“I ------ ” Caroline was beginning, when Christopher
himself alighted from one of the gleaming French taxis, and stood bowing and smiling in front of them. He looked very much like the Englishman abroad, in a suit of Savile Row cut, and such immaculate linen that it could hardly have been more immaculate; and in spite of his absurd little bow he made Caroline think of such far-away places as Piccadilly and the Green Park.
“Your pardon, ladies—or should I say mesdemoiselles, since neither of you has yet acquired a husband?—isn’t this where I
pick up my cargo?”
“If you mean, isn’t this where I surrender Caroline to you, it is,” Lady Pen answered. And when they both tried to persuade her to have lunch with them she dug in her heels and declined. “I get tired after a lot of shopping and sight-seeing, and I much prefer to have lunch peacefully at the hotel, and enjoy a nap immediately afterwards,” she explained. But Caroline was certain that it was because she wanted them to be alone, and because she had already started seriously to hope... And only Caroline knew how forlorn was her hope!
But that didn’t prevent her from enjoying her lunch with Christopher, and from thoroughly enjoying seeing Paris in his company. It was going to take her a long time to get used to the beauties of Paris, and all that Paris had to offer to anyone as completely inexperienced as herself, and Christopher was frequently amused by the states of ecstatic admiration into which she worked herself. He didn’t know that she was remembering all that Armand had told her about the great triumphal arch of Paris— the Arc de Triomphe—that was the largest triumphal arch in existence, and deciding that he hadn’t exaggerated at all when he had described its impressiveness. And that the Place de la Concorde was rightly a place in which to begin one’s peregrination of the city, not only because it was associated with one of the most tragic periods of French history, but because of its dignity, with the aristocratic Hotel de Crillon, and the Automobile Club of France, on the opposite side of the Ministry of Marine, and the new American Embassy.
Then, other causes of admiration were the Rond-Point des Champs-Elysees, where six roads meet, and fountains and flowers catch the eye; the Avenue de Champs-Elyees, that exuded a positive aroma of concentrated wealth— or such was her impression—and the jewellery and perfumery shops in the Rue de la Paix and the Place Vendome. The latter had to be seen to be believed, and once having seen them it was like turning one’s back on a spectacle to come away without entering them. And, of
course all the boulevards fascinated her, and the Bois de Boulogne was something entirely new in her experience, and not even Hyde Park, she had to admit, offered such a number of expensive restaurants together with facilities for riding and sport and fashionable display, all set down amidst natural unspoilt woodland.
She simply loved walking in the Bois, and Christopher humoured her, and in addition he took her to art galleries and famous collections such as the Louvre, and churches such as Notre-Dame and the Madeleine. She saw the Seine slipping beneath its bridges, the groves of chestnuts in the Tuileries Gardens—and, incidentally, the Rue de Rivoli, which lies between the Seine and the Tuileries Gardens—the flower-market held in the grey shadows of the Madeleine, and the Place de la Concorde floodlighted at night.
On the day that Lady Penelope bought her the flamingo pink stole Christopher took her to lunch at a little open-air restaurant they hadn’t visited before, and told her that he was taking her to rather a special place for dinner that night. You could see Notre-Dame from the windows, and the lights of Paris reflected in the Seine. It would be an experience she wouldn’t forget.
Caroline protested that it wasn’t fair to leave Lady Penelope so much alone, but her nephew assured her that his aunt really wouldn’t mind in the least, because having been relieved of a certain amount of responsibility for Helen Mansfield—who had crossed to England to stay with an old school friend—she was now feeling like relaxing. And that afternoon Caroline spent trying the effect of the pink stole over the little black dress which made the most of her rather heartbreakingly delicate colouring, in her luxurious hotel bedroom; and afterwards she tried out new hair styles to see whether there was one that would make her look slightly more sophisticated, but in the end she stuck to her silk page-boy, that was like a swinging bright brown cape reaching almost to her shoulders.
