He was immediately full of concern. “Of course, you must be. All this walking around we’ve done since dinner.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “I’m afraid I haven’t been very good company for you tonight, but we’ll make up for it. What about tomorrow night?”
“I ... if you don’t mind, Simon I’d like to be on my own for the next few days ... find my way around, explore a bit.”
“But what about the evenings?” he protested.
“I’ll be all right. I’m sure you must have friends you want to visit, spend some time with. Besides, you may find out much more in the evenings—that’s when people have the most leisure. People who might give you the most valuable information perhaps only visit their haunts after dark. Why not give me a call, say Saturday, if you’re free?” He mustn’t feel obligated to ask her out to dinner every evening as if it were his duty, she thought.
“Very well,” he said stiffly, “if that is what you want. But, Angela, I’d feel much happier if you’d promise to phone my mother. I don’t like the idea of your being alone.”
“I promise ... and thank you.”
He looked at her for a moment, then took her hand.
“Good night, my dear. The thanks are all on my side for the understanding and help you’ve given me tonight. If I have any success in my search before Saturday, may I call you? I won’t trouble you otherwise, I promise,” he said wistfully.
“But of course,” she said with sudden warmth, almost regretting the line she was taking; then remembering again the reason for his quest, she bade him a hurried good night and left him.
Tears stinging her eyes, she went to her room. She had felt it was up to her to take the initiative in leaving him free. She would hate him to feel under obligation to be her escort the whole time she was in Paris. After all, the original arrangement had been that they should merely travel together, except perhaps for just one evening out. Perhaps he felt it was expected of him to take her around, and that was something she could not bear. Besides, tonight had been something of a strain; the nearness of him and all the time feeling that some other woman filled his thoughts. Weary and suddenly homesick, she wished that Roger had been able to come with her, wished that she had never stood with Simon under the stars, or heard him say what had been to him meaningless words of love. “I love you.” She thought of the direct, sincere look in Roger’s eyes when he had said the same words. With Roger, she felt safe, cared for and carefree. A love that grew was far better than one that came on you suddenly, knocking you off balance. Was it perhaps a case of the fruit out of reach, while the ones at your feet...
She expected her ragged thoughts to keep her awake for some time, but amazingly, she fell asleep quite quickly.
She had promised to see Simon on Saturday. That meant she had four days in which to explore Paris alone. She did not think about the evenings. She set about planning where she should go. She would not, she must not, sit around moping. She was in Paris, the most exciting city in the world, and she must make the most of it. First, she would visit the great cathedral of Notre Dame, then the Louvre—she had always wanted to see the Mona Lisa. Then after that ... She dressed with eager anticipation.
She was climbing the narrow streets of Montmartre on the third day of her solitary sightseeing tour, when a voice hailed her from across the street. It was Suzette, accompanied by a young and handsome Frenchman.
“Angela, my dear,” Suzette cried, crossing the road to her side. “Where on earth have you been hiding, and where is Simon?”
Angela laughed with sheer pleasure at seeing someone she knew again. “I haven’t been hiding anywhere.”
“But I have telephoned you again and again.”
“Why didn’t you leave a message?”
“A message? I never thought about it. When you were out, I took it for granted that you were with Simon and would not want to see me.”
“I haven’t seen or heard from Simon since Monday evening. I don’t know where he is.”
“Not seen him?” Suzette echoed in surprise. “Have you quarreled?”
“Of course not. I ... just wanted to see Paris on my own, and he was busy.”
“Busy? Oh yes, I remember—trying to find out things. Well, I haven’t seen or heard from him since Monday either. Goodness knows what he is up to. But I am forgetting myself.” She turned to the young man who had been standing patiently by all this time. “Angela, my dear, this is Philip St. Chariot, a friend of mine. Philip, Miss Lindsay is from England and she is a nurse.”
Angela extended her hand and could barely suppress a smile as he put it to his lips with a slight bow.
