A Moment in Paris

by Rose Burghley

  He paused. ‘Life is strange,’ he mused aloud. ‘It plays tricks with every one of us, but although it is too late for many things, there are still one or two things that are possible. You have had a burden to bear, but now it can be eased ... perhaps considerably.’

  She felt his lips lie softly, caressingly, against the back of her hand as he carried it up to his mouth; and while a breathless sensation attacked her—something like the sensation that had attacked her while they stood together in the sunshine outside the Duchesse de Savenne’s great house that day, and she had known a moment of pure envy of Celeste (although even in that moment she had tried to persuade herself it was not envy)— he lifted her other hand also and saluted it in the same exquisitely chivalrous, gentle fashion.

  ‘Diana I should not have been so impatient... I should have waited!’

  ‘For what?’ she whispered.

  ‘For happiness ... complete happiness. I thought I could make do with something very different in its stead.’ Then he said, almost inaudibly, a trifle huskily: ‘Go to your room now, and don’t bother about joining us tonight if you don’t wish to do so. But, Diana...’

  She stood as if chained to the spot while he made his request. ‘Do all that you can for Celeste, in spite of this conversation we have just had. Perhaps,’ he added strangely, ‘because of it!’ Diana made her way up to her room, and she was never quite clear how she passed the remainder of the evening. She knew that she walked partly on air, and partly in a state of utter bewilderment.

  It couldn’t possibly be true that Philippe de Chatignard associated her with some form of happiness that was now completely out of his reach ... because he was engaged to a golden-headed young woman with a feather brain and few other desires in her heart apart from the constant wish to be entertained, and have new and costly trifles laid at her feet? And yet, when he had lifted her hands to his lips and kissed them as if they were precious porcelain, and then looked at her out of his thickly-lashed dark eyes, she had known without it being necessary for him to make a single verbal admission that it was true.

  Even if he hadn’t said anything at all about happiness ... she would have known. His eyes had spoken to her quite clearly—quite unmistakably—his hands had imparted a feeling of warmth and desperation at the same time, and his lips had burned with the frustrated devotion of a lover.

  A lover!

  She felt herself tremble inside—her whole being was dissolved in utter wonder—as she leaned against the window in her room, and stared out at the darkening courtyard in the middle of which the great chestnut tree stood and lifted naked branches to the sky and the shimmer of the first stars.

  When she first met Philippe, he had seemed to her so composed, so cool ... slightly inhuman! Living in his house, taking her orders from him, she had grown to think of him as hard, arrogant, utterly self-centred. It was only sometimes—when he spoke to his aunt, when he smiled at her, teased her; when he was gentle to Celeste, treating her as if she was a child; and when he deliberately crossed swords with herself, waiting for her reactions as if they amused him—that she realized there were other sides to him ... like a diamond with several facets

  She pressed her face closer against the cold glass of her bedroom window, knowing that for her something truly unbelievable and wonderful had happened. She might go through life unmarried, but she wouldn’t go through life unloved...!

  Michael Vaughan’s love had been a poor thing. It hadn’t been love at all. But this ... this thing that was communicated to her by the touch of hands, and a man’s mouth laid almost reverently against the whiteness of her fingers, this unconcealed something in the fluid darkness of a pair of eyes ... was justification for having been born at all.

  In the morning Celeste slept late, and then hurried over her dressing because she was lunching with Philippe. She explained, as Hortense helped her into a new pale beige outfit, that the Comte had promised her something very special by way of a present, and that it was to be handed over at lunch time, and she could barely wait to find out what it was.

  Her excitement was the excitement of a child promised a fabulous new toy, and when she came back to the house in the afternoon, and Diana went to her suite to see in what practical way she could be of assistance to her, her excitement was bubbling over. She displayed a set of sapphire bracelets and matching earrings with a sparkle in her eyes like the sparkle of the sun on a violet-blue mountain lake, and the praise she heaped on Philippe was a little sickening to Diana.

