By the time he replaced the receiver, Anthea felt sick with suspense.
He made a note on a pad beside him, then he looked up and fixed his cold, unsmiling grey eyes upon her.
“Now, mademoiselle”—his voice was unhurried and pitched on its usual quiet note—“perhaps you will tell me how you came to be wearing a model from the Collection at the ball last night.”
“I thought I had Madame Moisant’s permission,” she said huskily.
“You thought? It is as well to be sure on these matters. But if Madame Moisant is to be brought into this, she had better be present to hear what is said.” And he stretched out his hand towards the bell on his desk.
“No, no! Please don’t send for her!” cried Anthea, feeling that Monsieur Florian was enough to cope with at the moment, and so urgently did she speak that he drew back his hand. “May I—may I just explain in my own words first?”
“That, mademoiselle, is what I have asked you to do,” Florian said drily.
“But—without any sarcastic interruptions,” she begged him with the boldness of desperation. “And in—in some detail.”
He looked at her with very slightly narrowed eyes for a moment, as though to decide whether or not she were trying to trick him. Then he made a gesture with his hand, which she took to be permission to speak on.
She must be absolutely calm and circumstantial, she told herself. This was her one chance. And, moistening her lips nervously with the tip of her tongue, she launched into the story.
“Monsieur Florian”—she gripped her hands tightly together in her lap to keep them from trembling—“when I was asked to go to this ball, my first impulse was to refuse, because I had nothing really suitable to wear. But the friend who invited me wished very much to have me with him, and as I owed him very much kindness, I decided to make do with a—a not very new, but reasonably presentable white chiffon which I had.
“I can’t say that I was happy about the dress, monsieur, particularly”—she smiled palely—“after what I had learned here in the last few weeks. But I never thought of anything else, right up to last evening, when I was preparing to go. It was late and only—only one other of the girls was left in the dressing-room.
“She knew I was going to the ball—they all knew—and she asked what I was wearing. When I told her she seemed horrified and said—why had I not asked you to lend me a dress?”
Florian’s eyebrows went up but, true to her request for no sarcastic interruptions presumably, he said nothing.
“I told her I had no idea that such a thing was even possible and that it was, in any case, too late now. She seemed very anxious to help and declared that, since you were gone, she would go and ask Madame Moisant herself. She went——”
“To Madame Moisant?” He did interrupt that time.
“I had no reason to think anything else then, monsieur.”
“Very well. Go on.”
“She came back, saying that Madame had given permission—that I was to fetch the—the green lace dress from Mademoiselle Charlotte, and sign for it in my own name, but on behalf of Madame Moisant.”
“And you believed all this nonsense? You must be simple indeed, mademoiselle,” he exclaimed impatiently.
“Why should I disbelieve it, monsieur?” retorted Anthea. “You forget that a month ago the dress world was a closed book to me. It was only when Odette saw me at the Ball, and expressed her horror, that I understood. How should I know what the conditions were in so special a case? What do you know, for instance, of the procedure followed when someone working at—at”—she thought fleetingly and nostalgically of Roger—“one of the Foreign Embassies has to take home a ‘top secret’ document for further study?”
There was a slight silence. Then over Florian’s clever, rather worn face there flitted the characteristically boyish smile.
“Frankly, nothing, mademoiselle,” he conceded with unexpected candour.
“You—you see?” She was startled herself by the success of her simile. “I was in a similar position.”
“And greatly tempted,” he added a little mockingly. “Because you wanted to look beautiful for the erring lover who had returned to you.”
“I wasn’t even tempted,” Anthea insisted. “Because I didn’t know that what I was doing was wrong. And as for wanting to look beautiful for—— For whom, did you say?” Suddenly his exact words penetrated her consciousness.
Monsieur Florian did not reply at once. He hardly seemed to notice the note of denial in her tone.
“Mon enfant,” he said at last, and the unexpectedly gentle term of address brought a sudden lump into Anthea’s dry throat, “when I first saw you in my more or less ruined dress, I assure you my first impulse was to strangle you. Certainly I wished to humiliate you and dismiss you in front of everyone. Then I saw the big, hulking Englishman who was consoling you by calling me names, and it became suddenly clear to me that you had—unpardonably but understandably—borrowed the dress, in some way not clear to me, in order to impress this man who had left you for someone else.”
“But I assure you——” began Anthea.
He silenced her with a peremptory but not unkindly gesture.
“I am not a sympathetic man by nature,” Florian said drily, “but I suppose we all have moments when we see with sudden clarity into someone else’s feelings. Angry though I was with you, I could not humiliate you in front of him. Nor did I wish to bring your evening to an abrupt and disastrous end so early. There was only one thing to do”—he shrugged—“repair the damage as well as possible and postpone both explanations and censure until the morning. But that did not really lessen my anger with you.”
“No, monsieur,” she said softly.
“And now you tell me that, foolish though you have been”—he looked at her penetratingly—“someone else is more to blame. Which of the other girls gave you this—bad advice?”
She had felt so angry with Héloïse earlier that morning that she had thought she would not care at all about giving her away. Now, in spite of everything, she found the name stuck in her throat.
