September in Paris Page 7

Noelle stared at the carpet. “I—I couldn’t sleep, so I came down to borrow a book. I saw the light and heard you opening a drawer, and I couldn’t think who it could be. There was something in the paper about burglaries, and I thought it must be happening to us.” She looked up at him. “I know it sounds crazy now, but I couldn’t see you properly and you looked quite different.”

  “Weren’t you frightened?” he asked curiously.

  “Yes—terrified,” she admitted, flushing.

  “But you still had a crack at me. That was a pretty brave thing to do,” he said quietly.

  “No, it wasn’t. It was stupid,” she said unhappily. “If you had been a burglar you would have got away, and I might have fractured your skull.” She was still too upset to be very coherent.

  “It was my fault for not putting more lights on, but I know this house so well that it wasn’t necessary,” Mark said. “I was at the reception with the others, and Sir Robert asked me to come back and get some papers for him.”

  Noelle bit her lip. “They’ll be furious about the candlestick. It’s probably very valuable.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll explain it. They’ll probably be amused,” he said smiling. “Like another shot of brandy?”

  “Oh, no, thank you. It was silly of me to get, in such a flap.”

  “Considering you thought you were battling with a Pepe le Moko, I think you’ve been remarkably calm. Most women would have gone into hysterics.”

  Noelle stood up. “I’d better go back to bed. I don’t think I’ll need that book now,” she added with a wry smile.

  Mark finished his drink and rose. “You’re stronger than you look,” he said, taking her glass. “I had quite a job to hold you. I hope I haven’t bruised your arms too badly.” He took one of her hands and pushed up the sleeve of her dressing gown. “Do you bruise easily?”

  Noelle was beginning to feel light-headed from the brandy.

  “I don’t know, I’ve never been grabbed like that before.” She brushed back a loose swathe of hair and swayed slightly.

  Mark’s hands went to her waist. “Steady on. Are you sure you can manage the stairs alone?”

  He was so close to her that she could smell a faint tang of shaving soap or after-shave lotion. As she remembered how, only a few minutes earlier, she had been pinioned against his strong chest, her efforts futile against his superior male strength, a strange tremor ran through her. For the second time that night her heartbeats quickened.

  “What is it?” Mark asked softly. “Still shaky, or”—he released her arm and moved a foot away—“did you think I was going to kiss you?”

  Noelle’s cheeks crimsoned. “Of course not,” she said shortly.

  There was a gleam of mockery in his eyes. “It occurred to me,” he said coolly. “But I thought that too much excitement in one night might bowl you over.”

  Noelle’s chin went up. “I’m sorry I delayed you, Mr. Fielding,” she said frigidly. “Goodnight.”

  Next morning Sir Robert came up to the nursery. “I hear you had rather an eventful evening, Nurse,” he said, smiling at her.

  Noelle flushed. “I’m sorry about the candlestick, Sir Robert. Do you think it can be repaired?”

  “Oh, don’t worry yourself about that. It was only a bit dented, but from what Mark Fielding tells me, he’s lucky not to be a hospital case.” He chuckled. “Is dealing with burglars part of the new curriculum at the College?”

  Noelle smiled. “I’m afraid I made rather a fool of myself.”

  “Well, it was fortunate you didn’t injure Fielding, but I must say I admire your pluck in tackling him,” Sir Robert said kindly.

  While he was chatting to Noelle, his wife and sister-in-law were also discussing the same matter. They were having coffee in Lady Tregan’s room.

  “What was Nurse doing downstairs at that hour?” Anne-Marie enquired, stifling a yawn.

  “Robert says he gave her permission to take books from the library. You know how informal he is,” Lady Tregan replied. She examined her nails for a moment, then glanced thoughtfully at, her sister: “Did Mark say anything last night?”

  Anne-Marie made a restless movement in her chair. “I didn’t come home with him. Rene Clermond brought me back.”

  Monique Tregan raised her eyebrows. “I am not sure that that is the right technique with Mark, cherie.”

