Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances

by Dorothy Fletcher

  “Bye now, darling.”

  When she was alone, and dressed for the street, Iris sat down to map an itinerary for her day’s jaunt. There were dozens of places she wanted to go to, but as time would be somewhat limited, due to having dinner with that awful Paul Chandon tonight, she would have to plan rather carefully.

  She got out her walking map, picking and choosing, always coming back to the fact that, because of that horrid dinner date this evening, she couldn’t go to the Père Lachaise cemetery where the immortals of the ages were buried because she would want to spend hours there … and there wouldn’t be time for that today.

  Nor could she ferret out La Grande Jatte, because that would mean a long Metro ride and a lot of exploring in unknown territory.

  What she really would like to do most would be to take a train to Chartres, which was only about two hours away, stay all day and return in the late evening.

  Chartres … the cathedral of Chartres …

  But she couldn’t go there unless she skipped the dinner date with that miserable Paul Chandon … and if she did that, it would mean her aunt would be alone with him.

  No way!

  It was then that she had a perfectly ghastly thought.

  Those friends of Louisa’s, the ones on the Faubourg St. Honoré … the ones she was lunching with … anyway, said she was lunching with.

  Or were they just an excuse? Was Louisa really going to the Faubourg St. Honoré for lunch? Was she really?

  Or was she, instead, meeting that sinister Paul Chandon somewhere?

  Was that why she had given her niece a day off?

  Oh, dear God.

  She got up and paced the room.

  I must not jump to conclusions, she told herself.

  She even considered leafing through her aunt’s little address book, which must surely be on her bedside table. See if she could locate those friends of the Faubourg St. Honoré.

  If she could, then on some pretext she could phone them. Say something like, “I forgot to tell my aunt that …”

  Tell her what?

  She sagged. Then rallied, as after all she was only a very young average girl who wanted to enjoy a day in a strange, magical city all on her own … and by God, she was going to!

  After all, Aunt Louisa was a grown woman. She must have some sense, for heaven’s sake.

  I’ll worry later, Iris told herself, and bent over the map again, this time resolutely limning out her next few hours.

  Then she left the hotel and walked briskly over to the Place de la Concorde which, situated as it was in her near vicinity, had become for Iris the focal point from which she regarded the rest of the city.

  At any rate, the Place de la Concorde was one of the most glorious spots in Paris, for at its center one had a view of almost all the great landmarks of the city. You could see, all the way down the Champs Elysées, the noble contours of the Arc de Triomphe. You could see the classic Greek facade of the Church of the Madeleine. You could see the Palais Bourbon and you could see the Eiffel Tower spearing the sky.

  But because of the vehicular traffic, you couldn’t stay for longer than a minute or two at the Place de la Concorde … unless you had a yen to land up in some hospital. So you left it rather quickly and moved on.

  You moved on, perhaps — as Iris did today — to that great, quintessentially beautiful expanse of the Champs Elysées, and you waded through the early fallen leaves that were heralding autumn, and were relieved, if only temporarily, of niggling worries and pesky little doubts. The Champs Elysées, in the prelude of Fall, had a particular smell.

  Smells so … so different, Iris thought, and sniffed. In fact, Paris itself had a faintly musky, faintly perfumed odor. Perhaps, Iris thought, it was the perfume of the past. All the long eras, merging together, and combining in this bittersweet, pungent redolence. Elusive, intoxicating …

  There were, in great profusion, flowers, bushes, trees, hedges. There were ornate lampposts that probably Dumas and Balzac had leaned against. There were benches where people of all ages and all classes sat and turned their faces up to the sun. And there was the sun itself, burning high in the vast Paris sky.

  After a while, at a large circular mall called the Rond-Point, these “Elysian Fields” became a street of commerce, with airline companies lining the avenue, and boutiques, restaurants, outdoor cafes and film palaces taking the place of its earlier peace and quiet. There was Fouquet’s, over on the left side of the avenue, and after a bit the Plaza Athenée, a hotel much favored by Americans.

