If This Is Love

by Anne Weale

  “Ah, Ransome ... tres heureux,” Yves clapped him on the shoulder and shook hands. “Yes, I see now you are busy. I will wait in the cafe over there. Even to watch Jane from a distance will give me pleasure.” With the flicker of a wink at her, he strolled away to a near-by pavement cafe, and sat down at one of the tables under the awning.

  David took a couple more shots, tipped the gendarme for his assistance, and said to Jane, “Right, you’re free now. I’m going back to the hotel.”

  Before she could object, he was walking away to the side street where their hired car was parked.

  She stared after him for a moment, then joined Yves in the cafe.

  “I’m afraid David can’t join us. He ... he has an appointment,” she said awkwardly.

  “Quelle dommage I am desolate.” Yves’s lazy-blue eyes glinted with mischief. “Garcon! Deux filtres, s’il vous plait.”

  They talked for nearly an hour, and then Yves drove her back to her hotel to change for the evening. He was delighted to hear she would be in Paris for another eight days, and that her time would be her own.

  “There is so much to show you,” he said, helping her out of the powerful low-slung sports car. “Many of the most charming corners of Paris are never seen by the tourists. But you know what they say. Pour connaitre le vrai Paris, il faut etre amoureux. To know the real Paris, one must be in love.”

  An hour later, she heard his car roaring down the street again and went down to meet him. He was already in the entrance hall when she stepped out of the old-fashioned creaking ascenseur.

  She had changed into a simple sleeveless sheath of champagne-colored wild silk, with a single rope of huge creamy pearls and her pale hair swept up into a smooth brioche chignon.

  “Que vous etes belle.”” Yves kissed her fingertips, then pressed his lips into her palm.

  It was noon when Jane woke up next day. But it had been almost two in the morning when Yves had said goodnight. Remembering that he was taking her to lunch at the Crillon, she rolled out of bed and stretched herself.

  Then she remembered something else. By now, David would be on his way back to England. She might never see him again. She dressed in a white pique suit with a white straw beret topped by an enormous black silk pompom. Then, with a few minutes to spare, she went down to see if there might be a letter from Heather.

  The hotel was a small inexpensive one with a lodge inside the main door instead of a reception desk. As she ran downstairs—the lift was at a higher floor—she heard the concierge talking to someone.

  It was David.

  “Bonjour, mademoiselle. You enjoyed yourself last night?” the old man asked. He spoke very good English. Yves had tipped him generously to stay up to let Jane in the night before.

  “Yes, thank you. Are there any letters for me please ?”

  “Not today, mademoiselle.” He turned to David and winked. “It is good to be young, m’sieur. You were asleep two hours before this young lady returned last night. But, as you see, she is not fatigued this morning. So young, so pretty. Ah, la jeunesse ... c’est merveilleux.”

  “Yes,” David said tersely. He nodded to the old man and, without even glancing at Jane, turned to leave the hotel.

  She followed him into the street. “I thought you were going home today?”

  He looked coldly down at her. “No, I’m staying for a few days.” He paused, looking her over with studied insolence. “But it needn’t cramp your style with St. Cyr,” he added unpleasantly.

  She flinched. “David, please ...”

  “Well?” He glanced impatiently at his watch.

  Jane bit her lip. What was there to say?

  “Oh, nothing,” she muttered bleakly.

  “Enjoy yourself.” He walked off and left her standing there.

  Jane did not see David again for four days—four days in which she tried desperately to put him out of her mind and succumb to the enchantment of Paris.

  On the first day, Yves made her toil up the 436 steps to the top of the Pantheon to see the wonderful view of the city in the morning sun. Later, dining in the expensive restaurant on the first platform of the Eiffel Tower, she saw Paris by night, ablaze with lights.

  They climbed up the steep cobbled street to Sacre Coeur on the heights of Montmartre. They picnicked in the peaceful forests of Fontainebleu. On Sunday morning, they went to the bird market on the lie de La Cite, lunched at a Left Bank bistro with sawdust on the floor and crimped paper tablecloths, and spent the afternoon at a street fair.

