'I have discovered from your husband what sort of clothes you will need,' she said in satisfaction. 'Now will you take tea with me?'
'That would be very pleasant, Madame, but unhappily we have too many other things to do this afternoon,'Paul said. 'Another time, perhaps?'
They drove back to the flat and found a letter on' the doormat. Paul slit it open and read it, his face oddly blank, while Leonie waited for him to tell her what they were going to do for the rest of the day. She felt restless, uneasy. She had no roots here in Paris. She had no friends, no occupation. The future stretched ahead of her, as blank and mysterious as a dream forgotten on waking.
Paul looked up. 'We have an invitation,' he said slowly.
Her mind leapt to the obvious. 'From Jake?'
Paul frowned. 'No, not from Jake,' he said coldly. 'From Diane Irvine, an old friend of mine.'
An old girl-friend? Leonie knew that she would never find out from Paul's face. He was too good at disguising his thoughts. The handsome features could assume a masklike impenetrability when he chose.
'An invitation to what?' she asked.
'Dinner,' he said lightly. 'When?'
'Tonight,' he returned.
She looked horrified. 'But I have nothing to wear!'
'That can be put right immediately,' he said. 'We'll go out now and buy you a simple little black dress.'
She was reluctant to meet his friends so soon. 'Must we?' she asked nervously. 'Can't we wait a while? Until Madame Therese has made some clothes for me?'
Paul looked at her coolly. 'I want you to go tonight,' he said flatly. 'Diane has invited six of my best friends, and it will be an ideal opportunity to introduce you to them all. Now that you've met Jake there's no hope of fending off the rest of them. It's a pity Jake happened to arrive today, but it's done now. The whole of Paris will know we're back by tomorrow and the telephone will never stop ringing. We must face the inevitable.'
Leonie sighed. 'Very well.' Glancing at him, she asked, 'Is Diane married?'
'Yes,' he said curtly.
'What does her husband do?'
'He's a merchant banker,' said Paul. 'I think you'll like him. He's a very likeable man.'
'Irvine is an English name,' she said thoughtfully. 'George is an Englishman,' Paul stated. 'His wife is French, however. George runs the French end of his bank. Although he's English, he was born in Switzerland, and he spends a lot of time in Geneva, but Diane is usually in Paris. She hates to leave the city. She's a sophisticated city-dweller. All her pleasures are to be found here. She detests the country, but George has a passion for English country houses which he never gets the chance to enjoy because Diane would never consent to living over there.'
'Poor George,' said Leonie sympathetically.
Paul's mouth twisted ironically. T knew you would sympathise with him.'
They went out and chose a dress at an expensive boutique. Paul insisted on making the final decision. His taste, Leonie realised, ran to clothes of stylish simplicity, and she had to admit that the dress he chose suited her.
When she was dressed that evening, Paul surveyed her from head to toe, his eyes narrowed. 'Yes,' he said at last, 'you'll do. But there's one thing missing...' He produced a flat jeweller's box. Flapping it open, he drew out a diamond and emerald necklace. Leonie gasped.
'Paul! I was going to wear the jewels Argon gave , me!'
'I want you to wear these,' he said offhandedly, walking round behind her to clasp them. She quivered at the touch of his cool fingers on her skin. It took him some time to manipulate the clasp and her nerves were stretched intolerably when he at last moved away.
'Thank you,' she said, touching the cold gems with one finger. 'It was very kind of you.
He shrugged. 'I want you to look like my wife,' he said in a tight voice.
'Of course,' she said, her voice faint. The necklace was window-dressing for the benefit of his friends who must not suspect that their marriage was merely in name only.
They arrived at Diane Irvine's beautiful Napoleonic house just after eight. A wall surrounded the courtyard in which the house stood. A line of bay trees in green tubs lined the path to the front door, and the facade was lit by coach lamps hanging from pedestals outside the porch.
Paul seized the brass knocker and banged it once. A moment later the door flew open and a tall, elegantly gowned woman stood there facing them.
'Paul, mon cher! Ça va, mon vieux? You were so sly to get married far away on your Greek island where none of us could get a glimpse of your bride!' The soft, smiling voice included them both in these remarks, but Leonie realised that the bright blue eyes which studied her held no smile. Beneath their hard shine lay a nameless hostility.