  Anne-Marie shrugged. “What is the right technique?” She scowled at the toe of her satin mule. “Did you know that he arranged a picnic while we were away last week-end?”

  “So?” Lady Tregan poured more coffee and fitted a cigarette into her platinum holder. “He has always been very fond of Robert.”

  “Nurse went with them,” Anne-Marie said pointedly.

  “Oh, but that is absurd. I am sure he has scarcely noticed her,” her sister said with conviction.

  “He must have noticed her last night when she tried to hit him on the head. Besides, she is quite attractive, and Englishmen do like domesticated women.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Anne-Marie. If you are going to worry yourself about every pretty nursemaid, you will never get Mark,” Lady Tregan said sharply. “You are behaving like a schoolgirl. As I’ve told you before, the English like to conceal their emotions. It is possible that he is waiting for some encouragement from Robert. Personally, I am not sure that Mark is the best match for you. He is clever and Robert says he has a brilliant future. But he has no money of his own, and he will not be an easy man to live with.”

  Anne-Marie gave a sigh of repressed impatience. Her sister would never understand her feeling for Mark, because, to Monique the man was less important than what he could offer. It was not only money that her sister craved. Wealthier suitors than Rob Tregan had asked Monique to marry them, but they had been men whose social lives, though lavish enough by most standards, were confined to private entertainments, who were not in the public eye. She could never have been satisfied with playing hostess to a few business contacts, and a limited circle of friends.

  Anne-Marie often thought that her sister should have been an actress. From her early teens Monique had hungered for attention, for the public acknowledgement of her beauty. Now, as the wife of a distinguished British diplomat, she felt her need was satisfied. Pictures of her frequently appeared in both English and French society journals; her elegance and taste were often cited in the fashion glossies, and her position as Robert’s wife was an entree to the most exclusive milieux.

  “What will you do when Robert retires?” Anne-Marie asked suddenly, following this train of thought. “He may want to live in the country. I can’t see you taking to English rural life.”

  Lady Tregan’s mouth tightened. “What has that to do with this question of Mark?” she asked sharply. Her eyes narrowed. “You know, cherie, if something does not happen soon, you will have to consider your position very seriously. Robert is generous, but he cannot be expected to maintain you indefinitely. You may come to wish that you had accepted Pierre St. Juste. Now I must ring for Colette. I have an appointment with Guillaume at noon.”

  Anne-Marie went back to her own luxurious peach and white bedroom. She knew what was behind Monique’s remark, and she resented her sister’s power over her. Their parents had left them very little money, and until Monique’s marriage there had been barely enough to keep Anne-Marie at an expensive seminary and to allow Monique to move in the right circles for finding an eligible husband. It was Robert who had paid for his sister-in-law to attend an exclusive Swiss finishing school and who gave her her present generous pin money, and Monique was constantly reminding her of these facts.

  “She wants to get rid of me,” Anne-Marie thought bitterly. “She can’t bear to share the limelight—even with her sister!—and she knows she will have my allowance as soon as I marry. Well, I wouldn’t take Pierre to please her, or any others of her choice! I want Mark—and I’m going to have him!”

  Noelle spent her next free afternoon at the Louvre. She was meeting Alain at five
in the Place St. Michel, and as she wandered round the vast museum her thoughts kept going ahead to the coming evening.

  She was not so naive as to suppose that he was taking her about from motives of disinterested kindness to an English girl. But since he had shown no inclination to flirt with her, it was hard to think what his motive could be. Naturally, it was very pleasant to have a personable escort, and without him she would have seen less of the city than she had—certainly of the night life.

  He was waiting for her in a pavement cafe, and after having coffee together they spent a pleasant hour wandering about the side streets and looking at curio shops.

  “Where are we going this evening?” Noelle asked, when they had retraced their route to the Boulevard St. Michel, at this hour crowded with students.

  “I thought we might have supper at my studio,” Alain suggested, guiding her across the roadway.

