by Susan Barrie
Valentine jumped up and joined her at the mirror.
“To me you always look as if you ought to have married again long ago. But if your morale’s in need of a boost I don’t mind indulging in a mild spending spree. I did promise myself that when, well. I’d got used to things a bit more.”
As she gazed at herself in the mirror she thought, a striking new hairdo ... if I had my hair cut short—really short—so that it was no longer a distraction to a fashionable Paris heart specialist, that would almost certainly do my morale quite a lot of good. An immense amount of good! I would no longer be a distraction and—she bit her lip as she went on staring at herself in the mirror—there would be no excuse for finding out how I would react to certain sets of circumstances!
CHAPTER ELEVEN
VALENTINE CONSIDERED she was very reckless during the next forty-eight hours. For the first time in her life she didn’t allow the price of a thing to deter her when Jane assured her that it suited her, and for the first time in her life she acquired articles of clothing that she had never considered essential before.
She chose a couple of evening gowns because she thought she would need them, and found it impossible to say “no” to another drifting white nylon that might have been created especially for her. And she made various smaller purchases, as did Jane, who seemed to lose her head when she got among the perfumes and the cosmetics and the cobwebby hose. And they both ended up with a new hairdo. Jane invested in her facial, which did so much for her rather matt white skin that she declared she didn’t know herself when they got back to the apartment.
Valentine’s hairdo had upset Jane when she first saw it. They had occupied adjoining cubicles in the beauty salon where they booked their appointments—not the celebrated Jules patronized by Madame Faubourg—and Valentine was the first to emerge and was sitting waiting for Jane when the other came out feeling like someone who had been metamorphosed.
Jane gave a gasp, for the change in her was nothing to that in Valentine.
“Valentine! Your hair!” Her voice sounded hushed and slightly strangled. “What’s happened to it?”
“I thought there was too much of it, the assistant agreed with me, and it’s gone!” Valentine returned. She looked perfectly complacent and even slightly amused. “It feels so comfortable that I hardly know myself, and I certainly like the look of myself much better!”
Jane gazed at her. Her own sleek short cut looked beautiful and shining, but Valentine had possessed a golden cloud that tossed lightly with her every movement, and now all she had was a short cut, also, and some golden feathers of fringe on her wide white brow.
The assistant who had worked on her had done her job perfectly, and Valentine’s small shapely head was deliciously outlined by her new shining golden cap. On the nape of her neck it turned a little upward, like the petals of a flower, and some special rinse and treatment appeared to have transmuted it to real gold.
“I don’t know what to say,” Jane managed at last. “I suppose you do look nice ... Yes, of course, you do look very nice indeed! But your hair was the sort many women would give their eyeteeth to possess, and now it’s all gone!”
Valentine stood up and smiled at her.
“Don’t look so tragic! I feel like a new being, and from now on I shall keep it short. It’s an exhilarating experience discovering new aspects of yourself, new possibilities perhaps! And now let’s go and have lunch somewhere where it will be frightfully expensive and absolutely in keeping with our new looks. You’re positively ravishing yourself, and the sooner we let smart Paris get a good look at you the better.”
THE RESTAURANT SHE FINALLY CHOSE was the restaurant of one of the best hotels in Paris and it was Jane who wasn’t certain it was a wise choice, for although her complexion felt marvelous and her hair had never looked better, she was wearing a suit that was certainly not new.
But Valentine reassured her. The suit was lime green, and it went most harmoniously with the russet tinges in her dark hair, and she was wearing a little cap of white flowers—very spring-like and bought that morning in Paris—and even a model could have envied her figure.
“I wish I was like you, tall and slender as a reed bending in the breeze,” Valentine said as they sat down at a table that provided them with an excellent view of the rest of the room and covered them in a certain amount of limelight themselves. “There are disadvantages to being short and generally rather unimpressive.”
“I don’t think you labor under many disadvantages,” Jane told her, thinking that mist blue and a little muslin blouse that had been hand-embroidered in Switzerland were perfect with that new, slightly boyish, hairstyle. “And men don’t like impressive women.”
“But an impressive woman can keep a man in his place,” Valentine returned with a slight tightening of her lips.
Jane surveyed her quizzically.
“Why, have you found it difficult lately to keep the male element in its place? Have you found Frenchmen difficult to cope with? I always understood there are some Frenchmen you can never trust ... particularly when they got to the stage of handing out compliments and show signs of becoming very attentive. They might, or might not, be serious. You can never tell. With an Englishman you can always tell, more or less.”
Valentine thought of Peter Fairfield and decided that with him one would be able to tell. She also decided that now that Jane had arrived she would ask him to the apartment. He could come to tea one afternoon and to dinner one evening perhaps. He might even have a friend he could bring with him, and that would make up a party of four.
She looked across the room and straight into the eyes of the Comte de Villeneuve. A vivacious young woman was sharing his table with him, and a minor explosion occurred just then as a waiter extracted the cork from a champagne bottle he was preparing to serve at the comte’s table. But Philippe didn’t wait to sample the vintage. He came straight across the room to Valentine’s table.
