“An Englishman who is an artist and who can cook? He sounds more like a Frenchman.”
“He almost looks like one,” laughed Angela. “He has a beard.”
“Are you fond of him?”
“Yes, very. We’ve known each other for a long time. He wants to marry me.” She found it somehow soothing to her troubled spirit to talk about Roger.
She looked at Suzette covertly, wondering what her reaction to that last piece of information would be. She was rather amused to see a very thoughtful expression enter her eyes.
“Do Simon and Roger know each other?” she asked.
“They have met,” answered Angela.
“Mm. I begin to understand,” Suzette said slowly.
“What do you begin to understand?”
But Suzette would say no more. They joined Laurie and Philip who were attending to the very serious business of choosing and decanting the wine. Later, they went to the opera and saw a very wonderful performance of The Marriage of Figaro, finishing the evening at one of Paris’s numerous nightclubs.
True to their arrangement, Simon telephoned on Saturday morning. Angela’s hand shook a little as she held the receiver. “How are you, Angela?” he said. “Will you have lunch with me?”
“Of course, Simon," she said warmly. “Have you had any luck in your search?”
“Yes. Quite a bit. I’ll tell you about it when I see you. Where shall we meet?”
“At the Arc de Triomphe? I thought of taking a stroll along the Champs Elysees this morning.”
“Good. I’ll look for you there. Failing that, the Arc at one o’clock.”
It was suddenly a wonderful morning. Angela got out the new hat she had bought and put on one of her cotton dresses. She looked in the long mirror before leaving her room and could not help feeling pleased at what she saw. Tall, slim and blond, she made an elegant picture, the hat adding a touch of Parisienne chic.
She strolled along the Boulevard St. Michel where she breakfasted in the open air. Then she crossed the Seine by the Pont de la Concorde, and then on to the Champs Elysees, that wide, straight avenue down which she had driven with Simon on her arrival. She was walking on the left side of the road toward the Arc de Triomphe when she saw a familiar car approaching. She stopped in utter bewilderment as the car pulled up by the curb. “Angela, darling, what luck seeing you here.”
“Roger!” Angela was flabbergasted. “Roger, what on earth are you doing in Paris?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
For a moment, Angela was unable to believe her eyes. Roger, whom she thought hundreds of miles away, was sitting in his car, laughing up at her, one arm leaning on the steering wheel. With a vague feeling of dismay, she looked at him, In another half hour, she would be meeting Simon.
“Aren’t you pleased to see me?” Roger asked at last.
“Of course. But you have taken me rather by surprise haven’t you?” she laughed. “How has it come about?”
“Two substantial checks that I didn’t expect. But look, I’d rather get off the road. Hop in and we’ll go and have lunch somewhere.”
“I... I... will you park alongside here, Roger? I’d rather like to walk this morning.”
He gave her a quick look. “Just as you like, darling. But hop in just the same while I find a space.”
He parked in one of the pavements allocated on either side of the road beneath the trees, then turned to have a good look at her. He took her by the shoulders and let his eyes rove over her every feature, his face breaking into a delightful smile.
“It’s absolutely wonderful to see you. It seems an age.” He kissed her lightly. “You look lovely ... and that hat!” He examined it, turning her head this way and that. With a twinge of conscience, Angela remembered how much Simon had been in her mind when she bought it. “Tell me what you’ve been doing,” he went on, adding darkly, “and who you’ve been doing it with.”
“I will,” she laughed. “But let’s walk for a while.”
They got out of the car and he tucked her arm in his. As they walked toward the Arc, she wondered, rather desperately, how she was going to tell him that she had promised to have lunch with Simon. About the rest of the day and evening, she dared not think. She knew Simon would be expecting to take her out to dinner, but how could she possibly leave Roger at loose ends?
“I’ve been having a wonderful time,” she began. “For a few days I explored the city on my own.”
“You haven’t been alone all the time, have you, darling?”
“We-ell no, not really.”
“I should hope not. Of course, I’m as jealous as can be of this fellow LeFeure, but I wouldn’t have thought much of him if he’d left you entirely to your own devices.”
