it is this! Monsieur Alexandras has recently married again. I am not sure whether it is his third or fourth venture, but apparently it is his custom to have a portrait painted of each of his brides. Perhaps he hangs, them in a secret room, like Bluebeard. The first three—or is it four?—were painted by artists who have already established a reputation. This time he has selected someone comparatively unknown. Myself!”

  “But that’s wonderful, Alain. How did it happen? I didn’t realize you were interested in portraiture.”

  He shrugged. “It is the best way to make oneself known, and fortunately I have a reasonable facility. There are some painters who will accept only the work that accords with their true ambitions. For myself, I prefer to enjoy life while waiting to achieve my ambitions. To live, in penury may ennoble the spirit; but it does nothing for the flesh: You disapprove of such a view?”

  “I know practically nothing about it,” she replied. “I only wonder if perhaps one tends to lose sight of one’s real ambitions if one puts them aside for a time. You still haven’t told me how you got this commission.”

  “Oh, one has contacts, you know,” he said rather too casually.

  “Is Madame Alexandras attractive?”

  “But naturally. Our friend Caspar is very discriminating. Only a beautiful woman would do justice to the Alexandras jewels.”

  “Have you met her?”

  “Yes, several times. She is a Parisienne.”

  “If I were her husband I think I should have doubts about choosing you to paint her,” Noelle said laughingly. “He’s at least fifty-five, isn’t he? She can only have married him for his money.”

  “Oh, yes, it is not a love match,” Alain agreed dryly. Then after a slight pause, “Do you think I am not to be trusted with other men’s wives?”

  “I didn’t mean that, but supposing she fell in love with you?”

  “Am I so irresistible?” he asked quizzically.

  Noelle laughed. “No, but you’re more attractive than Monsieur Alexandras.”

  “But I do not have the advantage of an immense fortune, and Claudine’s first love is money.”

  “Claudine?” Noelle queried.

  Glancing sideways at him, she thought she detected a momentary flicker of embarrassment in his face, but he said quite casually, “She was Claudine Malparin before her marriage.”

  By this time they had reached the Place de la Concorde, and Alain drew up outside the Hotel Crillon where a liveried doorman hurried forward to help Noelle out.

  “What are you smiling at?” Alain asked her, when they were seated in a corner of the famous bar.

  “Only that, when I came to Paris, I never expected to be dining at the best hotels.”

  “Why not? You are a lovely girl, and this is the right setting for you.”

  Noelle laughed. “It must be men like you who give Frenchmen the reputation for being so gallant, Alain.”

  “You think I am insincere?”

  “No ... but I think you exaggerate a little.”

  “Don’t you know that you are lovely?” His glance moved to a point beyond her shoulder. “Tell me what you think of the woman in the black dress.”

  Noelle waited a moment, then shifted her position so that she could see whom he meant. “Now, she really is ravishing,” she said, with genuine admiration.

  “More attractive than yourself?”

  “Well, I’d have to be very vain not to think so.”

  “You’re wrong, cherie. It is true that her dress is probably from Dior and her jewels worth many thousand francs. Her figure is good and her maquillage excellent. But, to a man, these things are of only passing importance. They may attract the first glance, but they cannot hold the attention. What else do you notice about her?”

  “She has a sable stole, and lovely shoes, and very pretty hands.”

  “Shall I tell you what I see?” There was a cynical twist to his lips as he studied the woman in black. “She has a hard mouth,” he said slowly. “Perhaps that is because her shoes are a size too small, or because it requires much painful distortion of the figure to achieve that fashionable line. Her eyes are hard and cold: she is, afraid that someone else may have a more impressive fur, or perhaps more, expensive jewellery. Those gestures of the hands are not natural, they would soon become irritating. Now you”—he turned to study Noelle and his mouth softened—“you have none of these artifices. Your figure is natural, your mouth is soft, your eyes are never hard. That is what attracts the second glance.”

  Noelle was a little overwhelmed by this, and could not help coloring.

  “You see—you even blush,” he said teasingly. “It is years since that other one blushed. Now if I could paint you as you are when you blush—that would be a real achievement. To capture that quality of innocence, it would not be easy.”

  “I should have thought sophistication would have more appeal to you,” Noelle said candidly.

  His mouth twitched. “There are many sophisticated women. To the connoisseur it is the rara avis which is most exciting. Shall we dine now?”

  It was some time before Noelle could follow up his last remark as, when they had been shown to a table in the restaurant, Alain had a prolonged consultation with the maitre d’hotel. He did not ask Noelle what she would like to eat, and for this she was relieved, as the menu looked very long and complicated. When the meal had been chosen a sommelier came forward with the wine list and there was another discussion.

  “You like champagne, I hope?” Alain said, smiling at her, when at last these preliminaries were concluded.

