September in Paris

by Andrea Blake

  “Thank you ... but I was just on the point of leaving,” Noelle said awkwardly. “‘I have a train to catch,” she added, not wishing to sound ungracious.

  Michel glanced at his watch, an ornate gold-plated affair on an expanding bracelet. “The train for Paris does not leave until six. It is not yet five-fifteen. You have plenty of time, mademoiselle.”

  “Oh ... I thought it was later than that.”

  “A cigarette?”

  “No, thanks. I don’t smoke.” His case, she noted, was solid silver, too elaborately patterned and monogrammed to be in good taste, but obviously expensive.

  The waiter brought their drinks, and Michel fitted his cigarette into a short amber holder and used a silver lighter, also monogrammed. Noelle had no doubt that a lot of girls would consider him a most dashing companion. He was wearing very well-pressed whipcord trousers and a soft suede windcheater with knitted sleeves. Under this was a cream silk shirt with a foulard cravat tucked into the open collar. The general effect was intended to be casual and outdoor-mannish. Perhaps the clothes were too new-looking, the cravat too carefully arranged, or perhaps it was that Michel’s handsome olive face was not that of an open-air type instead of looking sporting; he reminded her of a wax model in a men’s outfitters.

  “You were surprised to see me here?” he enquired pleasantly.

  “Yes, very,” Noelle admitted.

  “I was born here. It is necessary to visit my relations from time to time,” he explained. “Had I known you were coming I would have offered you a lift. I have a car of my own, you know.”

  “Really? How nice,” Noelle said tepidly.

  “What has brought you to Chartres, mademoiselle?” he enquired.

  “I wanted to see your cathedral. I’d read that it’s the finest one in France.”

  He shrugged. “Possibly—I wouldn’t know. Myself, I am not much interested in ancient buildings. There’s time enough for such matters when one is old oneself. For the present I prefer to enjoy other things.”

  Noelle said nothing and pretended to be watching some people across the street. She knew he was studying her, and was irritated by her own self-consciousness.

  “You don’t like me, do you, mademoiselle?” he said suddenly.

  She gave him a startled glance, her color rising.

  “I—I don’t know what you mean,” she said lamely.

  “Perhaps you consider yourself superior to one of my station.”

  “Of course I don’t,” she exclaimed.

  “But you do not welcome my company.”

  She touched the stem of her glass. “I wanted to be alone,” she said candidly. “Don’t you ever feel like that?”

  “Not when I can be with a pretty girl,” he said, with a chuckle., “You find me unattractive?”

  “I’ve never thought about it,” she said, embarrassed by his directness.

  “Oh, come now, mademoiselle—you know a man admires you, but you do not consider him?”

  Noelle reached for her bag. “I really must go now,” she said hastily. “Thank you for the drink. Goodbye.”

  He jumped to his feet. “Then I will drive you as far as the station.” Catching her arm with one hand so that she could not get away, he left some notes on the table and escorted her on to the pavement.

  ‘Thank you, but I’d really just as soon walk. Please don’t bother,” she said hurriedly.

  “It will be a pleasure.”

  He led her round the corner to where a low-slung scarlet sports car was parked against the kerb. “My car is not as grand as Sir Robert’s fine limousine, but it has a better turn of speed,” he said, opening the door for her.

  The level of the seat was barely a foot above the roadway, and Noelle was grateful for the loosely-pleated skirt which enabled her to get in fairly decorously. Michel did not bother to open the driver’s door, but swung himself over it and pulled on a pair of driving gloves.

  The bucket seats were close together, and each time he changed gear Michel’s arm seemed to press more closely against hers, but Noelle knew she would just have to put up with this unwelcome proximity for the few minutes’ drive to the station. But as they approached the station, instead of slowing down, Michel began to accelerate.

  “Where are you going?” Noelle exclaimed anxiously, as they swept past the parking yard.

  “I may as well drive you home. Wouldn’t you like a nice spin?” He reached into the locker under the dash and produced a pair of goggles. “Better put these on or you may get dust in your eyes.”