  They window-shopped in the fashionable Faubourg St. Honoré and Yves insisted on buying her two pairs of exquisite hand-stitched gloves. They strolled under the elms in the Luxembourg Gardens, past the shimmering Medici fountain, to watch a children’s puppet show.

  After an afternoon spent wandering about the great cemetery of Père La Chaise with its fantastically ornate mausoleums—including the splendid family vault of the St. Cyrs—they danced all night at Schéhérezade, and breakfasted on pigs’ trotters in one of the steamy porters’ cafes near Les Hailes. Before they left the markets, Yves bought armfuls of flowers. When Jane woke up at noon in her hotel bedroom, it was full of the sweet heady scents of carnations in the hand basin and roses in the bidet.

  On the fourth evening, he took her to dine at the famous Tour d-’Argent. On the way, he stopped to show her the Pont du Carousel, the loveliest of all the many bridges spanning the Seine.

  They leaned over the parapet together. It was twilight, almost dusk, and the light breeze off the river ruffled the folds of Jane’s mimosa chiffon dress.

  "We call this l’heure bleue ... the blue hour,” Yves said softly, close to her ear. Then he turned her gently to face him, and kissed her.

  It was a brief light kiss, too swift to allow any response. Stepping back, he tucked her arm through his, and said, “Now we will go and eat.”

  Looking round the restaurant while Yves discussed his choice of wines with the chef-caviste, Jane saw two American film stars, an English Cabinet Minister, and a well-known TV panelist at the other tables. She also recognized three Dior dresses, a Balenciaga, and a Givenchy. One of the Diors she had modelled for Mode.

  The woman wearing it—with a magnificent parure of sapphires—looked, at first glance, young and beautiful. And then one saw that, while her face was taut and unlined, her eyes were old. There was something grotesque and repellent about the old, old eyes in the smooth mask of youth. She must have had many face-lifts, but nothing could rejuvenate her eyes, or the thin claw-like hands laden with rings.

  Jane shivered, and Yves said, “Are you cold?”

  She shook her head, and told him about the woman she had been watching.

  "It does not frighten you, the thought of losing your looks?” he asked curiously.

  “I never think about it.”

  “You are a strange girl, Jane,” he said, studying her. “I have never before met a woman who seemed so unconscious of her own allure. Don’t you know how desirable you are?”

  His tone and the way he looked at her made her color slightly. For four days, he had been a delightful guide and companion, but there had been nothing emotional in their relationship. But on the Pont du Carrousel he had kissed her. And now, surrounded by people, he was deliberately making love to her with his eyes and his voice and the smile at the corners of his mouth.

  “You haven’t seen me first thing in the morning,” she answered lightly, looking away.

  His knee touched hers under the table. “Not yet.”

  Jane swallowed, feeling a prickle of panic.

  “What a wonderful view,’ she said hastily.

  From the windows of the restaurant they could see Notre Dame, illumined by floodlights.

  Yves leaned towards her, amused by her confusion. “I am sure you are even more charming en déshabille,” he said softly. “I would like very much to kiss you awake, mon amour.”

  She flashed him a startled glance. He had often called her chérie, but that
meant nothing. It was as meaningless as ‘darling’ among stage people. Mon amour—in that tone—was something new. A sommelier brought some wine, and Yves tasted it and indicated approval. When the man had filled their glasses, Yves lifted his towards her. “To the most beautiful woman in Paris. Tonight we will not dance. Tonight, I think we will drive in the Bois and ... talk.”

  They were eating the rich pressed duck which was a specialité de la maison, when the maître ushered some people to a near-by table.

  Glancing at the newcomers—a party of French people—Jane was startled to see David with them. He did not see her, and was placed, with his back towards her, next to a very young girl in an ingénue dress of white ottoman.

  Yves did not appear to have noticed David, and Jane tried very hard to keep her eyes away from the next table. But, even without looking, she was aware of David talking to the girl and making her laugh.