  Noelle said she did, refraining from telling him that she had drunk it only twice before in her life, at the weddings of friends. Presently a tall stand supporting a silver bucket of crushed ice was wheeled alongside their table, and the ritual of uncorking the bottle was ceremoniously performed.

  “To the entente cordiale—long may it flourish!” Alain said gaily, lifting his glass to her.

  It was not until the first course had been served and the waiters had withdrawn that Noelle was able to put her question.

  “Are you a connoisseur of women, Alain?” she asked curiously.

  He laughed. “So your suspicions are aroused. Would you prefer it if I told you that, until now, I have had no interest in your sex?”

  “That’s going to the other extreme, and I should not believe it.”

  “But you are prepared to believe the first extreme?”

  “It seems more likely,” she admitted, sipping the chilled golden wine. They were eating caviar, and after the first cautious taste she found that the glistening dark globules, garnished with finely chopped onion and hard-boiled egg and accompanied by very thin toast, wore unexpectedly delicious.

  Alain gave her a rather
thoughtful look. “It is a subject on which the French and English have different views,” he said slowly. “We take love more lightly—but also more seriously. So for a Frenchman to have enjoyed the society of many women is not at all discreditable. In England, so I understand, it is quite the reverse.”

  “It depends what you mean by ‘enjoying the society of many women’,” Noelle said amusedly. “We don’t disapprove of friendships, but to have a succession of flirtations is not considered very proper.”

  “Ah, friendships! Now that is something we can never understand. In France such an attitude is quite impossible. Men have men friends and women make friends of other women, but friendship between a man and a woman—never!” he said emphatically.

  “But why not?” Noelle asked seriously.

  He spread his hands. “It is against nature. Men and women love, or they do not live.”

  “Well, it’s not against nature in England, and we’re all the same species,” she said reasonably.

  “You have had friendships with Englishmen?” he enquired.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And these never developed into something more than friendship?”

  “No, never.”

  “Then it is clear that these young men were never of any interest to you.”

  “Not in any romantic way,” she agreed. “But we still had a lot of fun going about together and discussing things and being ... well, the way friends are with each other. I think it’s a very pleasant relationship.”

  His blue eyes glinted. “Very well—we will try it,” he said briskly. “We will see if it is possible for a Frenchman and an English girl to achieve this interesting state of mind. The experiment appeals to you?”

  “I thought we already had achieved it?” Noelle replied, with a glimmer of mischief.

  The conversation was interrupted while the caviar dishes were whisked away and replaced by rognons de veau flambés.

  “So you do not feel there is any danger of our relations becoming more ... complicated?” he said presently.

  “We’ve only met about four or five times,” she reminded him.

  “Ah, but this is Paris, and, even when it is not spring, the atmosphere is very conducive to romance, don’t you think?”

  “I think we should change the subject,” Noelle said laughingly.

  “Very well. What shall we discuss?”

  “Tell me more about your painting. You must be quite successful already,” she said, with a gesture that encompassed their opulent surroundings. “Do you have a studio at your grandmother’s house?”

  He shook his head. “No, there is no room where the light is suitable. I have an appartement near the Boulevard St. Michel. It is better for my work, and also if I wish to entertain without disturbing grand’mere. Perhaps, when we have met more often, you will come to see it. I think you will like it.”

  “Did you always want to be an artist?” Noelle asked.

  “Yes, but if my father had lived I should have had to follow the family tradition and become a soldier. He was killed in the war and my mother also died then. She was never robust, and the privations of that time were too much for her. My grandmother took charge of me, and for her, tradition is less important than making the best use of one’s abilities.”

  For the remainder of the meal he talked about his boyhood, and elicited a good deal of information from Noelle. It was after nine o’clock when they finally left the hotel and, glancing at his watch, Alain suggested a drive in the Bois de Boulogne before he took her home.

  “Don’t look alarmed, petite. I am not going to try to make love to you. We have contracted to be friends—remember?” he said smilingly, when she looked a little doubtful.

  Noelle’s grandmother had often talked about the famous ‘Bois’ where, in the hottest weeks of the summer, when the city was dusty and stifling, there were always shady green glades and cool breezes blowing over the lakes and cascades.

  By moonlight, and with, colored fairy-lamps strung among the trees, the forest was even lovelier than Noelle had imagined. After a while, Alain turned off the main avenue and let the car glide to a standstill beneath the trees. But although they stayed in that quiet spot for nearly half an hour, with only the rustle of leaves to disturb their seclusion, he kept his promise and did not even attempt to hold her hand. And promptly at half-past ten he delivered her to her, door.

  The next day Noelle learned that the Tregans and Mademoiselle du Val were spending the weekend out of town. On Friday afternoon she was summoned to her employer’s bedroom, where the maid was busily packing a suitcase. Lady Tregan was lying on the chaise-longue by the window, a pad of lotion-soaked cotton wool over her eyes.

