Moon at the Full

by Susan Barrie

  “With your permission—?”

  “But certainly, mademoiselle.” He smiled sardonically as he lighted himself a cigarette, which he extracted from a fine platinum case. He did not attempt to offer the case to her, and he could see her stiffen as she clung tenaciously to the back of the chair. “Whether you like the idea or not, you will have to adjust your fixation about the rightful tenant. I am, unfortunately, he!”

  “But one doesn’t ... share a fiat,” the color springing for some reason to her face. And suddenly she remembered all those things in the drawers, the wardrobes, and even the airing-cupboard. “I mean, not unless ... it isn’t usual...”

  “Not unless one happens to be married, or the co-tenant is someone of the same sex, is that what you mean?” he asked, a dry note of humor in his voice. “It is plain you are somewhat naive, mademoiselle, or possibly it is merely because you are English. Shall we go into the next room and discuss this matter further? I feel a little out of the picture standing here with your dressing-gown hanging on the door and the bath water running down the waste pipes instead of filling the bath ... which is, perhaps, fortunate,” entering the bathroom in a businesslike manner and turning off the taps. When he returned to the bedroom his dark face was quite inscrutable. “Après vous, mademoiselle!” holding open the door of the small salon for her.

  “I’m sorry about the bath water,” she said awkwardly, when he had pulled forward a chair for her.

  He shrugged.

  “It is of no importance. The porter might not approve if the flat below this was flooded as a result of your carelessness, but for myself it is a small matter. What I am much more concerned about is the reason why you are here. Will you be so good as to explain, Miss Blair?”

  She sat on a chair covered in purple damask and did as he requested, and while she did so he watched her, his intensely dark eyes alive and alert to every expression that crossed her face, every slight quiver of her throat or contraction of the muscles of her slender throat, and when her voice died into silence the line of his own lips seemed a little less rigid, and his eyes had the merest suspicion of softness in them.

  She looked very pale, and the slim navy-blue dress she was wearing emphasized the pallor. Her hair seemed too thick and too heavy for the delicate bone formation of her face, and the light striking down on it made it gleam golden as a wedding ring.

  “When I first saw you I thought you were a ghost,” he told her. “An apparition conjured up by sheer weariness!” An amazingly attractive smile turned up the corners of his mouth. “Now I am firmly of the opinion that what you need is a little of the treatment meted out to you by Miss Daly! Have you by any chance dined?”

  She shook her head.

  “I—I had lunch on the plane...”

  “And when one lunches one does not normally dine as well?” But the mockery in his voice was not unkind. “I think you will feel better after a good meal, Miss-Blair. Will you do me the honor of having dinner with me? There is somewhere quite close for which we need not dress up.”

  “But I couldn’t possibly allow you—a stranger—to take me out to dinner!” she cried, appalled because she had already invaded his flat when she hadn’t the smallest right to do so, and so far he hadn’t rung the bell for the porter to have a taxi summoned for her.

  “I am Léon de Courvalles, as I have already told you, and since you know that much I can no longer be a stranger to you,” he pointed out. “Also you have, with much temerity, spread your things all over my flat, and the scent of your bath essence is like a cloud in the atmosphere.” He wrinkled his nose. “It will take me a long time to get rid of it, and therefore you owe me something. You have no choice but to have dinner with me.”

  “But, monsieur,” she protested, “since this is your flat I’ll have to find somewhere else where I can go...”

  “And where would you suggest you should go instead of here?” he asked, in his tone of brittle, dry mockery. “The Crillon, or the Ritz? We will discuss all that while we eat. And I don’t mind confessing to you I am very hungry. Unlike you I didn’t have a chance to have any lunch.”

  Just before they left the flat she admitted that she had seen his crest scattered all over the contents of the flat.

  “I should have realized that something was seriously wrong,” she said unhappily. “After all, there is nothing here at all of Miss Daly’s.”

  “That should have reassured you,” he returned smoothly. “It would not have looked good to your mind to see our things all cosily mixed up together.”

  She blushed. She was not at all sure whether he was laughing at her, goading her slightly, feeling slightly amused by her. And then she recalled the wording of his crest. Black is the Knight ... Blacker the heart!

  He was very dark, and she found it quite impossible to meet his eyes for more than a second or so at a time. He was polished, suave, slightly brutal, unexpectedly kind in quick succession. And now he was regarding her thoughtfully as they waited f or the taxi.

  The concierge emerged from his own quarters on the ground floor.

  “Good night, Monsieur le Comte!” he said.

  Monsieur le Comte! ...

  Steve felt in awe of the restaurant as soon as they entered it, although she need not have worried about being unsuitably clothed, for none of the diners wore evening dress.

  Nevertheless, it was a restaurant with an atmosphere, and the couples who patronized it had the same air of being supremely sure of themselves as the Comte de Courvalles. He wore that air like a garment, one that fitted him so well that it allowed for every careless movement and a sort of indolent grace as well. When the wine waiter welcomed him with the dignity of an Archbishop acknowledging the return of a favorite Dean, he glanced at him briefly and ordered champagne.

  The champagne arrived with the maximum amount of speed, but Steve, who was enchanted with the dark red roses on the table, looked anxious when some was poured into her glass.