Diane Irvine was in her late twenties, Leonie judged. The blonde hair was styled in apparently casual curls and hung to her shoulders. Her skin had a peachy bloom. Her figure was rounded, curved in the right places with a ripeness which just missed being overblown. The turquoise dress she wore was cleverly cut to add height and make her look slimmer.
Paul murmured an introduction, and Diane extended a languid hand. Leonie met it with her own and they smiled at each other, the smiles which society imposes for the sake of courtesy but which are quite meaningless, and serve only to highlight the false friendliness being offered.
'I did not even know Paul had a cousin Leonie,' Diane purred, giving him an intimate glance.
'Leonie has been brought up in England,' Paul explained.
'Poor girl,' smiled Diane. 'I have friends over there, of course, but I dislike the country. Too cold, too dull.' The blue eyes narrowed. 'Perhaps you know some of my friends? The Earl of...'
Leonie broke in swiftly, her voice chilly. 'I don't know anyone in England whom you would know, Madame Irvine.' It was not quite true. She had met many girls at school who came from just such backgrounds, but she had made few friends among
them, and had not bothered to keep up the acquaintance after she left school.
Diane's brows rose. A gleam of triumph shone in her eyes. 'Oh! My dear, I hope you are not upset by my question. I naturally thought... She let her voice trail away, shrugging in a pretence of helplessness. 'You are a Caprel?' The question was half statement, gently malicious.
Paul looked grim. 'Surely we are not the first to arrive, Diane?' he asked coldly.
She gave a tinkling little laugh. 'Oh, no, they all here, waiting with bated breath to see what sort of girl has finally managed to snare Paul Caprel. Come along!'
As they passed into the hall, with its gilt Empire mirrors and silky wallpaper, a maid in a black dress and lace apron hovered to take Leonie's small fur wrap, a present from Paul that afternoon. Paul and Diane moved on without Leonie, Diane's hand possessively curled around Paul's arm, her blonde head dropping towards his, her voice hushed to inaudibility. Leonie noted the way those long, red-tipped fingers clung to his dark sleeve, the moist full bloom of the red mouth as it parted to breathe some word.
There was by now no doubt in her mind that Diane and Paul had at some time been very close, or that Diane was still interested in him. Her every look declared it.
The room into which they now moved was large, high-ceilinged and beautifully furnished in the Empire style which was most appropriate for a house of the Napoleonic period. The silk-upholstered chairs and sofas were in a soft mint green, their legs carved with elaborate Egyptian-style decorations; sphinx bodies formed the feet, coiled serpents writhing along the uprights. On the walls hung two large paintings of the same period, by some lesser known artist, and one very large gilded mirror whose four corners were formed of the heads of Egyptian gods. Leonie recognised the head of Horus, the hawk god. The peculiar mixture of silken elegance and barbaric splendour gave the salon a startling originality.
At first glance the room seemed crowded, but as Diane began to guide her around, introducing her, she began to realise that there were, in fact, only seven new faces for her to identify.
'This is m
y husband, my dear. George, are you awake?' Diane used a light, ultra-sweet voice as she spoke, but the look in the blue eyes was acid. She gave Leonie a little smile as she added, 'Poor George, his work is so dull that he is often half asleep by the time he gets home. I sometimes feel I have married a dormouse instead of a man!'
George Irvine did not seem abashed or annoyed" by these remarks. He had risen, stocky and already beginning to lose his mouse-brown hair, and was offering Leonie his broad, well-shaped hand together with a sweet, apologetic smile. 'I'm very happy to meet you, Mrs Caprel,' he said gently.
Someone laughed, smothering the sound with a gasp. Diane shot a poisonous glance at the others in the room.
'These two young things are Emilie and Klaus
Schneider,' she said, her blue eyes resting coldly on Emilie.
Klaus Schneider was a very tall, very thin young man of about twenty-five with fine fair hair and grey eyes which remained expressionless even while he bent over Leonie's hand to kiss it. His wife was tiny, her hair bubbling over her head in soft brown curls, her eyes merry and friendly. It was she who had laughed.
'Klaus is in banking,' Diane told Leonie. 'Emilie is ... well, what do you do with yourself all day, Emilie, my dearest? Sew a fine seam?'