  ‘Boy, oh, boy, isn’t he generous!’ she exclaimed. ‘It was a lucky day for me when I met up with him, wasn’t it? Isn’t it an adorable present? And I did nothing to deserve it...’

  Diana turned away. It was so plain to her that the sapphire bracelets were a conscience gift to Celeste and that it was she who had started the wheels of conscience grinding.

  She saw nothing of the Comte during the whole of that day, and only glimpsed him driving out of the courtyard the following day. Lady Bembridge sent her an invitation to have tea with her in her suite, and over the toasted tea-cakes, she asked, ‘Do you ride, my dear? Philippe is a keen horseman, and when at Savenne—and we’ll probably leave for there at the end of the week he likes to take advantage of all the opportunities for outdoor exercise. If you haven’t any riding things in your present outfit you’d better get some.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I have,’ Diana answered. ‘But the Comte is much more likely to expect Mademoiselle O’Brien to accompany him when he goes riding than an employee like myself.’

  The elderly eyebrows facing her arched. ‘Can Celeste ride?’

  Diana answered doubtfully, ‘I don’t really know.’

  A small blaze of triumph appeared in Lady Bembridge’s eyes. ‘Well, there you are! If there’s any doubt about it, you’d better not risk her on a horse on a mountain track. And Philippe will want someone to accompany him.’

  ‘There are almost certain to be other people staying in the chateau apart from ourselves,’ Diana returned. ‘Miss O’Brien said something about an American friend of the Comte’s who has received an invitation.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Lady Bembridge looked surprised. ‘Not another American female!’

  ‘No.’ Diana smiled faintly. ‘A man this time.’

  ‘Well, that should be nice for Celeste,’ Lady Bembridge observed complacently. ‘Particularly if he happens to be a young man!’

  And at that moment the Comte walked in. ‘Ah, Mademoiselle Craven!’ he exclaimed, and held out his hand to her. ‘Do you realize, mademoiselle, that it is more than forty-eight hours since we last met?’

  To Diana it seemed much longer than that, but she knew she must never let anyone guess that the hours when she was afforded nothing more than a glimpse of him were the kind of hours that dragged.

  ‘Is it?’ she returned, and hoped that under Lady Bembridge’s watchful eyes the colour showed no signs of spreading in her cheeks. ‘I—I understand we’re leaving for Savenne at the end of the week, monsieur. Have you any special instructions for me?’

  ‘None,’ he told her, ‘except that you can relieve my chauffeur at the wheel of the car while you are driving there, if you wish. I’m afraid I can’t join you for a few days, and you must try and prevent Celeste from being bored until my arrival.’

  ‘I—I will,’ she promised, and felt him drop her hand.

  ‘You can handle a powerful car?’ the Comte demanded. ‘You will not be afraid to do so?’

  She shook her head, ‘I’m used to driving.’

  He walked towards the fireplace, and Lady Bembridge remarked, with a brittle note in her voice: ‘Of course she can drive a car, and of course she can do a lot of things I was never taught to do. But why she should have to try and prevent Celeste from becoming bored I can’t think! That is your province, Philippe. That is the lifetime task you will be taking on when you marry her. I should think well while there is still some chance of escape!’

  Diana felt as if her heart star
ted to beat so quickly that it interfered with her breathing, and her soft red lips fell a little apart—almost an expectant parting—as she watched the Comte’s back. But he stared down into the fire of scented pine logs that filled the luxurious sitting-room with an even and delicious warmth and made no answer for a long and taut 'moment. Then he wheeled in an annoyed fashion upon his aunt and addressed her sharply.

  ‘I do not find that sort of suggestion amusing,’ he said, with an icy undercurrent to the sharpness. ‘And I should prefer it if in future you accepted without question my plans that are quite unalterable.’ He repeated, without looking at Diana: ‘Quite unalterable!’

