Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances

by Dorothy Fletcher

  She had pointed out notable landmarks on the ride from the airport, once they had passed through the dreary industrial districts that preceded their entry into Paris proper, and said suddenly, “Now we’re on the Rue St. Honoré, which leads into the Place Vendôme.”

  The taxi driver made a right turn and they were at their destination, the Place Vendôme, of which Iris had seen many a picture postcard. No replica could do it justice, she thought; it was an almost austere, stately square of superb proportions, a sublime example of seventeenth century artistry in a city that offered many such architectural wonders.

  At its center, a granite column on a monumental pedestal rose magisterially, topped by the statue of Napoleon Bonaparte.

  “And here’s our little hotel,” Louisa said, as the cab’s driver pulled up, with a screech of tires, to the curb.

  They climbed out of the taxi and the driver began pulling their luggage from the trunk of the vehicle. Then a fresh-faced young boy in uniform came out and stood waiting for the baggage.

  Louisa opened her handbag, drew out some French notes and asked the young portier, with a pretty smile, to please pay their driver.

  “And now let’s go inside and get ourselves settled,” she said to Iris, and swept through the opened glass doors.

  Her niece smiled affectionately. Her aunt was every inch the seasoned traveler.

  It was indeed a small hotel, with a small and discreetly correct lobby, and at the desk the concierge, exclaiming with what appeared to be a very sincere pleasure when Louisa greeted him, came out from behind his desk, said he was enchanted to see her once again this year, and started ordering the young boy who by this time had lugged in their suitcases, to be quick about it.

  “Vite, vite,” he cried, and dashed behind the desk again for the keys to their rooms.

  “And be sure everything is in order,” he told the uniformed portier. “Madame is a favored client.”

  “Pierre, this is my niece, Iris Easton,” Louisa said.

  “Hello, Pierre.”

  “Enchanté, Mademoiselle. Welcome to Paris.”

  “Merci, Pierre.”

  They surrendered their passports and followed the portier to the elevator, getting out at the fourth floor.

  He opened a door halfway down the hall, stood aside, and they walked inside.

  It was a suite, with a bedroom and bath for each, and in between a lovely little salon. The ceilings were high, as were the windows with their airy ninon curtains and handsome tapestry drapes. The furnishings were modified Louis Seize, and the room light and cheerful. There were good prints on the walls; the bull’s-eye mirror with its eagle mounting, Recamier sofa in front of which was a long coffee table and baroque wall sconces all added up to a very homey living room.

  Louisa was busy separating the bags. “These are mine,” she told the young boy. “The others belong in my niece’s room.”

  After a while everything was sorted out and Louisa bade Iris go and see if her room was shipshape. Her luggage deposited and at last alone, Iris stood in the middle of her room and looked about. The same tall, almost ceiling-high windows in here too, and the bathroom was larger than her room at home. Larger by far, and with a tub that could have accommodated someone six feet by seven.

  She went back to the bedroom and sank down on the queen-sized bed, felt its incredible comfort, patted its two fat pillows, got up again and sat in each of the four small gilt chairs, went to the desk and pulled out the center drawer, where there was Hotel Vendôme stationery and then went to the windows.

  The sun winked at her. She winked back. “Hello, Paris sun,” she said to it, and then regarded the telephone that sat on a bedside table.

  “I wish I could call someone,” she said aloud.

  Or better yet, she wished someone would call her. Right now, right this minute. Someone who would say, “Hello, pet, so you finally got here … Why not meet me at the Marignon for lunch? There’s so much to talk about …”

  No one would call her, of course. No one knew her here. People would call her aunt, but not her.

  Maybe some day …

  She went back to the salon.

  “Is your room all right?” Louisa asked.

  “It’s fantastic,” Iris said.

  “That’s good,” her aunt said. “You’ll probably want to freshen up before we start out.”

  “Start out?”

  “Yes, of course. What else? I thought we’d have lunch at Yar’s, a Russian place Henry and I always liked. First have a look around, you know.”

  “But don’t you want a nap or something? I mean, after that long plane ride?”

