Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances

by Dorothy Fletcher

  “It’s so long since I read it.”

  “And I too,” Paul said, chuckling. “I am getting on in years, I’m afraid, as I was so recently reminded.”

  He was looking at Iris, but she declined to return his smiling glance. They went up the long flight of steps, worn with the tread of centuries of feet that had climbed the ancient stone, and then on into the great Gothic cathedral that was, almost certainly, the most venerated house of worship in the world.

  After that, everything else was forgotten. Everything but the vast edifice itself, and in the silence that was broken only by an occasional footfall, time seemed to come to a stop, earthly matters fall away.

  In this place one truly felt alone, Iris thought … alone with history and with God. Scarcely knowing that she had left the others behind, she wandered off by herself, absorbed in a transcendental reverie that took her far away from the present and into the long-gone past.

  Five

  As she left the cathedral, Iris looked about for her aunt, wandering slowly through the narrow side aisles, her eyes searching for Louisa.

  There were few people visiting Notre Dame at this hour of the day. Most were lunching somewhere, or sitting outside in the sun. There was no sign of either her aunt or Paul Chandon, so they must, Iris realized, have had their fill of the beauty in this place of solemn grandeur and left her to sate herself alone. After all, both of them had been here many, many times.

  With a last, lingering look at the great rose windows she went through the huge, parted doors that had welcomed so many people for so many years. Then, blinking in the sudden brightness after the time spent in the shadowy confines within, stepped back a bit.

  She was groping in her tote bag for her sunglasses when she caught sight of them. There was her aunt, standing in the great square outside, and there was Paul Chandon beside her. They were at some distance and looked, like the others down below, slightly in miniature.

  They also looked as if they were very much enjoying each other’s company. Iris watched them curiously. From where she stood, her aunt looked incredibly youthful, with her trim figure and slim, pretty legs. Several inches shorter than her companion, her face turned up as she spoke animatedly to him, she presented a most attractive picture.

  For a second or two longer Iris, unobserved, regarded the two. Now her aunt had lifted a hand to smooth away a strand of hair the wind had blown across her forehead. With a gallant gesture, Paul Chandon reached down and brushed another strand away.

  An imaginary strand, Iris told herself irritably … and an exaggeratedly gallant gesture.

  Why, he’s not going to “guide” us to that bistro on the Ile St. Louis, she thought. He had no intention of showing them the place and then bowing out of the picture. He would wheedle her aunt into invitation. They were probably talking about it right this minute!

  “Of course you’ll join us for lunch,” Louisa would say cordially.

  Well, why not?

  Because he’s spoiling everything, Iris thought vexedly. He was pushy and arrogant and who was he, anyway? Someone they knew nothing about, idling his days away.

  What did he do for a living, if anything? Why was he bumming about on a weekday, instead of being in an office somewhere?

  If he was on vacation, what was he doing in Paris, where he obviously lived? If he were on vacation, he’d be somewhere else … not here, in the city.

  “I am Paul Chandon …”

  That was all he had said about himself.

  Why in the world was Aunt Louisa behaving in this foolhardy manner?

  There was only one explanation. Her aunt was encouraging this stranger because he had made a play for her niece, and Aunt Louisa had some insane notion that here, like manna from heaven, was a handsome and “presentable” young man for her niece to have a few dates with … and all without any blame to herself for having introduced him to Iris.

  I can handle this, Iris decided grimly, and set her lips. Then she went down the steps. They saw her finally, as she came toward them.

  “Here she is,” Louisa said gaily, and as Iris walked up to them, added, “You will join us for lunch, Paul, won’t you?”

  “I only meant to show you where the restaurant was,” he reminded her, and then shrugged engagingly. “However, I haven’t eaten yet either, so thank you very much, I would like to.”

  I knew it, thought Iris … I knew it …

  The Ile St. Louis was reached by going round to the side of the cathedral where there was a paradise of beautiful gardens and where people sat on white-painted benches, their faces turned up to the sun, and small children played.

