by Andrea Blake
“Not particularly.” She skipped the rest of the character-reading and looked at the forecast under the heading “Amour.”
“ ‘Numerous chances of romance, but you must wait for the one great passion of your life’,” Mark read aloud. “That sounds interesting. Are you waiting for a cataclysmic love affair?”
Noelle scrunched up the paper and dropped it in the ash tray. “I wonder if anybody believes in those things?” she said lightly.
He let the evasion pass. “Hundreds of people, probably. I expect they come true occasionally. Perhaps yours will.”
“I’d better try to be more gay, volatile and impulsive.”
“I like you as you are,” he said quietly.
His tone, and the warmth in his eyes, made her heart leap mildly. But it was then, happy and excited, that she made her worst error of judgment. Almost, but not quite, she was going to tell him the truth about Alain. But because she couldn’t risk a second rift in this sudden harmony between them, she held back her confidence, meaning to explain later.
Before they left the cafe she went to the powder room. When she came back Mark was glancing at a copy of Paris-Presse. He slipped it in his pocket and escorted her out to the car. She had hoped and expected that he would ask her to dine with him, but he drove straight to the house.
As he helped her out on to the pavement, he put the paper in her hand and said without expression, “It’s an interesting edition tonight: Congratulations. It seems I underestimated you. Goodnight.” With a curiously twisted smile he slid behind the wheel and drove away.
Upstairs, Noelle looked feverishly through the paper—an appalling, premonition growing in her. Finally, after scanning every other page, she found the item in the gossip column. With sick distaste Noelle read the incriminating paragraph and knew what Mark must think of her.
Society painter Alain de Bressac, (the columnist had written), who was seriously injured in an auto smash-up last, week, has every inducement to make a speedy recovery. De Bressac has been working on a portrait of lovely Madame Claudine Alexandras, a coveted commission which should establish his growing reputation as an artist. But it seems he has finally relinquished his claim to be one of the most eligible—and matrimonially elusive!—of the smart-set’s escorts. First and most frequent of his visitors since the crash has been a glamorous auburn-haired English girl. Their engagement will be officially announced within the next few days, we hear.
Sickened by the cheap and inaccurate journalese, Noelle thrust the paper away from her. With desperate but futile regret, she knew that if only she had followed her instinct and confided in Mark at the cafe, the paragraph would not have mattered. As it was, he must think that she had been deliberately deceiving him, perhaps wantonly leading him on. Remembering the flimsy paper horoscope which had described her as being ruled by impulse, she found it a bitter irony that she should then have suppressed the one impulse which might have made all the difference between hope and despair.
When, on the last day of October, Noelle visited Alain, she found him sitting in a chair by the window. He was in a dark silk dressing gown, very much like the one belonging to Mark which she had worn on that memorable night at the flat, and the sight of it gave her a queer little jab of pain.
But this did not show in her face as she said warmly, “Oh, Alain, how nice to see you up again. You didn’t tell me yesterday.
He took both her hands and kissed them lightly in turn. “I wanted to surprise you.” Still holding her hands, he said, “I think it is you who need cosseting now, cherie. You’re getting too thin. Those hollow cheeks don’t suit you.”
“I—I’ve been dieting a little,” Noelle said hurriedly. “All that buttery food at the farm put an inch on my waist. It isn’t chic to be plump.”
“You weren’t plump, ma mie. You were most attractively rounded.” He smiled at her, but perhaps because his face was so much thinner, it was not quite the same as the insouciant grin which had been so characteristic of him before the accident. “I am all in favor of elegance, but not at the cost of that emaciated state which one observes in the glossiest fashion journals.”
“One would think I had gone to a skeleton,” Noelle said lightly. “I’ve only lost a few pounds.” Then, to change the subject: “Any news of when they’re going .to let you out of here?”