“Mees Brooke,” he said as he bent over her hand. “I called at your apartment this morning and was told by your maid that you were out on what she described as a ‘great orgy of shopping.’ She did not know when you would return, and I was desolated. But now that I see you again I am enraptured!”
Valentine lowered her eyes before the audacious admiration in his, and on the other side of the table Jane looked across at his lunch companion and was not in the least surprised to see the girl frowning.
“But how did you get my address?” Valentine asked, partly because she was curious. “Did madame la marquise ...?”
“Madame la marquise was very firm,” he assured her, his brown eyes positively dancing, “and it would have been useless to approach our good friend Leon! But I have my methods, mademoiselle, and when something is important to me I do not spare the effort, I assure you!” He transferred his attention to Jane and bowed his curly head in front of her. “I would be enchanted to be presented to your friend!” he said.
Valentine made the necessary introduction, and Jane decided there was nothing about him that could alter the opinion she had so recently expressed about some Frenchmen.
“We mustn’t keep you from your friend,” Valentine said when the comte showed no inclination to return to his table. But he remained and said how very pleasant it must be for Valentine to have her English friend join her, and how much he hoped they would permit him to call on them, for there was so much of Paris he could show them if they so desired. So many aspects of Parisian life that they might not otherwise find out for themselves and that it would be a pity to miss; and if they would only look upon him as being available at almost arty time ...
“Then you must be one of those fortunate individuals whose time is entirely his own, monsieur le comte,” Jane remarked, looking down at the tablecloth. “I didn’t know many people existed nowadays who could command so much freedom.”
“In between various’ attempts to restore my fallen fortunes I have a reasonable amount of freedom from irksome ties, madame
,” he admitted with cheerful good humor. “This happens to be one of the periods when I am, as you might say, thinking out my next move, and therefore I have quite a lot of time.”
His honesty was so engaging—even if it was not altogether flattering—that Valentine heard herself saying . hurriedly, “Of course we shall be delighted to see you, monsieur le comte, if you, er, care to call sometime. We are not always at home, but ...”
He bowed swiftly and charmingly. She had been tempted to ask him to tea—she was not experienced enough to say casually, “Come in and have a drink”—but somehow she didn’t think Jane would approve; There was a bleakness in Jane’s eyes as she gazed at him.
When he left them and returned to his table Jane asked, surprising her, “He doesn’t by any chance happen to be the gentleman who has brought home to you your inability to keep a man in his place, does he?”
“Good gracious, no!” Valentine laughed. “Why, I’ve only met him once before, at the house of Madame la Marquise de Rullecourt.”
“You mix in high circles these days,” Jane commented. She consulted the menu the waiter had just spread before her. “And who is ‘our good friend Leon’?”
“Madame la marquise’s nephew—Dr. Daudet.”
“I’m beginning to feel curious about Dr. Daudet,” Jane admitted.
To divert her Valentine observed, “I think the comte is rather amusing. He’s got a wicked gleam in his eyes, of course, and he probably lives by his wits, but there’s something nice about him. I don’t know quite what it is, but I think he’s fun.”
“Where you’re concerned he’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing,” Jane warned her rather sharply. “Where I’m concerned he’s just a Frenchman of the worst type, with a title that doesn’t give him any distinction whatsoever. And men with titles and no visible means of support can be a menace.”
“Who to?” Valentine asked demurely.
“Little girls like you! Because you have just acquired some very visible means of support! Now let’s forget him and that dazzling brunette he’s lunching with over there—” which proved she had given the brunette more than one careful glance, whereas Valentine had hardly noticed her “—and order our lunch. The items on this menu are making my mouth water noticeably.”
But while they were enjoying their lunch Valentine remembered something she particularly wanted to do and she asked Jane not to let her forget once the meal was over.
“I want to buy some flowers and take them to the Marquise de Rullecourt,” she said and she explained about the afternoon when she had had tea with the marquise. “I shall only hand them over to the manservant and not attempt to stay, because she’s very elderly and an invalid—or she suffers very badly from rheumatism, which keeps her confined to the house—and it wouldn’t be fair without some previous warning. So if you care to come with me you can, of course. We’ll take a taxi.”
“No, I’ll go back to the apartment,” Jane decided. Then she asked, “Is your Dr. Daudet likely to be there?”
“I hope not,” Valentine exclaimed as if she meant it.
“But he’s her nephew. It’s just possible he’ll be there.”
“Not so early in the afternoon. He has his patients to attend to.”
Jane nodded.
“So long as you don’t run into our comte again! I’d like to come with you to choose the flowers.”
Between them they chose a wonderful bouquet of freesias, palest pink and creamy yellow roses, white lilacs, white violets, and one or two sprays of early white larkspur. Valentine took a taxi and shortly, feeling like a bride with the bouquet in her arms, she arrived in the courtyard of the ancient house with the stout front door and the coat of arms above it.
The electric bell she touched seemed incongruous, set in the thickness of such a door, but it yielded an immediate response, and the same manservant held wide the door for her and waited for her to enter.
