An Innocent in Paris

by Barbara Cartland

  “But don’t forget, madame, that the French prefer experience and that is something that can come only with the years.”

  The Duchesse smiled.

  “What a Diplomat you are, monsieur.”

  She gathered up her sables from the sofa beside her.

  “And now, if you are ready. Gardenia, I think we have done quite enough shopping for one day. Tomorrow you must have gloves, bags, shoes and dozens of other things. Now I am tired and we can leave everything else in Monsieur Worth’s most capable hands.”

  She rose to her feet and held out her hand to the couturier, who bent to kiss it.

  “You have promised my niece an evening gown by seven o’clock tonight.”

  “It shall be done,” he answered, “and your own robe will also be in time for your party tomorrow. I trust you will be pleased with it.”

  “I am hoping it will be sensational,” the Duchesse smiled.

  “And for Mamselle Weedon something pour une jeune fille.”

  “That is how I would wish it,” the Duchesse answered.

  She swept from the room and Gardenia followed her, peeping at herself in the mirrors as she passed them, thrilled and hardly believing that this young elegant creature with the tiny waist and closely fitted bodice could be herself.

  Downstairs, when they reached the doorway, she shook hands with Monsieur Worth.

  “Thank you, thank you, Monsieur Worth,” Gardenia said. “I don’t know how to express my gratitude.”

  “I want you just to be as lovely in yourself as the dresses I shall send you,” Monsieur Worth answered.

  It was a surprising remark and Gardenia looked at him wide-eyed.

  “Paris can spoil people. Don’t be spoiled,” Monsieur Worth said. “Remember, clothes, however gorgeous, are only a frame. I cannot re-make or create the person inside them.”

  Gardenia felt that he had a reason for making such remarks and he spoke in a low voice so that her aunt, who was already crossing the pavement, could not hear.

  “I will remember that,” she grinned, “and thank you once again.”

  ‘God help you,’ he said softly to himself as Gardenia hurried after the Duchesse.

  For some reason Monsieur Worth’s last words had damped some of the elation Gardenia had felt at wearing her new dress. She did not know why.

  Now she felt apprehensive about what lay ahead. Perhaps the parties would not be so much fun. Perhaps it was not going to be as easy as it seemed to please Aunt Lily and to do what was required of her.

  She did not know what it was.

  She only knew that she felt solemn instead of being excited.

  In the motor car Aunt Lily lay back against the cushions and closed her eyes.

  “We are not really going anywhere,” she said, “but I knew we would never get away and nothing would ever be finished unless I said we had an appointment. Jean Worth believes the whole world revolves around him and his salon. He is not far wrong, but buying clothes is always exhausting.”

  “How clever of him to fit me out so quickly,” Gardenia commented.

  “He can never resist anything new, a new face, a new kind of party, a new challenge, for that is how he thinks of it,” the Duchesse explained. “Now sit up, Gardenia, and look about. You should take good note of the people walking up the Champs-Élysées at this time of the afternoon. We shall go slowly for I want them to see you.”

  The Duchesse picked up the speaking tube that was fastened by her seat at the side of the car and told the chauffeur in French to drive slower. Drawing in to the side of the kerb, they moved so slowly that it was almost possible for people walking to keep pace with them. The Duchesse lowered the window and now it seemed to Gardenia that she knew everyone.

  There were ladies in summer dresses and lacy parasols sitting under the trees, talking to men with their trousers creased down the side in the fashion that had been started by King Edward and wearing high satin cravats decorated with sparkling jewelled tie pins.

  Gardenia noticed that everyone stared at her aunt and one or two people beckoned, quite obviously inviting the Duchesse to join them.

  “They are curious as to who you are,” she turned to Gardenia. “A new face in Paris is always a novelty but I am not going to gratify their curiosity now. They will all be tumbling over themselves to visit me tomorrow evening.”

  “Do you have a party every night?” Gardenia asked, remembering what her housekeeper had said.

