Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances

by Dorothy Fletcher

  “I suppose you have bought some Paris dresses,” Paul said to Iris as they sipped their drinks.

  “Not a one. Nor will I. Oh, a scarf or two, probably. But in the main, presents to take back home.”

  “You have many friends?”

  “Yes, I guess I do, friends and acquaintances. We all do, don’t we?”

  “We do when we’re young,” he said.

  “Why not when we’re older?”

  “Because when we are older, circumstances change.”

  She gave him a curious glance. He was certainly paying a bit more attention to her today. For what reason?

  She narrowed her eyes. To get on the good side of her? And would he next produce some friend of his, saying, “I thought it would be nice if there were four of us.”

  “Friends,” Paul continued, “loom rather large in our scheme of things. But I know people, of all ages, who have joined the Peace Corps and left friends, and family, behind. Friends don’t make a life, Mademoiselle.”

  “They help,” Louisa said ruminatively. “But they can’t make up for the most important things.”

  Like the loss of a loved one, Iris thought. No one could make up for something like that.

  “You have not been to the Beaubourg?” Paul asked, with a small smile.

  “Not yet, but it’s on the agenda,” Louisa replied. “What do you think of it, Paul?”

  “What do I think of it? That it’s terrible, ugly and garish … and yet exactly what Paris needed.”

  He laughed. “You will have to make up your own minds, when you go there. Naturally I miss the proximity of Les Halles, which is now in Rungis.”

  “I’ll miss it too,” Louisa said. “How many times have I gone there, after a long night’s wandering. I can’t believe it’s gone.”

  Then Louisa and Paul compared notes about all the good times each had had at the former Paris central market, and all the good times they had had at other places.

  Meanwhile Louisa, Iris noted, sparkled, grew rosy and animated and said, yes, she would have another martini, thank you.

  “Mademoiselle?”

  “One’s my limit during the day, thank you.”

  The second drink for the other two arrived, and the conversation between Louisa and Paul resumed. But there was something else Iris was aware of. Every time she looked up from sipping the single martini she was nursing, she was sure that Paul Chandon’s eyes had been on her, and that when she looked in his direction, they slid away quickly.

  Now what was he up to, she wondered uncomfortably, and was vastly relieved when it was decided that they would give the order for their lunch.

  Iris studied the gigantic menu and said she would have paté de maison and steak tartare.

  “With all these goodies?” Louisa cried. “You must be coming down with something!”

  “It’s all I want.”

  “It can happen that someone in love loses the appetite,” Paul hazarded. “That could be the answer.”

  “Not for me,” Iris said tartly.

  “Too bad,” he said, with one of his teasing smiles. “I am sorry to hear that, Mademoiselle.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to lose sleep over it,” she answered evenly.

  “I will try not to.”

  He threw down his carte. “I have made my selection.”

  Louisa, raising contrite green eyes, said that she was still wavering. “Forgive me, but I’m having rather a struggle.”

  “There is no hurry,” Paul said gently. “In fact, quite the opposite.”

  “But I must make up my mind,” she said, avidly scanning her menu, and after a minute or two made her decision, laughing at her greed.

  Paul gave the order to the starched waiter and, in doing so, was very much the assured host.

  “Et pour moi,” he finished, “asparagus vinaigrette. Après Ça, filets de poisson poches au vin blanc.”

  “Très bien, Monsieur. Et maintenant, le vin?”

  “Pour Madame et moi-même, une carafe de Chenin Blanc.”

  The waiter scribbled.

  “Pour Mademoiselle, une demi-bouteille de Bordeaux rouge.”

  “Merci, Monsieur.”

  After that, Paul leaned back, puffing on his Gauloise. “Have you done any sightseeing today?” he asked.

  “Yes, of course,” Louisa said. “Among other things, I introduced Iris to the Palais-Royal.”

  “Ah, the Palais-Royal. It’s a gem.”

  He tapped ashes in a small porcelain tray that bore the house name. “It’s interesting how the centuries come and go, but change, in some aspects, so little. Today, more than three centuries after that palace was built, the general outlines of it are still intact. Did you know that the eminent cardinal suffered from disabling headaches?”

  “I seem to have heard that he also suffered from terrible hemorrhoids,” Iris said bluntly.

  “True,” Paul said, with one of his dazzling smiles. “Only, since we are at lunch, I had not meant to bring that up.”

  “Leave it to Iris to call a spade a spade,” Louisa said. “It’s all right, dear, we all know that about poor Richelieu.”

  “I imagine most of us know of his outrageous extravagance,” Paul commented.. “His household — servants and aides — numbered something like twelve hundred persons. That, by anyone’s standards, is living in style.”

  “While the poor went without bread,” Iris observed.

  “While the poor went without bread,” he agreed. “But they finally decided that they would have their bread and they took their revenge. The Revolution and the guillotine.”

  He smiled. “When I was young, just a young boy, I read a book that remains to this day one of my favorites of all literature.”

  “What was that, Paul?” Louisa asked.