“Monsieur Florian, I would rather not give the name,” she said hesitatingly. “In any case, she denies the whole thing completely this morning.”
He made a sound of nervous exasperation. Then suddenly, as though some inescapable instinct stirred within him, he glanced at his watch.
“Quick!” he said sharply. “The morning show is about to begin. If you hurry, you will be just ready for your first entry. I will deal with this other matter later.”
Obedient to the note of urgency in his voice, Anthea sprang to her feet.
“But, Monsieur Florian, won’t you even tell me——”
“I will tell you nothing,” he cut in shortly. “You will not tell me who this offender is. Very good. I also can play that game. Now go.”
She went. There was nothing else to do—particularly with the time of the morning show so near. But at least he had not dismissed her! At least he had not crushed her with the full weight of his cold anger.
Back in the dressing-room, with Madame Moisant scolding, and the other girls exclaiming at her lateness, Anthea had no time for anything but to slip into her black suit and make ready for as cool an entry as she could achieve.
It was incredible how irresistibly the show went on, however distracted one was feeling. Anthea found herself sauntering up and down the long platform, smiling, twirling, going through all the usual motions. It seemed that nothing could interfere with the usual march of events.
Almost nothing. When the show had been in progress ten minutes, a note was brought to Madame Moisant and, glancing at it with a gasp of surprise, she turned to Anthea and said,
“Number Forty-two will not be shown this morning. I have a note here about it from Monsieur Florian.”
“Very well, madame,” Anthea murmured meekly.
“What happened?” Odette found time to whisper. “Have you seen Monsieur Florian?”
&nbs
p; “Yes.”
“And is he—letting you stay on?”
“I don’t know. We hadn’t quite finished—finished discussing it all when it was time for the show.”
“O-oh!” Odette’s sceptical tone indicated that she found it hard to believe that anything had been dealt with at discussion level. And she gave a rather discouraging shake of her head before going out to show the black velvet ball gown which made her look like something out of the third act of Traviata.
It was over at last. Even the breathtaking wedding gown had been shown once more, to the sound of a chorus of murmured approval. Nowadays, with the earlier excitement muted to more everyday routine, there was seldom applause, but there was no lack of admiration, shown in quieter ways.
Anthea returned to the dressing-room for the last time, and had just changed from the wedding dress when Monsieur Florian entered with an air of cold purpose which set her heart fluttering again.
“Madame Moisant, I wish to speak to all the girls.” He ran an eye over them to see that they were all present. “I shall be obliged if you will also remain.”
Madame Moisant, who was intensely curious about everything that went on at Florian’s, would not have left for worlds. But she inclined her head graciously, to indicate that she remained at Monsieur Florian’s express wish.
He turned back to the mannequins who had instinctively clustered together near the long mirror, and again his glance travelled over them, but more slowly this time.
“An unfortunate breach of rules occurred last night,” he said, in that quiet, arresting voice of his. “One of the mannequins borrowed a model from the new Collection——”
“Impossible!” ejaculated Madame Moisant.
“—and wore it at the Charity Ball,” finished Monsieur Florian, unmoved by the interruption.
“As you will realize,” he went on, in the deathly hush which had suddenly fallen on the room, “there is only one way of dealing with such an offence, and that is—dismissal.”
“Monsieur Florian,” exclaimed Odette at this point, “there were extenuating circumstances in this case which I think you should——”
“Thank you, mademoiselle, I am aware of them. You have no need to assist me in this matter.”
Odette subsided. But, to her credit, she took Anthea’s hand, as though to say that she was with her. While Madame Moisant, suddenly remembering the note which had been brought to her, turned to look at Anthea and hiss, “Number Forty-two!” like someone in a thriller.
“I understand,” Florian went on, still speaking quietly—almost conversationally, “that the girl who was foolish enough to borrow the dress did so on the earnest advice of a fellow mannequin, who, obviously, could only have done this with the idea of getting her into trouble.”
For the third time, he looked over them reflectively.
“When I spoke of dismissal for the offender, there was only one girl here who did not look dismayed. Héloïse, why did you look pleased at the idea of a colleague being dismissed?”
“I, monsieur?” Blue-eyed astonishment was turned upon him by Héloïse. “You are mistaken.”
“No, Héloïse.” Monsieur Florian was superbly calm and unshaken. “I am never mistaken about my mannequins. I know you all probably better than you know yourselves. How else could I design the clothes that express you exactly? You were quite satisfied—even happy—at my announcement.”
Héloïse dropped her eyes. Florian was the only one who could make her do that.
“Monsieur, you exaggerate,” she murmured, with an air of being forced to the truth. “I was not really happy—elated—about it. But—I am frank—I do not like Gabrielle, and I was not actually sorry to hear that she would go.”
“I did not speak of Gabrielle,” he said coldly. “How did you know she was the one in question?”
“But—but——” Héloïse stammered. “I thought—I supposed——”
“Of course. You thought I must be speaking of Gabrielle because you had arranged for her to be trapped into borrowing the dress.”
