“You were deep in thought,” he said.
“I’m sorry, but actually I wasn’t so very far away.” She laughed. “This may sound odd, but I was wondering if you could cook.”
He stared at her for a moment and then burst out laughing. “How in the world did you get around to thinking something like that?”
“It’s this wonderful French cooking. For a moment I was reminded of someone I know. A rare specimen, I suppose. An Englishman who can cook ... really cook, I mean.”
“Roger, your eccentric artist?”
She smiled. “I suppose he is, rather. Then as my thoughts do run on, I wondered if—being French born—you were interested in cooking.”
“No. Does that disappoint you?”
“Good heavens, no. It was just an idle thought.”
He thought fleetingly how easily her thoughts strayed to Roger. ‘Tell me, Angela,” he said presently. “What would you like to do with the rest of the evening? A show, nightclub with cabaret, the lights of Paris from the Eiffel Tower, a stroll along the Seine. If it appeals to you, I’ll try to get tickets for the Folies Bergere.”
She laughed. “Not the Folies Bergere, please! That would be too much like a busman’s holiday, all that female anatomy. No, since you kindly give me the choice, what I’d really like to do is to see the lights of Paris from the Eiffel Tower and then just stroll along the streets and boulevards and have coffee at one of the sidewalk cafes and watch the world go by.”
“Excellent! First, to La Tour Eiffel,” he said gaily.
It was a wonderful evening, full of enchantment. Angela drank in every moment of it, acutely aware of the man at her side. The size of the Eiffel Tower at close quarters astonished her. “Simon, I’d no idea it was so huge!” she exclaimed.
“Yes, everybody thought M. Eiffel was crazy when he built it.” They went up in an elevator and soon were standing high above the city, the lights pricking the darkness like millions of glow worms. A soft breeze gently touched their faces and a magic, light as thistledown, seemed to descend upon them.
“Like it?” Simon murmured, his lips close to her ear.
“It’s wonderful,” she breathed, afraid to break the spell.
He pulled her lightly around to face him and brushed her lips with his. Then, in a whisper so faint that it seemed to be spoken by the very breeze, he breathed, “I love you, Angela ... in such a romantic setting I find you completely irresistible...”
Then he kissed her again, more firmly this time, and held her close to him. She had a feeling of being on the edge of time itself, until, still in that strange whisper, he said, “Let us go down again. Up here there is too much magic. It goes to the head.”
Bemused, Angela allowed herself to be led back to the elevator and out into the warm scented air of the Tower gardens.
Throughout the rest of the evening Simon was the attentive escort, showing her some of the wonders of the city. Angela wondered if she had dreamed the scene under the stars. A kiss was understandable, she supposed, but those words spoken on the breeze ... Was that the legendary romantic nature of the Frenchman showing itself? Whatever it was, she found herself wanting to recapture the moment, but Simon appeared to have forgotten it; or had he regretted it, thinking perhaps of someone else?
Toward the end of the evening he took her to one of the numerous sidewalk cafes in the Latin Quarter where the young and old of every race and nationality meet to talk and sip their coffee or a glass of wine.
“You wouldn’t like the fashionable ones on the Boulevard l’Opera,” he told her. “They’re usually full of American tourists. Here, you see the real people of Paris.”
They sat for a while; then he said suddenly, “You must be tired. It’s past midnight even though everywhere is so lively. These people will be here for hours yet, but you must have your beauty sleep.”
He saw her to her hotel. Then with no more than a casual good night he left her.
Slowly, Angela mounted the stairs to her room. What a wonderful, wonderful evening. She got into bed and discovered that it was just as comfortable as it looked. She sank into a somewhat bemused state of pleasant weariness, seeing again the lights of Paris, feeling the gentle breeze in her hair and the pressure of Simon’s lips on hers. He had said he loved her...
She opened her eyes the next morning with a vague feeling of having made a wonderful discovery, a vague feeling that became a glowing happiness, which soared higher with every waking minute. For a moment she could not think what had happened to make her feel like this. Then as recollection flooded over her, she knew a fresh surge of joy. Simon loved her—he had said so, up in the Eiffel Tower. She wanted to laugh out loud. Then a slow blush covered her face and neck as she became fully awake and her thoughts clarified. It was true he had spoken the word “love,” but he had also used another word—“Magic.” And for the rest of the evening he had been quite a different person from the romantic Frenchman who had kissed her and held her in his arms. Her joyous feeling on waking had been, not because Simon loved her, but because she had fallen in love with him, while he...
But what was she to do? How was she going to hide her feelings when they met? For hide them she must if he did not feel the same way. She sat up and recalled that he had not mentioned seeing her again. She reminded herself that he had not come to Paris merely for a holiday but to secure proof of his father’s integrity. She might not even see him until their departure for England. At this thought and the remembrance of his reason for his visit, loneliness and misery descended on her.
Presently she got out of bed to look through the window, and in doing so, felt a little of the thrill of being in a strange country returning. She had two whole weeks to explore Paris, she told herself resolutely. She would see the shops—something of Paris fashions. She simply must not sit around moping.