  “It began,” he said, “with these lines: ‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair …’“

  “A Tale of Two Cities,” Iris said, and wished he hadn’t quoted that. It was too near to her, too dear to her and to have Paul Chandon, for whom she had little regard, recite those almost sacred lines — and further, to know them so well — endowed him with a sensitivity she was disinclined to acknowledge.

  “Yes, of course,” he said, and gave her another one of his maddeningly teasing smiles. “You not only speak French very well but you are also very proficient in literature. Victor Hugo … Dickens …”

  But before Iris could think of a suitable retort, the waiter wheeled over a cart and, with grandiose flourishes, began serving their meal.

  A meal which was very good indeed ‘by anyone’s standards,’ Iris thought, paraphrasing Paul’s earlier phrase.

  Paul himself, however, seemed appetite-less, and ate only sparingly, leaving most of the food on his plate.

  At something like 100 francs per portion, this seemed a rather cavalier attitude to Iris. Also, his behavior, so insouciant on the day they had met him, had subtly changed. He was not abstracted … it wasn’t that. He talked in lively fashion, but he seemed, at odd moments, thoughtful and … careful, Iris decided.

  As if every move of his counted. As if he must do everything exactly right, without mistake … and so was not totally relaxed.

  When they were having their coffee and the brandies Paul ordered with it, he said, “And now may we discuss our postponed dinner together? I am so sorry it had to be delayed, and I hope you will forgive me. But unless for some reason it is out of the question for you, may we have dinner tomorrow evening?” He gave a wry little smile. “And this time, nothing will intervene … at least on my part.”

  “That would be lovely, Paul.”

  He looked at Iris. “Mademoiselle?”

  “Why not?”

  Why not indeed? There were many reasons why not, but she was powerless to voice them. It
seemed she was stuck with Paul Chandon, whether she liked it or not, unless she wanted to bow out and leave her aunt to the mercies of this upstart.

  “Wonderful,” he said warmly. “If you have no objections, I thought it would be pleasant to dine on the Butte. The Place du Tertre.”

  “It would be perfect,” Louisa said enthusiastically. “Of course it’s not the best of weather today. If it rains tomorrow the Place du Tertre wouldn’t do, would it?”

  “It won’t rain tomorrow,” he promised. “It will rain late tonight, but tomorrow will be fair again.”

  “How do you know that?” Iris asked.

  “I have listened to the weather reports on and off.”

  “Where I come from, the weather reports are generally unreliable.”

  “They are generally unreliable here too, but this time I am inclined to believe them.”

  His flashing smile came once more.

  “Because I want them to be correct,” he added.

  “I hope you’re right,” Louisa said. “There’s nothing I’d like more than an evening on the Butte, and Iris will adore it.”

  When they finally rose to go, Iris’s watch showed her that it was now after three. Most of the afternoon gone, she thought discontentedly.

  And her aunt, being ushered out by a gallant Paul, was undeniably more impressed with him than ever.

  It certainly looked like a losing battle.

  Outside on the street, Louisa said, after thanking Paul for a “lovely, lovely lunch,” that if they were going to Montmartre and the Butte tomorrow, it would be a good idea to start early.

  “Do you think you could possibly manage to call at the hotel at around five? So that Iris can see the transformation of the city as night falls. It’s really part of the whole thing.”

  “I will be there at five on the dot.”

  He looked down at them. “What are you going to do now?” he asked.

  “Oh … I did think I might hop over to the Quai des Grand Augustins, since we’re so near it,” Louisa said. “I saw something in one of the antique shops and I’d like to look at it again.”

  “Well then,” he said, “would I be in the way if I went along with you? And then I will take a taxi back to where I have a four-thirty appointment.”

  “Come along,” Louisa said, looking pleased. “Maybe you can help me make up my mind.”

  And all like that, Iris thought, trying to resign herself. So much for the rest of the day: By the time Paul Chandon left them it would be late afternoon.

  The whole day shot to blazes.

  Not that she minded walking along the Left Bank quays again. The river was like a narcotic for her. It was something she would never tire of.

  It was just that she had done her duty, been affable at lunch, smiled until it hurt, and they still weren’t free of Paul Chandon.

  I do not like feeling like a fifth wheel, she told herself. And it was exactly what she felt like. Excess baggage. Paul Chandon’s smiles were not for her … they were for her aunt.

  As if he sensed Iris’s resentment, today he chose to walk between them, so that she had to carry on a conversation with him whether she liked it or not.

  “What was it you saw in that shop in the Grands Augustins?” he was asking Louisa.

  “A clock that seemed to me to be something of a find,” she said. “Circa 1700. Wonderful marquetry. Hideously expensive, but I did rather fall in love with it.”

  “Did you like it?” Paul asked Iris.

  “I know nothing about antiques,” she said.

  “I should think you would know a great deal since your aunt is so knowledgeable about them.”

  “Do you know about them?” she asked indifferently.

  “A little something.”

  Bully for you, Iris thought.

  “You are wearing your hair differently today,” he commented.

  “Am I?”

  “Yes, the part is on the other side.”

  “Imagine you being so observant,” Louisa said, laughing delightedly. “Men are generally so unnoticing.”

  “Women only think they are,” Paul said, smiling. “For example, Madame, when you came into the restaurant earlier today you were wearing earrings. And now you are not.”