  Once, when she did glance at them, the girl was listening to him with parted lips and shining dark eyes—as patently dazzled by the tall lean foreigner as an English sixteen-year-old would have been by Yves.

  Jane did not know whether David saw her as she and Yves left the restaurant. She was suddenly filled with recklessness.

  Yves could make her forget David—if she let him.

  They drove up the Champs Elysées into the swirl of traffic round the massive Arc de Triomphe, and along the Avenue Victor Hugo into the fairy-lit darkness of the Bois de Boulogne.

  Presently Yves stopped the car. “Let’s walk by the lake, shall we?” he suggested.

  He helped her out, slipping her evening cape round her bare shoulders. It was a Balmain copy made of loops of yellow velvet ribbon.

  They walked under an arcade of branches to a little pavilion standing near the water’s edge. Yves took off his dinner jacket and spread it on the mossy stone steps for Jane to sit on.

  He sat close to her, but—surprisingly—lit a cigarette and began to talk about his estate on the Loire in Touraine. In the moonlight, one could not see the lines of dissipation round his eyes and mouth. He looked younger, and very handsome. She wished he would take her in his arms, and make her forget the rest of the world.

  Yet, when he flipped his cigarette into the reeds, she could not help tensing a little.

  “I have been to London twice since our first meeting,” he said, turning to look at her. “But I did not try to see you. Do you know why?”

  Jane shook her head.

  Yves reached for one of her hands. “There have been many women in my life,” he said slowly. “But you are different, Jane. I knew that from the beginning. I decided not to see you again—unless we met by chance. Now I no longer have any choice. Do you understand?”

  She did not answer, and after a moment, he said huskily, “For the first time in my life I am in love. I want you to marry me.”

  Then, before she could speak, he caught her close, kissing her shoulders, her throat, and, finally, her mouth. Jane closed her eyes and willed herself to respond.

  It was Yves who at last drew away. “Open your eyes, ma belle,” he whispered, holding her face between his hands. “Open your eyes and look at me.”

  Her lashes fluttered, and she gave a long quivering sigh.

  “It is settled, then?” he asked quickly.

  Before she could find the right words to answer him, he had taken her hesitation for acquiescence.

  “I must take you back now.” He drew her to her feet, and picked up her cape.

  “Yves ... wait a moment...” she began uncertainly.

  Shaking out his dinner jacket, he smiled at her. “If we stay, I may forget my good resolutions. It is best we go back to lights and people, ma mie.”

  “But you don’t understand—”

  He silenced her protest with a kiss, drawing her hard against him, his hands gripping her slender waist.

  “You see?” he said, after a moment. “You go to my head, chérie.” His hands moved upwards, caressing her smooth bare back beneath the velvet cape. Then, firmly, he put her away from him. “Now we must go and find some champagne to drink to the future.”

  He took her to a quiet candle-lit club where there was no dance floor and the tables were screened from each other by banks of foliage. A lanky negro was improvising on the piano near the bar, and there were only three other couples in the place.

  The patron brought champagne in a bucket of ice. When he had left them, Jane said rapidly, “Please, Yves, you must listen to me. I—I don’t know that I can marry you.”

  He stared at her. “Why not?” he asked blankly.

  She fidgeted with the catch of her gold mesh theatre purse. “I never imagined you would ask me” she said, in a low voice. “I thought you were just ... amusing yourself.”

  “It upsets you that there have been other women?”

  “No, no, it isn’t that. It’s hard to explain without hurting you.”

  He took her restless hands and held them in his. “Tell me: there is someone else, perhaps?”

  She nodded. “Yes ... in a way. But it’s all gone wrong, and I’m trying to get over it.”

  “He is married?”

  “No.”

  “Then where is the difficulty? Do not tell me he does not like you. That I cannot believe.”

  “Please ... don’t let’s talk about it. It’s over ... finished,” she said distressfully.

  “In that case, you are free to marry me.”

