A MOMENT IN PARIS
by
ROSE BURGHLEY
CHAPTER ONE
The door of the ante-room was open and Diana could see quite a large expanse of Aubusson carpet, and part of a vast walnut desk, which belonged to the room beyond.
She could hear a man’s voice—presumably he was the man who sat at the desk—speaking, and he sounded a little impatient, as well as extremely French: the Comte Philippe de Chatignard. A man with as many interests as he had—the theatre, literature, art, films, the turf, and even haute couture— must frequently be pressed for time, and therefore impatient.
His secretary was standing over him, and Diana could hear her explaining soothingly why a young woman from England had been granted the right to interrupt one of his working days; why her name had been added to his list of appointments.
‘Mrs.. Margot Fleming suggested that she could be of use to you. She teaches English,’ the secretary said.
‘What’s her name? ... Craven!’ He was obviously glaring at his appointment-book. ‘Diana Craven!’ There was the sound of a thrust back chair, and impatient feet striding up and down. ‘Of course—Margot Fleming’s husband’s just been recalled to London. That’s why she wants to find a job for this governess of hers. But I don’t want a governess!’
‘Mademoiselle Celeste?’ the secretary said, and her voice was suddenly pregnant with meaning.
‘Ah, yes!’ The footsteps paused. ‘I’d forgotten about her, and of course we shall have to do something about that accent of hers. She could do with a little instruction in French, too, if it comes to that.’
‘Miss Craven speaks French fluently.’
‘Then show her in ... but make it clear to her that I can only spare her a very few minutes.’
‘But of course, Monsieur le Comte,’ the secretary murmured, like the cooing of doves and pigeons; and Diana found her standing in front of her. ‘You will come this way, mademoiselle?’ she said softly.
Diana felt as if her heart gave a kind of uneasy lurch as she followed her into the enormous room. It was not that she was unaccustomed to luxury on a grand scale—since coming to Paris she had had her eyes opened considerably by the lavishness of life amongst wealthy Parisians, and there had been a time when she had known a fair amount of luxury herself—but the harshness of that masculine voice had repelled her a good deal, and the decor of his private room was a little unusual.
There were long, violently purple curtains falling from ceiling to floor before the tall windows, and most of the colour in the, carpet was a sort of pansy purple. The chairs were either black or silvery grey, and there was a bowl of scarlet roses oh the desk.
Diana found her gaze attracted immediately by the roses, and then she wrenched it away to look for the first time at Philippe de Chatignard. She was conscious of surprise, and just a tiny sensation of shock.
He was a slender man of middle height, and possibly somewhere in the middle thirties. He was strikingly, staggeringly good-looking. There were a few silvery threads in his night-dark hair above the temples, and his eyes were beautiful, brooding ... disillusioned.
‘Sit down, mademoiselle.’
She smiled and thanked the secretary, who withdrew.
‘Your name is...?’ He cast a quick glance at the open page of his diary. ‘Oh, yes, Miss Diana Craven. You know Paris well, Miss Craven?’
‘Fairly well, monsieur,’ she answered.
For the first time he looked at her fully, and she saw the surprise in his velvet-black eyes. Perhaps he, in his turn, was a little taken aback by the patrician cast of her features and the lovely flame of red hair that curled in at the nape of her neck. She didn’t know he was thinking it was such very beautiful hair that it ought not to have been cut short, as it was, but flowing like a river of light down her back and that the whiteness of her skin reminded him of a paper-white rose.
‘You have, perhaps, lived in Paris?’ he said.
‘I have lived in Paris for the past three months,’ she admitted, ‘but my father and I often came here years ago. In fact, we stayed here quite a lot.’
‘Holiday visits?’ he inquired.
She lifted her slender shoulders slightly.
‘I suppose you could call them that. But my father couldn’t stand the English climate in the winter time, and we mostly wintered in the South of France. And of course that meant frequent trips to Paris.’