She explained quickly that there was a note attached to the flowers, that she didn’t wish to disturb the marquise at an hour of the afternoon when she was almost certainly resting, and then heard a voice in the hall say, “Valentine! Are you thinking of depriving my aunt of the pleasure of your company?” And Dr. Daudet moved forward from the shadows of the hall. “Of course you’re coming in. Flowers are a tribute, but your visit will cheer her up. Her arthritis has been rather troublesome for the last two days, and she’s a bit low spirited. Come in, my dear child, and don’t stand there on the doorstep.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
VALENTINE STOOD HUGGING the bouquet of flowers she had received back from the manservant and looked upward into the doctor’s face with an almost ludicrous expression of concern on her own face.
“I didn’t expect ...” she began. “I mean, I didn’t ...”
“You didn’t think you would find me here,” he helped her out in a perfectly cool and ordinary voice. “Well, I often look in on Tante Minette, and today she telephoned me to do so. As I said, she’s a bit low spirited.” They both turned to follow the manservant upstairs, and as he moved at her side, Leon Daudet asked with quite a different note in his voice, “What have you been doing to your hair, my dear Valentine, if I may ask?” As she turned her head and met his eyes she thought they were peculiarly expressionless.
“You look rather like a shorn lamb, and I wasn’t expecting to meet a shorn lamb today. Hence my rather obvious surprise.”
Valentine felt the flowers tickling her chin and stared straight ahead.
“I thought it was a good idea to have it cut really short,” she said. “Short hair is less of a distraction than long, don’t you agree?”
“I see,” he said quietly, and they entered the main living room together.
The marquise was lying on the settee on which Philippe had reclined on the occasion of Valentine’s first visit. She looked around in surprise when the manservant flung open the door, and then the surprise changed to delight when she caught sight of Valentine.
“My dear,” she exclaimed. “Why, cherie, how very, very sweet of you to take pity on me like this!” She held out her hand, and Valentine found herself drawn down so low that it was obvious the older woman expected her to kiss her. In return she received two impulsive kisses on her own smooth cheeks. “And the flowers! For me? That is indeed thoughtful of you, my child. How did you know that white lilacs always make me think of the south—where I would be at this moment but for this crippling leg, which makes it so painful for me to travel?”
“I’m so sorry about your leg,” Valentine murmured with genuine sympathy and then was disconcerted because the elderly dark eyes—so like another pair of dark eyes—seemed to become glued to her.
“But ... but, my dear child ...! What have you done to your hair?” the marquise demanded.
Valentine sat down on the foot of the couch and she could feel Dr. Daudet looking at her from behind. She didn’t have to reply because his voice came provocatively, “She cut it all off, Tante Minette. Or rather, since it looks so very elegant, she got someone highly skilled in such matters to cut it off for her. She decided that it was too much of a distraction worn in the way you saw it before.”
“It is easier to handle this way,” Valentine amended quickly and she thought that the marquise looked at her very penetratingly. After which it was her nephew who came in for a thoughtful scrutiny.
“Well, well,” she remarked at last. “I remember when I was young and had rather a lot of hair, I was always anxious to have some of it cut off, but in those days a woman had to put up with her ‘crowning glory’ whether it was uncomfortable or not. But nowadays, what with ‘urchin cuts,’ and one thing and another, almost anything is fashionable. And I must say you look very charming as you are, my dear, very, very charming!”
“Thank you,” Valentine heard herself saying and although conscious of those unseen eyes that were fixed on her, she managed to appear as if she was unaware of them and more or less at ease.
“It is good for an old wom
an like me to see young things occasionally,” the marquise said just before the tea was brought in. “Chained to a couch like this as I am on my bad days, I can’t tell you how welcome the sight of anyone as attractive as you is.” She beamed warmly at Valentine.
“You very nearly didn’t see her at all,” Leon Daudet informed her rather dourly. “She was handing over her flowers and about to depart when I prevented her and insisted on her coming up here to see you.”
“Quite right, Leon. Oh, but dear child, you must never do that again,” the old lady said, leaning forward and grasping at the girl’s slim hand. “I love your flowers, and Alphonse shall put them in water—” she rang a bell “—but I’d much rather see you personally. Leon is very good, and never neglects me; but he has so many commitments, such an ever-increasing number of patients, and so many social engagements ...” She looked at him rather quizzically. “Did you know, Valentine—and I’m going to call you Valentine from now on—that a doctor who is also a bachelor is the one person who will never be left out when a hostess is preparing her list of invitations for a dinner party? In a world where there are so many women a bachelor is always desirable, but a doctor, it seems to me, has a kind of fatal fascination ... for the mamas, as well as the young women they are anxious to find husbands for! I tell Leon that he should take a wife if only to provide himself with a means of protection!”
Leon picked up a book and examined it idly.
“I am not in need of any such protection, tante,” he told her composedly. He sat down and gave a hitch to his beautifully creased trousers. “And I am not in any hurry to take a wife.”
“But I am growing old, Leon,” she protested, “and I would like to see you surrounded by a family.”