  Unbidden, the thought of what Mark had said about him came back to her. Was it possible that in liking him, trusting him, she was being an ingenuous idiot?

  She might have known that Alain would guess her thoughts. “Don’t worry, petite. I am not planning to break our contract,” he said lightly.

  His studio was at the top of a large appartement house. The concierge was sitting in her lodge as they entered the building, but took no notice of them beyond announcing that the ascenseur was out of order.

  “I am sorry, it’s quite a climb to my floor,” Alain apologized as they started up the stairs.

  By the time they reached the top, Noelle was glad to catch her breath while Alain unlocked his door.

  He pushed it open and waited for her to precede him. Noelle had never known an artist before, but she had imagined their studios as being cluttered with impedimenta, probably none too clean and lit by a bleak north light. So she was taken aback to .find herself on the threshold of a luxuriously furnished room with a gleaming parquet floor, glowing Turkey rugs and wide brocade couches. To her left, a wall of glass overlooked a flat roof which had been paved with tiles and equipped with wicker loungers and tables and an enormous striped beach umbrella. And at the other end of the room, reached by a kind of step-ladder, was a small gallery with a divan on it. The only evidence that it was a studio was the easel in one corner and a number of canvases stacked at the side of a desk.

  “You like it?” Alain enquired, closing the door.

  “Yes, very much—but it’s not at all what I expected.”

  “I know, you visualized it as a tumbledown attic with peeling walls and a great many, empty bottles, and perhaps a sausage growing mildew on a chipped plate.”

  Noelle laughed. “Well, no—not quite as squalid as that. But this is more like a ... a...” She searched for the correct description.

  “A discreet hideaway in which to pursue my dissipated habits?” he suggested teasingly. “I told you I did not believe that art must flourish in a garret. Actually, it is perfectly practical. When I am working I draw those blinds.”

  He pointed upwards, and Noelle saw that part of the sloping roof was also made of glass but was at present screened by white voile awnings.

  “This desk is where I keep all my tools.” He pulled open several drapers, all full of painting equipment.

  “Have you started the portrait of Madame Alexandras yet?” she asked.

  “No. She comes to Paris next week, and then we will arrange the first sitting.”

  “How long does a portrait usually take?”

  He shrugged. “That depends on the length of the sittings and on the general character of the picture. Now this”—he pulled out one of the canvases—“was finished in a few days.” It was a picture of an old man sitting in a doorway, with a cheroot in his mouth and a tortoiseshell cat on his lap. Alain had captured all the wisdom and humor and experience of the seamed old face, and somehow this surprised Noelle. In spite of the drawing he had done for her at their first meeting and the Alexandras commission, she had not expected him to be capable of this kind of work. Perhaps his rather dilettante attitude had given her a false conception of his abilities, but now, although she knew nothing about the technicalities of painting, she realized immediately that he was extraordinarily gifted.

  “That was an easy one,” he explained. “The face is full of character and the old fellow could sit for hours without stirring. With women, particularly beautiful ones, it is more difficult. Either they have nothing in their faces, or they wish to conceal what is there. And if they are painted in evening dress with jewellery, it is often necessary to paint those details on a dummy.”

  “May I look at these other pictures?”

  “Of course. Then we will have an aperitif on the terrace and enjoy the last of the sun. I have arranged for a meal to be sent up from the restaurant across the street. I will let them know we are ready.”

  While he was telephoning, Noelle studied the ether canvases. There were several street scenes, a picture of anglers sitting on the quayside, and one of a young girl in black stockings.

  “Who is this?” Noelle asked, as Alain put down the receiver.

  “Oh, some little student from downstairs. She tries to copy Bardot—you see the tangled hair and the big pouting mouth—but she has something of her own that is pleasing.”

  He put the canvas away and turned to look at Noelle. “You also have something of your own, petite. You are not pretty enough to be put on a box of chocolates, but this”—he put up his hand and traced the line of her cheek and chin—“will last all your life. The chocolate-box girls are like flowers—they fade very quickly.”