  “Darling, I’m not exactly in my dotage! Henry and I, after settling in a bit, always started right out doing things. I thought, since you’re a stranger here, we’d walk up to the Rue de Rivoli, just a block and a half away, and look in some of the lovely shops there. Then head over to the Rue de l’Opéra and give you some Paris atmosphere.” She smiled fondly. “Are you happy to be here, Iris?”

  “Oh, Auntie, I can’t tell you! I’m in seventh heaven.”

  “Then shower and change, and I’ll give you an hour or so. Then come out again, all fresh and rosy, and we’ll go adventuring. And bring your camera, since you’ll certainly want to have snapshots of your first day here.”

  The day passed in a kind of blur. A glorious blur, to be sure, but for a newcomer like Iris, impressions were necessarily jumbled and kaleidoscoped.

  The main impact was of an incredibly beautiful city, a city that actually seemed to glitter. Iris was overwhelmed with its shimmer, with the breathtaking uniformity of its mansard-roofed skyline, the many lacy bridges over the Seine, and the river itself, flowing its timeless way below the embankments. The vast sky, blooming with fast-moving clouds, seemed different from other skies. Its color was paler, more diffuse, varying from an almost washed-out blue to a deeper cobalt, and the whole effect subtly elusive.

  How to describe it?

  Why try? she thought. This was the sky the Impressionists had painted … Corot, Monet, Vuillard, Seurat …

  Her first day was wonderful … and exhausting. Emotion played its part. Tears, at unbidden moments, rose astonishingly. This was Paris … city of her dreams.

  At six they returned to the hotel, weary from jet lag and a long day’s outing, and Louisa proposed a drink in the bar lounge on the second floor.

  It was a pleasant room, with easy chairs and oak furniture. Not very large, but sizeable enough to accommodate about forty people. There was a mirrored bar at the rear and a man behind it who raised a hand in greeting as they walked toward a table.

  He soon came over.

  “Bon soir,” he said warmly. “I am so happy to see you once again. I missed you very much last year.”

  “You know that — ” Louisa started to say, and the man interrupted with a quiet, “Yes, I know, of course. I am so sorry.”

  “Thank you, Marcel. I’d like to introduce my niece, Iris Easton, my sister’s daughter.”

  “Enchanté, Mademoiselle,” the man said. “Your first trip to Paris?”

  “Yes.”

  “You arrived only today. Have you formed any impressions?”

  “Yes, I think it’s wonderful.”

  “I am glad. A martini for you, Madame?”

  “Your memory never fails you. Yes, Marcel, and for my niece too. Très sec, as usual.”

  “I know,” he said, with a smile. “A mere whisper of the vermouth.”

  They stayed for only half an hour in order to have some rest in their rooms before foraying out to dinner. Three tables had been occupied since they had come in, none with English-speaking persons. All were French except for two gentlemen who sounded Russian to Iris. She was almost sure she heard one of them say “Nyet.”

  “I’m glad we’re staying here,” she told her aunt. “And I’m mad about the Place Vendôme. It’s so historyish.”

  “It used to be horribly disfigured by automobiles cluttering i
t up,” Louisa said. “It was, I assure you, one big parking lot. But then they built an enormous underground garage and now it’s the way it should be.”

  She looked toward the bar and caught Marcel’s attention. He brought over the bill for their drinks, and Louisa signed for it.

  “Have an enjoyable evening,” Marcel said cordially as they left. “And Mademoiselle, welcome to Paris. I wish you happiness here.”

  They were no sooner in their quarters than the telephone rang in Louisa’s room.

  “You go in and lie down for, say, half an hour,” she told Iris. “We should leave here at around seven-thirty or so for dinner. Excuse me, I must answer that.”

  Iris, needing no coaxing, went right to her bedroom. She closed the door, stripped off her clothes and slipped into the comfort of the wide bed. She set her alarm for seven and fell instantly into a delicious slumber.

  The next thing she knew there was a voice that seemed to come from very far away.

  “Iris …”

  Her eyes opened reluctantly. “What?” she mumbled.