  “I’d rather not,” she said quickly. “I’m not accustomed to it, and—”

  “Nonsense!” the Comte exclaimed with great firmness. “It will do you good, and if you are not accustomed to it it will do you even more good.” He lifted his glass to her. “To you, Mademoiselle Blair! And to our better acquaintance! It is possible our paths collided tonight for some definite purpose.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, as the first course arrived, and the rich aroma of the soup made her nostrils twitch.

  “We will go into that when you have eaten,” he said. “In the meantime you shall tell me more about yourself. At the moment all that I know is that you faint easily, and that you occasionally model clothes.”

  His hard eyes compelled her to talk, and she painted her background for him much as she had painted it for Liane. But tonight, perhaps because the champagne exerted a rapid influence, her eyes glowed as she mentioned the colorful resorts in Italy where she and her father had lived under difficult conditions but absorbing every scrap of the atmosphere, and his genius as a painter which was never recognized. Her hair swung on her shoulders and the planes and hollows in her cheeks ceased to exist as the warm color came and she talked of art galleries and cathedrals, Venice, Milan and Rome. She forgot that she was talking to a stranger, and her enthusiasm seemed to bubble up from the heart, and he was left without the slightest doubt that she had adored her father.

  “And when he died you were left alone?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “With no one to love?”

  The color burned brilliantly under her fine skin.

  “There was on one else to love,” she admitted.

  He beat a tattoo on the table with a gleaming fork, and she was disturbed by his tendency to stare hard at her. She felt that if, she had any secrets he would wrest them from her.

  “You believe in love, of course?” he asked, a little mockingly. “One day, being English, you will marry for it, and live on a modest income and cope with as many difficulties as you did in
the days of your father. But in the meantime you require a job, and because over here in France we are much more practical about the business of choosing a marriage partner—while not, of course, denying that such a thing as love exists!” with that meaning, derisive, undervaluing smile of his—“I am almost certain I may be able to help you to one that will suit you admirably for a time.”

  She merely looked an inquiry, and he continued:

  “I had every intention of remaining in America for several months—no doubt that was one reason why Liane thought it would be safe to give you permission to occupy my flat!—but an acute stage of boredom set in, and I had to return. I felt that I was merely wasting my time and shelving a problem.”

  Having refused the sweet, he lighted a cigarette from his expensive ease, but Steve waited, her fork poised above the creamy gateau on the plate in front of her.

  “I have been shelving the same problem for a year and more, but it can no longer be put off. It is high time I settled down and thought about acquiring an heir,” in the most commonplace, emotionless tones Steve had ever heard from a man contemplating matrimony. As a matter of fact, he quite startled her, and she stared at him in her turn, her fork still poised in mid-air. “I have vast estates and a name which must not be permitted to die out, and there are various other reasons why a man in my position should marry. Unfortunately my parents took no decisive steps about a marriage partner for me when I was young, so I must make the decision for myself.”

  “Oh—yes?” Steve said, and wondered whether he was altogether human.

  His eyes glinted at her, velvet dark and sparkling.

  “I’m sorry if I’m destroying some of your illusions, little one, but you are young, and I am thirty-five ... and therein lies the difference! Also, of course, you are a blue-eyed Anglo-Saxon, and I am a practical Latin ... for we are not always inflammable. Or at least, not all the time!”

  Steve looked down quickly at her plate as the gleam in his eyes grew more pronounced.

  “I suppose there is someone you are thinking of marrying?” she heard herself asking awkwardly.

  “As a matter of fact there are three equally attractive and desirable young women who appeal to me for different reasons,” he admitted, with such shattering coolness that she gave up the pretence of enjoying the gateau and stared at him, fascinated. “Two are of excellent family, all three have looks, poise—everything that is essential in a future Comtesse—and one I have known and admired for a very long time indeed. But how to make up my mind which one ... Ah, that is my problem!”

  He exhaled a mixture of Turkish and Virginian cigarette smoke languidly, and she watched a crested gold ring on his little finger glinting in the rays of the subdued lighting.

  “And have you any idea how you’re going to ... set about resolving the problem?” she asked, feeling a trifle breathless because this was a problem new to her, and one that temporarily intrigued her.

  “Indeed yes.” He smiled at her. “I have decided to take them all three on a prolonged cruise—together with a number of other people, of course—and, under the influence of warm sunshine and gentle sea breezes (for we shall cruise in warm waters) starlight and moonlight and all the rest, make up my mind in an impractical atmosphere which one will most satisfyingly fill the practical role of my wife!”

  “You don’t have to be in love with one of them?” Steve asked, not certain she was hearing aright.

  He shook his head at her gently, and smiled indulgently.

  “I have told you, that is for the very young ... someone like yourself! At my time of life love is an experience which is always delightful, but to live with it would be intolerable.”

  “I see,” she said. She stared at her fingernails. “You must be very rich if you own a yacht large enough to take a party of people on a prolonged voyage.”

