Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances

by Dorothy Fletcher

  The melody was, admittedly, haunting, though the words were sickish sweet and mushy … too much so for her to waste time trying to bring them to mind.

  All she could dredge up now were the first and second lines.

  Toujours je t’aime chérie

  Always, my love, forever

  She sang the tune in her mind, but the rest of the words eluded her.

  She was so preoccupied that her aunt had to ask her a question twice before she came to with a start.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I asked if you’d fallen asleep,” Louisa said. “You’re so quiet.”

  “I was just thinking of what a good time we just had.”

  “I’m glad. I hoped you would.”

  They said their good-nights in front of the hotel. “It was an evening to remember,” Paul murmured, holding Louisa’s hand and then raising it to his lips.

  “It was for me,” she said. “It was just the way I wanted it to be, Paul.”

  “I think,” he answered, in a voice so low that the words were almost indistinguishable to Iris, “it was the way I wanted it to be.”

  The cryptic words, from both her aunt and Paul, sent a chill up Iris’s spine. What did they mean? Or at any rate, what did Paul’s mean?

  Her aunt had wanted her, very much, to have a memorable evening. That would explain what Louisa had said.

  But Paul?

  “I think it was the way I wanted it to be …”

  In the next moment her own hand was in Paul’s. His mouth grazed it, then he let it go.

  “Good night, Iris,” he said. “Sleep well.”

  With a wave to them both, he climbed back into the waiting taxi, which drove away with a rev of its motor and a spit of backfire.

  “That was a truly super gala evening,” Iris said when they were in their quarters. “And Aunt Louisa, I assure you, one I won’t forget. It was a hundred percent perfect.”

  “I did want it to be,” Louisa said. “I did so much want it to be.”

  She gave Iris a quick hug and then suggested that they both immediately turn in. “So that we won’t be too fagged out to have fun tomorrow.”

  “Good night, Auntie.”

  “Good night, darling.”

  There were many things to think about, but the day’s activities, and then the magical evening just past — combined with martinis, Pommard and brandy — sent Iris spinning off to sleep almost as soon as she laid her head on the two fat pillows.

  But in the morning she woke with that damnable song of the night before running through her mind. “Toujours je t’aime chérie … “Or in plain English, “I’ll love you always, dear …”

  I’ll love you always, dear

  Always, my love, forever …

  Oh, stop it, she told herself. Once you tried to track down something that lay buried in your brain, it nagged at you, nagged at you!

  It was in the shower that the next two lines popped into her head.

  Awaking, aching am I

  For lips that haunted my dreams …

  Da da da da da da da …

  I will not think about it again, she told herself and, with a great effort of will, closed off that part of her mind and concentrated on her ablutions.

  And she didn’t think about it. Not consciously, at any rate. But her subconscious had, all on its own, apparently been busy working away, for as she was giving her hair a final brush, another line burst forth, like Minerva out of Zeus’s forehead.

  With feverish joy and gladness.

  She stood in front of the mirror, her hairbrush arrested, and sang softly.

  Toujours je t’aime chérie

  Always, my love, forever

  Awaking, aching am I

  For lips that haunted my dreams

  With feverish joy and gladness …

  Or something like that … and near enough.

  I do have a nice voice, she thought and then, throwing down the brush and insisting to herself that she would not think about dumb song again, grinned at her reflection and, opening her door, went into the salon for her “continental breakfast.”

  Thirteen

  “Good morning,” Louisa said, from the depths of the Recamier sofa. “How about going to Versailles today?”

  “Oh, fantastic, let’s do.”

  “It will take the whole of the day, of course. You don’t go to Versailles for a quick half hour. There’s much to see there, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

  “Time isn’t really of the essence, though, is it? We have days and days ahead of us.”

  Louisa looked thoughtful. “Well,” she said slowly, “we’ve been here almost a week, and there are other places to visit in France. How about taking a flight … say, the day after tomorrow, to the Riviera?”

  “You mean leave Paris so soon?” Iris asked blankly.

  “You have only three weeks,” her aunt pointed out. “I was thinking of spending a week on the Côte d’Azur and after that a few days in the Provence. We could plan it so that you’d have your last couple of days back in Paris again.”

  “Well … I just — ”

  “Believe me, the Côte d’Azur is beautiful. Nice, Cannes, Villefranche, Monte Carlo …”

  “Oh, I’m sure it’s wonderful.”

  “And at this time of year no longer honky tonk, as it certainly can be in high season.”

  “The only thing is, there are reams of things I still haven’t seen here. And I know it’s touristy, but I did want to sail around on the Bateau Mouche.”

  “If you like, we can skip the Provence, and give you a whole additional week here before you leave for home.”

  Leave for home …

  A pang wrenched at Iris’s heart. How quickly the days had gone! It had seemed like an endless time to spend in France … but already six of the precious days were gone, if one included today.

  And some day she would have to leave for home.

  “Besides,” her aunt went on, “if we leave day after tomorrow, you’ll have an entire day in between, to do what you like. We can get in a lot of those things you mentioned.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  But the thought of leaving Paris was simply heartbreaking. Even for the French Riviera. And even though Paul Chandon had been a fly in the ointment … still, to say good-bye, even for a little while, to the City of Light.