‘Of course,’ the Comte said, smoothly, dryly. And he added: ‘For cultural reasons, no doubt? Visits to art galleries and so forth? You probably know the Louvre even better than I do! Or did you stay at the Ritz and do a round of the nightclubs while you were here?’
‘We stayed at the Crillon, and I have never been into a nightclub in my life,’ she stated, very quietly and distinctly.
For a long moment he gazed at her, and then he sat himself down behind his desk.
‘Your pardon, mademoiselle,’ he said without any real apology in his voice, while he pushed a box of cigarettes towards her. ‘But it is unusual to find a young woman with your background willing to teach English. Usually they go on the stage, or model, or something of the sort. Haven’t you any ambitions in that direction?’
‘You asked me a few questions about myself, and I answered you truthfully,’ she replied, colour stinging her cheeks. ‘And if I choose to teach English, surely that is my affair?’
‘But of course, mademoiselle!’ But she was quite sure his eyes mocked her. ‘However, if it hasn’t already struck you that that pretty face and figure would photograph quite delightfully I could inform you that you have come to the right quarter for advice on the subject. I do happen to have an enormous number of interests, and no doubt Mrs.. Margot Fleming has explained this to you at some time or other?’
‘Do you honestly mean you think that I...? That Margot...?’
‘It has happened before, Miss Craven,’ he said coldly. ‘It happens constantly!’
She crushed out her cigarette that was only just alight in an ash-tray at her elbow, gathered together her gloves and handbag, and rose. ‘I’m sorry I’ve troubled you, Monsieur le Comte,’ she said quietly. ‘But I was given to understand I could be of some slight assistance to you, as well as you to me, but apparently that is not the case!’
He called after her.
‘Come back, you touchy young woman! I haven’t said it’s not the case, but I haven’t had much experience of your type. You don’t look like a governess, but it would seem you are.’ There was a glimmering of humour in his eyes as she turned unwillingly. ‘Sit down again and let us discuss the matter coolly.’
‘I’m not accustomed to being accused of—of lying,’ she said, her sensitive mouth quivering a little with repressed indignation.
‘My apologies. But you will have to admit that not many teachers of English—or French, if it comes to that!—make a practice of staying at our best hotels. Now, mademoiselle, in what way can I assist you?’
‘I did not say I made a practice of staying at your best hotels,’ she got in quickly. ‘I merely said that a year or so ago my father and I—’
He held up a hand.
‘Please, mademoiselle, we will not go into your antecedents, or your past,’ he requested. ‘How can you and I be of service to one another?’
‘I understand you need someone to teach English.’
He nodded.
‘Mrs.. Margot Fleming told you that? Mrs. Fleming is a pretty but rather futile young woman who does occasionally get something firmly fixed inside her head! I did admit to her a few weeks ago that I badly needed someone to teach English and deportment and a few other subjects like that.’
‘What other subjects?’ she asked.
He shrugged. ‘Oh, elocuti
on and grammar, and the way in which a lady normally behaves. A well brought up young lady like yourself!’ There was a sleepy twinkle in his eyes. ‘Also, what to read, and when to read, how to talk small talk at a dinner-party, and how to be gracious when receiving guests.’
‘But surely...?’ Her eyes had grown rather wide. ‘Aren’t these somewhat advanced subjects for a child?’
‘A child?’ he echoed. ‘But we’re not talking about children!’
‘Aren’t we?’ She sounded a little foolish. ‘But I thought...’
‘We are talking about a fiancée, Miss Craven,’ he explained. ‘My fiancée. The lady who will one day be the Comtesse de Chatignard.’
‘I—I see,’ Diana said, but she was completely taken aback.
‘Obviously you think that the role of Comtesse is one that should be stepped into by someone to whom it would come easily and naturally? Well, my poor Celeste has an American accent you could cut with a knife, and she was brought up in one of those overcrowded American cities where there are millions like her. But not one, I do assure you, as beautiful as she is.’
Diana found she could say nothing in reply to this, and he gazed at her with a faintly whimsical expression on his face. ‘A collector’s piece, Miss Craven? Is that how you imagine I regard her? But of course I do, for all my life I have collected beautiful things. I have houses full of them, and some of my most cherished possessions are not even on view to the public eye. One has to protect what is really rare.’