When she and Christopher set off for the evening Lady Pen watched from her window as they entered a taxi. It was not yet dark, and the Paris sky was aflame with colour, and down below on the pavement Caroline looked slender and extremely young, and her escort obviously proud of her. Lady Pen sighed, because Paris nights were meant for lovers, and those two below her might never become lovers. Not even with the golden crescent of a young moon about to enter the sky, a whispering wind stirring the trees and carrying the perfumes of the flower-market, and the cool scents of the river, along with it, was there any certainty that they would become lovers. The man was only too willing, but the girl....
The girl felt excited as she stepped into the taxi. There were sequins attached to her stole, and they winked like fireflies in the dusk, and her silver-gilt sandals winked up at her also. She was wearing some new, exciting French perfume, which she hadn’t really felt able to afford, but which she couldn’t resist, and she wondered when Christopher wrinkled his nose slightly and smiled at her whether he was drawing in whiffs of it.
She looked out of the windows at the glimpses of the river, and the darkling sky, and all at once her mood ceased to be quite so buoyant. Somewhere in Paris Armand de Marsac was possibly also preparing for an evening’s entertainment, or just setting out for one as they were— only he would be driving his own car, not being driven in a taxi—and somewhere in Paris Diane Montauban was probably getting ready to meet him. Diane, she understood, lived alone—or, rather, she lived alone with a maid —in a luxurious modern flat and it would be the simplest thing in the world for her to entertain Armand to dinner in that flat. Quite likely that was exactly what would happen to-night.
Caroline felt as if something tight and painful closed over her heart. It was one thing to say good-bye to a man —to let him say good-bye casually, as if it was unimportant whether they met again or not—but it was quite another to know that they might never meet again. And although he had said they must all get together for dinner, or something, Armand had suggested nothing before they said good-bye to the chateau. He had made no further reference to any sort of a meeting, and had dropped them off at their hotel when they arrived in Paris— Christopher bearing the burden of the luggage in his car— with nothing more than a casual wave of the hand and one of his charming smiles.
Diane had remained beside him at the wheel and had smiled farewell also, but without anything in the nature of charm clinging to her smile.
And now, all at once, to-night, Caroline felt that it would be unbearable if she never saw Armand again. For days she had been trying to shut him out of her mind and thoughts, concentrating on sightseeing instead. But sightseeing was an empty thing, and Paris suddenly struck her as an empty, grey and miserable city if she was never to see Armand again.
Her fingers clutched at the seat of the taxi, the knuckles showing white; and she stared so determinedly away from him and out of the taxi window that Christopher knew something was wrong.
“Forget him,” he advised, softly.
She looked round at him, almost startled. It had never occurred to her that he even suspected how she felt about Armand. But, judging by the wry twist to his lips, he not only suspected, but understood perfectly the state of her mind just then. She felt the colour rise in a quick flood to her cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly and apologetically. She knew that she owed him an apology, because he was being so kind and attentive to her, and he had promised her an extremely pleasant evening, and it was entirely wrong that she should shut him out from her thoughts even for a moment. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she prevaricated, “but I�
��m looking forward to seeing this exciting restaurant you’re taking me to.”
“That’s the girl! “ he exclaimed, and squeezed her fingers. “And, remember—there are always lots more fish in the sea that
are every bit as good as the one you set your heart on catching!”
But, whether or not he was right about that, she knew that he was right about one thing—she had to forget Armand! Armand belonged to a curious, stolen interlude in her life, and that was all he ever would belong to.
The evening passed a little feverishly, or so it seemed to her, because the excitement she whipped up to cope with it was definitely a little feverish. Christopher made her drink champagne, and she wasn’t in the least accustomed to champagne, and one glass made her view life a little differently. It acquired a faintly rosy hue in spite of the knowledge, which remained with her all the time, that life would never be rosy again, and she would never again sit on the bank of a stream with a man she loved and a picnic basket, and feel how near to a disaster it would have been if she had never been born at all. Now it would simplify things a great deal if she had never been born at all, for how and in what manner she was going to employ her future she couldn’t think just then, but she did know that Christopher was kind—she kept on telling herself that he was very kind, and he was Lady Pen’s nephew, and at all costs she must show appreciation when he was devoting so much of his time to her, and spending quite a lot of money on her.
