September in Paris

by Andrea Blake

  “Oh, can’t we dine at Evreux on our way back?” Anne-Marie said quickly.

  “Not when Madame Perigot has a duck a la rouennaise for us, cherie.”

  Madame Perigot was a plump, jolly woman with a voluminous apron over her Sunday best dress. There was a dusting of flour on her eyebrows when she bustled out to welcome them, and her rolled-up sleeves revealed forearms as sinewy as a man’s.

  Having bobbed to Anne-Marie and shaken Noelle by the hand, she clucked delightedly over the baby and, then ushered them into the house.

  Noelle’s room was large and clean and airy. The windows overlooked one of the apple orchards. There was a huge high feather bed for her to sleep in, and a truckle cot for Robert in one corner. Everything smelt of lavender and beeswax, and the furniture shone with polishing.

  There was a small room for Ginette across the landing, and as the girl was still looking pale and queasy Noelle advised her to lie down for half an hour. Robert was eager to begin exploring, so Madame Perigot took him away with her and left Noelle to unpack the cases which had been brought up by a lad.

  “I will do my best to make you comfortable, mademoiselle. Any friend of Monsieur Fielding is always welcome here,” she said kindly, before disappearing.

  Noelle put the baby in the middle of the big bed and began to sort out their luggage.

  There was a massive carved linen-press in one corner, and a chest of drawers near the window.

  She was putting away a pile of Robert’s underclothes when there were footsteps on the landing and Mark appeared.

  “Everything all right?” he asked.

  “Yes, thank you.” She returned to the suitcase and collected the little boy’s pyjamas.

  “There’s no hot running water, I’m afraid, but Madame will boil up whatever you need.” He moved into the room and lit a cigarette. “A fortnight of grubbing about in barns should do Rob good. He doesn’t have much scope for outdoor games at the Paris house.”

  Noelle went on with her unpacking, trying to ignore the effect of his presence. She wondered where Anne-Marie was.

  “You don’t mind being stuck out here for a couple of weeks, do you?” Mark asked.

  “Not at all.” She wanted to sound casual and at ease, but she knew that her tone was too clipped.

  “What’s the matter? Are you afraid that de Bressac may find other interests?”

  Noelle finished filling a drawer and mastered an impulse to slam it.

  “You seem to have a positive phobia about him,” she said acidly. “What happened? Did he cut you out with someone?”

  Mark laughed. “If you didn’t snap back at me every time I mention him, I might believe you weren’t interested in the fellow.”

  “Mark? Oh, there you are.” Anne-Marie stood in the doorway, her eyebrows rising as she saw him sitting on the bed. “Madame says our meal is ready,” she said coolly.

  “Then we musn’t keep her waiting. She’s a superb cook.” He looked at Noelle. “You’ll have to watch your waistline. Everything here is made with butter and cream. Shall I bring the infant?”

  The meal was laid in a small lace-curtained parlour, and even Anne-Marie had to admit that duck, cooked in a traditional Norman style, was equal to anything the restaurants in Paris could offer. To follow it there was creamy Livarot cheese to spread on oven-baked wafers, and a pitcher of home-made cider, sweet and heady.

  Like most country people, the Perigots went to bed early. By ten o’clock the household was darkened and silent. Lying in the great feather bed, watching the curtains blow gently against the window, Noelle wondered if Mark and Anne-Marie had reached home yet. They had left soon after supper, the French girl sitting close to Mark and laughing up at him as they jolted down the rutted track. For the first time in her life, Noelle had felt a stab of jealousy! It was an emotion she had always disliked in other people, and now despised in herself.

  Remembering her conversation with Mark earlier, she wondered if he could possibly have suggested this visit to the Perigots to make sure that she didn’t see Alain for some time. Oh, no, that was ridiculous! Why should he go to such lengths? He might be abominably autocratic, convinced that he knew what was best for people, but he wasn’t spiteful or scheming. Few men were, in her experience. It was women—particularly women like Lady Tregan and her sister—who plotted spokes in other people’s wheels. There was only one reason why Mark might deliberately get her out of Alain’s way, and that was if he was interested in her himself. The thought made her heart lurch. But she knew it was only a delusion. There were a hundred reasons why he might have asked her to go to the theatre with him, and that brief cool kiss on the cheek had been merely a taunt. Ten minutes later he had doubtlessly forgotten all about it.