Emilie flushed and made no answer. Klaus looked as enigmatic as ever, but Leonie had a faint quiver of intuition as she met his grey eyes. She suspected that Diane's spitefulness towards his wife did not pass him by, and that Klaus resented it deeply, however little he showed it.
She barely, had time to exchange a comforting smile with Emilie before Diane had whisked her on to the second couple, who had risen from a sofa to shake hands.
'Two of our American friends,' said Diane. 'Doris and Carl Nieman. They're from Chicago.' The sentence sounded like an accusation, unsoftened by a smile.
Doris was elaborately coiffured and dressed, her birdlike slenderness enhanced by green silk which clung where it touched. The bright brown eyes held warmth and the handshake confirmed it. Leonie felt immediate rapport with her. Carl Nieman was in middle age, his wide shoulders and slim waist demonstrating a physical fitness which did him credit. He, too, grinned with real friendliness as he shook hands.
'So you're the girl Paul finally picked! Well, I hand it to him. He's some picker!'
'Now, don't start giving away too many of my secrets,' Paul said lightly. 'We're still in the honeymoon stage, remember. Leonie has yet to discover much about my wicked past.'
Carl studied Leonie's face with narrowed eyes. 'I guess you needn't worry, Paul. Your wife looks like a mature personality to me. She'll take any dreadful revelations in her Stride.'
'Thanks for the vote of confidence,' Leonie said, smiling at him.
Diane waved a hand at the third couple. 'Jean- Claud and Anna St Just—sister and brother, not husband and wife, by the way.'
Jean-Claud was a wiry, vibrant young man with black hair, black eyes, a deeply tanned olive skin and flashing white teeth which he revealed as he smiled at her and murmured a greeting. 'We have all been consumed with curiosity to see you since we heard of Paul's marriage. At first, we could not believe our ears, you understand. It was so sudden, so unexpected! But now, meeting you, I understand very well.' His slanting dark eyes, faun-like under their thin brows, flattered her.
She laughed. 'Thank you, that was a very nice compliment.'
His sister was a quiet, dark girl with her brother's colouring but none of his personality. She said nothing as she shook hands, merely smiling, with a reserve in her face which was not unfriendly but coolly withdrawn. She was, Leonie guessed, the sort of person who does not jump into friendship but waits cautiously before committing herself.
'A drink before dinner,' George Irvine invited, indicating the collection of decanters and bottles on an occasional table. 'What about you, Madame Caprel? Sherry? Sweet or dry?'
She accepted a glass and said 'Please, do call me Leonie ... everyone .. .' turning to include the rest of the guests in the plea.
'An enchanting name,' Jean-Claud said enthusiastically.
'Thank you.'
The door opened and the maid appeared, announcing quietly, 'Monsieur Tennyson...'
Paul swung on his heel to face the door, his face hardening in anger. Watching him, Leonie saw his eyes flash in narrowed accusation at Diane, saw her blue eyes shine back at him in pretended innocence.
'Jake, darling!' Diane advanced to kiss the newcomer, smiling sweetly.
Jake looked at her with a grin of indulgent amusement. 'Diane. How kind of you to invite me. He glanced at Paul over her shoulder. 'Surprised to see me, Paul?'
'Very,' said Paul coldly. 'I thought you had left for London by the afternoon flight—as I suggested.' The words were uttered deliberately, their menace unconcealed.
'Diane persuaded me to Stay,' said Jake, his smile growing mocking. 'She wanted me to be here for the
party.'
The two men visibly crossed swords. Jake lounged easily, his bearing impressively unaffected by Paul's naked hostility. The other guests were looking faintly puzzled, faintly alarmed.
Paul stared at Diane. 'Wasn't that thoughtful of her?' His tone was barbed.
She hooked a hand through Jake's arm and drew him towards Leonie. 'But of course you are the only one of us who has met Leonie before, aren't you, Jake?' Her laughter was soft. 'Do you know,' she added, half turning towards the others, 'Jake actually mistook Leonie for one of Paul's little dolly birds? He went to the flat and found a pretty girl en deshabille, so naturally leapt to the obvious conclusion.' Her smile slid back to Jake. 'Jake was so Struck by her that he was wondering how long it would take him to steal her from Paul, only to find, poor Jake, that Paul had actually married this one!' Hot-cheeked, Leonie turned away blindly towards the door, blundering into Paul's shoulder. He caught her, his arm clasping her around the shoulders. Above her head his voice said icily, 'We all make mistakes, Diane. Some worse than Others.' The tone was full of tightly reined fury.