The restaurant was positively sumptuous, the food was almost too perfectly prepared and served—it suggested that a lot of people in Paris thought of nothing else but food and the various means by which it could be disguised as something quite out of this world—and the view of floodlit, and neon-lit, Paris, with a sensuously gleaming river, disappearing beneath its various arches, afforded by a window that overlooked it all, and a table close to the window, something to remember when she got back to her little London room.
They had reached the coffee and liqueur stage of the meal when Armand and the beautiful redhead entered. Caroline had refused a liqueur, but Christopher insisted that she accept a simple creme de menthe, and its brilliant green colouring was reminding her of the green chartreuse Armand had once bought for her when she had lunch with him, when she looked up to see him looking across the room at her. He was wearing a white tie and tails, which suggested that after dinner he was going on to an even smarter function, and his dark, disturbing good looks had never been more painfully emphasised. Caroline felt her heart give a wild, tremendous leap, and then its rate of pumping the blood through her veins resembled the feverish hurry of a mill race. She could hardly breathe for a moment, so great was the confusion beneath the filmy material of the black dress, and she was only vaguely aware of the woman in the golden, sheathlike dress, and the magnificent Titian hair, leaning familiarly on his arm as they stood waiting to be conducted to their table. And the woman’s eyebrows rose a fraction as Armand bowed— he didn’t bother to come across to their table—and she heard Christopher whistle slightly beneath his breath, and exclaim:
“What—another one...! What’s happened to Mademoiselle Montauban? No wonder Monsieur le Comte doesn’t spend much time in the country...!” And then he looked across the table quickly at Caroline, as if recollecting too late whom he was with, and he suggested gently: “If you’d like to go now, we will! I’ll take you on somewhere else, if you like—somewhere where we can dance.... ”
Caroline had no clear idea how the remainder of that evening passed, but she did know that they did go some somewhere else and dance, and the floor was packed, and after a time her feet became so badly trodden on they hurt her, and the subdued lighting effects were rather like a nightmare, because she didn’t feel like subdued lighting effects, and she didn’t seem to have any conversation, because all conversation had dried up inside her. She made efforts, valiant efforts, but Christopher sensed they were efforts, and at last he took her back to the hotel—not even dismissing the taxi half-way, as he had intended to do, and walking with her through the starry darkness, with other couples
swinging along on all sides of them— and when she got inside her room she undressed and put away the flamingo pink stole with the certainty that she would never wear it again.
A simple little black dress, which had nevertheless cost a great deal of money, and a tinsel-tawdry stole, that— compared with a golden gown and some emeralds that had been sending out shafts of green fire on a slender, perfect neck, and at shell-like ears, and on pale wrists, too—must have made Armand smile! A little English girl with no background whatsoever who was trying to do the sophisticated thing in Paris; and all he had to do was to enter a restaurant in his finely-tailored evening things and walk sinuously across the floor, with something feminine and spectacular on his arm, in order to have all the waiters in the place, including the maitre d’hotel himself, converging on him from all corners, and all anxious to do him honour!
So much she had noted, despite the welter of her confusion, and so much Christopher had commented on before they left.
“That’s what comes of being well known...! That’s what comes of being Armand de Marsac...!”
As she tried to get to sleep Caroline thought that the name of Armand de Marsac would always be like a sword- thrust through her heart.
CHAPTER XV
But, in the morning, when she heard his voice reaching her over a telephone wire, she no longer thought of sword- thrusts. She only thought that she must be still asleep, and dreaming, and that if she was awake it was a miracle she ought to be humbly grateful for.
