She reached the Champs-Élysées, the blossoms on the chestnut trees were like pink and white candles against the blue of the sky.
Then there were no fashionably and elegantly dressed persons of the Beau Monde sitting under the trees and at the tables. They would still be fast asleep in bed.
It was all fascinating and thrilling and Gardenia moved amongst the trees hardly aware of the curious glances that followed her. Wearing her dress of green she looked like some tree nymph with her face alight with excitement, her eyes shining and her fair hair only partially concealed by her straw hat with its wreath of flowers.
She must have walked for more than an hour before she realised that she was hungry and should retrace her steps. She had just turned for home when there was the sound of a horse’s hoofs beside her and she glanced up to see a handsome face leaning down towards her and heard a voice exclaim,
“Mamselle Weedon, this is a surprise.”
It was the Comte André de Grenelle and she was not too pleased to see him.
“Good morning,” she answered stiffly.
“You are up early and you look as beautiful as the spring itself. May I compliment you, mamselle, both on your looks and your gown?”
“You may if you want to,” Gardenia replied crushingly, “but I am afraid that I cannot stop and listen, I am in a hurry to get home.”
“I doubt if you will go faster than my horse,” he retorted with a whimsical smile.
There was no reply to this and Gardenia walked swiftly along, aware that he was keeping level with her and feeling that his intrusion was spoiling her enjoyment of the early morning.
“Do you always rise so early?” the Comte enquired.
“It is a chance to be by myself,” Gardenia said with meaning.
“You are very unkind to me,” he complained.
She refused to look at him, keeping her eyes staring straight ahead of her.
After a moment he added,
“All I want is to be your friend.”
“I have no need for any further friends,” she answered and wished that it was the truth.
“You are interested only in my Lord Hartcourt and his young cousin,” André said. “But I assure you, they cannot offer you anything more than I can offer and perhaps less. Will you not please smile at me, mamselle?”
Gardenia thought that he was talking nonsense and kept on walking. She could not help feeling at the same time that when he was sober the Comte was rather charming. He was so handsome and with the supple grace of a perfect equestrian he looked his best on a horse.
The Comte was silent for a moment and then he started again,
“Tonight when I will be coming to your aunt’s party I will bring you a present. It will be something I know you will like. Something to match the grey of your eyes. Will you promise me that we may go somewhere quiet so that I may give it to you?”
“It is most kind of you,” Gardenia answered, “but I am sure that my aunt would not wish me to accept presents from a stranger.”
“But I am not a stranger!” the Comte expostulated. “And besides why should your aunt object? She herself accepts very beautiful presents and makes no fuss about it. I heard that you were wearing one the other day.”
“I was?” Gardenia exclaimed in surprise. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“The magnificent chinchilla cape that I am told you were wearing the first day when you went to see Monsieur Worth. That was a present to your aunt and I can guess who gave it to her.”
“Indeed?”
Gardenia’s reply was frigid.
She felt that this was dangerous ground. What right had the Comte to gossip about her aunt? What right had he to insinuate something unpleasant? At the same time she would have been inhuman if she had not been curious.
The chinchilla cape was worth thousands of pounds. She realised that and so who could have spent such a sum on her aunt except perhaps for one person?
She felt the blood rising in her cheeks and, because she could not bear to hear the Comte say the words, she turned suddenly and twisted her way through a labyrinth of small tables where she knew that he could not follow her.
She heard him call after her,
“Mamselle Gardenia, where are you going? Wait for me.”
Then, rounding the side of a small kiosk, she started to run, wending her way through the trees and keeping away from the paths that could be used by a horse.
She ran swiftly without looking behind her and, when finally just a few minutes later, she reached Mabillon House she was out of breath and her heart was beating suffocatingly.
Only when she was in the safety of the drive did she look back to see that the Comte was no longer in sight.
He had certainly spoiled her morning with his gossip, his insinuations and, most of all, his suggestion that she would be willing to accept a present from him. Why would Aunt Lily with all her money take presents from any man? Here was yet another bewildering question to which Gardenia longed and equally feared to know the answer.
The front door was opened for her by a footman, who looked at her in some surprise, but without saying a word Gardenia ran up the stairs and reached the sanctuary of her own room.
‘Was this the only place,’ she asked herself almost sadly, ‘where she could find safety?’
She was not able to see her aunt till luncheontime and after Gardenia had apologised for being unable to go to the theatre the night before they went for a short drive, called at several shops and returned home in time for tea.
As her aunt went up to rest, Gardenia was well aware that it was dangerous to hang about in case the Baron should appear.
He was not likely to arrive so early, but she was taking no chances.
She slipped downstairs to the library to find a newspaper to read, prepared if necessary to go through the hidden door and up the back staircase that she had used the first night of her arrival, rather than encounter the Baron in the hall.
She had not been in the room for more than a few seconds when she heard the front door bell ring. It was unlikely to be the Baron but, picking up the newspaper, she then sought the hidden spring that the housekeeper had used to usher her up the backstairs. To her dismay it was not where she had expected it to be. She thought she had memorised the spot so clearly, but it was not there.