  “I am.” This time his smile was wholly amused. “Very rich. I have even heard myself described as quite vulgarly rich. But that is much better than being vulgarly poor, you know, for I can benefit quite a number of people. All those who sail with me on my cruise will have a wonderful store of memories when it is over ... memories of the Mediterranean, perhaps even the Pacific Islands! I have a house in Tangier, and we will probably pay it a visit. We shall almost certainly cruise amongst the Greek Islands and in the early autumn that can be wonderful.”

  “It sounds delightful,” she said enviously.

  “Then why not join us?” he suggested. “I told you I thought I had a plan for you, and now I am quite certain it is an excellent plan. Your employment problem is settled; for I will offer you the position of social secretary aboard my yacht, and as you plainly need a holiday you will have that as well. I will pay you an excellent salary...”

  “You don’t really mean it?”

  “I do. A social secretary—hostess, or whatever you choose to call yourself—is always very useful aboard a yacht; and while we are waiting for the invitations to go forth, and the yacht to be prepared, you shall occupy my flat here in Paris, and I will remove myself and my possessions to a hotel. As you are so very English I will not make the suggestion that we share the flat,” the derisive sparkle returning to his eyes.

  But she was so overwhelmed by the proposition he had made to her that she didn’t even notice it.

  “Oh, Monsieur le Comte,” she exclaimed, “I don’t know what to say! How to thank you! Why, you don’t even know whether I’ll be suitable.”

  “And you don’t know what sort of an employer I’ll turn out to be.” He waved a dismissing hand. “Forget these side issues, petite. We have an opportunity to be of service to one another, and that is all there is to it, save that if you are anxious about my respectability I will put you in touch with my godmother, the Duchess of Montreuil, and she will reassure you. And I haven’t a doubt that Liane also will vouch for me.”

  And then as he saw the sudden doubt that entered her eyes he laughed softly.

  “But perhaps it would have been wiser not to mention Liane. This arrangement with my flat ... the fact that she holds a key! ... is not an arrangement that strikes you as quite convenable, n’est-ce pas?”

  A woman had entered the restaurant, and although there were not a great many diners every one of them lifted their head to gaze at her as, followed by a somewhat elderly escort, she walked towards a table in the corner. It was a table that was decorated with far choicer blooms than those which graced any of the others, and the maître d’hôtel bent almost double as he welcomed her with a most expansive smile, and then hastened to put her into her chair.

  She surveyed the room coolly once she was seated, putting aside the vase of golden roses the better to do so. Her dress was also golden, and there was no doubt some significance between it and her table’s centrepiece. She looked as if she was on her way to some far grander method of spending the evening, and her escort’s white tie and tails seemed to underline this. But they plainly desired to dine quietly beforehand, and the man at least was anxious to ignore everyone and devote all his attention to her. In fact, he was almost pathetically anxious.

  Steve was completely enraptured by the woman’s beauty. It was beauty such as she had never seen before, cool, remote, patrician, and yet it was also exquisitely colorful. Her hair was a wonderful flaming bronze, and she wore it in a striking bouffant style high on her head. Her complexion was like the delicate inside of a shell.

  The Comte de Courvalles stared straight down the length of the room at her, and Steve heard him murmur softly, wonderingly, under his breath.

  “It is incredible how she does it! Always such perfection, and so untouchable!”

  “Who—who is she?” Steve asked, sounding almost awed.

  But before he could reply the woman herself had caught sight of the Comte, and she came rushing down the room towards him, her arms outstretched.

  “Léon!” she cried. “Cheri, I hadn’t an inkling you were back, and this is too, too wonderful!” She embraced him exuberantly while everyon
e in the restaurant looked on, and then embraced him again, and kissed him with fervour. “What has brought you back so soon? Tell me! I am consumed with curiosity.”

  “Nothing but the fact that I could no longer stay away from you, Gabrielle,” he replied, but the very smoothness of his reply did not seem to satisfy her.

  “That is not true, of course,” she said, and pouted. “It was something to do with business, is that not so?”

  “Nothing to do with business,” he assured her. “A wonderful scheme I have in mind. One of which you will approve!”

  “Then you shall tell me all about it tomorrow at lunch,” she said, resting her hand on his sleeve and watching his face with her great dark eyes while she did so. “We shall lunch together, chéri?”

  “We will lunch together,” he promised.

  She smiled, almost as if she was relieved. Then she looked round for her escort, who was standing quietly behind her. She introduced him to the Comte as a Signor Valdoli from Italy, and the two men eyed one another in a reserved manner, and then each bowed formally. Only as an afterthought was Steve presented, and Gabrielle Descarté barely glanced at her.

  “Mademoiselle Blair is about to become an employee of mine,” Comte explained in his suave manner.

  Gabrielle shrugged indifferent shoulders. A girl who wore navy-blue linen in the evenings was of no interest to her.

  The Italian was much more courteous.

  “I hope I see you again, signorina,” he said. When they were once more alone at their table the Comte explained:

  “Gabrielle is what is, known as a ‘top model’. She is enchanting. She is also third on my list!”

  Steve stared.

  “Third ...?” And then she remembered. The three women who appealed to him as future wives, one of whom would be his future Comtesse. A sensation of acute revulsion rushed up over her. “I hope she doesn’t know you think of her in that way? The third on the list!”