Under the Stars of Paris

by Mary Burchell

  He paused before Anthea, ran that all-embracing glance over her which, she knew, took in everything from her hat to her shoes, and said,

  “Sweet sherry for you, mon enfant. If you spill it, it will not show on that suit.”

  She laughed and blushed a little at this reference to her earlier escapade. But she remembered to thank him for seeing that her father and Millicent were invited.

  He acknowledged this with a smile and a slight inclination of his head. Then he went out, while Héloïse was heard to remark that she didn’t remember anyone else’s parents being invited.

  The party was being held at one of the big hotels nearby, and most of the girls walked over. One or two official dignitaries and their wives were acting as hosts and, after a series of handshakes, Odette and Anthea, who were together, passed on into the huge, already crowded room, where everyone had come either to stare at everyone else—in the most discreet manner possible—or else to be stared at.

  After a few minutes, Anthea—pleasantly aware of being one of those stared at—found her father and Millicent, the latter frankly enjoying an atmosphere which was the breath of life to her, the former faintly condescending, to indicate that dress-designing was no more than a bastard art, and, as such, not to be taken too seriously by the real artist.

  “Hello, Anthea—that’s pretty!” Her stepmother regarded Anthea with open envy. “It’s exactly you somehow.”

  “It was designed specially for me.” Anthea smiled. “The dresses I wore in the show were designed for someone else of my type. But this is individually mine.”

  “It’s perfectly lovely. Where is Monsieur Florian?”

  “Oh, he’ll be somewhere about. He’s one of the distinguished guests, of course, so I suppose he will have to be very sociable.”

  “We should like to see him and thank him for the invitations in person, however,” her father said. And Anthea promised quickly to arrange this if possible.

  It was her business to move around a good deal, and so, after a while, she left her father and Millicent and made her way slowly through the room, as though looking for someone. Although she did not admit it to herself, she was looking for someone. In her heart there lingered the obstinate hope that she might find Roger here.

  Instead, she found Monsieur Florian, who stopped to speak to her and enquire if she had had anything to drink. When she shook her head, he fetched her a glass of sherry and handed it to her with a smile.

  “But suppose I don’t like sweet sherry, monsieur?”

  “Il faut souffrir pour être belle,” he retorted. “The picture is now complete. Are your father and Madame Marlowe here yet?”

  “Yes. They hope you will find a moment to speak to them.”

  “Of course.” He bowed and gave his special “one enemy to another” smile as someone passed. “And our friend—Roger?” he enquired. “Is he coming?”

  “I—don’t think so.”

  “Not? There were invitations sent to the Embassy and the Consulate. I should think he would manage to get one of them.”

  Anthea said nothing to that, but she looked suddenly very serious, and after a moment Florian asked quietly,

  “What is the matter?”

  “Monsieur!” She was startled, as so often, by his quick powers of perception. And then, instead of her assuring him that there was nothing wrong, some odd feeling of compulsion made her say, without finesse, “I quarrelled with him last night.”

  Florian bit his lip—she thought to keep himself from smiling—but his eyes were grave as he said,

  “I am sorry, petite. But to make it up can also be very enjoyable.”

  “If one—if one gets the chance,” murmured Anthea, who felt that she had been trying all day to make it up with Roger.

  “Was it such a very serious quarrel?”

  “I—don’t know. I was very angry, because he wanted me to—to——”

  “To what, Gabrielle?” He seemed to be observing the scene all around him, and yet she knew that his attention was completely on what she was saying.

  “Monsieur Florian, he doesn’t realize how—how devoted I am to my work. He is expecting to be transferred to London later in the year, and he seemed to think that, at the end of the season, I might actually consider leaving you—leaving the salon, and taking a job with one of the London houses.”

  There was a very slight silence. Then Florian said,

  “I see. And you quarrelled about this?”

  “Yes.” Suddenly she wondered why ever she had been so frank to him, and would have given a good deal to recall her words. But there was no anger or indignation in his voice, only a faint, indulgent amusement, as he said,

  “And now you want very much to make it up again.”

  “Monsieur Florian, I don’t like to quarrel with Ro—with my friends.”

  “Of course not. We none of us do,” Florian agreed gravely. “Particularly if we feel uneasily that the other person has been rather reasonable.”

  “But I don’t think he was that!”

  “And yet his suggestion was not a bad one.”

  “Not a bad one, monsieur?” She was aghast. “That I should leave you and go to one of the London houses?”

  “Since your father lives there and your sweetheart will be going there, I find it reasonable. I should be sorry to part with you, of course——” Suddenly she saw that his attention was now not entirely upon her, but on a remarkably pretty blonde girl who was effusively greeting Odette. “But it would not be impossible to find a substitute for you, Gabrielle, if it is your official conscience which is troubling you.”

  “I—I was not thinking of that so much. I was thinking that I owe everything to you, Monsieur Florian, and that I should feel terribly—terribly mean if I left you now.”

  “Mon enfant, all my mannequins owe everything to me,” Florian retorted lightly, “though few of them admit it. But I am not so unreasonable as to expect them to dedicate their lives to me and my business. Or only at stated times of the year. If you decided to leave me at the end of the season, I should, as I have said, be sorry to part with you. But if it interests you to see your probable successor, there she is, talking at this moment to Odette.”