Alain reached for a cigarette and lit it before he replied. Noelle noticed the lines around his mouth that had not been there when he came to see her chez Perigot. It might be the effect of the sunlight, but it seemed to her that there were strands of white hair in the boyish blond forelock, and there was no mistaking the imprint of pain upon his features. She had a feeling that he would never again be quite as gay and carefree as the Alain whom she had met on that first blustery afternoon on the Ile St. Louis. Or perhaps it that then he had looked younger than his years, and now they had suddenly caught up with him.
“As a matter of fact they’re letting me out next week,” he said slowly, toying with his lighter. Fortunately Noelle was looking out of the window, her face half turned from him. So for those first seconds she had only to school her voice to enthusiasm.
“So soon? Why, that’s wonderful, Alain.” She turned to him, her face, too, under control. “You must be pretty tough to get over this so quickly.”
Alain examined the tip of his cigarette as if the glowing ash was of particular interest to him. “You are pleased?” he asked, in an odd tone.
“I’m delighted. I was afraid they might keep you in hospital for several more weeks.”
He leaned back in his chair and looked at her. “I won’t call you a hypocrite, ma mie, because I don’t think you are one. But you are certainly a liar,” he said dryly.
“What do you mean?” Noelle said blankly.
“You may be pleased for my sake that I’m getting out so soon, but what of your personal reactions?”
“I don’t understand you, Alain.”
He reached for her hand and pulled her down into the second chair. “You are very gallant, cherie, but not very flattering. I am not ill now, and neither am I so weak and unstable that I can’t take the truth.” She tried to break in, but he motioned her to silence. “You are not in love with me, ma chere. You never were, and I’m afraid you never will be. It is as simple as that. No, please don’t protest that you are, because it will not make this easier for either of us—and don’t blame yourself because I have found this out. You played your part very well, in fact you almost convinced me at times. Only, you see, love is very difficult to counterfeit.”
Noelle looked down at her clasped hands. “Oh, Alain ... I’m so sorry,” she whispered wretchedly. “I—I didn’t want to hurt you.”
His hand was very gentle as he tipped up her chin and forced her to meet his eyes. “I know you didn’t, cherie. Don’t worry, I shall survive. Tell me, if I had kept silent, would you have kept to your word?”
Noelle made a small weary gesture. “I don’t know ... I honestly don’t know. I’m very fond of you, Alain, but—”
“But there is someone else?”
“No—no, of course not.” But the wave of color in her cheeks belied her hasty denial.
Alain’s smile was wry. “I am not a fool, petite, and I’ve had plenty of time to think these past few weeks. I don’t think it has been only concern for me that has made you so very unhappy,” he said shrewdly. “You are a very honest person and it hasn’t been pleasant for you to keep up this pretence, but I don’t think that has made you so thin and pale. The situation is more involved ... yes?”
Noelle bit her lip. “Oh, why does life have to be so ... so complicated?” she exclaimed with a tremor in her voice.
“Perhaps it isn’t, cherie,” he said quietly. “At least we straightened out one part of the tangle.”
“Alain, please—you must let me explain,” she said anxiously. “You see, Doctor Charvet said—”
“I know what he said—at least I can make a good guess,” Alain broke in.
“As a matter of fact, I taxed him about it this morning. He was as evasive as he could be, but it was obvious that I’d hit on the truth of the matter. Ma pauvre petite, he had no right to bludgeon you into all this. I am not such a weak-minded fool that I can’t survive without getting all my own way.”
“What will you do now when you leave?” Noelle asked worriedly.
Alain shrugged. “Perhaps I shall join my grandmother in the south. It is not very lively at this season, but I expect I shall find some amusements.”
Noelle rose and went to the window again. “It would have been better if we had never met,” she said in a low voice.
She heard Alain move, and then his hands rested lightly on her shoulders. “Tell me one thing, Noelle. This man whom you do love—is it the Englishman who was with you at the theatre?”
She did not answer, but he must have felt the involuntary tensing of her body as he said swiftly, “He knows about, this false betrothal between us? That is why it goes badly, for you?”
Her answer was scarcely audible. “It never really went well. I think he was just being kind to me.”