While she was still hurriedly pulling one or two books out of the case, the library door opened and she heard the Major Domo’s voice saying,
“I think Mamselle is in here, Herr Baron.”
She turned round startled, her face suddenly pale and her eyes wide with apprehension. The Baron, looking larger and more formidable than usual, came into the room.
“Ah, here you are, Gardenia,” he said. “The Major Domo said that he thought he had seen you.”
“I have nothing to say to you,” Gardenia asserted defiantly.
“My dear child,” the Baron made a gesture with his hands. “You really must allow me to apologise. I am afraid that I frightened and distressed you yesterday. It was stupid of me. You must understand that I look on you as a child, just a child, who might be the daughter of my dear friend, the Duchesse. When I kissed you, and I am afraid it was this that has incensed you, it was the kiss of a father or an uncle. I assure you it was nothing more.”
Gardenia had thought at the time that it was a great deal more, but she told herself now that she was far too inexperienced to judge. Perhaps German fathers or uncles did kiss their children on the mouth. It was not the English way. But, as she had so often thought before, foreigners were different.
She felt herself relax.
It was difficult to stand there defiant and antagonistic when the Baron was prepared to apologise so abjectly.
“We must be friends, Gardenia,” he was saying and she knew that he was making every effort to make his voice beguiling. “We both love the same person and we both wish for her happiness. Is that not true? I am referring naturally to your beloved a
unt.”
“Yes, of course,” Gardenia agreed.
“Then we must not quarrel,” the Baron went on. “She is fond of you. Indeed she loves you for she has told me so. You are taking the place in her heart of the child she never had. As for me I am of no importance, but all I want is her happiness and her contentment. Can you see that?”
“Yes, of course,” Gardenia said again.
“Then you forgive me,” the Baron asked.
“I forgive you,” Gardenia replied.
There was really nothing else she could say.
“That then is finished,” the Baron said positively. “And now, my dear Gardenia, sit down for I have something of importance to say to you, which is why I have called so early this evening. I wanted to see you without your aunt knowing anything of our conversation.”
Gardenia stiffened again.
“Why?” she asked.
“Sit down and I will tell you,” the Baron replied.
She obeyed him, sitting very gingerly on the edge of the chair, her hands folded in her lap, her back very straight.
Although she had indeed forgiven him, she liked him as much as anyone could like a rattlesnake.
‘I don’t trust him,’ she ruminated.
His eyes were shifty and she felt as though every time those thick lips moved they lied.
“I have told you,” the Baron said, “that your aunt loves you. Can you tell me what are your feelings for her?”
“Of course I love Aunt Lily,” Gardenia replied defensively. “She has been so kind to me. Besides she is my only relation. I have no one else in the whole world.”
“Very sad,” the Baron commented, “and who would want more than an aunt who is so devoted, who has taken you into her house and into her life and wants only that you should be happy.”
“No one could be kinder,” Gardenia murmured.
“I agree and that is why I want you to do something in return for your aunt.”
“But, of course,” Gardenia answered. “What can I do?”
“Something a little difficult but something that will give her great happiness,” the Baron said. “You are prepared to do it?”
“Naturally,” Gardenia answered. “There is no question about it. Why did Aunt Lily not ask me herself?”
“Ah! That is the point. Your aunt must know nothing of what I am saying to you. That is very important. For if she knew I was asking you, she would, because she is so unselfish and because she thinks of everyone but herself, tell you to do nothing.”
“I am sure that is true,” Gardenia agreed.
“Well, this is the position,” the Baron went on. “Your aunt has a protégé, a young man for whom she has an affection because his mother was a close friend. He is an orphan and when his parents died your aunt made herself responsible for him financially. He is English and very anxious to go into the British Navy. Your aunt arranged it and he is at present at sea with the British fleet.”
“How old is he?” Gardenia asked him, not because she particularly wanted to know, but because the Baron seemed to expect some comment from her.
“About seventeen or eighteen, I think,” the Baron answered vaguely. “He is, of course, only a Midshipman or whatever you call the lowest Officer in the British Navy.”
“Yes, that is right, a Midshipman,” Gardenia affirmed.
The Baron screwed his eyeglass tight into his eye.
“What is worrying your aunt,” he said, “is that she thinks this boy, David is his name, is in some sort of trouble,”
“Why does she think that?” Gardenia asked.
“Because she has had various messages from him,” the Baron answered. “But here is the difficulty, they are smuggled out to her by other young men in the Navy and they are written in code.”
“In code,” Gardenia queried.
“That is what we think it must be,” the Baron explained, “and naturally your aunt does not understand it.”
“But I cannot comprehend why he should write in code.”
“Nor can your aunt,” the Baron said with a gesture it his hands. “That is why she thinks David must be in some trouble and is imprisoned on the ship for some misdemeanour. Maybe he dare not let his messages be read by those who smuggle them to your aunt.”
“It sounds very strange.”