‘But Miss—Mademoiselle Celeste is a human creature,’ Diana pointed out, a shocked note in her voice.
‘Exactly. And so enchanting I decided I must marry her as soon as I saw her. But I am willing to admit that there are flaws ... And that is where you come in.’
‘I don’t think I could even consider seriously a position of—that sort,’ Diana said stiffly.
‘Why not?’ he asked, his black eyebrows ascending. ‘I will pay you any salary you care to mention, and it will only be for a matter of three or four months. After that I propose to be married.’ He let his eyes rove over her with a kind of unveiled insolence. ‘You are such a finished product yourself, in spite of that atrocious dress you are wearing, that I’m sure you could bring about a metamorphosis, Miss Craven, and spare my little fiancée a good deal of embarrassment when she becomes my wife. Are you not willing to try?’
Diana was so strongly revolted by every word he uttered that she longed to say “No” quite violently, and once more pick up her gloves and this time really depart. But, apart from everything else—the fact that she needed a job, that she wanted to stay on in Paris, and she had few qualifications for anything apart from teaching in a household where she would not be expected to produce diplomas—there was a sort of insolent challenge in the very way the Comte looked at her, and on top of his strange outspokenness it affected her most peculiarly.
She had never been told so bluntly before that her dress was atrocious—and when she reflected how much she had paid for it, and how much the women of his world were accustomed to devote to the business of looking supremely chic, she was not entirely surprised that he should regard her complete outfit as appalling—and she had never been accused of being a liar and a fraud before. But she did want this job.
She knew that she badly needed a well-paid position on the Continent, even if it were only temporary.
‘What do you mean by “any salary I care to mention”?’ she asked.
He named a sum in francs that took her breath away, but she tried not to let him see how greatly it tempted her. He was, however, not deceived, and she saw him smile rather unpleasantly.
‘You accept, mademoiselle?’ he said. ‘And you are wise, of course. All your expenses will be paid in addition, and life should be quite pleasant for you. You will accompany my fiancée wherever she goes—save, of course, on certain occasions when she dines with me, or we wish to be alone together. Present yourself at this address tomorrow morning at eleven.’ He tossed a card at her.
That was all, not even a polite “Good morning”, or “Thank you”, before she left his sumptuous office, but she had the feeling that he watched her a little cynically as she walked towards the door.
‘A detestable Frenchman! A man with a title but none of the old noblesse that distinguished his forebears!...’ She said it angrily to herself as she entered a gilded lift.
And as the lift shot downwards she wondered how she could possibly endure three or four months in the employ of such a man.
Celeste O’Brien was standing in the middle of a cloud of tissue-paper and holding up a three-quarter-length white mink coat when Diana saw her for the first time.
‘Isn’t it heavenly?’ she said, as she swung it round her shoulders and prinked and pranced in front of the mirror. ‘Like nothing I’ve ever owned before! Gee!’ she exclaimed, as she peered at her flushed, excited face in the mirror, ‘I look like a huge white rabbit, don’t I? Alice’s white rabbit in Wonderland!’
‘The girl from the furriers can be told there is no longer any need to wait?’ her elderly maid inquired, looking rather dour and unnaturally wooden as she stood there, not even glancing at the coat. ‘Everything is tres bien? Et comme il faut? C’est parfait! N’est-ce pas, mademoiselle?’
Celeste looked a little bewildered, having practically no knowledge of French, and made a faint, shrugging movement with her shoulders.
‘If you say so, Hortense. Me, I’m just plain thrilled,’ she declared, and turned back to the mirror. And it was at that moment that Diana stepped a little uncertainly into the bedroom.
It was littered with tissue-paper, and even the bed was covered with it. There were other huge dress boxes occupying large strips of the carpet, and the silk shaded lights were on because it was a dull day outside.