  “It’s twenty past seven.”

  The voice was that of her Aunt Louisa, who was sitting on the edge of her bed and running a hand through her hair.

  “Too tired for dinner?” Louisa asked.

  “No. Gee. I’m sorry. I set the alarm, but I guess I didn’t hear it go off.” She leaned on an elbow. “Who was that on the phone?”

  “A friend of mine. Sure you’re up to getting dressed and going out for a meal?”

  “Yes, of course. I won’t be a minute.”

  “Half an hour will do. The restaurant we’re going to is very near here.”

  “Okay.”

  She showered quickly and was dressed at a few minutes before eight. There was only a short walk to Chez Tante Louise, the place Louisa had in mind.

  When they arrived, it was readily evident that it was a restaurant in which her aunt and uncle had dined frequently, judging from the cordial greetings that were extended.

  Tante Louise, which was almost the name of Iris’s aunt, might have been a pet haunt for obvious reasons, her niece decided. In any event, it was a delightful place, quietly comfortable and not overly formal.

  The food was excellent and the wine, a light, buoyant Beaujolais, a perfect accompaniment.

  “This is the kind of eating place Henry and I always liked,” Louisa said. “You know Henry was always averse to splash and we never went in for flamboyant restaurants or anything else showy. We were always partial to these quiet, relaxing atmospheres and mostly avoided spots like Lasserve, or Véfour. Maybe it’s an inverse snobbery, but it’s how we always felt.”

  “It’s okay with me,” Iris said, “as I’m sure you must know. I’d just as soon eat in our rooms — a bottle of wine and some deli stuff.”

  “We’ll probably resort to that too, if we should be too dragged out after a long and arduous day, to face dolling ourselves up and going out.

  “And anyway,” she added, “I must watch my weight. You don’t have to worry, you gorgeous, skinny thing. But I do, and I must get on the scales tomorrow.”

  “You don’t weigh any more than I do.”

  “Maybe not, but it’s all in the wrong places.”

  They were back at the Place Vendôme at a little after ten. The splendid square, now gloriously floodlit, was deserted. It looked noble, and somber, and magnificent. The warmth of the day had become a clear and still, faintly chilly night.

  It seemed a pity to go in, and leave all that beauty.

  “I had a wonderful day,” Iris said, when they were upstairs. “There will be other days, but this one, my very first, will never, ever be forgotten.”

  “I’m so glad. Give us a kiss, and then beddy-bye.”

  Aunt Louisa had said that when she was just a little kid. Give us a kiss and then beddy-bye …

  Then both of them closed their doors and Iris, dead for sleep, cleaned her teeth and climbed into the sack.

  Those two fat pillows, linen-sheathed, were like heaven itself, and the window, opened almost all the way, brought in Parisian night breezes, foreign zephyrs that smelled, faintly, of hyacinth.

  Or so Iris imagined.

  She slept dreamlessly. Or, if there were dreams, they failed to surface when she awoke to a bright Paris sky and turned over, eagerly, to greet the morning sun that rayed over her bed and bathed her in its brilliance.

  She remembered her Baudelaire, and said aloud, “De tirer de mon soleil de mon coeur, et de faire des mes pensers brûlants une tiède atmosphère …”

  So there, she thought triumphantly. Her French courses hadn’t been a total loss. Then, throwing back the covers, she got up and took a cold, bracing shower.

  Four

  “I thought we’d go to Notre Dame today,” Louisa said, over café au lait and croissants in the sunny salon.

  “Great, just what I’d like most to do.”

  “Suppose we start at the Concorde, cross the river, walk up to the Quai des Grands Augustins, have a look in some of the antique shops there, and reach the cathedral by crossing back at the Pont St. Michel. There are many ways to get there on foot, but that way is one of my favorite walks.”

  “Sounds lovely.”

  It was. The sun blazed, though it was a bit on the coolish side, calling for sweaters. It was a long, leisurely trek, and riverside, with the Seine sparkling and clear. Boats glided on its surface, with the occasional white triangle of a sail limned enticingly.