  In the next few days Robert got dirtier, and was happier, than he had ever been in his life. He attached himself to big, bass-voiced Monsieur Perigot, and Noelle scarcely saw him except at mealtimes and bedtime, when he was tubbed in a big brass hip-bath in front of the kitchen range. Then, scrubbed and sleepy, he would perch on Madame Perigot’s ample lap and drink his glass of buttermilk, falling asleep almost before Noelle tucked him up.

  One golden afternoon of scudding clouds and rustling drifts of leaves, Noelle left the baby with Ginette and walked across the meadows to see the Cistercian monastery near Laigle. Only men were allowed to see the interior of the abbey, but it made an attractive picture against a background of red-gold woodland and quiet pastures; the ancient walls, mellowed by seven centuries of wind and rain, were the color of pale grey lichen in the afternoon sunlight.

  When she returned to the farm there was a car in the yard. It was very like Alain’s, but how could he have found out where she was?

  Her fear was confirmed by Madame Perigot, who hustled out of the kitchen and said excitedly, “Ah, mademoiselle, you have a visitor. A gentleman from Paris. A very handsome gentleman,” she added with a conspiratorial chuckle.

  Alain was in the parlor, drinking Calvados and inspecting the gallery of photographs above the chenille-draped mantelpiece.

  “Noelle!” As she opened the door he swung round and came eagerly towards her. “But how charming you look. The country seems to suit you.” Before she could stop him, he had swept her into his arms and was kissing her.

  “Alain—please!” Noelle struggled out of his embrace and retreated behind a chair. “How did you know where I was?” she demanded breathlessly.

  “Ah, that is my secret—but I promise you I did not approach the fearsome housekeeper,” he said gaily. “Do you know that I waited two hours for you to meet me the other night?”

  “But I sent you a pneumatique.”

  “Which I didn’t find till much later.”

  “Well, I’m sorry you waited so long, but you must have known I couldn’t skulk out to meet you.”

  “Skulk?” Alain queried.

  “Oh ... it means to creep out secretly,” she explained.

  “What a very strange word. But then the English language has many of these odd terms.” And with a sudden quick movement he reached across the chair and captured her hands. Then, kneeling on the seat and holding her fast, he said softly, “It is not, I think, the best language for telling one’s feelings. For example, to say ‘I love you’ is not the same as if I say ... je t’adore ... tu es mon amour, ma belle Noelle.”

  She flushed, and tried vainly to withdraw her hands. No one had ever spoken to her in that low caressing voice, or looked at her with such ardent blue eyes. She knew now why French was called the language of love, for although the words did not fill her with rapture, no one could fail to be moved by the way that Alain had said them.

  Before she could say anything he went on quickly, “Listen to me, cherie. I understand that for you this is a new experience and perhaps a little frightening. But you cannot run away from your heart, so why not be happy and enjoy it.”

  There was a tap at the door and Noelle called out “Entrez” so that Alain was forced to release her.


  “Monsieur is staying for supper?” Madame Perigot enquired smilingly.

  “If you permit, madame,” Alain said quickly. “Mademoiselle Noelle has just been telling me that your cooking rivals the greatest of our Paris chefs.”

  Madame bridled delightedly. “Oh, mademoiselle flatters me. But tonight I have prepared tripes a la mode de Caen, and these I think you will enjoy. Also we have a very good Camembert.”

  “Then I shall certainly stay,” Alain said, rubbing his hands.

  “It’s time for Robert’s bath. I must go and find him,” Noelle put in quickly.

  “You let Ginette attend to him tonight, mademoiselle,” Madame advised. “Take monsieur for a walk in the orchard until I have supper ready. Since he comes all the way from Paris to see you, it would not be right to leave him to his own devices.”

  “No, Ginette has to feed the baby. Monsieur won’t mind amusing himself for half an hour,” Noelle said hastily, making her escape.