She squeezed his hand. How wonderfully understanding he was. “Well, of course, he had his own friends to look up. He saw me fixed up at the hotel on our arrival, then took me out to dinner. I don’t remember the name of the place, but it was somewhere on the Boulevard St. Michel. One of those outdoor places partitioned by hedges.”
“Oh, yes, I know. And what did you do after that?”
“We went up to the Eiffel Tower.”
“What, in the dark?”
“The lights of Paris were lovely.”
Roger glanced at her face. She looked rather strained.
“And what else, darling?” he prompted quietly. “Have you really been enjoying yourself?”
“Oh yes. Simon took me to meet his mother.”
“Simon?”
“Simon LeFeure. We couldn’t keep up the doctor and sister business all the time.”
“No, of course not. What is his mother like?”
“Very nice. She’s English. Small and dark, very lively and entertaining. I liked her. One day, she took me to a fashion show, another day, we went on the river.”
“And when are you seeing ... er ... Simon again?”
She laughed a little shakily. “At one o’clock.”
“What, today?” he exclaimed. “Oh, Lord.”
“I’m sorry, Roger. You should have let me know you were coming. Simon has been trying to find out something about his father and he was going to tell me about his progress. Actually, I haven’t seen him since Monday.”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Roger said lightly after the slightest of pauses. “I suppose I should have let you know, really, but I wanted to surprise you.”
As they approached the Arc de Triomphe, Angela saw Simon strolling along to meet her. She gave a little wave and he responded, casting a surprised glance at Roger.
“Hello, Simon,” she said when he came within speaking distance. “You remember my friend, Roger Cameron? He suddenly found he was able to come over for a day or two.” The two men shook hands. Simon said, “Yes, of course I remember. How are you, Mr. Cameron?”
“I’m fine. Call me Roger. Then we can all be friendly,” he added with slight irony, looking anything but friendly.
Simon glanced at Angela’s rather troubled face. “I ... er ...suppose Angela told you I had asked her to have lunch with me? Of course, had we known you were coming, we would not have dreamed of making the arrangement. Under the circumstances, I suggest we all have lunch together. What do you say?”
Angela flashed him a grateful look. “I think that’s an excellent idea, don’t you, Roger?”
Roger raised his eyes from a study of the pavement. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I do. It’s really more than I deserve coming so unexpectedly.”
Angela smiled with relief. For a moment, she had thought there was going to be some animosity.
They parted for a short while. Simon went to pick up his car and Angela went with Roger to get his. Ten minutes later, they met at a restaurant on the Italian Boulevard.
“How long are you staying, Roger?” Simon asked with grave politeness over lunch.
“Just the weekend. I arrived late yesterday evening, and stayed overnight in Airaines. I have to go back Sunday evening.” He turned to Angel
a. “You’ll be able to spare a little time for me, won’t you?”
“Of course,” she answered warmly. “Don’t be silly.”
“Simon will have the pleasure of your company the rest of the week—lucky blighter.”
“Really, Roger,” she protested, her cheeks coloring.
“Thank you, Roger,” laughed Simon. “Actually, she’s been giving me the cold shoulder for the past few days. I ought to bring curses down on your head for turning up like this. I had managed to persuade her to have lunch with me and was going to press my advantage for this evening. However...”
Roger beamed. So she wasn’t really so enamored of this fellow after all if she had been “cold shouldering” him. And he was stepping aside gracefully.
“When you two have finished handing me around—” Angela began.
“Darling,” Roger said. “You should be thankful we’re so civilized. We might have been fighting a duel over you. Or would you have preferred that? What’s the procedure, Simon? I dash a glass of wine in your face, then say, ‘swords or pistols?’ Is that it?” He picked up his glass. For a split second, Angela had grave doubts of his intention; then he said, “Instead, we’ll drink a toast to the lady.”
He raised his glass giving her a look very like the one he had given her once before—on the night he had told her of his love and asked her to marry him.