Diana trod carefully over the tissue-paper, and knew that she had never walked upon quite such a beautiful carpet before. It was like an azure cloud, and the pile was so lush that she felt as if her ankles sank deep into it. The quilted bed-spread and the satin coverlet were of the same celestial blue, and there was a white rug in front of the dressing-table that was as pristine in its loveliness as the white mink coat that had just been delivered.
Diana had an impression of gold-stoppered bottles and toilet jars on the dressing-table forming a positive array; of built-in white wardrobe and white velvet curtains flowing beside the wide windows, and then she looked into the violet eyes of the girl who was to be the future Comtesse de Chatignard.
They were unquestionably the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen in her life, and they were genuinely violet. They made her think of a strip of English woodlands in the springtime and little clumps of mauve beneath the trees. They were protected by eyelashes that were so long and so fair that, in themselves, they were unusual, especially as she darkened them skilfully at the tips only.
Celeste O’Brien had golden hair that, just as her eyes were the most perfect pair imaginable, was as yellow as a cluster of primroses without the aid of artifice. She was wearing a white silk robe caught together with a silver girdle, and she was so much like the fairy on the Christmas tree that Diana felt inclined to gasp.
Instead she held out her hand rather quickly, and said: ‘I do hope I haven’t arrived at an awkward moment. The Comte said eleven o’clock, and I imagined he expected me to be punctual.’
Celeste thrust back the hair from her forehead with an awkward gesture, and looked distinctly embarrassed.
‘It was silly of him,’ she said, ‘because I never get up before eleven o’clock. Or hardly ever. This morning I knew that girl was coming with all these things,’ indicating the general chaos of the room, ‘and I wanted to try them on, so I got up a little bit earlier than usual.’ The lock of hair fell forward again, and she brushed at it impatiently. ‘I’m sorry everything’s rather a mess.’
‘That’s all right,’ Diana answered, and smiled at her, trying to see in her the future helpmeet of a haughty aristocrat, a collector of
objets d’art, a man of numberless interests and a burning ambition. She tried to picture her as the sharer of his noble name, the mother of his heir who would one day carry on that name, his hostess at extremely formal dinner-parties and more carefree week-ends in the country at one of those grey chateaux that are so often piled upon impressive heights in France. But somehow she couldn’t see her fulfilling any of these roles. She belonged, rather, on Hollywood’s celluloid screen.
‘Philippe did mention you would be coming to see me today, but I don’t mind confessing I got rather sore and told him I didn’t want to be bossed around by a governess at my time of life,’ she said, with a strong tinge of resentment. ‘After all, I’m not exactly a kid, am I? I was nineteen last birthday.’
‘And I was twenty-two,’ Diana told her, smiling her rather gentle little half-smile.
‘Then perhaps it’s a companion he’s got in mind?’ Celeste said, brightening. ‘After all, this house is a bit like a morgue, and I expect the one in the country is worse, and we go there some time next week. And, unless he feels like letting me see something of him, Philippe’s about as companionable as a husband already!’
Diana was conscious of a slight sensation of further shock. ‘Then you are already living here in this house? I thought perhaps it was merely a kind of rendezvous for our first meeting.’
Celeste shook her head.
‘I’ve been living here for weeks, and apart from all the spending and the night-clubs and smart hotels it’s so dull sometimes I could scream my head off. But Philippe doesn’t understand,’ she complained.
‘But surely,’ Diana said gently, ‘you’re not living here alone? Just with servants, I mean,’ she explained. ‘There is some sort of a—well, chaperone—who keeps an eye on you, and is company for you?’
Celeste’s eyes glinted wickedly. ‘You mean, are we living together without being married? Oh, no, nothing of that sort, and we’re going to be married all right. Philippe’s a comte, you know, and he doesn’t do that sort of thing ... At least, not with a girl who’s going to be his wife.’ She fumbled in the pocket of her silk robe and produced a crumbled packet of American cigarettes, which she passed to Diana. ‘Being a Frenchman he probably does a lot of things on the side, but they won’t worry me if I never hear about them.’
A Moment in Paris Page 1