  “I’m so fond of this spot,” Louisa said. “Isn’t it idyllic, Iris? The trees, the foliage, the fragrances …”

  “It’s a good place in which to sit with a book and read for an afternoon,” Paul suggested. His eyes followed Iris’s as she looked up at the massive flying buttresses that flanked the cathedral.

  “That’s inspiring too, isn’t it,” he said. “A place in which to put aside worldly cares.”

  He looked back at her quizzically.

  “And in which to forget minor irritations,” he added. Then, putting a hand briefly on her arm, met her eyes.

  “Are you,” he asked, “feeling more serene now? After your long session in the church?”

  She flushed angrily. It was as if he had said, are you more resigned to my unwelcome presence?

  I would like, Iris thought, to see you fall, fully clad, into the Seine. Or simply vanish in a puff of smoke.

  But she gritted her teeth and smiled. “How could anyone feel anything but serene on a day like this?”

  “I am glad,” he said, with that faintly sardonic smile, and turned back to her aunt.

  Finally they came to a small chain-fence gate, which Paul opened. They went through it and stepped onto a quaint little iron bridge, which spanned the river at this narrow point. And then they were on the Ile St. Louis, which was almost like a little tail of the Ile de la Cité where Notre Dame stood.

  It was very pretty, with its tree-lined embankments. Paul led them down a narrow street and then into a narrower one where, among three or four restaurants, was a corner one.

  “Et voilá,” he said. “Le Coquelicot.”

  It was, as he had told them, far from fancy, and when they were seated, Louisa admitted that she would certainly have passed this place by, as it looked from the outside like a Greasy Spoon.

  Modest in appearance, it was not a tourist place, probably due to its unprepossessing exterior which was undoubtedly designed in order to ensure strictly a French clientele.

  There was, at least today, not a single person of another nationality present save for Iris and her aunt, and the sound of many Gallic voices raised in talk and laughter was diverting. Typically bistro, there were the usual red-checked cloths spread over wood trestle tables. The chairs were rush-bottomed and there was a rough-beamed ceiling.

  A waiter came over and greeted them. To Paul, he said, “Ça va, mon gosse,” and handed him three menus.

  His eyes assessed the two people with Paul, lingering first on Iris, then Louisa, and then returning to Paul.

  Iris caught the quick exchange of looks between Paul and the waiter. She felt uncomfortable and uneasy. It was as if they were being sized up for some reason.

  The waiter, with a pleasant smile, left them to make their selections.

  “I’m starved,” Louisa said. “I’ll have the choucroute.”

  “What’s that?” Iris wanted to know.

  Paul explained. “Slabs of pork, with beans, sauerkraut, and a frankfurter.”

  “I guess I’ll have that too.”

  When the waiter returned Paul gave the order for three choucroutes and a bottle of vin ordinaire.

  “Ah, pain riche,” Louisa said contentedly, reaching in a wicker bread basket. “Try it, Iris, it’s delicious.”

  The bread, spread with sweet butter of which there was a generous crock, was certa
inly very tasty. “I do like this bistro,” Louisa said enthusiastically, “though I doubt I’d come in by myself … that is, without someone French. I’d feel out of place.”

  “You wouldn’t now,” Paul assured her. “Now you are known here, and will always be a welcome guest.”

  “You do seem to know all the waiters in Paris,” Iris commented.

  “Only the ones at the eating places to which I go,” he replied, with a perfectly straight face.

  “How amusing,” she said sweetly.

  He leaned across the table.

  “Permit me,” he said, politely, and brushed her chin lightly with a corner of his red-checked napkin. “You had a crumb of bread on your face.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Not at all.”

  Iris felt the color rise to her cheeks. She was irritated beyond words at the hot flush that seemed to actually burn … and doubly irked that it was not so much flush as blush, that she was blushing, like a silly girl, a goose.

  She caught her aunt’s eye and thought she saw a flicker of amusement there, a faint look of speculative merriment. For one awful moment there were tears very near the surface.

  What was the matter with her?