  “Well, what do you think, Iris?”

  “Sure, Auntie. Yes, you’re right, and I know I’ll love the Côte d’Azur and the Mediterranean. It would be silly not to take advantage of it.”

  “Then if that’s settled, I’ll have the concierge make our flight and hotel bookings.”

  She rose briskly. “And now I must dress and go down to make all the arrangements before we leave for Versailles. You’d better get ready too.”

  “Yes, sure.”

  But Iris sipped her coffee listlessly, feeling unaccountably out of sorts. Only today and tomorrow left in Paris … and then so long. Only today and tomorrow …

  Even if they returned, for another full week, it wouldn’t be the same. She would have to orient herself all over again.

  Yet her aunt’s heart was clearly set on treating her to the lush and luxurious playground of the idle rich, providing her with further splendors.

  A week ago she would have been overjoyed to be taken to the Riviera. But that was before she fell so wholeheartedly in love with Paris. Now it seemed, somehow, like a tragic loss, almost a punishment.

  It was funny about Paul Chandon too, Iris thought. That her aunt didn’t seem one bit upset about parting from him. And now she was planning to leave Paris, and leave Paul, for other localities … and more or less immediately. That seemed very odd, unless the glow had worn off. Unless Aunt Louisa had come to her senses … acknowledged the fact that she was being girlish and undignified and, having come to terms with herself about it, wanted to put Paul Chandon, and whatever he had come to mean to her, out of her mind … and sight.

  Perve
rsely, Iris felt a little sorry for Paul. Whatever he might be, whatever his intentions were, his plans had fallen through.

  Besides, Paul wasn’t so bad, when it came right down to it. He was undoubtedly a hanger-on, one of those European men who sized up older American women for gain and profit — what her mother would call a gigolo — but he didn’t seem an evil person, an out and out rotter. She disapproved heartily of men like Paul, of course. But even Iris had to acknowledge, however reluctantly, his appeal.

  He was a handsome animal … and his animal magnetism was all too potent. Why, she herself had felt it last night, when they went down the steps, alone together, after leaving the Place du Tertre. She had been a little provocative with him, as a matter of fact.

  Not that it had encouraged him.

  She had said something about calling the police if he made “unwelcome advances.” That had been unpremeditated, and she had surprised herself.

  He had only answered, however, that there was “no danger of it.”

  He was wily, certainly. Even if she held a certain attraction for him — which she obviously didn’t — he wouldn’t dare do or say anything that would endanger his relationship with her aunt.

  Well, anyway, the situation had changed. They would be taking a flight to the south of France and Paul Chandon would have to shop around for another susceptible woman of indeterminate age.

  We did have such a wonderful time last night, Iris thought pensively. Way up there on the Butte, with the soft breezes and the music, the starry night and the headiness of it all.

  And that violinist thought she and Paul were lovers …

  What would it be like to wander about Paris with a lover?

  Like heaven itself, she thought. Like heaven itself.

  Her aunt came out of her room fully dressed. “Why, Iris, you haven’t budged from that chair! What’s wrong with you?”

  “Half an hour and I’ll be ready to go,” Iris said, getting up hastily. “Just a quick shower and into a pants suit.”

  Louisa sighed. “All right, meet me in the lobby. I’ll go down now and give instructions about our flight on Wednesday. It shouldn’t be too difficult to get rooms at the Negresco. But do hurry, dear, it’s almost ten o’clock.” At the door she waved. “Half an hour, mind.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  • • •

  To get to the Chateau de Versailles, one took a little train and rode through a typical French countryside for an hour or so. At the end of that time one was in a small village which seemed strangely unfitting for the magnificent country residence that had once housed one of the most glittering royal courts in the world.

  But as Iris and her aunt made their way along a bucolic little street and at last came to a spot where the palace stood behind a massive iron railing that was encrusted with gleaming gilt, it was instantly evident that here was the gateway of one of the illustrious structures of the ages.

  Two ponderous gates, parted and layered almost from top to bottom with gold leaf, stood open, and the thunder of horsemen galloping through them seemed more like reality than imagination.

  Three kings had lived here, of whom the ill-fated Louis XVI had been the last, and the only one to die a violent death, along with his pretty, feather-headed wife Marie Antoinette. In this place pleasure and debauchery had impoverished the National Treasury, as huge expenditures of francs and gold pieces ran through the hands of King, courtiers and mistresses like sand sifting through an hourglass.

  Until the starving masses of France rose in revolt. On October 26, in the year 1879, the great days of Versailles were over. The mobs seized the palace and occupied it. The royal family was taken into custody, and the grim shadow of the guillotine lay over the last Louis to reign there.

  The Revolution, though it destroyed many palaces, spared this one, and it was undoubtedly the most important such monument in Europe, and in the world. With its Le Notre gardens, its splashing fountains, its statuary, its enormous dimensions — 2000 feet long — and the overall grace and refinement of its proportions, it presented a picture of unparalleled beauty.

  “It’s almost as if there was nothing but that incomparable facade,” Iris breathed. “Or as if it were painted on the sky.”