  Lady Bembridge tightened her lips. ‘Then on your own head be it, Philippe!’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Diana enjoyed the drive from Paris, which, however, involved an overnight stop, and several leisurely breaks the following day, because that was the only way Lady Bembridge would travel. She disliked air flights and had an intense dislike of train travel, and as she was accompanied by her pet poodle—who was not a particularly good traveller whatever the method —Celeste did not enjoy the journey at all.

  She was in awe of Lady Bembridge, and suspicious of the acid rejoinders that rewarded her occasional conversational openings; and so for her the miles were mostly silent miles because Diana either sat beside the chauffeur at the wheel or took over the wheel herself.

  Philippe had been up early to see them off, in the cool spring dawn in Paris, and had assured Celeste he would be with her in a few days.

  ‘Be good, cherie,’ he said, dropping a kiss on the tip of her nose. ‘And do whatever Mademoiselle Craven thinks is best for you to do.’

  Then he went round to help Diana into the car, and himself placed a rug over her knees. She was wearing a neat dark olive-green suit, and at that hour, although she had wasted little time on her complexion, it was as clear and matt as a pearl.

  ‘Au revoir,’ he said softly, briefly. Then, as she looked up at him for a moment: ‘Where were you last evening, mademoiselle? Celeste said you were not in your room when I inquired, and that was shortly before dinner.’

  ‘I ... I went out to dinner,’ she answered. ‘With a very old friend.’

  There was silence for a moment, while Lady Bembridge complained of a draught round her ears, and the cushion in the middle of her back slipping. The chauffeur hastened to the task of banishing the draught, and making her more comfortable.

  And the Comte remarked, as if he was speaking absolutely ‘I think I met the young man the other day, didn’t I. My godmother has taken an extraordinary fancy to him, and seems to be very much at his disposal. I hope his Irish charm—and, with a name like his, he couldn’t be anything other than Irish!—won’t yet prove her undoing. Or yours,’ he enunciated clearly, before she could utter a word, and slammed the car door on her.

  Celeste let down her window, and waved a gloved hand at him forlornly. But he scarcely seemed to notice it, or her faintly beseeching eyes; and his final instructions, as the car slid silently away from the foot of the steps and approached the great door in the courtyard wall, carried clearly through the window and dropped like hard pebbles into the warm interior of the car.

  ‘I expect you and Mademoiselle Craven to work, Celeste...!’ he called. ‘You are not to regard the time until I join you as a holiday. I expect you both to work hard and show me some results when I arrive!’

  ‘Well, really,’ Lady Bembridge murmured, crouching down amongst her furs. ‘For a man in love he has an extraordinary method of speeding you on your way, my dear,’ glancing sideways at Celeste. ‘But perhaps he was merely endeavouring to conceal his distress at parting with you!’

  Celeste’s mouth quivered, but she said nothing. The poodle made itself thoroughly comfortable on its mistress’s lap, and settled itself for the first long stage of the journey.

  After a quarter of an hour or so, Diana’s cheeks had cooled, and she wondered why Philippe had made that inquiry about her the night before. It was unfortunate that on the only occasion since the Comte became her employer that she decided to avail herself of her right to an evening off, it should have been to have dinner with Michael; but he had given her no opportunity to put him off. He had sent a message round by hand to the effect that he would meet her at a certain restaurant at a stated time, and short of letting him down and making him look conspicuous hanging about for a dinner date that failed to arrive, there was nothing she could do to convey her annoyance when his note arrived save tell him personally that she objected to such assured invitations.

  But he had been quite impenitent when he met her; and had she been the same Diana Craven who once hoped to marry him, his air of delight at seeing her again, and his efforts to entertain her once they got inside the restaurant, might have melted her.

  But she was not the same Diana Craven, and it didn’t matter to her at all that he had never once forgotten her and that he could hardly be more delighted than he was because they were both in Paris, and free to meet sometimes.

  ‘The Duchesse is quite prepared to give me a lot of time off if you’ll go places with me,’ he said, faint pleading in his handsome eyes as he laid his hand over hers. ‘She thinks you’re one of the most attractive young women she’s ever met, and she told me I was utterly mad to let you go. I was! I know now that I was.’ A note that might have been genuine feeling made his voice quiver slightly.