“How do you do, Ma’moiselle?” he said in very precise English.
Suzette’s dark eyes danced. “Doesn’t he speak beautifully?”
Philip smiled broadly. “Parlez-vous francais, Ma’moiselle?”
Angela shook her head. “Very little, I’m afraid, so you will be able to speak all the English you like.”
“And what are you doing up here in Montmartre, Angela?” asked Suzette. “Sightseeing, I suppose?”
Angela laughed. “Now you really have put me into the tourist class. But I don’t mind. I’ve been to see the Sacre Coeur.”
“And very beautiful it is. I was only joking about the sightseeing, of course. I don’t know why the word ‘tourist’ has come to be used in a somewhat derogatory sense. I’m glad you’re seeing something of our lovely city. And now, let’s all have lunch together. What do you say?”
Angela and Philip nodded agreement, and Philip led the way to one of the numerous cafes in Montmartre, where they sat outside at a round table under a gaily striped awning. Angela was fascinated by Philip’s accent. He did indeed speak very good English, but every now and again, he would lapse into his native tongue to express himself better. Angela found him quite charming.
He asked if he might take her out to dinner that evening. She hesitated.
“Ah, please, Angela,” he pleaded. “Please do not disappoint me. It is not many time I meet an English lady.”
Suzette was smiling. “You’ll be quite safe with Philip. He’s a nice boy.”
Actually, Angela was glad to accept. Though she had enjoyed wandering about Paris alone during the day, she had felt rather lost in the evenings. Roger had been right when he said that Paris could be lonely at night.
After lunch, Philip left them, and later that evening when he called for her, he asked her if she would like to go anywhere special.
“Oh, Philip, you know Paris well. Take me to one of the less glamorous places. One of the little cafes where ordinary people meet.”
“But, Angela, ’ere in the Quartier Latin are ordinary people. I wanted to show you some of the grand places of Paris.”
He looked so disappointed that Angela laughingly gave in. “All right. Take me somewhere glamorous first, then to one of the other places afterward.”
He smiled delightedly and hailed a taxi. “I have always wanted to take a beautiful woman to La Tour d’Argent.”
“What is it like?” she asked, secretly intrigued at being openly called a “beautiful woman.” Few Englishmen are ready with such a compliment.
“You will see,” he replied mysteriously. “You will see.” They crossed a bridge over the Seine and soon were going up in an elevator to the restaurant on the fifth floor of a tall building. As they stepped out of the elevator, Angela caught her breath at the wonderful scene that met her eyes.
“Oh, Philip, it’s beautiful, simply beautiful...” she breathed, her eyes shining.
Philip smiled delightedly. They were in a softly lighted, crescent-shaped room, with long, uncurtained windows revealing the twinkling lights of Paris. It was like dining in the heavens. Far below in a glittering pattern of lights was the yellow ribbon of the Seine and the magnificent outline of Notre Dame. Angela thought she had never seen a sight more breathtakingly wonderful.
“Oh, Philip, thank you. It’s a scene I shall never forget. It has taken
my breath away.”
Philip smiled. “Not everyone has your appreciation.”
“Surely no one could help but appreciate this.” She made a sweeping gesture at the view above and below.
“There are many women who are so busy trying to be—what you say—sophisticated, that they are blasé even about anything as beautiful as this.”
So they dined between the lights of Paris and the stars. Angela believed she had never tasted food so delicious. She thought with some inward amusement of the dull, “wholesome” fare at the hospital. She would come down to earth next week with a great jolt indeed. But Kirkwhite Annex and Lockerfield seemed extremely remote at this moment. She thought fleetingly how wonderful it would have been had Simon been in this wonderful place with her. But she quickly stifled such thoughts.
They lingered over dessert and their last glass of wine, reluctant to leave such exciting, glamorous surroundings. But the moment finally came when they had to leave to make room for others.
“I am afraid the other places you want to go to will be—what you call—anticlimax after that,” Philip said when they were once more outside. “Do you still wish to go?”