  “Oh, Yves, how can I? I’m not in love with you. I only wish I were. It would be wonderful.”

  He studied her rose-painted nails. “You know what I can give you?” he asked, in an odd tone. “You know the kind of life you would have with me?”

  “Yes, but that isn’t the point. I couldn’t accept all that and give nothing. If I loved you, I wouldn’t care if you hadn’t a bean.”

  “I think you really mean that,” he said slowly. “You are indeed a rara avis, Jane. No, listen to me, please,” as she started to speak. “I want you on any terms. I will make you love me. At least let me try, ma belle. Listen, I have a plan. Before I met you again, I was arranging a trip in my yacht to the Greek islands. Why don’t you come with me? It would be perfectly convenable. There would be some of my friends on board to chaperone us.”

  “No, I couldn’t do that,” she said quickly. “Even if I got a job in Paris for the autumn, I would have to go back to London to work off all my commitments. I can’t let people down. Yves, let me go home for a while and think it over. I can’t see straight at the moment. Give me time to sort myself out.”

  He hesitated, frowning. “Very well—but not too much time. I am an impatient man. I am not used to waiting. And I cannot teach you to love me if we are apart. I will give you one week, chérie. Then I will come to London for your answer. Not a final decision, you understand. But your consent to an engagement between us. After that, it is up to me to make you share my impatience.”

  “Very well,” she said doubtfully. “But in that case I think I’d better go home tomorrow, Yves. I can’t make up my mind in Paris.”

  He protested, but Jane stood firm. She had already decided to spend the last few days of her holiday somewhere in the country, out of London. Away from both Yves and David, she might be able to see things more clearly.

  When Yves drove her back to the hotel, he stopped the car in the shadow of some trees along the street. Then he took her in his arms again.

  “You like it when I kiss you?” he murmured presently.

  She nodded, her head against his shoulder. He tipped up her chin and kissed her until she was breathless.

  “I will make you want me as much as I want you,” he whispered passionately. “Je t’adore.”

  At last he let her go, escorting her to the entrance to the hotel where he said he would fetch her early the following morning and help her arrange her flight home.

  “You are early tonight, mademoiselle,” the concierge remarked, coming out of his lodge when Yves had gone. “Tonight it
is your compatriot who goes without sleep. He has gone to the Folies, perhaps. Bonne nuit, mademoiselle.”

  In her room, Jane put away her evening clothes and began to clean off her make-up. It was a hot night. She opened the glass doors which gave on to a little wrought iron balcony above the courtyard in the centre of the building. All the other rooms were in darkness. It was only a little after eleven—early by Paris standards.

  Peeling off her flimsy bra and pants, she caught sight of herself in the mirror on the door of the wardrobe. All the rich French food she had eaten in the past few days had filled her out again. Physically, at least, she looked better than when she had arrived.

  Slipping on a blue silk kimono, she moved a chair close to the balcony and sat filing her nails and thinking about Yves.

  “I will make you want me as much as I want you,’ he had promised. And it was true that his kisses had stirred her.

  But what did that prove? It would have been strange if he had not roused some response in her. He was an attractive, experienced man. What girl would have remained unmoved in the arms of such an expert in love?

  Perhaps, if she had never known David’s kisses, she might have believed herself in love with Yves. But David had kissed her too, and there was a world of difference between what she had felt in his arms and her reaction to Yves’s skilful caresses.

  At half past eleven, she was still sitting by the window when someone knocked at the door.

  It was David.

  “I saw the light. Can I come in? I want to talk to you,” he said crisply.

  “I—I was just going to bed. Can’t it wait?”

  “No, it can’t.”

  Conscious of her nakedness under the thin silk wrap, she pulled it closer round her throat.

  “Very well.” she said nervously, going back to her chair.

  David closed the door behind him, and leaned against it.

  “I saw you with St. Cyr at the Tour d’Argent. The people I was with know him. I don’t think you would have cared for their suppositions about your relationship with him,” he told her evenly.