  Appalled, Anthea turned slowly and once more gazed at the brown-eyed blonde who was laughing so companionably with Odette.

  “I—don’t know her,” she said, in a slightly choked voice. “Who is she?”

  “That is Claudine.”

  “Claudine?”

  “Yes.” Florian smiled with an air of rather grim recollection. “The girl who so inconsiderately broke her leg within a few days of my opening show and forced me to make a mannequin of you, petite. She is, I see, fully recovered now,” he added with professional interest.

  And, as though to prove it, the girl turned suddenly and, seeing him, rushed over to greet him, with the utmost grace and good humour.

  Chapter Twelve

  Until the moment when she saw Florian greet the charming, laughing Claudine with undoubted warmth, Anthea had regarded all the passions and jealousies of the fashion world with something like amused tolerance.

  But now, as the two stood there talking together in rapid, friendly, colloquial French, she felt suddenly like the waif outside the window, and she envied—miserably, angrily, uncomprehendingly—she envied the girl who could make Florian laugh so easily, the girl who could apparently supplant herself with complete satisfaction to Florian.

  Odette sauntered over and joined the group, and after a moment someone thought of introducing Anthea to Claudine, who explained immediately and generously,

  “But she is exactly of my colouring!—Only prettier.”

  “No.” Florian glanced judicially from one to the other. “You perhaps are more obviously pretty, Claudine. But Gabrielle is more unusual.”

  “You see! That is his charming way of saying I am ordinary,” Claudine remarked good-humouredly to Anthea. “Oh, Monsieur Florian! if you knew how homesick I am for the s
alon. Henri wishes to marry me—now that he has broken my leg,” she added, as though this were one step towards matrimony. “But for me he has become inexpressibly boring. And though it is understandable to find one’s husband a little boring, to find him quite madly boring is an unfortunate beginning.”

  “Without doubt,” agreed Florian drily. “But, in any case, you would always find marriage boring, my poor Claudine. Permanency and you are incompatible.”

  “Oh, monsieur, how well you understand me!” cried Claudine, almost purring like a cat. “Except that I remain permanently and for ever in love with fashion.”

  “Ah, that’s different.” Florian smiled. “Fashion is an ever-changing mistress—or, in your case, I suppose, a lover. It is the most fickle thing there is, always to be wooed, never completely won, fascinating, demanding and completely ruthless.”

  “Monsieur Florian, how I love to hear you talk again,” sighed Claudine. “Henri could not talk this way in a hundred years.”

  “But then Henri’s passion is driving, if I remember rightly,” replied Florian.

  “True. He has no soul above a carburettor,” Claudine agreed. “But then he is very rich,” she added almost naïvely.

  Florian laughed.

  “This also is important,” he said. Then, with a little nod which included all three of the girls, he strolled over to talk, with inexpressible charm and cordiality, to a rival designer who would, everyone at Florian’s knew, have killed him by inches with the greatest pleasure in the world.

  “There is no one quite like Florian,” Claudine said, as she turned away with Odette. And Anthea—immeasurably solitary, all at once, in the midst of the crowd—thought, in her turn, “There is no one quite like Florian,” and wondered how it was that her world had fallen in ruins.

  She should never have told him of what Roger had said—never have given him the remotest idea that she might consider leaving. The suggestion could be withdrawn, of course. She knew too well her value in the salon to suppose that her position was in jeopardy, however eager Claudine might be to return.

  But that Florian could himself coolly advise her to go—could so calmly and indifferently contemplate her leaving. That was what shocked and wounded her. She could go or she could stay, it seemed. To him it was more or less equal, provided Claudine or another were there to take her place.

  That was exactly the impression she had tried to give Roger last night, it was true. She remembered protesting, in front of Millicent, that she was “just a satisfactory mannequin” to Florian. But now she knew that, in her heart, she had cherished the idea that there was a rather particular bond between them. The great designer and the girl he had trusted to save his show. Otherwise, why had he twice reprieved her on the verge of dismissal, and each time with an amused indulgence which surely, surely he had not often used towards a mannequin?

  Anthea made her way to one of the deep window embrasures, and stood looking out on to the busy avenue below. She had forgotten that she was on view, or that she was supposed to move around so that people might see her dress. She could think only of the fact that Florian did not really care very much if she worked for him or took herself off to London.

  He might even prefer to have Claudine back, now that she was available again. And then the waters of the Paris fashion world would close over Anthea, and Florian would look back—if he ever looked back at all—on the brief career of Gabrielle as nothing but an unexpectedly successful stopgap during an emergency.

  The very thought brought a lump into Anthea’s throat, and, forgetting her professional duties, she turned rather blindly from the window, intending to make her escape from a party which had become detestable.

  As she did so, however, she saw a familiar, infinitely consoling figure making his way towards her. Without any trace of chagrin for the parting last night, Roger came up to her and, grinning down at her in a friendly way, said,

  “Hello! Are we on speaking terms again?”