Like many hotels in France, the one she was staying in provided no meals, but she had noticed a small cafe at the end of the street. She would go there and have a French breakfast of rolls and coffee. She hurried along to the bathroom, then dressed quickly, choosing one of her shantung dresses. It was too warm for the matching jacket, she decided, as she fastened her light, comfortable sandals.
The hotel telephone was ringing as she went downstairs, and she was met at the bottom by the receptionist.
“For you, Ma’moiselle. Monsieur LeFeure.”
Angela’s heart leaped. Simon. So he had called her, after all. She picked up the receiver.
“Hello, Angela here,” she said trying to make her voice sound normal.
“Good morning, Angela. I saw so many stars last night that I forgot to ask what you’re doing today.”
“As a matter of fact, I’m just on my way out in search of breakfast,” she answered lightly.
“Where are you going to get it?”
“At the little cafe at the end of the street.”
“I know it. I’ll meet you there in five minutes. Order cafe et croissants pour deux—coffee and rolls for two—and I’ll be with you almost as soon as the waitress brings it.”
She laughed. “All right, I will.”
Her heart was singing again. Over and over again she told herself not to act like a romantic schoolgirl. Simon probably regretted kissing her, or at least would hope that, she was adult enough to take it for what it had been. Just a light flirtation culled from the magic of the night and stars. He had likely dismissed the incident as not being worth thinking twice about. He would certainly not expect her to have fallen in love with him. “I saw too many stars last night...” he said this morning. She must think of it that way too!
But when she saw him coming toward her on the open veranda of the cafe, she could not prevent her heart from contracting violently.
“Angela,” he cried with an exuberance that finally dispelled any lingering thought that he might have been serious last night. “You look as fresh as the morning. Were you comfortable in the hotel?”
“Absolutely, thank you.”
“Ah, here’s our breakfast,” Simon said as the waitress set large cups of strong, sweet coffee and a plate of crescent-shaped rolls before them. “You’ll find these rolls perfectly wonderful as they are, Angela, but they will serve butter and marmalade with them if you wish.”
“I’ll try them as they are first,” Angela said, taking one and biting into it. “Hm. Why, they’re lovely, absolutely delicious.”
Simon smiled. “I thought you’d like them. The French cannot understand how the English can tackle their huge breakfasts. Porridge, bacon and eggs, toast and marmalade and so on.”
“But you couldn’t do a hard morning’s work on rolls and coffee, and of course, on holiday some people like to go for a brisk walk or a swim before breakfast. By the time they sit down to the table they’ve worked up quite an appetite.”
“Are you one of those?”
“I can usually tackle a good breakfast on duty and even on holiday too, sometimes.”
“Well, if you get a longing for bacon and eggs while you’re here, don’t let the signs reading “English Breakfast” lure you. The Frenchman’s idea of bacon and eggs, or ham and eggs is thin, boiled ham warmed up, accompanied by an egg that is usually poached.”
Angela laughed and pulled a wry face. “Thanks for the warning.”
There was a moment’s silence, then Simon said in a quiet voice, “Angela, you remember I said I wanted to follow something up during the next two weeks? I wonder if you...” He hesitated.
“Don’t worry on my account,” Angela said quickly. “I shall be perfectly all right. I have today all planned, and...”
She faltered and he gave her a quick look. “Perhaps I should first have apologized to you for last night. I had no right, and I’m sorry. I hope you’re not angry, but I—”
She smiled brightly and pushed any further explanations aside. “You don’t need to apologize for anything. It was a very pleasant evening. Why should I be angry?”
He looked troubled for a moment. “I was wondering if you would care to meet my mother. She would be glad to meet you and happy to show you the city.”
“There’s really no need, Simon. After all, because you kindly offered me, what really amounts to a lift, you don’t need to feel responsible for me for the rest of my holiday.”
He covered her hand with his. “If you persist in talking like that, I really will think you’re angry. Please try to understand. I really want you to meet my mother; I’m not just trying to be polite. But of course, if you would rather not, that’s quite all right.”
Angela lowered her eyes. The feel of his hand on hers was almost more than she could bear. She made a slight movement and immediately, he removed his hand. She saw the anxious expression in his eyes. Was he worried in case she had attached too much importance to last night?
She smiled suddenly. “But of course I’d love to meet her, if you’re sure she won’t object to having an English tourist thrust upon her.”
His face lit up. “You forget that she is English, too. She will love meeting and talking to you. And there’s one thing you can rely on—she still loves a cup of tea.”
She laughed. “Lovely.”
“If I can possibly get away, will you have dinner with me again tonight?”
“How shall I know whether or not you will be free?”
“My mother has a telephone. I can either call you there or leave a message at your hotel. You’ll be going back there to change, won’t you? If by any chance you find something better to do, leave a message at my hotel. I don’t stay with my mother because she has no room in her small apartment. I hope you will still be free, but my mother knows so many people you never know when somebody might hail her from across the street.”
“If you can’t get away, I will come here for dinner, then maybe pay another visit to La Tour Eiffel.”