  When they came to the Quai des Grands Augustins, there were any number of shops that vended antiques, their gleaming plate-glass windows awninged against the sun. Louisa didn’t buy anything, though she looked into several of them, and in one saw a Boulle clock she told the owner she would “think about.”

  Then they went on, and Louisa said that shortly they would come to the bookstalls. “If you’re lucky, Iris, you might find a rare first edition in all the welter. Though you’d have to be very lucky indeed.”

  The bookstalls on the banks of the Seine … that, Iris thought eagerly, was something she had very much looked forward to. Someone had said that the bookseller on the quays represented one of the most authentic figures of everyday life in Paris. And very soon, there they were, lined up on the embankment, their lathed green over-covers shading books, prints and posters.

  Iris lost herself completely, searching avidly for some bibliophilic find which would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. There were hundreds and hundreds of tomes, some deliciously musty with age, others modern fiction not worth glancing at.

  It would take time and patience to sift through this mass of reading material. Yet it would be exciting to come across a real treasure.

  “Find anything of interest?” her aunt finally asked.

  Her niece looked slightly dazed. “Give me several months and maybe I can unearth something that will make my heart beat faster.”

  “Or several years,” Louisa said sympathetically. She looked at her watch. “Give it up for now. I thought we’d have a coffee at that cafe over there.”

  “All right, it would be nice to sit down for a bit.”

  They walked across to an inviting plaza that was marked by one of the ubiquitous cobalt-blue signs. Place St. Michel, the sign said, and the cafe’s outdoor adjunct presented an attractive view of the surrounding area.

  They chose a table on the outer circumference, where they could sit in the sun, rather than under the canopy. Iris shrugged out of her sweater.

  Louisa looked at her watch again. Iris smiled. “Do you really care about time?” she asked. “I don’t. I’ve forgotten the meaning of it.”

  “Time is relative,” Louisa replied. “It can be important or not, depending on circumstances.”

  “That sounds profound.”

  “Does it? How nice. Where are you going?”

  “To find a john. Will you excuse me?”

  “Can’t you wait until we order?”

  “I won’t be long. Café
noir for me, if the waiter comes over.”

  She got up and weaved her way among tables and then went inside. It was a busy place and rather noisy, with a television going full blast over the bar. Looking about, Iris saw no helpful signs, so she asked a passing waiter.

  “Ou est la lavabo, s’il vous plait?”

  “Par là,” he said, and pointed.

  She found it, used it, and came out again.

  It was only a little after eleven o’clock in the morning, but the place was lively. Waiters flitted about, their trays held high. Tables were occupied by beer-drinking and wine-tippling customers. There was also the smell of cooking, with the odor of onions prevalent. Even at this early hour, a few people had quantities of food on their plates, some of them mopping up a dark, thick gravy with bits of bread. Silverware clattered and glasses tinkled.

  Iris skirted some people just entering, nearly collided with a harried looking waiter, and gained the doorway.

  She was making her way between the outdoor tables again when a thought struck her. This was the Place St. Michel … so then the Boulevard St. Michel must begin at this point. Why, of course!

  The famed “Boul’ Mich’,” which led to the Sorbonne and the student quarter.

  The Sorbonne … where she had so wanted to spend one of her college years.

  There was suddenly a hand on her arm.

  “You have lost something,” a voice said and, turning, Iris found herself face to face with a dark-eyed man who was holding out a highly-colored pamphlet.

  She recognized it as one of her own, and for a moment stared stupidly at it. Her handbag — a large, roomy tote — was hooked over her shoulder. There was an open pocket on one side, stuffed with her tourist paraphernalia.

  She looked up quickly. That brochure couldn’t possibly have fallen out of her tote. The pocket was deep. There was no way she could have lost it.

  Yes, one way … and the only way. This man had deliberately “lifted” it from the pocket in the bag in order to speak to her.

  She gave him a rapid, comprehensive glance.

  He was French: his accent testified to that. Besides, he looked French — slightly aquiline nose, very dark eyes that were nearly black, and the same dark, inky hair. Handsome … in a European way, and with a smile that was faintly amused.