  Then she was herself again, almost instantly. It was the unfamiliar, the new, that was all. Maybe a little homesickness. She was perhaps jealous too. Jealous of Paul Chandon, who had so captivated her aunt. She wasn’t accustomed to sharing Louisa’s affections.

  “I’d like some more of that butter,” she said, without a trace of tremor in her voice.

  “And here is our lunch,” Paul announced, replacing his napkin on his lap as three steaming plates of food were set before them.

  “Bon,” Paul said, and all the glasses were filled.

  The waiter, with a “Bon appétit,” hurried away.

  Louisa, fork poised, gave a happy little sigh. “‘A loaf of bread, a jug of wine …’“

  “And thou,” Paul finished for her. He raised his glass. “Bonne chance et bon destin.”

  There wasn’t much to do except raise one’s own glass and drink to the toast. If only he wouldn’t smile like that, Iris thought, averting her eyes quickly. That smile, so warm and dazzling … it seemed so sincere. Whereas, he was not sincere. He was out for something, he had something up his sleeve. He was an adventurer, up to no good, and she was a captive, fated to follow her aunt’s whims.

  It was all very perplexing … and very worrisome.

  But the choucroute was succulent and tasty, and the wine a little heady. It seemed innocent enough, but it had a kick all right, and they hadn’t had a bite to eat since breakfast.

  “Dessert?” Louisa cried, when Paul asked what they would like for a sweet. “I’m stuffed. Absolutely not.”

  “Nor I,” Iris said.

  “I also am rassasier,” he admitted. “But please, ladies, not to use that expression even if I did, as it is somewhat vulgar.”

  “It probably means stuffed,” Louisa said, laughing, “which is not exactly acceptable in polite society. But I will have a demi tasse and Iris, you will too, I suppose.”

  “Yes, please.”

  “I’ll attend to it,” Paul said, and rose with a murmured, “Pardon …”

  Louisa’s eyes followed him with, Iris thought, an admiring look. “Isn’t he nice,” she murmured. “And this is really a fun place to eat. Henry and I had our favorite dining spots here on the Ile. I guess I’ll bypass them, this trip at least. I am so glad to have you with me. I don’t suppose you can possibly know how much it means.”

  “Which is a nice way of saying that I’m doing you a favor by being here,” Iris said gently. “You’re a dear aunt and a dear person.” She leaned forward. “You know how I feel about you,” she continued earnestly. “But darling, you mustn’t try to … you know you promised that …”

  “Yes, dear?”

  But there was no time. She heard the approaching footsteps. Paul, returning, slid into his chair again. He reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes.

  “Madame,” he said, offering it first to Louisa.

  “Thank you.”

  “Mademoiselle?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Their coffee came and the waiter went off again. The sun, strong and beneficent, shone through the mullioned window, and the crowd inside began to thin out. Soon there were only three tables occupied, their own and two others.

  “More coffee?” Paul asked.

  “No. We must go, I’m afraid. I’m sorry too. It’s been so nice. Paul, would you get our waiter, please?”

  He came over. “Oui, Madame?”

  “Our check, please.”

  He shook his head. “Pas aujourd’hui, Madame.”

  Louisa turned to Paul. “What does he say?”

  “Apparently it’s on the house,” Paul replied, with a faint shrug.

  She stared at the waiter, and then back at Paul. “So that was why you excused yourself,” she cried. “You took care of the bill, didn’t you?”

  But she didn’t make an issue of it, simply said, “Then next time, Paul, you will be my guest. That is, if there will be a next time?”

  “I would be most unhappy if there were to be no next time,” he said gravely.

  “I’m glad. Then thank you for this very good meal and for introducing me to this charming little place. And if you can suggest an evening for us to have dinner together, I’d be pleased.”

  “Would tomorrow evening suit you, Madame?”

  “That would be splendid.”

  No one consults me, Iris thought. And so it was to be a steady threesome. She was beside herself with alarm. This was simply not to be believed! This utter stranger … who knew what his reputation was?