  “I want to catch the train,” she said sharply.

  He laughed. "Don’t be afraid, I am a very good driver. You will get back much quicker with me.” And, as his foot pressed down on the throttle, the car shot forward with a roar.

  Noelle was not normally a nervous passenger, but in the following twenty minutes, as the needle of the speedometer flickered steadily higher, her muscles were tight with fear. Michel drove as if he were on a racing circuit, weaving in and out of the other traffic at a pace that made it seem to stand still, and steered into bends with a whine of tortured tires. Fortunately it was a wide road with a good dry surface; but, as the wind tore over the screen and the needle crept close to ninety, Noelle clung to her seat in an agony of apprehension. When at last he slowed to a moderate speed, she was white-faced and trembling.

  “What’s the matter? You don’t like speeding?” he asked, glancing at her set face.

  “I just want to stay in one piece,” she said furiously.

  Michel put his hand on her knee. “I thought you would enjoy it. I can go a lot faster than that,” he said, with a grin.

  Noelle thrust his hand away and glared at him.

  “I don’t care how fast you can go. Since you’ve forced me to come with you, please be good enough to drive like a reasonable being.”

  His smile made her feel slightly sick. “Whatever you say, cherie.”

  A few miles further on they came to a small market town. Michel stopped the car outside a cafe. “How about some supper?” he suggested.

  “No, thank you!”

  “Oh, come on, bebe. You don’t have to be starchy with me. I won’t report you to old Duvet. She’s got a down on me too.”

  “I don’t want anything to eat—and don’t call me bebe,” Noelle flared.

  Michel shrugged. “Okay. No need to get nasty about it. I’ll leave you to cool down for a while.” Swinging out of the car, he strolled into the cafe.

  If he expected her to change her mind he was to be disappointed. Noelle rarely lost her temper, but just now it was at boiling point. If she had been starving, nothing would have induced her to follow him. She bitterly regretted that she had never learnt to drive, as Michel had left his keys in the ignition lock, and it would have given her infinite satisfaction to leave him stranded.

  It was only fifteen minutes before he reappeared and climbed back into the car. Noelle ignored him.

  It was dark now, and there was little traffic on the road. To her relief, Michel did not attempt to speed again, and presently the long white beams of the headlamps probing the darkness, and the steady hum of the engine, made her feel drowsy. She was almost asleep when she realized the car had slowed, and the bump of a grass verge under their wheels made her stiffen into alertness.

  “Why are you stopping?” she asked coldly.

  Michel switched off the engine and the headlights. They seemed to be passing through a forest. Both sides of the road were heavily wooded.

  “Don’t get scared again, cherie. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to be friendly,” he said thickly.

  As he turned towards her Noelle smelt the brandy on his breath, and wondered how much he had drunk when they stopped at the cafe. The first sharp spasm of panic began to take hold of her, but she forced herself to say steadily, “You said we’d be in Paris before the train. Hadn’t we better get on?”

  “Why all the hurry?” His hand brushed her shoulder and fastened on her
arm. “Oh, come on, bebe. Relax. You’re a very pretty girl. All this sour-faced stuff doesn’t suit you. Why not be nice for a change?”

  The situation was outside Noelle’s experience and she acted on instinct. As he tried to pull her towards him she twisted towards the door, and hacked backwards with one foot. The sharp edge of the heel must have caught him full on the shin, because he gave a grunt of pain and let go of her arm. Noelle wrenched open the door, scrambled out on to the grass, and plunged straight into the trees.

  Afterwards, she had no idea how long she had crouched in the undergrowth while Michel stormed at her. It might have been five minutes or half an hour: it seemed an eternity of fear.

  Finally, when she was beginning to get cramp in her legs, he shouted an ultimatum. If she didn’t come out immediately, he would leave her to find her own way home.

  It was several, minutes after the engine note had died away before Noelle ventured into the road. The brambles had shredded her stockings and she felt cold and dishevelled and still shaky; but at least she had got away from him. But her relief was short-lived as she began to consider her new predicament. Now she was alone on a dark road, perhaps miles from the nearest hamlet.