  Diana removed her hand until it was well away from his, and admitted that her own employer, the Comte de Chatignard, was of the opinion that his godmother’s expressed sentiments were not always wise.

  ‘She offended him badly the other day when she mistook me for his fiancee,’ she said. ‘And I’ve rather gathered the impression that he doesn’t like his employees to have followers.’ He tried once more to take her hand, while the soft lights in the restaurant made a lovely muted red aureole of her hair. ‘I don’t care what your employer thinks. I wouldn’t care if you had a dozen employers, and they tried to come between us!’

  ‘This one hasn’t any intention of coming between us,’ she assured him composedly. ‘But he knows my story, and he thinks I’d be sensible to give you a very wide berth in future.’

  Instantly his eyebrows arched, and for a second or so he looked very arrogant.

  ‘Is that so?’ he said drawlingly. ‘And by what right does your employer give you advice, if it isn’t an indiscreet question? And was it absolutely essential that you should pour your life history into his ears?’

  She shook her head, unable to prevent a slight flush at that “if it isn’t an indiscreet question”. There was nothing indiscreet in the conduct of the Comte Philippe de Chatignard and the young woman he employed to coach his fiancee, but they both knew that underneath their formal behaviour there were dormant fires and dangerous possibilities that they neither of them dared explore. Therefore even the suggestion that there was something indiscreet in their relationship was a little too near the truth to have no effect whatsoever.

  ‘But for you,’ she told Michael, hoping he would attribute that increase of colour to the warmth of the restaurant, ‘he would never have known my life history. You chose to announce that we had once been engaged, and his interest was somewhat aroused.’

  ‘I see,’ Michael said, and looked mildly self-conscious. ‘I suppose I did rather blurt it out, but I was so taken by surprise that I was temporarily off my guard. Well, did you explain to the Comte that our romance was dead, and beyond being revived?’

  She looked down at her plate and the delicate garnishing of champignons that made her escalope of veal look appetizing.

  ‘Of course,’ she answered.

  He was silent. And then he said quickly: ‘But now that we’ve met again!... Diana, it’s difficult to be certain when a fire is out, and something tells me it would be an extraordinarily simple matter to get ours going again. If you feel that I let you down, well ... I felt that you let me down. You preferred that little half-brother of your
s, Jeremy, to me ... or so it seemed.’

  She requested painfully: ‘Don’t let’s talk about it now.’

  He twirled the stem of his wineglass.

  ‘All right, I won’t ... not now. But by some trick of fate we’re both working in Paris, and we’ve got a chance to rake over the ashes of that old fire. It may be that they’re far from cold. Let’s find out, shall we, Diana?’

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting that our circumstances are still the same?’ she asked stiffly.

  Somewhat to her surprise he grinned.

  ‘Don’t you believe it! ... Madame la Duchesse de Savenne has taken quite a fancy to me, and it could lead to all sorts of things. My present job isn’t much—that is to say, there isn’t very much status about it, but I get a thumping good salary—but I could serve her in other ways, just as satisfactorily. She’s got a lot of property, and some of it must need managing... Devoted henchmen don’t last for ever! And she knows I’ve got ideas, modern ones.’

  ‘I shan’t be in Paris very much longer,’ Diana said quickly. ‘We go south to Savenne in a few days.’

  ‘Then, in that case, I shall persuade the Duchesse to go south to her neighbouring estates in Savenne.’

  But, thought Diana, as they drove along the road which led out of Paris, and would presently turn southwards, she had no desire whatsoever for Michael Vaughan to turn up in Savenne. Actually, she hoped quite ardently that he would do nothing of the kind.

  And that was strange—really intensely strange—for not much longer than a few weeks ago she had still imagined she was in love with him. She had cherished a couple of letters which he had once written to her, and kept a theatre programme locked away among her very personal things because it was a souvenir of an evening which—only a very few weeks ago—she had believed to be the happiest evening of her life.