George Irvine slowly stood up. 'Time we went in to dinner,' he said in his calm English voice. 'My dear, your arm...' He firmly took hold of Diane and walked away with her to the door. The other guests followed like sheep. Soon only Paul and
Leonie remained, facing Jake.
'So Diane finally went too far,' Jake said lightly. He shrugged. 'D'you want me to leave, Paul?
'You had no business repeating that story to Diane,' Paul said. 'You have embarrassed my wife and exposed her to Diane's spite.
'I apologise, Leonie,' Jake said very gently, looking at Leonie with a serious expression. 'I didn't intend to hurt you, believe me.
'What did you intend?' Paul demanded. 'You knew that Diane would repeat that story to half Paris. Telling her was telling the world.
'You were damned rude to me,' Jake said bluntly. T suppose I was furious. You practically threw me out as if I were a door-to-door salesman, and I resented it.'
George appeared in the doorway, looking at them soberly. 'We're waiting for you, Paul.'
Jake shrugged, his eyes still engaged in a duel with Paul. 'I'm leaving, George. Make my adieux, will you?'
'You're not leaving,' George said decisively. My wife invited you to dinner and you'll Stay. Paul looked at him, narrow-eyed. George returned the stare calmly. 'My dear Paul, there'll be enough gossip as it is—if Jake leaves now it will be ten times worse. You have no choice but to keep up appearances. Jake will dine with us and you will behave towards him with the same courtesy you will show all my other guests. For your wife's sake.
Paul's mouth set grimly. 'Yes, you're right. I wasn't thinking straight.' He glanced at Jake. 'I apologise-for my behaviour this morning.'
Jake nodded casually. 'Forget it. It's all been a storm in a tea-cup.' He glanced at George. 'Deliberately blown up, if you'll forgive me, George, by your beautiful wife. Women can be the very devil.'
George did not reply. He turned away and they followed him into the dining-room.
The mea
l was beautifully cooked and beautifully served. Leaning back in a carved wooden chair, Leonie watched across the white damask cloth as Diane flirted with Jean-Claud, the pure smooth curve of her breasts rising from her gown as she laughed, her skin made almost translucent by the candlelight. A blaze of silver and glass, the soft- footed efficiency of the servants, the dark green velvet of the curtains picked out by a green T'ang horse rearing delicately on a small white shelf in a corner—the room held a discreet elegance Leonie had never experienced before.
Yet beneath all this beauty she felt a coldness which emanated from her hostess. Everything had been chosen to offset Diane's own beauty, not for its own sake, and the general effect was to make one conscious of Diane's icy self-love. Self-centred people chill those who come near them, and Diane had that effect on Leonie. It was not merely that Diane had been malicious towards her. It was Diane's eternal consciousness of self, the deliberate fall of her silky hair as she smiled sidelong, the movement of arm or shoulder, the soft, spiteful remarks which fell from her red mouth.
Emilie sat opposite Leonie and talked to her chattily throughout the meal. They took to each other immediately and were soon fast friends. Emilie confided, as they left the table later, that she, too, had been a target for Diane's spite. 'She hates her bachelor friends to marry and always loathes their wives. Diane likes to have a circle of men friends who adore her. When she was first married she had dozens, but as time goes by they vanish one by one, and Diane is getting desperate.' Emilie's bright eyes danced. 'Time is on our side, you see!'
So it was not only Paul whom Diane regarded jealously as a possession, thought Leonie, relieved. Her expression gave her away. Emilie giggled and whispered to her. 'Diane thought Paul was sure to stay a bachelor, and she was furious when the news broke that he had married you.' Her glance was faintly anxious. 'You will be careful, won't you? She can be very devious and very malicious.
'Why do people put up with it?' Leonie asked.
Emilie shrugged. 'She is very beautiful and very rich, and with men she can be very good company, I believe.'
Master of Comus Page 9