  They went out onto the terrace, and presently a waiter came up with their supper on a covered tray. It was still warm enough to eat outside, and after they had finished, the meal and it was beginning to grow dusk, they sat watching the lights go on in the surrounding buildings, each window giving a glimpse into other people’s lives.

  “There, you see, that is what will happen to you when you are middle-aged if life has not gone well,” Alain said, indicating the room directly opposite them.

  It was a kitchen, and a stout woman was standing with her arms akimbo, haranguing the meek little man who was eating his supper. Finally she flounced away, and even from this distance they could see her husband give a sigh of relief before continuing his meal in peace.

  “Well, I may get fat and blowsy, but I hope I don’t turn into a termagant,” Noelle said wryly.

  A light was switched on in a room one floor lower down, and they both leaned forward to see what this window would show. It seemed to be a bed-sitting room, and a young couple were dumping some parcels on a chair. Then the man caught the girl in his arms, and regardless of the undrawn curtains they became locked in a passionate embrace.

  “It’s getting cool now. I think perhaps we had better go inside,” Alain said, with laughter in his voice. As they left the terrace Noelle saw him glance over the balustrade again.

  “I suppose if you were alone you would go on watching them,” she said dryly.

  He grinned at her. “Why should I watch other people when I can participate? Anyway, she just pushed him away, and started opening their parcels.” He switched on some lamps, and pulled a cord which drew a curtain along the whole length of the glass and shut out the terrace. Noelle wondered if the waiter would come back for the tray. She was suddenly very conscious of their isolation.

  “Tell me, if we had not made our contract, would you have dined with me here?” Alain asked.

  She moved across to the bookshelves and began to scan the titles. “I don’t know. I expect so. In England people often meet in each other’s flats and bed-sitters.” She took down a book and opened it. “Anyway, even if we didn’t have a contract, I could always yell for help,” she said lightly.

  Alain came up behind her. “Are you really interested in that, or do you feel safer with a book in your hand?”

  She bit her lip, but before she could say anything he went on, “You know, in these last few times we have met, you hav
e been different,” he said quietly, his face serious now. “I think you are not perfectly at ease with me any more. There must be some reason, Noelle.”

  “Oh, Alain ... you’re imagining it. Why should I be different?”

  “I don’t know yet. But it is so.”

  She replaced the book and moved away, picking up a porcelain ornament to look at the base.

  “Sevres,” he said, following her. “Has someone been warning you about me?”

  Her swift, startled glance gave her away. “No ... I ...” Her denial tailed off as his mouth twisted into a sardonic grimace.

  “I suppose it was inevitable. Someone was bound to see us together and conceive it their duty to warn you.”

  “Oh, Alain, please—” She crossed the distance between them and laid her hand on his arm. “If somebody had said something I wouldn’t have believed it. I like you.”

  He smiled. “I like you, too, ma petite—and, for me, that is very unusual. I think perhaps we could have managed a friendship.”

  “Could have? But we are managing it,” she said quickly.

  He gave her a strange look. “What was it you were told?”

  She avoided his eyes. “Nothing very detrimental. I—I think the person concerned was afraid that I might ... well, fall in love with you.”

  “And could you do that?”

  She colored. “Can’t we forget all this? I—I don’t know how it started,” she said awkwardly.

  “It started because I could sense that you were on edge,” Alain said evenly. “You may not want to believe what you were told about me, but I don’t think you plan ignore it.”

  “All right, if we must discuss it, you may as well tell me,” Noelle said, with sudden bluntness. “Why have you been so kind to me?”

  Alain’s mouth twitched. “The answer to that is in your mirror, cherie. At first I was attracted by your looks. As I said before supper, you have an appealing face.”

  “That can’t be the only reason,” she persisted. “There are thousands of passable-looking girls in Paris. Why choose me?”

  He lit a cigarette. “Perhaps because you enjoy everything so much. Such enthusiasm is infectious. And now I think it is time I took you home.”