  “Not every night. At the beginning of the week people are often away, so Mondays I am not at home, nor Tuesdays, but Wednesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays my friends are always welcome.”

  “What about tonight?” Gardenia asked her.

  “Tonight I have a small dinner party and afterwards we will be going on to Maxim’s. But not you, dear child. You must go to bed. It is not at all a correct place for a young girl.”

  “How disappointing!” Gardenia exclaimed. “I have heard about Maxim’s. It is very gay and they sing a song about it in the Merry Widow.”

  “I think even in the Merry Widow they make clear it is not for young girls.”

  “I have not seen the play,” Gardenia said. “But some of the music was reproduced in the newspapers and Mama played it to me on the piano. Do you remember how beautifully she played?”

  “Do you play?” the Duchesse asked.

  “A little,” Gardenia replied, “but not as well as Mama. Would you like me to play to you she replied hastily. “In Paris people are not interested in amateurs performing after dinner as they are in England.”

  “I was not so conceited as to think that I could play to your friends,” Gardenia said, “but Mama found it very soothing if I played when she had a headache and Papa liked it too.”

  “I will certainly let you play one day,” the Duchesse said in a tone that told Gardenia only too clearly that she was not interested in such trivialities.

  “Who is coming to dinner tonight?” Gardenia asked.

  “You will see,” the Duchesse said a little evasively, “and now I am going to lie down. I nearly always try to have a rest after tea, which reminds me, you had no luncheon. How remiss of me! I always go without luncheon myself because of my figure. I am putting on weight I am afraid. Indeed, Monsieur Worth has spoken to me very severely about it. But you, poor child, must be hungry and there is no reason for you to try to get any thinner. Do forgive me. I must tell the servants that another day when I am fasting they must bring you something on a tray.”

  “It is all right,” Gardenia said. “I am not used to eating very much, but I would like some tea if that is possible.”

  “But, of course,”

  She swept into the house, calling the butler imperiously to bring tea up to her boudoir.

  “And in future,” she added, “Mamselle Weedon will have luncheon. Do you understand? A proper luncheon. I cannot imagine why no one thought of it before we left the house.”

  She did not wait for the manservant’s apologies, but swept upstairs to a room opening off from her bedroom.

  Gardenia had heard talk of ladies’ boudoirs, but had never seen one. Everything in her aunt’s seemed to be ornamented with cupids.

  “It is so lovely!” Gardenia exclaimed, feeling that she was overworking that adjective, but finding no other word to describe it.

  Her aunt did not answer and Gardenia saw that she was seated at a beautiful inlaid gilt and satin-wood secrétaire writing a letter. Not liking to disturb her, Gardenia sat down on one of the brocade satin sofas and with satisfaction saw the footmen bringing in an elaborate tea which they set down on a table beside an armchair.

  There was a massive silver tray, laden with a silver teapot, kettle, milk and cream jugs, but more satisfying were the plates of tiny triangled sandwiches of watercress, cucumber, honey, jam and Gentleman’s Relish. There was also rolled bread and butter containing pâté de foie gras and asparagus tips. There were cakes of every description, cherry, Madeira and rich fruit as well as Fre
nch patisseries filled with coffee cream and nuts.

  Since she did not like to start without her aunt, Gardenia’s mouth was watering by the time the Duchesse turned from the desk.

  She held the letter out to one of the footmen who was just leaving the room.

  “Have this taken to the British Embassy at once,” she ordered.

  The man took it in his white-gloved hand and bowed his head in its powdered wig.

  “Very good, Your Grace.”

  “And go at once. There is to be no delay.”

  “Very good, Your Grace.”

  Gardenia guessed who her aunt had been writing to.

  “Is that to Mr. Cunningham?” she asked a little nervously.

  The Duchesse nodded.

  “I told you I would answer your invitation for you, my child,” she said, “and don’t forget in the future to accept nothing unless you ask me first. It is very important, you understand?”

  “Yes, Aunt Lily, but I don’t think he meant anything wrong by inviting me.”