  “Oh, Nurse; I should prefer you to remain on duty while we are away,” she said, sitting up. “You can make up your lesiure periods during the week. Duvet will also be away for the weekend, so, if you are out, there will be no responsible person in the house. You will have our telephone number, and if anything unusual should occur, if either of the children is ill, for example, I wish you to let me, know immediately.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  Noelle went back to the nursery. She would have to let Alain know that she could not go to Chartres with him on Sunday afternoon. It was a disappointment, because soon the weather would be too chilly for such expeditions and, apart from that, most of the chateaux and other places of interest were closed to the public after the middle of September. So she wanted to see as much as possible in the short time before autumn set in.

  On Sunday morning she was dressing the baby for an airing in the park when Mark Fielding came upstairs.

  “I wondered if you’d like to come for a picnic at Vincennes,” he suggested. “You can make up a bottle for the baby, can’t you? She’ll be quite comfortable in her basket in the back of the car.”

  “A picnic! A picnic!” Robert shouted gleefully, dashing off to fetch his beloved rabbit which, although it did not invariably accompany him to the park, was always taken on any major outings.

  “It’s very kind of you, Mr. Fielding. Do you think Lady Tregan would mind?” Noelle asked uncertainly.

  “Why should she?” he said reasonably. “I’ve got our lunch in the car. Is there anything I can give you a hand with?”

  “I’d better put Robert in some old clothes. He’ll probably get himself filthy.”

  “I can get him ready if you give me the things. Why don’t you change yourself? Have you got any slacks? They’ll be more comfortable than that uniform for sitting around on the grass.”

  Noelle found Robert’s dungarees and sandals. “What time shall we be back?” she asked.

  “Oh, about four, if that’s all right with you?” Mark answered.

  “Yes, of course, but I’d better take a couple of bottles and some tinned fruit puree. Victoire has such an appetite, and she’ll howl herself purple if she’s hungry.”

  When she had got the baby’s things together she went to her own room, and pulled on a pair of coral linen slacks and a short-sleeved cotton shirt of green, and white peppermint stripes. The morning, which a few minutes earlier had seemed quiet and workaday, had suddenly become promising.

  In the car Robert sat beside Mark, and Noelle shared the back seat with the Moses basket. Victoire was sleeping peacefully, her, chubby arms flung up above her head.

  “Are we going to the sea, Uncle Mark?” Robert asked, bouncing on his seat and waving to a gendarme.

  “Not today, old chap.” Mark braked at the traffic lights, and they drew alongside a Lambretta with a very pretty girl on the pillion. Noelle saw her give him an interested glance.

  All Noelle could see of him was a pair of broad shoulders and the back of a well-shaped head, the crisp dark hair cut short in the English fashion. She wondered if he had a great many girl friends and, if so, why he, wasn’t out with one of them today.

  It was not a long drive to Vincennes, and by twelve o’clock they had found an ideal picnic place and Robert was
scampering happily about among the bushes. This was a much better playground than the orderly paths and lawns of the Parc Monceau.

  While Mark and Robert explored their surroundings Noelle leaned against a tree and relaxed, occasionally lifting a hand to wave an insect away from the baby.

  When the others came back Robert was hungry, and Mark started to unpack the lunch. Noelle offered to help, but was told to rest. Watching him unpack the crusty milk rolls and slice a garlic sausage, she found herself comparing him with Alain. Superficially, there was a certain similarity between them. Both were good-looking, experienced and assured. But Noelle sensed that Mark had a depth of character which Alain probably lacked, and that Mark was the more practical of the two. She could not imagine Alain coping with children or putting their amusement before his own. Yet, in some ways, she felt more at home with the Frenchman. It was easier to read his expression, and she had a feeling that he was more tolerant and less exacting.

  She was roused from her thoughts by Mark handing her a split roll filled with sausage and sweet cream cheese. He had even realized that the sausage might not suit Robert’s stomach, and had given the little boy a softer roll with chicken in it.

  “You’re very efficient,” she said smilingly.

  He arched an eyebrow at her. “Why not? Do you think men ought to be muddlers?”

  “No, but it can be preferable. A friend of mine married a zoologist who’d spent most of his bachelor life in the remoter parts of South America. He could make the most wonderful meals out of baked beans and cheese rind, and always darned his own socks. He wasn’t very sympathetic over her first efforts at cooking and keeping house.”

  “Men can do most things better than women if they apply themselves,” he said evenly.

  Noelle suspected that he was baiting her. “They don’t have the same distractions,” she said, without heat. “It’s practically impossible to do great works with babies tagging at your apron strings. Children and concentration just don’t go together.”

  “You seem to manage these two without much effort.”