  “Versailles, like Venice, has to be seen to be disbelieved,” her aunt said.

  She laughed good-naturedly when Iris began taking pictures. “Postcards will give you better shots, Iris.”

  “I know, but it isn’t the same.”

  The interior, of course, was a storehouse of riches. The royal bedchambers, the chapel, the Queen’s Staircase, the endless portraits, including Vanloo’s painting of the Sun King, were delights to engage the imagination, and the Hall of Mirrors, where the treaties of two World Wars had been signed, was a place in which to ponder more recent history. The Hall of Mirrors held many secrets.

  Outside once more, this time at the rear of the palace, were terraces, tree-shaded walks lined with statues; the vast acres of Versailles spread out for tourists now, its former hedonistic tenantry long dust.

  “What next?” Louisa asked Iris.

  “The Petit Trianon, of course.”

  And of course Louisa, the complete traveler, knew where it was, and they found the place where Marie Antoinette played at being “une petite bergère” easily enough.

  It was open from two until five, for a fee of three francs, and as it was just short of three-thirty when they reached it there was plenty of time to explore.

  So this was where the little German princess came to escape from the routine of court life, Iris mused. Where she put aside the pomp and the circumstance and, in these tranquil surroundings, felt — if only for brief periods — like any pretty, untroubled young girl.

  Just a jeune file ordinaire …

  Paul Chandon’s words echoed in Iris’s mind. “Ingenues, not quite grown …”

  What happened to men like Paul Chandon? What happened to them when they were old, no longer handsome, no longer virile.

  And when even middle-aged women were no longer interested.

  “If you want to see the Grand Trianon, we’ll have to hurry,” Louisa finally said.

  “No, I won’t bother. I’d really like to stay here until it closes,” Iris said. “I don’t know … somehow this place seems to have a special meaning for me.”

  “You once had a doll, which incidentally I gave you, whom you named Marie Antoinette. Do you remember?”

  “I remember very well. It was a beautiful doll, bisque, with a lovely flower face and I think real hair that I brushed every day. I’ve always had a fondness for that winsome, pathetic queen, and I almost feel I’ve met her, being here.”

  • • •

  The ride back on the chugging little train got them to the station at a little after seven. It had been a most bemusing day, and one that had made Iris reflective, even pensive. For the first time she regretted that their hotel had no restaurant. The thought of hastily changing for dinner and then trudging out somewhere was infinitely distasteful.

  Apparently her aunt felt the same way.

  “Instead of making a production about dinner,” Louisa said, as they got into a taxi outside the station, “why don’t we simply go to the King Charles just as we are, tired and crumpled. And then early to bed, I’d say.”

  “Super,” Iris said gratefully. “I’ll have their onion soup and then just some little thing.”

  Nor did they spend much time at the restaurant. Each ordered a simple meal and after their coffee they left and walked the short distance back to the Vendôme.

  At the desk, the concierge was absent. Louisa rang the small silver bell, but there was still no sign of him.

  “There’s mail in our box,” she said. “Iris, would you mind waiting until Guy comes? He’ll have a message about our flight, too. I simply must go up and get out of these shoes.”

  “Okay, you go on up. I’ll do the necessary.”

  Finally the concierge returned. �
�I am so sorry,” he apologized. “A little trouble with a maintenance problem.”

  He reached in their box and pulled out a letter and some messages. The letter was for Iris. The messages, she saw, were for Louisa. A glance at them showed that they were all from someone named Kitty, apparently one of Louisa’s many friends, who seemed to have phoned at eleven o’clock, twelve o’clock and again at three. Kitty whoever-she-was had left a telephone number for Louisa to call.

  “And will you tell Madame Collinge that the flight to Nice is confirmed,” the concierge said. “A three o’clock departure. Also two single rooms with bath at the Negresco Hotel have been reserved.”

  “Thank you, I’ll tell her.”

  “You had a pleasant day, Mademoiselle?”

  “Very. We went to Versailles.”

  “You must go to Versailles at night too,” he said. “For the Son et Lumière.”

  “I hope to, Guy. But that will have to wait until our return to Paris.”

  Then she remembered. “Oh yes, I must cash some traveler’s checks.”

  “Certainly, Mademoiselle.”

  She tore three twenty dollar ones from her book of checks and signed them, but the concierge was interrupted by the ring of his phone before he could cash the checks for her.

  “Excuse me,” he said, and answered.

  Iris leaned her elbows on the counter and waited while he said hello, and then made a connection.

  When he hung up he said, smiling, “That was for Madame, your aunt.”

  It’s probably the friend who’s been calling her all day, Iris thought, as the concierge handed her some paper money and a few coins.

  “Thanks and good-night,” she said. “And now to bed.”

  “So early, Mademoiselle?”

  “It was a long and tiring day, Guy.”

  When she let herself in the suite, her aunt was not in the salon. Her bedroom door was closed, and Iris decided to slip her friend’s messages under the door.

  She could hear Louisa’s voice on the phone and had just stooped to slide the three slips of paper under the door when she heard her aunt say, “Yes, of course, Paul, but — ”