Watching, Simon interpreted the look and saw the faint glow of color that tinged Angela’s cheeks. Presently he said he must leave them.
Angela said quickly, “Oh, but Simon, you haven’t told me about your search.”
He smiled. “Perhaps we can meet on Sunday evening and I’ll tell you all about it? What time will you be setting off for Calais, Roger?”
“About three o’clock, I think.”
“May I call you about four, Angela?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. I shall be glad to hear your news.”
Simon rose and gave Roger his hand as custom demanded. “Thank you for taking care of Angela,” Roger said.
“It’s been a pleasure,” Simon replied stiffly.
After Simon had gone, Roger and Angela sat in silence for a while. Angela was acutely conscious that Roger had behaved as though he owned her. Somehow, she didn’t want Simon to get the impression that she and Roger were any more than friends. Yet she wondered what difference it made. Simon was not interested in her relationship with Roger. She was forever giving things more significance than they merited.
She felt Roger's hand on hers. “Everything all right?” he asked, eyeing her thoughtfully.
“Why, yes, of course. Let’s stroll by the river and you can tell me all your news.”
The day was warm and they strolled lazily along the bank of the Seine, exchanging news of all the little things they had been doing. Then in the evening, they went to a typical Bohemian club where they laughed and danced and held hands like the other couples around them. Roger had also booked a room at the student hotel, so when they had breakfasted together on Sunday morning, they went to one of the many open-air art salons, which Angela found almost as fascinating as Roger did.
“I sometimes think I’d like to come to Paris to live,” Roger said. “What do you think?”
“Do you mean, would I like to, or what do I think of your coming here to live?”
He gave a twisted smile. “I mean if we were married.”
“I ... I don’t know.”
“You don’t know,” he repeated. “You don’t hold out much hope for me, Angela, do you?”
She looked at him appealingly. “Please Roger, don’t let’s spoil our last few hours together.”
“Why should the mention of marriage spoil anything? You said you were fond of me. Surely...”
She felt absurdly near to tears. “Oh, Roger, don’t you see? It’s because I’m so terribly fond of you. I want to say ‘yes,’ but I just don’t feel 100 percent sure, and I can’t bear to keep putting you off. But it’s not only the uncertainty that worries me, it’s our friendship. If we go on like this we shall not be friends any more.”
They walked along in silence for a while. Then Roger said quietly. “I’m sorry, Angela. I ought to be more patient, I suppose. I as good as promised that I would be. But I’m uncertain too—uncertain of you. Sometimes I think you care for me, yet you seem afraid to commit yourself. And of course the uncertainty is bound to alter our relationship. When one person is in love, it is difficult to remain on the same ‘friendly’ basis as before. I should have realized that. At the moment, I feel we are neither friends nor lovers. How can I be natural and lighthearted when I love you and every time I mention love or marriage you shy off? Perhaps if you gave me a plain yes, or no—”
“Roger...” The last thing she was feeling was decisive. It was not that she wanted to keep him dangling on the proverbial string, it was just that she did not trust her own feelings at the moment. She was miserable and confused because she felt she loved Simon so much, yet he did not care for her. But how easy it was to mistake love for infatuation. She realized that she had been inclined to lean on Roger, wanting his assurance, the comfort that his love could give. Yet he must be feeling much the same about her as she was about Simon. In all fairness to him, she must give him an answer. Before she could speak again, however, she felt his hand give hers a comforting squeeze.
“I’m sorry, darling. Love is a cruel and selfish thing at times.”
“Oh, Roger,” she said miserably.
He folded her in his arms and she found herself clinging to him. He kissed her cheeks, the tip of her nose and her lips and she felt comforted as a child.
“Forget what I said, darling,” Roger said. “I’m a cad of the first water. As long as you’ll let me hold you and kiss you sometimes, I can wait a little longer until you give me a definite answer.” At three o’clock he was ready to go. They stood together side by side, reluctant, as friends are, to say goodbye. Roger half turned, and lifting her chin, looked steadily into her eyes. His dear, familiar face so close to hers, Angela wished she were going with him. She kissed his cheek, loving the warmth and comfort of him. She knew in her heart that, had it not been for the disturbing, tumultuous thing she felt for Simon, she would have given Roger her love and promise here and now.