“That is what your aunt keeps saying,” the Baron agreed, “and you can imagine how desperately it worries her. She does not sleep for she has told me so. David’s dilemma is at the back of her mind all the time.”
“She has said nothing to me,” Gardenia pointed out.
“I know,” the Baron said, shaking his head. “She would not wish to worry you and, besides, she is afraid, very afraid for little David.”
“In what way?” Gardenia asked.
The Baron lowered his voice.
“Cannot you see that if a lot of people are told of what he is doing, it may make things worse for him? If he is imprisoned and if he has been told he is not to write letters, which seems likely, then to say anything would be to draw attention to him and perhaps to make his punishment worse.”
“Yes, I suppose I can understand that,” Gardenia agreed. “But what can I do about it?”
“That is just what I am coming to,” he answered. “I believe you can help your aunt. I believe that you can put her out of her misery if only you will do what I say.”
“Of course I will try,” Gardenia sighed.
“You promise that you will not say anything to her of all this? She would be angry with me, very angry, if she knew that I told you. But I cannot bear to go on seeing her suffering.”
“I promise,” Gardenia answered, “but how can I help?”
“You can do exactly as I tell you to do,” the Baron said, “and then your aunt will know what is hidden in these messages.”
“I cannot find an answer to the code. I don’t know anyone who has codes.”
“Indeed you do,” the Baron then corrected her almost triumphantly, “Lord Hartcourt has them!”
“So you want me to ask him?” Gardenia enquired.
The Baron threw up his hands in horror.
“No, no, a thousand times no! How can you be so stupid, so insensitive? Cannot you see, if Lord Hartcourt thought David was using the Naval Code to write to your aunt it could be disastrous? He might report him to the Captain of the ship the boy is serving on. Whatever punishment David is enduring now, it would be much more stringent if it was discovered what steps he was taking to be in touch with the outside world.”
“Yes, I can see that,” Gardenia said and it did appear to her that the Baron’s story was logical.
“What you must do,” the Baron went on, “is to get a look at the book that Lord Hartcourt has the Naval Code in.”
“How do you know he has it?” Gardenia asked.
The Baron smiled at her.
“My dear child, everybody knows that in Lord Hartcourt’s new position at the Embassy it is his job to decode all the cables and letters which come to the Embassy.”
“I see. So, if we could see his book, we could decode David’s messages.”
“That is right,” the Baron affirmed.
“But I am not likely to see it, am I?” Gardenia asked. “I don’t suppose he brings it out to dinner with him.”
“No, but it will be in his apartment at the Embassy,” the Baron replied.
“Then how can I see it there?” Gardenia asked.
She thought now that the Baron was talking nonsense and what he had suggested did not make any sense.
“This is the difficult part,” the Baron went on, “and that is why I am going to ask you, for your aunt’s sake, to go to Lord Hartcourt’s rooms.”
Gardenia rose to her feet.
“But then, of course, I could not do that. I don’t know how you can suggest such a thing. I know that my mother would not approve of my going alone to any man’s rooms and I don’t think Aunt Lily would approve of it either. I am afraid, Baron, the
answer must be ‘no’.”
The Baron rose as well.
“I am sorry,” he said. “I thought you were fond of your aunt. I thought you were grateful for all she has done for you since you came to Paris, desolate, orphaned and with the idea, I think, of becoming a Governess or was it a companion? But I was mistaken. The young have no gratitude and little interest in anything except themselves. I thought you were different.”
“That is not fair,” Gardenia said hotly. “You know I would help my aunt if I could. You know I am grateful to her. But how can I go alone to any man’s rooms? What would Lord Hartcourt think?”
“Lord Hartcourt would not know,” the Baron replied, “but don’t talk about it any more. You are right and I am wrong. I am just an old fool who does not like to see a woman suffer and I know how deeply your aunt is suffering. Forget it, please don’t mention it again. Let us both behave as though this conversation had never taken place.”
He made as though to walk to the door.
“You say that Lord Hartcourt will never know?” she said in a low voice. “But surely that is impossible.”
“Well, he might know,” the Baron conceded, “but he would not be there at the time. He would only learn about it afterwards and then think it of little consequence.”
“I don’t see how you can arrange it,” Gardenia muttered.
“I have an idea, a very simple one,” the Baron replied. “But you have already said you do not wish to help your aunt.”
“I did not say anything of the sort,” Gardenia said with a touch of anger in her voice. “I merely commented that it was impossible for me to go alone to a man’s rooms.”
“But if the man is not there and the rooms are empty, what then?” the Baron asked.
“How can you be sure of that?” Gardenia asked.
“I can be sure, absolutely certain,” the Baron said. “But don’t let’s talk about it. Let your aunt be unhappy, let the boy remain imprisoned or whatever is happening to him. I expect there will be a solution in time. Time usually settles everything. But I just could not bear your aunt to be ill and that is what I am afraid she will be if she goes on like this. Forget about it, Gardenia. Go and put on one of your pretty dresses and enjoy yourself.”
An Innocent in Paris Page 15