“Monsieur——” Héloïse began to cry. “You are unjust. I never intended——”
“That will do, Héloïse. This is not a good moment for tears,” Florian said drily. “In the circumstances, Gabrielle will not, of course, be dismissed. And—count yourself lucky in this—you too will have only a reprimand and a warning. But it is a serious warning. I should not be prepared to overlook such a thing again. Remember that, and do not overestimate yourself not underestimate me. You are stupid, Héloïse,” he went on almost carelessly, “and without conscience, but because you have a great deal of sex appeal you find a place in my salon. Do not, however, make the mistake of thinking you are indispensable. To be indispensable one must either be clever and without conscience or perhaps a little stupid but with an exact conscience.”
Then he turned to Madame Moisant.
“Madame, Number Forty-two will be replaced as soon as possible. Until then we shall have to omit it from the Collection.”
“But—I don’t understand!” Madame Moisant shot a disapproving glance at Anthea, who was standing, pale and wordless throughout all this, unable to take in the fact that Florian himself had cleared her. “Has Number Forty-two been lost?”
“No. It met with—an accident.” Florian smiled faintly. “It was necessary to change it at a moment’s notice. In its present form it is not what I want for the Collection. An entirely new one will be made.”
“And—the other one? The one which was, as you say, changed at a moment’s notice? Where is that?”
“Where is it, Gabrielle?” Florian turned suddenly to Anthea.
“I—I took it back to Mademoiselle Charlotte this morning.”
“I see.”
“Part of it can be used, surely?” Madame Moisant said.
“I think not.” Florian’s glance rested thoughtfully on Anthea. “It was altered specially to suit Gabrielle. I think perhaps, in the circumstances, we should let her have the dress.”
“A Florian model—as a gift!—after doing anything so silly and wrong?” Madame Moisant was scandalized. While Anthea could only stare at Florian with suddenly enormous dark eyes.
“Monsieur,” she said, almost in a whisper, at last, “I have done nothing whatever to deserve it. Very much the reverse, as Madame Moisant says. To be—given—a Florian model!”
“Somewhat altered,” amended the great designer exactly. “You have had a bad twenty-four hours, petite. I do not see why you should not now have a little pleasure out of the incident. Particularly as—or perhaps in spite of the fact that—you refused to give Héloïse away and put me to the trouble of finding out for myself who was responsible.” He patted her cheek rather sharply, which brought a little colour into it to relieve the pallor.
“Monsieur Florian, I don’t know how to thank you!”
“By wearing the green dress, of course, and never again resorting to the not very new, but reasonably presentable white chiffon,” he replied a little mockingly.
Then, turning to Madame Moisant, he asked her about the big South American order, and almost immediately they went out together, talking of business affairs.
The moment they had gone, the other girls crowded round Anthea—with the single exception of Héloïse, who retired to sulk in a corner, though not with any real sense of shame or depression. For, though Florian had called her both stupid and conscienceless, he had also said she had considerable sex appeal, and no insult to her intelligence or disposition could take precedence with Héloïse over the fact that even Florian had had to admit the gift which had been bestowed upon her so lavishly.
“Well! It is all very happily ended.” Odette, who was usually singularly unemotional, actually kissed Anthea. “I could not have believed it would be so.”
“Nor could I, Odette! I’m so—so relieved, I could cry,” Anthea declared. “It’s like waking up from a nightmare.”
“To wake up with a Florian model is not bad,
” remarked one of the other girls mischievously.
“She will not be satisfied with the model for long,” put in Héloïse viciously. “Next it will be with Florian himself.”
This fine disregard for the law of slander drew cries of laughter and protest from the girls, but Anthea was not unaware of the fact that one or two of them glanced at her curiously.
The rest of the day was extraordinarily uneventful—almost an anti-climax to the drama of the morning—but late in the afternoon Madame Moisant sent for Anthea.
She glanced not unkindly at the rather exhausted-looking girl who came in.
“You will do well to go to bed early tonight,” she remarked. “Late nights are evidently not for you.”
Anthea forbore to say that the shortness of the night had been the least of her stresses and strains during the last twenty-four hours.
“Yes, madame,” she said submissively.
“Sit down, petite.”
Anthea sat down.
“Now—it is not for me to censure where Monsieur Florian has been indulgent,” Madame Moisant said impressively. “But I must warn you that never again must you suppose that I would send a message of importance. Invariably I give such a message in person.”
“Yes, madame. I realize that I should have thought of that,” Anthea admitted remorsefully. “I did come along to your room to thank you before I went, but you had already left.”
“No doubt.” The other woman’s tone was dry. “Héloïse would have made sure of that before she started this escapade. You should have known better than to trust her after the jealousy she had shown in the beginning.”
“But she had been so friendly lately, madame! I just thought she had got over her jealousy and was rather sorry for what she had done.”
“Jealousy is one of the few emotions one does not get over,” stated Madame Moisant profoundly. “And the Héloïses of this world are never sorry for what they have done. Only sometimes—a little—for what they have not done. I am afraid you are a little naïve, mon enfant, and that is not good in this particular world.”
Under the Stars of Paris Page 9