She laughed. “Yes Philip, I would like to.”
He pulled a wry face. “Why is it that, people are always so intensely interested in the working class of another country?”
“Simply because the ‘working class’ as you call them, are more representative of real people. The place where we’ve just been was lovely, of course, and I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. But really, Philip, how many of the people dining there were French? It’s my guess that the majority of them were either English or American tourists.”
“I expect you are right, Angela. Very well, we go to Montparnasse.”
This was a part of Paris Angela had not yet seen. Streets where old men lay huddled in shop doorways, or stretched out on the pavements over basement grills where the warm air drifting up would steal comfortingly over their thin, frail old bodies. Philip took her arm and led her down some steps leading to one of the numerous basement cafes from where came the sound of music and singing. At first, Angela found the noise and smoke and the crowd confusing. Then gradually, her eyes picked out groups and couples either sitting at small tables or standing about. A few were dancing, but with very little attempt at keeping either in time or step. Somehow, Philip managed to find two vacant places at a table where a couple were just leaving.
The people were certainly having a good time, each in their own way. Most of the women wore brightly colored blouses and long skirts. Angela noticed a marked absence of the woolly cardigan that seems to accompany the Englishwoman wherever she goes. Many of the men were dressed in slacks and open-neck shirts of every design and color. Here and there, couples held hands or gazed into each other’s eyes oblivious of everyone around them.
Suddenly, Angela blinked, then looked again at a couple in earnest conversation seated at a far table. She waited until the man turned his head slightly and her heart leaped. It was Simon. She looked at his companion. She was young and very attractive, but not, Angela thought, the kind of woman she would have expected Simon to be interested in. Then she blinked and looked again. It was Paulette. But what a different Paulette from the one Angela had seen in Suzette’s flat and modelling those beautiful gowns. Now she wore large earrings and jangling bracelets, no hat and colorful clothes. She and Simon seemed to have eyes only for each other, and with a sharp twist of her heart Angela saw Simon stretch out his hand to take Paulette’s. Unable to bear the sight Angela looked quickly away to find that Philip was watching her. “Someone you know?”
“Simon LeFeure.”
His eyes widened. “The son of Suzette?” He glanced across the room again. “Of course, now I see the likeness to his father’s photograph. I never actually met either of them. Suzette is a wonderful woman. It is strange to think of her having a grown-up fils. She could have married again many times, but no. She is peculiarly devoted to her husband’s memory.” His eyes strayed again to Simon. “Surely that is Paulette, the model, who is with him?” Angela nodded. Philip gave a knowing smile. “He certainly knows how to pick a lovely woman.”
Angela said defensively, “He is looking for someone who can give him some information about his father.”
“So he picks a beautiful model to help him!”
Angela protested that they were childhood friends.
Philip laughed skeptically. “Childhood friends, indeed. Ma chérie, surely he could have got all the information he wanted from Suzette? Who better than his own mother to tell him about his father?”
It occurred to Angela that Philip, being of Simon’s own generation would perhaps know little or nothing of the history of Michel LeFeure. He would only be a child, and unless they are intimately concerned, children soon forget. She decided to say no more on the subject. She could feel Philip’s eyes on her as she sat there silently fingering the stem of her wine glass.
He took her hand. “But of course, you knew Simon in England! But people are sometimes very different in a different setting, and after all, Simon is French, even though his mother is English. We French do not see things in quite the same way as you.”
Angela tightened her lip realizing the truth of what Philip was saying, yet not wanting to believe it. At the hospital Simon had been reserved, almost shy. Yet here he could flirt with her while intending to marry someone else.
Philip murmured, “Simon and his lady are leaving.”
Angela glanced toward the door in time to see Simon assisting Paulette up the narrow steps. Philip watched them go too, a half smile on his lips; then he looked understandingly at Angela.
“Do not look so sad. Maybe it is as you say, they are old friends. Smile and let us enjoy ourselves. We will go somewhere else and dance, eh?”