  Since, as far as she could tell in the dim moonlight, the trees seemed to extend further to the left than to the right, she chose the second direction and began to walk. Once clear of the wood, she might be able to see the lights of a village or main road.

  Several times a rustle in the thickets or the sudden cry of an owl made her draw in her breath, her heart thumping. But at last the trees began to thin and give place to fields.

  It was eight o’clock when she saw a cluster of lights some way ahead. They were the flood lamps of a filling station at the junction of the by-road and the highway. But the attendant at the station was not helpful. It was clear that he suspected her of being either deranged or involved in some shady contretemps, and was afraid of being involved himself. There was certainly no taxis to be hired in any of the surrounding villages, he said brusquely. Her best plan was to thumb a lift from the roadside. It was possible that she could stop a long-distance lorry to take her to Paris.

  Noelle thanked him and walked on. After what had happened with Michel, the idea of hitching a lift was not attractive, and she had little doubt that any trustworthy driver would be as suspicious of her disordered appearance as the man at the petrol station.

  By the time she reached the village where he lived, it was nearly nine. Many of the houses were in darkness, but there was a rough-looking cafe-cum-bar open on a corner. As Noelle pushed through the door there was an abrupt cessation of talk, and all eyes turned to survey her. There was a man in shirt sleeves and a slatternly-looking girl of about nineteen behind the counter. Feeling horribly self-conscious, Noelle asked if they had a telephone she could use. The barman looked her up and down, then lifted the counter-flap and beckoned her through. The telephone was the public service type and the barman produced a box of the small metal jetons which operated it.

  “Where do you wish to call, mademoiselle?”

  “To Paris.” Noelle hesitated, then said uncomfortably, “I’m afraid I have lost my purse, so I will have to owe you the money. I’ll send you a postal order as soon as I get home.”

  The barman put the box back under the counter. “No money, no call,” he said flatly.

  “Oh, but, please—”

  “No money, no call,” he repeated tersely. There was a murmur of agreement from among his patrons, and Noelle saw that their curiosity was turning to hostile suspicion. For the first time since coming to France she felt that she was in a foreign country among alien people.

  The barman was waiting for her to pass through the counter again, and as a last hope she asked if there was a padre in the village. Her heart sank when several voices informed her that the priest was away for some days.

  “If you are in difficulties you had better try the gendarmerie over at Loge, mademoiselle,” someone suggested gruffly.

  Outside in the street Noelle wondered what on earth she was to do next. It seemed hopeless to try to get back to Paris that night, but if she didn’t, she would have to let the Tregans know and find somewhere to sleep, and that looked equally impossible. She was walking dejectedly away from the bar when there was a hissing sound from an alley and someone called softly to her.

  It was the slovenly girl from the bar.

  “Don’t pay any attention to that, mademoiselle. Men! They are pigs—the whole herd of them!” she said disgustedly. “Perhaps I can help. What is it you want?”

  “What I really want is to hire a car back to Paris,” Noelle said anxiously, not having very much confidence in the girl’s ability to assist her.

  “Ah, now that is difficult,” the girl conceded. “What happened? Did your boy friend ditch you?”

  “Something like that,” Noelle admitted.

  The girl gave a contemptuous exclamation. “I know the type! They take you for a ride, and then, when you are miles from anywhere, they start to get fresh. If you won’t have any nonsense they threaten to make you walk home, the brutes. I despise every one of them.” She fell silent for some moments, then suddenly caught Noelle’s arm. “Ah, I have thought of something. Now listen: there is another village about a couple of kilometres up the road. There is a man who does repairs to tractors and other machines. He has a car which is used for weddings and funerals. If you offer him a good price perhaps he will agree to take you home. I don’t promise, mind, but it’s worth an attempt.”

  Noelle quailed slightly at the thought of trudging another mile, but she thanked the girl for her advice.

  “I tell you what—you can borrow Maurice’s cycle,” the girl suggested. “He won’t miss it tonight, and you can arrange to have, it brought back early tomorrow. Wait here while I fetch it.”