  “I’m not because they began to hurt so I took them off. Well, you certainly keep your eyes open, Paul.”

  She pointed. “There’s a Bateau Mouche,” she said, looking toward the river. “Not very many people on it today.”

  “There will be more in the evening, for dinner and dancing,” he assured her.

  “I suppose so. I haven’t been on one in years.”

  “Neither have I,” he admitted, and turned to Iris. “Have you indulged in that little pleasure yet, Mademoiselle?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I suppose you will, sooner or later.”

  “I suppose so.”

  He smiled teasingly. “It should be with someone you are in love with,” he told her. “At night, when the city is lit up like a shower of stars.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, it’s one of the things lovers do here. But since you assured me that you were not in love with anyone, perhaps you won’t bother with the Bateau Mouche.”

  And before she could answer him, he turned again to her aunt. “And here we are at the antique shops,” he said. “Which one has your expensive treasure, Madame?”

  “Just up ahead.”

  “I hope your clock is still there.”

  “I hope it’s not. If it is, I’ll be tempted to buy it.”

  But when they went into the shop the clock was still there, and Louisa, after circling around it, asked Paul’s opinion.

  “Yes,” he said, after an inspection of it. “It’s a very good piece.”

  “Shall I succumb?” Louisa asked him.

  He asked the owner its price, and when told, whistled softly.

  “It’s a lot of money,” he said to Louisa.

  “Yes, but it’s not overpriced.”

  “No, it’s not overpriced. But the Customs …”

  “Yes,” Louisa sighed. “The Customs.”

  She thought a minute and then said briskly, “But I shall have it.” She conferred with the owner of the shop. A check was finally drawn against her Chase Manhattan account in New York, and the sale was made.

  “You will be happy with it,” the owner assured her.

  “I know I will.”

  Delivery date was scheduled for early December. “By then, I shall have been home for at least a week or two,” Louisa said, and they left the shop a scant twenty minutes after they had gone in.

  And now Paul Chandon is quite certain of her solvency, Iris thought, enraged. If he had any doubts before, he could have none now. The price of the clock had been in four figures, and it hadn’t taken her aunt long to make up her mind.

  Why must I have this cross to bear? she asked herself disconsolately. My first trip abroad … and this kind of thing has to happen.

  And he was so charming. Smiling, casual, gallant…. Like some young grand seigneur … as if he owned the world, instead of being what he was, a shrewd, calculating chaser of rich, defenseless women.

  “I will drop you somewhere,” Paul announced, looking at his watch. “Wherever you wish to go from here.”

  “Let’s see, it’s almost four. What shall we do, Iris?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea. It’s a bit too late to do much, isn’t it?”

  “Well, we could go shopping. You wanted to buy some gifts.”

  “Very well, we’ll go shopping.”

  “Paul, if you can find us a taxi. You have an appointment, so one for you and one for us. We’ll go over to Trois Quartiers.”

  “Oh, but I don’t like to — ”

  “My dear, we can certainly manage to get ourselves over to the stores,” Louisa said. “Let’s each take our own cab and call it a day. And a very pleasant day, thanks to you.”

  At last, with Paul solicitously
helping them into one cab and flagging down another for himself, they said their final good-byes.

  “My word,” Louisa said, settling back in her seat. “Wasn’t that nice. A lovely few hours on a lovely day.”

  “I don’t see that we have much time left for shopping,” Iris said sulkily.

  “Oh yes, a good couple of hours. Enough time for you to find some pretty things to take home as presents. Oh, I shouldn’t have bought that clock. Think of all the starving Armenians.”

  “That was a long time ago,” Iris said, laughing in spite of herself. “Other people are starving now, Aunt Louisa. The Third World.”

  “I expect so. Life is so unfair. Oh, but I did enjoy this day. Lunch, a very good lunch, with someone as handsome and considerate as Paul.”

  “You do seem to like him.”

  “I think he’s delightful.”

  No kidding, Iris thought grimly, and wondered what, exactly, was going to come next.

  The Roman Spring of Mrs. Stone, she thought gloomily. Only for Roman, substitute Parisian.

  And for Mrs. Stone, substitute Mrs. Collinge.

  Ten

  “I’ve just made an appointment with the hairdresser,” Louisa announced the next morning. “And then I had a call from friends of mine who live on the Faubourg St. Honoré. They’ve asked me for lunch. I told them my niece was with me, and they would like you to come, too.”

  “Oh dear, must I go?”

  “No, you needn’t, and as a matter of fact I didn’t expect you’d want to, so I said you might like a day all to yourself and of course they understood.”

  “I’d love a day all to myself! That would really test my mettle. It’s just the kind of challenge I need. You wouldn’t mind, then?”

  “Of course not. I’ll be a couple of hours at the beauty salon, so my day is rather taken up as it is. I have no doubts at all that you’ll manage beautifully. But remember, Paul is calling for us at five o’clock, so you had better be home not much later than four.”

  She swallowed her breakfast coffee hastily. “And now I must dash or I’ll be late for my hairdresser.”

  She knocked on Iris’s door before she left, and called in, “Have a nice day, won’t you?”

  “I will. You too.”