  And just up ahead the Arch of Triumph, outlined against an almost cloudless sky …

  It took Iris a while to learn that there was an underground passage leading to it. At first, contemplating the swift rush of traffic that streamed past as she stood on a corner, she despaired of ever reaching it.

  Then a sympathetic Parisian, noting her perplexity, touched her arm and pointed to the left.

  “Oui,” she said, finally comprehending. “Oui. Merci.”

  She walked over to the entrance of the subterranean walkway, went down the long flight of steps and finally, at the end of the tunnel, walked out into daylight again.

  She was now at the base of the Arch and, dead ahead, flickering with a warm and blood-red glow, was the Eternal Flame, at the very core and heart of the Arch itself.

  She spent a solemn moment there and then went underground once more, to again arrive at the other side of the Etoile.

  From the Etoile, the twelve avenues radiated outwards. The one Iris was bent on exploring was the Avenue Marceau, which in turn would take her to the Place de l’Alma, her first goal for the day.

  It was at the Place de l’Alma that, at this very time of year, one of Iris’s friends had gathered chestnuts. In Iris’s room, at home in Manhattan, were four fat chestnuts which had been a gift from that friend.

  It was her weekend pleasure to polish them with a soft rag, look at them afterwards with fond delight, and then put them back in the little faience bowl still another friend had brought her from the Midi of France.

  Today, Iris had decided, she would garner some Parisian chestnuts herself. Chestnuts she would scoop up from the ground, a memento of her first trip to Paris.

  It was a very pretty hike, with the Eiffel Tower always in sight to the left, and the Avenue Marceau was quiet and lovely, increasing in attractiveness with each step. There was an abundance of trees, a charming little park, and at last she was once again at the Avenue President Wilson … and only a stone’s throw from where she had been two days ago.

  Now the area opened up into a great, unbroken expanse just off the river, and the cobalt-blue sign, Place de l’Alma, told her she had reached her destination.

  It was a pleasing sight, this riverside retreat, and rather like Gracie Square in Manhattan, or Sutton Place, though to Iris’s eyes far more alluring, and infinitely more expansive. In the background handsome buildings rose; apartments, most likely.

  That it was a posh district was readily evident, and in that respect also a kind of kissing cousin to the upper East Side purlieus. And while Iris would have chosen the Palais-Royal as a place to live in Paris, this would be, she decided, her second objective.

  One could dream, couldn’t one?

  It was beautiful and peaceful to walk along the Seine in the shade of leafy trees, with the river scents, pungent and heady, drifting into one’s nostrils. It was cool and verdant and beguiling, without the sound of street traffic dinning in one’s ears.

  A few nursemaids, starched and prim, were wheeling shiny baby buggies; children played placidly. A boat whistle sounded.

  And there were chestnuts underfoot … chestnuts in profusion. But Iris was selective. They must be plump and firm and golden-brown, and most of them that lay scattered at the base of the trees were worm-eaten, dull-colored and squashed.

  It took her quite a while to find half a dozen beautiful, fat, sumptuously-bronzed specimens to take back with her. Pleased and satisfied, she d
ropped them carefully into a plastic bag and put them away in her tote.

  Then she sat down for a well-deserved rest on one of the many benches that lined the embankment, thinking of her next and last foray, which would occupy the whole of her afternoon.

  It was in Montparnasse that she would while away the rest of the day. Magical Montparnasse, the old “Greenwich Village” of Paris.

  She stretched out her legs and leaned back, settling herself comfortably. A delicious breeze riffled her hair, and the river, tranquil and gray-green, flowed on, hypnotic and lulling.

  She closed her eyes, drinking in the glory of the day.

  And dozed off.

  A voice, very close to her, woke her with a start.

  Opening her eyes, she was for a moment disoriented. Then, blinking a little in the bright sunlight, she saw that a gentleman somewhat past middle age was bending over her.

  “C’est le votre, Mademoiselle?” the gentleman asked, holding up a tote bag.