“You did not explain to him that I meant nothing to you?”
She turned. “But you do mean something, Alain,” she said softly. “I shall always think of you as the kindest and best of my friends, the very nicest of all Frenchman.”
He smiled, but his eyes were sombre. “And I shall remember you as the one girl who resisted my charm,” he said lightly. “Now, off you go—and stop worrying. I have a feeling that, in the end, it may work out right for both of us.”
There was a tap at the door and a nurse apologized for disturbing them, but it was time for monsieur to take his medicine.
“A glass of Pernod would do me more good than that repulsive potion,” Alain said, grimacing. He took Noelle’s hand and raised it to his lips. “Goodbye, ma petite. Bonne chance.”
Noelle tried to smile, but her mouth quivered. “Goodbye, Alain. God bless,” she said huskily, then went quickly out of the room.
One or two people gave her sympathetic glances as she hurried along the corridor and down the wide stone staircase—a slender, pale-faced girl whose eyes were brilliant with anguish as she tried to hold back her tears.
Afterwards, she had no recollection of where she walked for the rest of that long afternoon. The sun had disappeared and there was a growing chill in the air when she found herself by the river, not far from Notre Dame. Suddenly she realized that she could not go on living in Paris; that, however adversely it might affect her future, she would have to resign her post. Somehow, in a little more than eight weeks, almost every part of the city had some associations for her—if not with Mark, then with Alain—and all of them underlaid with painful reminders.
It was dusk as she made her way back to the Tregan’s house, still deeply depressed in spite of the fact that she was finally free of her uneasy obligation to Alain. Poor Alain! She did not doubt now that, in the end, he had come to love her as wholly and helplessly as she in turn loved Mark. She remembered how, when she was training at the Starland College, some of the prettiest students had always come back from vacation with news of their latest conquests. At the time she had taken little notice, but now she wondered how anyone could enjoy being the cause of someone else’s heartache.
Back in the nursery, she was greeted with the news that Mark had only just left. Evidently he had told Robert that he was going away, but in such a way that the little boy was more excited than upset.
“There’s a great big mountain sticking out of the sea, all made of sugar, and there’s a jungle with lots of animals and snakes. Uncle Mark’s going to see if he can send me a parrot so I can teach him to talk,” he told Noelle breathlessly. “He said he couldn’t promise, but he’d do his best.”
“How exciting, pet. Did he say when he was going?”
“I don’t know, but he’s going on a ship like the one in my book. I’ll show you.” He ran off to fetch his colored picture book, and Noelle braced herself to take a suitable interest.
“There is to be a party in Monsieur Fielding’s honor. Chef has had orders to prepare a special buffet,” Ginette informed her.
“Oh, really? When is that?” Noelle asked tonelessly.
“On Friday, I think, Monsieur did not say so to Robert, but I believe he is leaving Paris on Saturday.” She looked up from her mending. “I wonder what Mademoiselle du Val will think of his going?”
“Mademoiselle du Val?” Noelle repeated dully. Time was running out even faster than she had expected. Four days, and Mark would be gone, and with him all hope of happiness.
“Colette says that mademoiselle is in love with Monsieur Fielding. She has heard madame discussing it with mademoiselle. Colette thinks she will be very angry if monsieur leaves Paris without a declaration. But if he wanted to marry her, he would have prepared to take her with him, don’t you think?”
“I think Colette gossips too much,” Noelle said shortly.
Robert came back with his book and pointed to a picture of a great white ocean-going liner. “There! Uncle Mark says that’s just like the ship he’ll be going on,” he explained. “Have you ever been on a great big ship like that, Noelle?”
“No, pet, only a little Channel steamer.”
“Were the waves like this?” He turned the page to an illustration of a fishing trawler in a high sea. “Were you sick?”
Noelle shook her head. “The sea was quite smooth. I enjoyed it,” she said absently, remembering that bright August day that had brought her from Dover to Calais, and the excited anticipation of the train journey to Paris.