  “Don’t you?” the Duchesse queried. “Well, let me give you some tea. Do you like milk and sugar? And help yourself to something to eat, you must be famished. I always have a real English tea and oh, the trouble I have to teach these French chefs what I require. But now it is here I dare not touch a thing. I know it would put on pounds.”

  Gardenia had no sooner finished her tea than the Duchesse sent her upstairs to rest. She was now not feeling tired and she stood for a long time admiring herself in the looking glass.

  Monsieur Worth’s words kept coming back to her. What had he meant by saying things like that? Was Paris such a wicked City that he really thought she might be spoilt by it?

  There was not much chance of that if she was going to be so strictly chaperoned by her aunt!

  Gardenia felt really disappointed that she was not to be allowed to go driving with Mr. Cunningham. It would be fun to sit on the high seat of his yellow dog cart and feel herself moving swiftly behind those high-stepping horses.

  But he had said he would see her the next day and that meant that on Saturday night he would be coming to her aunt’s party.

  Tonight Gardenia thought, he and perhaps Lord Hartcourt and all the other smart young men in Paris would be at Maxim’s.

  It seemed unfair somehow that she was not allowed to go. She hummed to herself a tune from the Merry Widow. She wondered if she had brought the music amongst her other things, but even if she had not she could remember it.

  There was a piano in the Grand Salon. She might go down and try to pick out the notes. It was such an appropriate song to sing when she was in Paris.

  Her aunt was asleep, but since the Duchesse’s windows faced a different way from those in the salon, there was no reason why she should hear the music if it was played very softly.

  Gardenia opened the door to her bedroom. Everything was very quiet. She slipped down the stairs, opened the door of the salon and went in. It had all been tidied up and looked quite different from its appearance in the early morning.

  ‘I imagine things,’ Gardenia told herself as she remembered her first impressions. She crossed the floor to the little anteroom where the grand piano stood. It was open and she sat down on the tapestry-covered stool and ran her fingers over the ivory keys.

  It was a beautiful piano and Gardenia, who loved music, started to play very very softly one of Chopin’s waltzes. Her father and mother had loved her music. Perhaps one day her aunt would also find it soothing.

  It would be something nice to offer her, some little gift in return for all her kindness, the beautiful clothes, the comfortable house and the excitement of meeting new people.

  “I am grateful, terribly grateful,” Gardenia said aloud, “and I am in Paris, the gayest City in the world.”

  Music from the Merry Widow came flooding back into her mind and she found she could remember every note,

  “I’m going to Maxim’s,” she sang almost beneath her breath.

  Then a voice came from behind her,

  “And I hope I may be allowed to accompany you, whoever you may be.”

  She swung round on the music stool and saw a man standing looking at her.

  He was a tall broad-shouldered man and she would have known his nationality even if she had not heard his voice. There was no mistaking the characteristics of his race in the hard outlines of his hatchet-shaped face, his cropped hair and sabre-scarred cheeks.

  There was also something in the way he looked at her through an eyeglass with a faint smile on his thick lips that made Gardenia dislike him on sight.

  “Who are you?” he asked in French with a guttural accent.

  “I am Gardenia Weedon,” Gardenia replied, rising from the piano. “I am the Duchesse de Mabillon’s niece.”

  “Lily’s niece, I don’t believe it!” the man expostulated in English.

  “It happens to be the truth,” Gardenia said. “May I ask your name?”

  “I am Baron von Knesebech,” he replied, clicking his heels and then taking her hand in his and raising it to his lips. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance. Your aunt did not tell me that she had such a beautiful and accomplished niece.”

  “I arrived very unexpectedly,” Gardenia told him.

  “And you are staying here?”

  “Yes, I am staying.”

  “Then that will be delightful,” the Baron said, “for your aunt, of course.”

  Gardenia realised that he was still holding her hand. As she tried to take it away he raised it once again to his lips.

  “We must be friends, you and I,” he said. “I am a very old friend of your aunt’s, a very dear friend, shall we say? We shall see a lot of each other and so, little Gardenia, we two must get to know each other.”