  But Madame had a nose for romance and was determined to play Cupid. When Noelle came downstairs after putting Robert to bed, she found that the cloth had been laid on the parlour table and she and Alain were evidently to dine a deux instead of in the big tiled kitchen with its rafters hung with 'nets of onions and home-cured hams.

  “Oh, madame, you really needn’t have bothered to put us in here,” she said awkwardly, as the farmer’s wife delved in the sideboard for her best glasses.

  “Aha, I know what it is to be young, mademoiselle. You might not think it to look at me, but, as a girl, I was considered something of a belle. Why, do you know, until I had my babies my waist was so small that Perigot could span it with his two hands. But alas, one cannot bear six fine sons and keep one’s youthful figure, as you will find.”

  “I doubt if I shall ever have six sons,” Noelle said smilingly.

  “Who knows? It may be that soon you will leave these little ones to have a baby of your own,” Madame said, chuckling. “This Monsieur de Bressac is greatly taken with you. Perhaps, tonight, he will propose.”

  “But he’s only a friend, madame.”

  Madame’s eyes twinkled as she dug Noelle in the ribs. “He does not look at you as a friend would, mademoiselle. You can’t fool me. Before I was betrothed to Perigot I had so many beaux I could not count them. So I know when a man is in love. But perhaps you are reluctant to wed someone not of your country, eh? Ah, well, I understand that, too. I was born in Granville, which is on the coast, and for a long time I missed the sound of the sea. But that is a woman’s lot. When she chooses her man, she must make her home with him. And now I must hurry or the tripes will be spoiled.”

  When she had bustled away Noelle went to the window, and stood biting her lower lip and wondering how to deal with Alain. She was still there when he came in from outside; but, to her relief, there was only time for him to wash his hands before Madame brought in the supper.

  After supper, when Alain had drunk a toast to Madame’s cooking in some more of the famous Calvados, he suggested a stroll through the village. The inhabitants watched them pass with frank curiosity. Noelle guessed that they knew all about her and her charges, and she did not mind their interested glances and murmured exchanges. At this hour of the day the hamlet was very peaceful. Old men sat smoking their pipes in cottage doorways and the women gossiped round the well, and there was a general atmosphere of timeless serenity about the place. One would never guess that within her own lifetime this pleasant countryside had been ravaged by fierce battles and that several of the surrounding villages had been almost completely destroyed.

  When they had passed the last of the cottages Alain took her hand and said, “Well, petite? Are you going to let me teach you to love?”

  They had come to a shallow ford, and Noelle watched the water swirling across the road for some moments.

  Then she said quietly, “Alain, you say you are in love with me.”

  “But I am,” he cut in. “I mean it, Noelle.”

  “But you don’t mean that you want to marry me, do you?” She turned her head and gave him a candid glance.

  The answer showed in his face for a fraction of a second before he let go of her hand to take out his cigarette case.

  “It’s all right. Don’t look so embarrassed. I know you didn’t mean that,” she said evenly. “But you see that’s why I wish this hadn’t happened—because, for me, falling in love and getting married are part of each other.”

  He lit the cigarette and turned the lighter in his hand, frowning down at the stream.

  Then he said slowly, “The night after you visited my grandmother she warned me against hurting you. It will amuse her to learn that the risk was in reverse.” He gave her a wry smile. “She will probably tell me that it should be a most salutary experience.”

  Noelle looked at her shoes. She didn’t know what to say to him. She supposed that she ought to be indignant that he should think she would consider his kind of relationship. But, oddly, she felt as much compassion for him as if she had rejected an offer of marriage. Suddenly she realized that, beneath their appearance of sophistication and assurance, people like Alain were really in a perpetual state of adolescence. They were prepared to grasp the pleasures and the ephemeral excitements of life, but they were nervous of responsibility, of being bound and committed.

  “Oh, Alain don’t you see? We have nothing in common—not really. I think I’m just a novelty to you,” she said awkwardly. “There could never be anything lasting between us, even if I—” She broke off in confusion.

  “Even if you what?” he asked quickly.

  Noelle avoided his glance. “Well ... even if you were serious,” she amended awkwardly.