  Her tote bag which must have slid off her lap. “Oh, thank you,” she said. “I seem to be always losing things these days. Merci, Monsieur.”

  He dangled the bag and then put it on the seat beside her. “You are American,” he said delightedly. “Would you mind very much if I sat down too?”

  “Oh, please do,” she answered, and he promptly joined her on the bench.

  “I guess I fell asleep,” she said sheepishly.

  “It’s the kind of day to fall asleep,” he consoled her. “I myself fall asleep often, without planning it. Sometimes, even standing up,” he added, with a chuckle.

  “I’ve been doing a lot of walking. Which takes its toll.”

  “It does indeed.”

  His accent was delicious, like melted butter, Iris thought. He had bright blue eyes, wore a navy beret, and seemed somewhere between fifty and fifty-five — about her own father’s age.

  He was different from her father, however. He was urbane, distinguished-looking and probably had been, Iris guessed, something of a ladies’ man in his younger years.

  Whereas her father was your typical American businessman, without a trace of this gentleman’s European suavity. And she doubted that her father had ever been a swinger.

  Yet she instantly knew that this man was not trying to attack her, make a play, or be an annoyance. He had been walking by, had seen her bag on the ground, and had made her aware of it.

  You knew instinctively when a man had something nefarious on his mind. As you knew, just as instinctively, when he didn’t.

  This man would pass muster. She liked him right away. She wouldn’t mind talking to him at all … in fact, she would very much enjoy it.

  “Where do you live in the United States?” he asked her.

  “New York City. Manhattan. Do you know New York, Monsieur?”

  “Very well indeed. And I have many friends there. A most exciting city.”

  “A little worse for wear these days.”

  “Most of the large cities are a little the worse for wear. Here too.” He smiled warmly, expectantly. “Is this your first glimpse of Paris?”

  “Yes. And if you’d like my opinion of it, I can tell you that I’m madly in love with this city.”

  “Being in love with a city is a nice thing,” he agreed, his eyes twinkling. “Are you in love in any other way?”

  “You mean with a man? No. I was once … or I thought I was. But it didn’t work out. That kind of love will have to wait.”

  “What a pity.” His eyes swept over her, but not acquisitively. Appreciatively, yes … but there was no suggestion of lechery. This was not a dirty old man.

  She said, dryly, “I still feel I have a little time.”

  His smile, which made small grooves around his blue eyes, agreed with her. “Oh, plenty of time,” he concurred. “Only it makes me a little sorry. Being in love with someone makes the days seem so much shorter, don’t you think so?”

  “But I’m not sure I want the days to be shorter.”

  He nodded, and was a little wry. “It’s a question of age,” he said, and smiled again. “When you are my age, the days often seem too long. There is an old saying. The years fly by, but the days drag.’“

  He slid down in his seat. “How long have you been here, Mademoiselle?”

  “Five days.”

  “And what have you done with those five days? If you don’t object to my asking.”

  “Not at all. Well, let’s see. We’re staying at a hotel on the Place Vendôme, so I know that part of the city. And then … well, the usual, I expect. Notre Dame, Palais de Chaillot, Eiffel Tower, the Opéra, Champs Elysées …”

  He nodded. “As you say, the usual.”

  “But a lot more,” she said defensively. “We went to the Ile St. Louis and had lunch at a very French bistro which was not the usual, Monsieur … and after that we went to St. Germain.”

  “Deux Magots, naturellement.”

  “That’s just the attitude he took,” Iris said resentfully. “That you only go to St. Germain to get a snap of yourself at Deux Magots. And it isn’t like that at all!”

  Her companion sat up, and put a hand on her elbow. “You have left me somewhat behind,” he said, shaking his head. “You must forgive me, but I am only an elderly Parisian to whom matters must be explained in unfragmented detail. Yes?”

  He held up a finger. “There is you, Mademoiselle. And then there is a we. After that there is a he. I know you. … you are sitting here beside me and you are very lovely to look at. But who is we and who is he?”