  “Oh, Roger!” She clasped his hands in both of hers. “If you knew how glad—how glad——” Her voice failed her for a moment. “I’m so sorry about last night. I don’t know what came over me, to say such horrid things. Please forgive me. Of course I mind where you go and what you do.”

  “Dear girl!” Roger laughed and held her hand very tightly. “I didn’t really suppose you were completely indifferent, you know. I guessed you were just mad with me for the moment because I was tactless.”

  “Well——”

  “I shouldn’t have been in such a hurry to spring the idea of a change upon you. But I had only just heard about my probable transfer, and I way busy thinking how we could see to it that the Channel didn’t divide us two in the future.”

  “Yes—I do see.” She was smiling a little now. But her heart ached with sudden anguish at the thought that the Channel might divide her from Florian’s.

  “There is no need to make any hasty decisions,” declared Roger—by no means having abandoned the idea of a change, it was evident. “A lot of things can happen in a few months.”

  “Of course.” She smiled again, but more mechanically this time.

  “Our business at the moment is to enjoy Paris together,” Roger said with a laugh. “Which reminds me—have you seen your father and Millicent yet?”

  “Yes, but”—Anthea roused herself determinedly—” I suppose I ought to try to find them again. They don’t know anyone else here, and I don’t want them to feel out of it.”

  With her hand still in Roger’s—that blessed contact which meant warmth and affection and reliability—she made her way slowly back through the crowd to where she thought her father and Millicent might be. But when she and Roger came in sight of them, she saw that, far from feeling out of it, they were very much enjoying themselves, talking to Florian.

  As Anthea and Roger came up, Millicent said something and Florian looked round. That keen, unemotional glance that could take in every detail of an ensemble in a flash did not miss the clasped hands. And, while Roger was greeting the Marlowes, Florian said softly to Anthea,

  “So the reconciliation was complete?”

  “Yes, monsieur.”

  She also spoke in a whisper, but with lowered lashes and neither smilingly nor intimately. She thought she would never again feel a real bond of amusement or sympathy with Florian. For, with all his charm, he had shown an almost brutal indifference, just at the moment when she felt most loyal and warm-hearted towards him.

  She thought he looked piercingly at her, but she refused to look up. And, after a moment, he turned to her father again and said,

  “Your daughter tells me that she may seek a position in one of the London dress houses next season. It will be my loss, monsieur, but undoubtedly your gain.”

  “Indeed!” That was Millicent, divided between the practical advantages of having a stepdaughter at one of the London dress houses, and the loss it would be to have not even a distant link with the famous Florian any more.

  “Anthea!” Roger exclaimed at the same moment, and looked unusually moved.

  “This is very good news, my dear.” Anthea’s father put his arm round her, with a disregard for the brown taffeta suit which made Florian wince. “You didn’t tell us anything about it.”

  “Nothing is settled yet,” Anthea said quickly. “I—I don’t want to decide on anything in a hurry.”

  “None of us would want you to do that,” Florian observed courteously. “But in something like six weeks’ time, the first plans for the July shows will be made. It would be best for both you and me to know by then if you want to make a change.”

  “I shall know by then,” Anthea said almost curtly, and the subject was dropped.

  It was over at last, this party which looked so pleasant and social on the surface, but carried beneath its pleasant exterior innumerable currents of jealousy, rivalry and plain hatred.

  Anthea promised to rejoin her father and Millicent at the hotel later, but went back with the other manne
quins to change at the salon. They were all talking about Claudine, it seemed, and commenting on her brilliant looks.

  “There one sees the real professional,” observed Héloïse, who had hated Claudine like poison when she was at the salon. “It makes one realize that the amateur can never be anything but—amateur.”

  At any other time this would all have slid off Anthea’s back. But, unnaturally sensitive as she was after the Florian rebuff, she felt she could hardly bear these comparisons between her and Claudine.

  She escaped at last. But even then, she could allow herself only a short respite in the solitude of her own room near the École Militaire. After that, she had to go to the hotel and spend the evening with her father and Millicent. And this, inevitably, meant discussion of future plans.

  Millicent tried hard to make her commit herself one way or the other, while her father executed some effective variations on the theme of the lonely parent.

  “I expect Florian would be sorry to lose you, in spite of all his polite airs,” said Millicent.

  “On the contrary, I don’t think he would miss me at all,” retorted Anthea, making herself smile and shrug indifferently. “He could get back Claudine, the girl who modelled my type of dress before I came on the scene. She was there this afternoon, completely recovered from the accident which put her out of the running before.”

  “Well, I must say you’re casual about your connection with that fascinating creature.” Millicent laughed. “But, in any case, it would be a pity to leave before you were quite sure of something else. Having tasted independence and had a place of your own, you would want the same in London, I’m sure.”

  She evidently meant to make it clear that Anthea must not suppose there was a place waiting for her in her father’s house.

  “Of course,” Anthea agreed coldly. “I shouldn’t think of anything else. But I’m not afraid about getting another job. A recommendation from Florian takes one anywhere in the fashion world.”

  “And then,” put in her father, with the air of one who saw further than most, “you may not need even that. I have an idea that Roger Senloe has other plans for you.” And he laughed.