  “You still think I am not serious?”

  “Perhaps—at this moment. I—I don’t think it will last.”

  He caught her by the arm. “Listen to me, Noelle. You say this will not last—but does love ever last? Do you really imagine that when two people have lived together for ten, maybe twenty years, they still feel as they did at the beginning?” The cynicism of his tone, the derisive twist of his mouth, lit a spark of anger in her.

  “That’s a very old argument, Alain. Of course they don’t feel the same way all their lives. But because love changes, it doesn’t necessarily weaken.”

  “That is the idealist’s view—and life is rarely ideal,” he said dryly. “Most married couples stay together because they have become a habit with each other, and because they haven’t the courage to start fresh.”

  “All right: I’m an idealist,” she retorted with spirit. “That shouldn’t surprise you. I’ve never pretended to be anything else. Now let’s go back to the farm, shall we?”

  They walked in silence this time, except when they passed one of the cottages. The curtains were not yet drawn and the glow of an oil lamp lit the room within. A young man in shirt-sleeves was eating a late supper at the table, while his wife bent over an old-fashioned rocking cradle in one corner. Noelle stopped and touched Alain’s sleeve. “That’s what I want from life,” she told him quietly.

  He stared at the lamplit scene for a moment, an unreadable expression on his fair, good-looking face. Then with a suggestion of a shrug he moved on.

  Back at the farm he said, “When are you coming back to Paris?”

  “I’m not sure. Perhaps next week, or we may stay another fortnight. It really depends if the weather holds.”

  “I suppose you would rather we didn’t meet again now?”

  “It might be wiser not to, don’t you think?”

  “Perhaps. I don’t know.” He caught her hands and drew her against him. “Oh, Noelle, if you knew how much I want you! I have never felt like this about any woman. Do you really want to throw away this chance of great happiness?”

  For a moment she was strongly tempted to tell him the real reason why all his persuasions were useless. But she had a feeling that to admit she was in love with someone else would only complicate the situation.

 
“I’m sorry, Alain,” she said quietly.

  His hold on her hands tightened; and she thought for a second that he was going to try to kiss her again. Perhaps he felt her stiffen, or perhaps he sensed that for the present they had reached an impasse. He let her go, and opened the door of his car.

  “Goodnight, Noelle. Take care of yourself,” he said huskily.

  Then, sliding behind the wheel, he switched on the engine and put the car in gear. A second later, with a wave of the hand, he was off.

  Noelle watched the car to the gate. As it disappeared up the road she heard the roar of violent acceleration. She hoped he wouldn’t drive too fast or too recklessly. As she went into the farmhouse she wondered if she would ever see him again.

  The storm held off until evening, when the sky grew so dark that they had to have supper by lamplight. Then the first slow drops began to splash against the window-panes and, with a crash of thunder, the deluge burst upon them.

  Noelle hurried upstairs to see if the children had been wakened by the noise. But they were both soundly asleep. Robert had his rabbit under one arm and an old-fashioned butter patter clasped in the other fist.

  The Perigots went to bed even earlier than usual, but Noelle asked if she might listen to a concert on the battery radio. They slept at the back of the house, so the music would not disturb them, and by going into the passage from time to time she could hear any sound from her room.

  The thunder had passed over by now, but the rain was still lashing down and it was very cosy in the kitchen, with the curtains drawn against the night and the cat asleep on the rush mats beside the range. As always, there was a lingering fragrance of freshly ground coffee and the crusty milk-loaves which Madame baked every day. Noelle guessed that the Frenchwoman would have been horrified by English people’s acceptance of steam-baked packaged bread, just as she would have disdained any soup from a tin. The savoury broth which Robert had had for his tea had been ladled from a carefully tended stock-pot.

  A little after ten o’clock Noelle was curled up in Monsieur Perigot’s big red plush chair, when she thought she heard a car coming up the lane. Turning down the volume control on the radio, she listened for the purr of an engine. But after a momentary lull, the wind was buffeting the side of the house with such force, and the rain slashing so violently against the windows, that it was impossible to hear anything but the sounds of the storm.