  Then he leaned back again. “Tell me the whole thing from the beginning,” he suggested, with such an adorable grin that Iris wanted to hug him.

  How nice men could be when they weren’t young and nasty.

  “What’s your name?” she asked, moving closer to him.

  “I will tell you mine if you will tell me yours.”

  “I’m Iris Easton, of New York City.”

  “I am Claude Marchand of Paris, France.”

  He bowed ceremoniously. “Enchanté, Mademoiselle Iris.”

  “Enchantée, Monsieur Claude.”

  “And now that we have been properly introduced, proceed with your story,” he bade her.

  “I don’t have much of a story,” she said. “Except that, in a way, yes, there have been some complications. In short … well, I’m here with my aunt, who is a widow and not old. She’s forty-six, to be exact.”

  “That seems quite young to me,” the man said dryly. “Considering that I am considerably older.”

  “You don’t look it.”

  “Thank you, Mademoiselle, I will leave you money in my will.”

  “I’d settle for some more perfect chestnuts.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She showed him her cache of nuts. “These are the things that mean something to me,” she confided. “Shall I get on with my story?”

  “By all means.”

  “Well … so she and I are here together. Her husband died just over a year ago, and this is her first trip abroad without him. I’m her favorite. Which is a little silly, since I’m her only young relative. But we love each other dearly.”

  She paused. “I’m not boring you?”

  “Far from it. What comes next?”

  “We arrived, as I said, five days ago and started right out sightseeing. A wonderful first day. Then the second day started out just as auspiciously. We took a long, beautiful walk, starting from the Concorde, then went over to the Left Bank and up along the quays there, and at the Quai des Grand Augustins we went into some of the antique shops. Aunt Louisa has a lot of money and buys old things of value. Then, after we spent some time at the bookstalls, we went to a cafe on the Place St. Michel.”

  She paused again, this time for breath, and her companion remarked that so far it seemed quite pleasant but otherwise uneventful.

  “So far,” Iris agreed. “But at that sidewalk cafe, what do you suppose happened?”

  “I can
guess, but tell me,” Monsieur Marchand said, an amused glint in his eyes.

  “Oh, all right, so I was accosted. At least I wasn’t pinched, the way they do in Italy.”

  “I was never pinched in Italy,” he said.

  “No, you probably did the pinching,” she answered shyly.

  “I never used such crude methods,” he replied, and then laughed. “But my salad days are so long gone that I don’t even remember what arts I did employ.”

  But he looked disappointed. “Is that all?” he asked.

  “No, that’s the way everything began.”

  And bit by bit, she told him the whole saga. First a play for herself, then her aunt, and an entire day spent with the pushy stranger.

  “Then yesterday, lunch with him, and this evening dinner with him,” she wound up. “She’s very, very rich, and all that gold jewelry, the alligator handbag … and after all, she’s only forty-six. Frankly, I’m worried.”

  And then, though she hadn’t meant to, she confided that this morning her aunt had pleaded a luncheon engagement with friends … but that now she was fearful that it had been only a subterfuge.

  “Do you suppose, instead, that she met him today?” she demanded.

  Monsieur Marchand thought it all over. Finally he said, “You are afraid that this young man is attracted by your aunt’s money, is that it?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He shrugged. “Possibly. Then again, it’s also very possible that he is attracted to your aunt herself.”

  “But why?” Iris asked, bewildered. “After all, I’m so much nearer his age! Why would …”

  He turned round in his seat and faced her. “What you mean,” he said, “is why would a man prefer your aunt to yourself?”

  “No,” she cried. “I didn’t mean that! I just meant …”

  He didn’t say anything more. He simply listened, and waited.

  And after a while Iris slumped, dejected. Yes, she thought, lowering her eyes. That’s exactly what she had thought. That instead of falling flat on his face for her, Paul Chandon had instead made his overtures to her aunt.

  “Not that I wanted him to,” she said at last. “I’m not in the habit of latching on to any man who … who …”