That evening, after Robert had gone to bed and Ginette to her own room, Noelle paced restlessly about the darkened nursery and tried to think of some adequate reason to give for her resignation. A sound from Robert’s room made her quietly open the door. But as she switched on the dim night-lamp and moved softly to the bed, she saw that he was only murmuring in his sleep, his face half buried in the pillow, his rabbit hugged tight to his chest. Gently she slipped his free arm under the clothes and smoothed them over his shoulder.
Then, as she turned back to the door, her breath caught sharply in her throat. Someone had come into the day nursery. A tall black shadow was printed on the far wall. For one terrified instant Noelle thought of Michel, and her blood froze. Then the shadow changed its form, and with a little gasp of relief she recognized the strong square-jawed profile.
“Mark!” she said dazedly from the doorway.
He stood on the hearthrug, hands in pockets, facing her. “Saving light?” he asked quizzically.
“I—I was just going to bed when I heard Robert stirring.” She swallowed. “Have you come to say goodbye?”
“Perhaps. May I switch on?” He moved to the table and pressed the button on the reading lamp.
“If you’re not too tired I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea.”
Noelle recognized the tone, and shrank from another clash with him. She fetched the tea things from her own room and plugged in the kettle. She was still using the tea provided for her arrival, preferring to drink coffee at mid-morning and for nightcaps.
“You gave me a bit of a fright. It was silly of me, but when I saw your shadow, I thought it might be Michel coming back to ... to pay me out,” she said nervously.
“Your nerves must be jangling. He wouldn’t show his face near here again.”
“I suppose not.” She waited for the kettle to boil, wondering what he granted at this hour. There must be something.
“How’s de Bressac?” he asked, as she gave him his cup.
“Much better. He’s leaving hospital next week.” She was pleased with the matter-of-factness of her tone.
“Is that all?”
“All?”
“I think you know what I mean.”
“I’ve no idea,” she faltered.
The flat of his hand came down on the table so violently that Noelle almost dropped her cup. She set it in the sa
ucer with a clatter, her face white. “For heaven’s sake...!”
“What the devil’s the matter with you?” he demanded. “Is this supposed to make things interesting, or have you really no idea what you’re doing?”
She stared at him, appalled at the anger in his face, the slashing contempt of his tone. “Mark ... please ...”
He pushed back his chair and took two angry strides to the window, then swung about. “I’ve had just about as much as I can take,” he said savagely. “I’ve always known the female mind was pretty devious, but the workings of yours are beyond me. Now, for once, let’s have a single straight answer. Are you coming to Rio or aren’t you?” There was a pause before, in a very different tone, he added, “I love you, Noelle. I’m asking you to marry me.”
Noelle stared blindly at the teapot, still shaken by his outburst. Slowly, incredulously, she raised her face, her eyes widening with stupefaction. Her heart thundered against her ribs, and every nerve and sense seemed suddenly to tremble with delight.
“Oh, Mark ... oh, Mark ... yes, of course!” she whispered ecstatically.
He didn’t move, but she saw his shoulders relax, his mouth lose its harshness. “Well ... thank God for that!” he said with feeling.
There was another silence, while a slow wash of color crept up from Noelle’s throat.
Mark began to smile. “Sorry to bludgeon you, my sweet—but I was getting fairly desperate. Now, do you think you might explain why you’ve had to make all this so tortuous.”
“I—I didn’t know I had,” she said weakly. “I was afraid you didn’t much like me.”
“There’ve been moments when I could have happily throttled you,” he said dryly. “Of all the obtuse, evasive, mutton-headed—”
Noelle was beginning to collect herself. “What about you?” she broke in. “Of all the overbearing, suspicious, impossible—” She lost track of suitable adjectives, and made an expressive gesture. Mark’s eyes glinted.
“Come here,” he said softly. Slowly, desperately shy, she rose from her chair and went to him. But as he reached for her hands, the mockery went out of his eyes and his mouth was tender.