Angela smiled suddenly. She was being poor company for Philip. “Yes, let’s do that. Let’s go somewhere bright, but a little less noisy and crowded.”
They finished their wine and went out again, and for Angela, the rest of the evening was somewhat hazy as they went from one club to another. Philip’s charm left no further time for wistful pondering, though Simon never quite left her thoughts. By the time Philip left her at the door of her hotel, Angela was too tired to do anything but fall asleep the minute her head touched the pillow.
She slept late the next morning and was going out in search of lunch when Philip telephoned and asked her to join him and Suzette for a picnic by the river. With a tinge of disappointment that Simon had taken her at her word and made no attempt to call her, she accepted.
Suzette brought another young man along too. The three of them called for Angela at three o’clock in an open sports car driven by Philip.
“Don’t any of you people work for a living?” laughed Angela when Suzette had introduced the new young man as Laurie Chamade.
‘Work?” Laurie and Philip asked in unison. “What is that?” Suzette laughed. “In Paris we only work when it is absolutely necessary.” Then more seriously, “Actually, my dear, today is a holiday. It is the celebration of the Day of Liberation. Paris will be crowded. We like to get out of it for a while, and it will be pleasant by the river.”
Later, she learned that Philip was a newspaperman. Not a reporter, but a journalist on staff.
“Lucky for me I’m not a reporter,” he said. “Otherwise, I would have had to be—how you say—on the spot.”
“But aren’t you interested in the Day of Liberation celebrations?”
Philip shrugged. “Not now. At first, yes. But every year it is the same. During the occupation, life went on pretty much the same for some of us children—it is a dim memory. And again, some people do not wish memories to be stirred. Suzette for instance.”
Angela sat in the front of the car with Philip, and after only quite a short drive, they reached a delightful part of the river banked by trees and pleasant meadows, more reminiscent of England than anything Angela had yet seen in
France. Suzette had brought all the equipment needed for making tea. The two young men however had brought a bottle of wine.
“How can you drink so much wine?” laughed Angela.
“How can you drink so much tea?” retorted Laurie. “I have been to England many times. They drink tea from early morning till late at night.”
“Philip tells me you saw Simon last night,” Suzette said as they lazed in the sunshine.
“Yes, he was with Paulette,” Angela said dully.
Suzette looked at her keenly. “When are you seeing him again, Angela?”
“He said he would call me tomorrow.”
“But my dear, why did you tell him you did not want to see him, and why did he let you?”
‘I ... just didn’t want to impose myself upon him. After all, Madame LeFeure, I mean, Suzette we were not really friends back in England.”
“Impose yourself on him! What nonsense. Do you know what I think? When two people begin acting in the rather strange and stupid manner that you and Simon are doing, it can only mean one thing. It can only mean they are in love.”
Angela gave her a startled look. “Oh no,” she said quickly. “I’m quite sure you’re wrong.”
Suzette smiled, but said no more.
It was ridiculous, thought Angela. Simon couldn’t possibly be in love with her. He had so obviously regretted even kissing her as he had shown by his apology the following morning. After all, there was nothing in a kiss, but he had been determined that she should not misinterpret it. Besides, if she was the woman he wanted to marry, why hadn’t he asked her when she told him plainly that it made no difference to her what his father had been? But in spite of all they had talked about, he still wanted to find out about his father. No, Suzette was quite wrong.
Inexplicably, she found herself thinking of Roger. He loved her; there was no doubt about that. What she felt for Simon might well be due to the “magic” he himself had spoken of. She swallowed hard. She did not believe that at the moment, of course, but perhaps back in small, sane, unpretentious Lockerfield, she would come down from the stars and realize that Roger’s love was the only one she really wanted, the only real love, sure and safe. They had dinner that night in Suzette’s apartment where Angela learned something of the art of French cooking. Again, she was reminded of Roger. She mentioned this to Suzette, who was immediately all interest.
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