  She came back with a rusty old bicycle, and brushed aside Noelle’s objections. “Serve him right for being so nasty to you. It’s only fit for the scrap-heap anyway, but at least it will save your feet,” she said cheerfully. “Tell old Lyon that Marie Bonnet sent you.”

  “Bless you, Marie. I don’t know how to thank you,” Noelle said warmly.

  “It’s nothing. We girls have to, stick together. Quickly now! Someone is leaving the bar, and I musn’t be seen talking to you.”

  With the aid of the antiquated bicycle it was not long before Noelle reached the second village and followed Marie’s instructions for finding Monsieur Lyon. There was no lights showing in his house but there was a lamp burning in the shed at the side of the premises, and she could hear someone whistling.

  Ten minutes later, when he had listened to her story, Monsieur Lyon scratched his thinning hair and said regretfully, “I would help you with pleasure, mademoiselle. But, as you can see, my vehicle is under repair. I may have to work on her all night to be ready for the funeral of Madame Froissart tomorrow.”

  Noelle’s shoulders sagged. A distracted glance at her watch showed that it was now ten o’clock.

  “What am I going to do?” she said, with a catch in her voice.

  “Well, you are welcome to sleep here,” he said readily. “Come, I will explain to my wife. Don’t worry, she will not object. We have a daughter of about your age. She will be very pleased to help you.” He paused. “There is no one in Paris who would be willing to come to your aid, I suppose?”

  Noelle thought of Mark. Would he come for her? Or at least arrange for a car-hire firm to fetch her?

  “There might be, if I could get in touch with them,” she said uncertainly.

  “Then why not try a coup de telephone?”

  “You have a telephone—here?”

  “But certainly. I will show you!”

  He took her into the house and showed her the instrument. It was now exactly ten-fifteen, and there was still a chance that, if Mark was at home and agreeable, she could get back to Paris without an alarm being raised. Monsieur Lyon did not have a Paris, directory, but the operator at the lo
cal exchange was able to trace Mark’s number after some delay.

  “Yes, Monsieur Fielding is listed, mademoiselle. His number is Louvre zero cinq dix-huit,” he informed her.

  “Oh, good. Will you please get it for me?” she said eagerly.

  She had forgotten that, in France, the ringing tone was very similar to the English engaged signal, and was about to replace the receiver, when the buzzing broke off and a voice said, “Fielding here.”

  It was only then, hearing his deep clipped voice, that Noelle realized the extent of what she was doing. If they had parted amicably, it might hot have mattered so much, but to ask such a favor of him, now—her confidence ebbed.

  “Hello? This is Louvre 0518. Are you there?”

  “Oh, Mark—it’s Noelle,” she said faintly.

  “I can’t hear you. It’s a bad line.”

  “It’s Noelle—Noelle Webster.” Now her voice was too loud and must have shattered his eardrum.

  “Noelle?” he said in surprise.

  “Yes. Look, I’m terribly sorry to bother you at this hour, but I—I’ve got myself stuck ... that is, I’m stranded.”

  There was a brief pause. Then: “Where are you?”

  Feeling abysmally stupid, she realized that she didn’t know and had to have a hurried consultation with Monsieur Lyon.

  “It’s a village called Hautbois, about five miles east of Etampes. I’m phoning from the local garage, and I wondered if—”

  He cut her short. “Just sit tight. I’ll be with you as soon as I can,” he said tersely, cutting the connection.

  “It goes well? They are coming for you?” Monsieur Lyon enquired anxiously.

  “Yes, they’re coming.” Noelle didn’t know whether to be relieved or apprehensive.

  “Bon. Now I will call my wife and you shall have some refreshments while you wait.”

  “Oh, no ... please don’t disturb her. I’m not at all hungry.”

  “At least you must have some wine,” the little man insisted.

  This Noelle accepted, but she refused his offer to light a lamp in the parlor and said she would much prefer to sit with him in the shed and watch him work.