Armand said:
“I’m coming to collect you at ten o’clock...! Can you be ready? Is that too early for you?”
“Too early... ?” She was hardly awake, and she was supporting herself on her pillow, and the hand that held the pale ivory telephone was trembling uncontrollably. I...”
“It’s early for Paris, but it shouldn’t be for you—if you didn’t stay up too late last night! What time did that fellow Markham take you back to your hotel?”
“I can’t remember....”
“You had an enjoyable evening?”
“I--- ”
“You can’t remember?” his voice said mockingly. “Well, that sounds bad! At least I was extremely sober when I went to bed, and I am already up and dressed. I’ll be with you in an hour!” Caroline sprang out of bed when the line went dead. She dressed herself in a frantic rush, ordered some coffee to be brought up to her room, but ate nothing at all with it, and then put on her grey suit and a little white blouse, and went through into Lady Pen’s adjoining room.
She didn’t have to explain to Lady Pen, who was enjoying a more elaborate breakfast.
“Armand has just telephoned,” the old lady said, a rather whimsical expression on her face. “The boy is quite inconsiderate, but he tells me he had a feeling I was awake, and he wishes to show you something of Paris. I know Christopher has shown you Paris, but a Frenchman might be able to show it to you a little better” her eyes resting thoughtfully on Caroline, who was looking so neat, and trim, and English, in her unostentatious outfit. She put out a hand and lightly patted her arm. “Have a good day, my dear, and don’t worry about anything,” she said. She pushed her gently away from the bed. “Remember, don’t worry about anything!” Caroline went down in the gilded cage that served for a lift, wondering a little vaguely why she had been given such an instruction; and then she saw Armand waiting for her near the Reception Desk. It was just ten o’clock, and he was looking very fresh, and his eyes took in everything that she was wearing, and the way the soft brown hair bobbed on her shoulders. She was carrying a little white hat in her hand, but he took it from her and tossed it on to the back seat of the car and said carelessly:
“You won’t want that, because it isn’t going to be a terrifically hot day, and I like to see your hair uncovered! And you’re wearing the suit you were wearing the day I first met you, aren’t you?—Or, rather, the evening I first met y
ou!”
“Yes,” she answered.
He smiled at her sideways as he slid behind the wheel in his graceful, sinuous fashion.
“You see, I don’t forget anything...! If you’d been wearing a bathing suit I would have remembered!”
“If I’d been wearing a bathing suit you would have had cause to remember! It isn’t the sort of outfit one normally travels in!”
He laughed almost joyously.
“Oh, Carol, don’t look so solemn! And don’t sound as if you were a vicar’s youngest daughter who has been brought up to regard sea bathing as a step on the road to ruin! And as I know you don’t intend to ask me I’ll tell you that the lady I was with last night is my new leading lady—remember I said something about leading ladies to you once?—and this one is admittedly what I feel sure Christopher Markham would describe as a “smasher”! She’s going to be a smash hit, too, when she appears in my play, and the play itself is going to be a tremendous success—I feel it in my bones. Another tremendous success for Armand de Marsac, which means that I’ll be able to have an idle few months next year! I may even travel abroad for a bit, and become a lotus-eater! Would you like to become a lotus-eater with me, Carol?”
She said nothing, and he murmured softly:
“You don’t have to answer. You don’t have to do anything but sit there and be comfortable, until I decant you at our first port of call.”
Their “first port of call” was one that surprised her intensely. They drove through tree-lined streets and avenues until they arrived in one of the most fashionable residential corners of Paris, and there, outside a block of modern flats, he pulled up. The flats were palatial and built of gleaming white stone, and they towered above the tops of the trees in the square they overlooked. Most of the flats had balconies, and quite a few of the balconies had awnings, gaily striped in green and white, and red and white, so that the general effect was most pleasing, and distinctly reminiscent of the South of France. Armand slipped out from his seat and held her door open for her, and when she looked at him enquiringly, smiled and shook his head.
And Be Thy Love Page 15