  His eyes seemed to flicker over her and there was something in the movement of his mouth that made Gardenia feel sick.

  She pulled again at her hand and he released it.

  “I am afraid my aunt is resting now,” she told him. “Shall I tell her that you called?”

  The twisted smile that he gave her was somehow insulting.

  “Don’t worry, little Gardenia,” he replied. “I will tell her myself. You will be dining with us tonight? I will see you again then.”

  He clicked his heels together perfunctorily. It was more an instinctive reaction than that he wished to show her any politeness.

  Then he strolled away across the room and out through the door of the salon.

  Gardenia stood staring after him in perplexity. He was horrible, she thought. The sort of man she had always imagined the villain in every book she had ever read.

  And yet he was a great friend of Aunt Lily’s and as such she must be nice to him.

  A great friend indeed when he could go upstairs, unannounced, to her boudoir when she was resting!

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Henriette Dupré picked up the emerald necklace and tried it against her white neck.

  “How much?” she asked in a voice she reserved for shopkeepers and servants and which was very different from the soft dulcet tones she used when speaking to her admirers.

  “Five thousand francs to my Lord,” the shopkeeper replied. “Seven hundred and fifty francs for you, mamselle.”

  “C’est absurde.”

  Henriette threw the necklace down on the dressing table and rose from the low stool, her filmy semi-transparent wrapper revealing the exquisite curves of her body.

  “Fifteen hundred francs!” she offered.

  “Mais non, mamselle,” the jeweller replied, spreading out his hands. “It would leave me without profit. Seven hundred and fifty francs is fair. You will recall that I accommodated you over a bracelet. It was not worth my while to part with it.”

  “Bah!” Henriette replied rudely. “You are a rich man, Monsieur Fabian. You have made your money by taking huge profits and then giving very little to those who bring you good business. Lord Hartcourt is rich and there are many important jewelle
rs in Paris who would be only too pleased to find me a better necklace than this and on far more advantageous terms to me.”

  Monseiur Fabian, a small grey-haired man, looked Henriette Dupré over shrewdly. He was used to dealing with the Demi-Monde and no one knew better than him how avaricious they were when it came to bargaining over their own commissions.

  He suddenly decided that he was bored with the eternal wrangling that every transaction entailed. Far better to sell something less spectacular to one of the Nobility. The Duchess of Marlborough, for instance, only yesterday had bought a diamond ring without questioning the price. Of course she was American, but Mamselle Dupré was unmistakably and unforgettably of Les Halles.

  “Eh, bien,” he said. “One thousand francs for you, mamselle – I can go no further. If my Lord cuts the price, then very naturally mamselle understands that her commission will be cut accordingly. Even a jeweller has to live.”

  “It would not be wise, monsieur, to quarrel with me,” Henriette said threateningly. “I know that Monsieur Lucez would be very interested in obtaining my custom.”

  Monsieur Fabian smiled.

  Picking up the necklace, he started to arrange it in the pink leather case with its velvet lining.

  “Monsieur Lucez is my cousin, mamselle. He also has difficulty over the commissions of some of his favourite customers. We have therefore come to a little arrangement between us. The commission will be the same, whether you buy from me or from any of my relatives.”

  Henriette let out an oath of the back streets where she had been born.

  “Voyons, monsieur, you are a salesman. Leave the necklace. I will see what his Lordship thinks of it.”

  “Mamselle is most kind,” Monsieur Fabian said. “When his Lordship sees how greatly it becomes your exquisite skin I have little doubt that I shall receive his Lordship’s cheque in due course. Au revoir, mamselle. As always, I am at your service.”

  He bowed his way out of the room.

  Henriette made a little grimace and kicked a silk cushion, which was lying on the floor, in the direction of the door.

  “Cochon! Parasite! Such vermin batten on one,” she grumbled.

  Then glancing at the necklace lying on her dressing table in its open case, she smiled.