His eyes flickered for a moment; then he said abruptly: “Shall we go?”
Simon and his mother were not the least bit alike. She was small and dark and very vivacious. One would have taken her more for a Frenchwoman than an English one, but she greeted Angela in English in a softly cultured voice.
“My dear, how lovely to meet you. An English sister from Simon’s own hospital. Do sit down. Will you join me in a cup of tea? It’s so seldom I can get anyone to drink tea with me who really appreciates it.”
Angela was about to protest that she had only just had breakfast when there was a sound from an adjoining room.
Madame LeFeure glanced smilingly at Simon. “I have a surprise for you, Simon. Guess who’s here?” As she spoke the inner door opened and Madame LeFeure announced, “Voila! Paulette!”
“Paulette!” cried Simon and went toward the tall, slim, beautifully dressed girl who stood poised in the doorway.
“Simon, darling...” Paulette cried, flinging her arms about his neck.
CHAPTER SIX
Angela witnessed the scene, a sharp pain searing through her as if someone had thrust a knife into her heart. This, then, was the woman he wanted to marry.
Simon turned to introduce her and Angela knew a further stab of pain as she realized how beautiful Paulette was and how exquisitely dressed. Paulette held out a beautifully manicured hand.
“How do you do?” she said politely in careful English.
“How do you do,” Angela murmured, proffering her own comparatively work-worn hand. Although she had given herself a manicure, her hands had certainly not the smooth whiteness of this woman’s. Up to this moment Angela had felt reasonably smart and well dressed, but in contrast with Paulette’s chic she felt almost dowdy.
Paulette treated her to a swift look from a pair of very blue eyes. Angela felt herself summed up and then dismissed as Paulette turned her attention back to Simon. She chattered away in French of which Angela caught only the gist. It was plain that she and Simon knew each other intimately. Paulette put her arm through Simon’s drawing him unresisting to the door.
Simon glanced back at Angela. “I’ll leave you and mother to get acquainted,” he said.
Paulette waved an elegant hand. “Au’voir, Suzette, Mademoiselle...”
They went out together leaving a strange emptiness.
Madame LeFeure sighed. “Well now, Angela, you and I will have a nice cup of tea and get to know each other. Paulette is very beautiful, is she not? She and Simon have adored each other from childhood.”
Suzette went into the kitchenette, and Angela sank, trembling into a chair. So Simon and Paulette had loved each other since childhood; and it was obvious that they still did. What a fool she had been to let herself fall in love with him so easily. She might have known. She buried her face in her hands in despair. Then, the clatter of crockery from the kitchenette forced her to look up and try to take an interest in her surroundings.
It was a bright, colorful room, the furniture small and dainty and of good taste like its owner. The rugs and cushions were splashes of vivid hues, while the pictures were unusual and obviously of artistic value. On an elegant bureau stood a framed photograph. At first Angela thought it was a picture of Simon and her heart gave, by now, its familiar twist. But as she looked she became certain it must be of Simon’s father. When Madame LeFeure reentered the room she confirmed this.
“You may wonder why I have no picture of my son,” she said, “but they are so very much alike as you can see. I loved Michel dearly, and somehow I seem to have both husband and son in that one photograph.”
Her voice had become tense and serious. She set down the tray and poured out the tea in silence.
Then she said, “I expect you are wondering why I do not live in England with Simon, but I feel closer to my husband here in his own country. His dear body lies buried in French soil and I would feel that I was deserting him if I—” She broke off and smiled suddenly. “But what gloomy talk, and you are on holiday. Forgive me, Angela. You don’t mind if I call you that? And please call me Suzette. My English name was Susan, but Michel always called me Suzette
and so does everyone else. I have come to prefer it.”
Angela’s heart warmed toward this gallant little Englishwoman, so obviously still in love with her husband. Life could not have been easy for her.
“I’d love you to call me Angela, and I think yours is a lovely name. But your talk of Simon’s father is by no means gloomy. I’m ... most interested.”
“Oh, but you have come to Paris to enjoy yourself. I’m sure you hear quite enough sad things in your work. I am usually in a happy mood too, but just meeting you and talking of Simon’s father...”
“Simon has told me about him and what he hopes to find out while he is in Paris.”
Suzette shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know why Simon is bothering about all that. I feel sure in my own mind, even though Michel himself could not tell me very much, that he was a patriot. Anyone really knowing him could not believe anything else.”
“Oh, I’m sure Simon believes that too,” Angela said quickly. “But he is looking for proof.”
She gave an impatient exclamation. “It is hopeless. And what does it matter? He says he does not want to practise medicine in France.” She looked at Angela speculatively. “Would it matter to you about his father?”
“No,” Angela said decisively. “Not in the least.”
Suzette threw up her hands in a gesture that was more typical of the French than the English. “There you are! But a man must have proof—they must have everything in black and white. With women it is different.” She stood up. “Excuse me, my dear, while I put on my hat and gloves. We will go out into the sunshine, eh?” She went through to her dressing room and emerged a few minutes later looking cool and elegant in crisp navy and white.
Nurse Angela Page 6