  Her aunt’s face, radiant and happy, appalled her. Why, she looked as anticipative as a young girl on the eve of her first prom … as if …

  An unpleasant thought came to her, unpleasant and unwelcome … but gaining momentum. A thought that had leapt up at her suddenly and horribly …

  There, she thought, was this affluent-looking woman, her aunt. Marvelous clothes, chic hairdo, carefully manicured nails. Why, that alligator handbag alone was worth a few hundred dollars … and the gold jewelry, the chain round her neck, the bracelets, the rings …

  And on the other side, this suave young man, with his practiced charm, his dazzling smile …

  Louisa, in her mid-forties, was an attractive, even alluring woman, a woman no man — even someone Paul Chandon’s age-would be ashamed to be seen with.

  How often had she heard her aunt say, “Women of middle age are far better off in Europe than in the United States. They’re not written off as dull and dreary, or physically undesirable. Rather, their status improves. Europeans appreciate women with experience and savoir faire.”

  Those words came back to Iris now. Experience and savoir faire …

  Some other words, so recently voiced, echoed in her mind as well.

  “‘Ingenues, not quite grown …’“

  In other words, inexperienced girls without savoir faire … like herself.

  Who was this Paul Chandon pursuing, when it came right down to it? Iris Easton … or Louisa Collinge?

  Once again her face flooded with color, followed by a wave of angry, wry consternation and the feeling that someone had punched her in the stomach. She had been so sure that he was eyeing her, Iris, as a promising possibility.

  But instead, couldn’t it be her aunt he was contemplating as a soft touch?

  A woman, for example, who could well, very well, afford to stay at the Ritz but instead preferred the Vendôme … which, according to Paul Chandon, had its own “quiet distinction.”

  A woman who was far from old, much more than merely goodlooking to boot, and who clearly had a lot of money.

  Why, that’s the way it was! Not what she had thought … no, not at all. Paul Chandon wasn’t one bit interested in the niece. He was interested — and very much so — in the aun
t.

  And the way Louisa catered to him.

  My God, Iris thought … where would this lead?

  Her aunt’s voice came to her, as if from a great distance. With difficulty she tore herself away from a horrid fantasy.

  “Yes?”

  “Paul asked where we would like to dine tomorrow evening.”

  “Why don’t we ask Paul to make one of his interesting suggestions?” Iris said brightly. “Since I know nothing about restaurants here, and he obviously knows a great deal, wouldn’t it be logical to rely on his vast experience?”

  He seemed not to notice the bite in her words. He only nodded, turned to Louisa and asked if she had a preference. When she said no, he nodded agreeably, and told her he would select a restaurant that might be new to her despite the fact that she was no stranger to Paris.

  “We’ll look forward to it,” Louisa said, with a soft smile. Her uptilted eyes, green today because she was wearing a suit of that color, were luminous.

  Iris looked away. She was sickened, positively sickened, by the glow on her aunt’s face.

  No fool like an old fool, she thought, was instantly contrite, but saw no real reason to amend her harsh judgment.

  Oh, poor Aunt Louisa! Lonely, grief-crazed; Henryless … and seizing on the first young Frenchman who gave her the glad eye.

  She had visions of cabling home to her parents.

  Aunt Louisa in danger of being victimized by a fortune-hunter. What shall I do?

  As if they could help! As if anyone could.

  It’s up to me, Iris thought anxiously, to discourage this cheeky young man in every way I can.

  At the moment, however, the problem seemed somewhat insoluble.

  Six

  When they left the bistro, Louisa suggested that they take a walk along one of the quays on the Ile St. Louis. “The Quai d’Orléans is my favorite. How about you, Paul?”

  “My favorite too,” he agreed.

  They turned left, then right and were soon wending their way along a riverside street that was almost miraculously beautiful. The trees that bordered the embankment leaned toward the river, with some of the branches actually touching the water. There was a sense of being in another age, another era and Iris wouldn’t have been at all surprised to see someone come out of any one of the handsome old houses that lined the street, dressed in Empire clothing … or glimpse a horse-drawn fiacre just up ahead.