He kissed the palm of her hand. “I hate like hell leaving you, and I shall be counting the hours till your return. Think of me...”
She smiled. “I think of you a good deal. When I come back—” Hope gleamed in his eyes for a moment. She said quickly, “You’d better go, Roger, or you’ll miss your plane. I’ll be at home next Sunday evening.”
“I’ll be waiting for you.” He kissed her long and hard, then released her and got into his car. She stood and waved until he was out of sight, then went slowly into the hotel.
That night at dinner, Simon felt he could not bear the unhappy look in her eyes as she sat without smiling, mechanically eating her meal.
“Did Roger get off all right?” he asked at length.
“Yes,” she answered briefly.
“I expect you were sorry to see him go.”
“Yes, I was.”
She knew that was an understatement. She had felt worried and unhappy about Roger ever since he had gone. She was extremely fond of him and had no wish to make him unhappy. He loved her more than she deserved. When she returned from holiday, they must reach a proper understanding.
“I like Roger,” Simon was saying. “You and he always seem happy together. Have you known each other long?”
“Since we were children. Then there was an interval, and I met him again when I went to Kirkwhite.”
“Kirkwhite. How far away, and long ago that seems.” Angela thought suddenly that they were like two strangers trying to make polite conversation. She gave herself a mental shake.
“Simon, tell me your news. How have you been faring?”
He smiled, his eyes lighting up suddenly. “I’m onto something at last, Angela,” he said eagerly. “I took you
r advice and went out to see that fellow again. As you thought, he did have more news and I finally traced Albert Poiret in Montparnasse.”
“And did you get all the proof you needed?” she asked excitedly.
He smiled faintly. “Not perhaps in black and white. Friday was the celebration of the Day of Liberation. After the parades and the speeches in the city, some of the old comrades of the Resistance met in a cafe in Montparnasse for a celebration of their own. Georges Dumont, the man who first helped me, told me about the meeting, so I went along hoping to find the man I wanted. Those Frenchmen were certainly making a night of it.” He smiled at the recollection. “They were laughing, shouting and drinking, and singing all the old songs of the Resistance as though the liberation had happened only yesterday. I waited patiently, hoping to get some clue to which man was Albert Poiret. I didn’t want to start making inquiries. I thought it best to remain as inconspicuous as possible. By nature, the French are friendly people and I didn’t want anyone to start talking to me, asking my name. The mention of it might have caused trouble. Being in patriotic moods they might even have turned me out. You see, the real identity of Resistance leaders who were making a pretense of being collaborators was usually known to very, very few, otherwise, the enemy might have found out. An indiscreet word here, a certain look there, or even just an attitude would have given him away. The genuine scorn, derision and hatred of the people for the collaborator was essential for success.”
“How they—men like your father—must have suffered,” Angela murmured. In the face of such stern realities, her own problems seemed trivial.
Simon seemed almost not to hear her. He went on, “Eventually—and by this time many of the patriots were pretty well ‘lit up’—I managed to catch the name, Poiret, addressed to a middle-aged, quiet-looking man in one corner. I went up to him. I said, ‘Are you Albert Poiret?” He looked at me closely. ‘Who are you?’ he said. ‘I know your face. Used to know you very well in those days.’ He was pretty tight when I first spoke to him, but suddenly, his eyes flashed and he seemed to jerk sober. ‘Michel, Michel LeFeure!’ he said in a sort of awed voice. I think he thought he was seeing a ghost. ‘I’m Simon, his son,’ I said. You should have seen his face. At first, he just stared. Then a smile of pleasure spread across his face like a burst of sunshine. He stood up, put his hands on my shoulders and kissed me on both cheeks. ‘Simon LeFeure, son of Michel,’ he said in an incredulous voice. ‘Ah, my boy, you should be proud to be the son of such a man.’”
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