Under the Stars of Paris

by Mary Burchell

  But there was nothing she could do about it.

  Work was unexpectedly heavy that day. Not only were there the regular morning and afternoon shows, but Anthea was kept very busy showing designs for a pretty South American girl who was choosing her trousseau without, apparently, needing to give even a passing thought to the ultimate cost.

  Back in the dressing-room, Anthea found that most of the others had already gone and she realized that it was much later than she had thought. Only Héloïse, idling away half an hour before going to a “date”, was applying lacquer to her toe-nails with the concentration of a master-craftsman.

  “It’s a good thing the ball doesn’t start until nine.” Anthea ran a comb through her hair. “I’ll have time to relax a little and put my feet up before I start standing on them again.” And she laughed.

  “What are you going to wear?” Héloïse wanted to know.

  “Oh—just a white chiffon thing I have.”

  “For the big ball of the season!” Héloïse transferred her attention from her toes to Anthea. “Did you ask Monsieur Florian to let you have a dress?”

  “No, of course not. I’ve not been here long enough for special privileges.”

  “It’s not a special privilege. You should have asked him.”

  “Well—I didn’t think of it. And it’s too late now. He went almost an hour ago. He looked in to say good night to Madame Moisant when I was there.”

  “You ought to wear the green lace,” Héloïse went on almost dreamily. And for a moment Anthea saw herself making her entry into the Crillon clad in the Florian creation of iridescent green.

  “Stop it, Héloïse!” she said with an exasperated little laugh. “I can’t have the dress, and that’s all there is to it.”

  “You could ask Madame Moisant. She also can give permission,” Héloïse declared.

  “N-no’ I don’t think I’d like to.”

  “Then I shall!” Suddenly and dramatically Héloïse swung her beautiful feet down from the stool on which they had been resting. “I was unkind to you at first, and in this way I will make amends.” She was dramatizing herself still further and evidently enjoying herself immensely. “I shall go to Madame Moisant and ask her if you can have the dress and you shall go to the ball, like Cinderella—not in rags but in a Florian model.”

  And, having thus reduced Anthea’s white chiffon—verbally at least—to rags, she made a splendid exit, presumably in the character of Fairy Godmother.

  She was gone quite a long time. But when she returned her blue eyes were full of triumph.

  “Madame Moisant has said ‘Yes’,” she announced. “She said ‘No’ at first. Twice she said ‘No’. But then she thought again and said you had been very good this afternoon and that, anyway, Monsieur Florian would not want his new mannequin—so talked of—to come dowdy to the ball. You are to go quickly to the workroom and tell Mademoiselle Charlotte that Madame Moisant herself requires the dress.”

  “Héloïse, are you sure?” Anthea could hardly believe such incredible good fortune. “But it’s such a responsibility, such a——”

  “Of course I am sure! And it is not so unusual,” Héloïse explained. “Twice last season I was allowed to borrow.”

  “Really?—Oh, Héloïse, you are a dear!” exclaimed Anthea sincerely. “I should never have dared to ask myself.”

  Héloïse smiled, well pleased.

  “Now—what do I do? I go to Mademoiselle Charlotte and tell her Madame Moisant requires the dress——”

  “And you say that it is to be booked out for the night. That Madame Moisant herself will return it tomorrow. Probably, as Mademoiselle Charlotte is a suspicious cat, she will want you to sign for the dress, and you must sign the chit with your own name and add ‘For Madame Moisant’. And tell her Madame will return the dress herself tomorrow morning.”

  “And that really is the usual procedure?” Anthea was still doubtful about the ease of it all.

  “Of course.” Héloïse smiled, with a touch of experienced superiority. So Anthea—her heart light and happy—did exactly as she had been told, and all went well, except that Mademoiselle Charlotte was indeed “a suspicious cat” and said that Madame Moisant should come herself if she wanted to do such a thing.

  “She would have, I expect, but she has had a very tiring afternoon,” Anthea explained.

  “And who has not?” Mademoiselle Charlotte wanted to know. “Still”—she shrugged—“it is her own responsibility. But you must sign here for yourself and for her.”

  Anthea did this, and the dress was draped lightly over her arm. It was hers!—in a manner of speaking.

  Back in the dressing-room, she found Héloïse still in a co-operative mood. She had obtained one of the beautiful ‘regency-striped’ Florian dress boxes from somewhere, and herself helped Anthea to pack the dress.

  “Oh—I must go and thank Madame Moisant!” exclaimed Anthea, remorseful that she had not done this before.

  But when she ran along to Madame Moisant’s office the lights were out and Madame had already gone—feeling perhaps that the South American order had delayed her quite long enough.

  “Never mind. I’ll thank her properly in the morning,” Anthea thought, and returned to the dressing-room, to find Héloïse holding the fastened dress-box, ready to waft her on her way to a wonderful evening.

  “I hope you enjoy yourself,” she said, smiling so brilliantly that Anthea wished she would be like this more often.

  “I’m sure I shall. The dress will make all the difference,” Anthea declared. And, thanking Héloïse once more, she took the box carefully and hurried downstairs—through the now deserted boutique, and out into the romantic, hurrying Paris streets.

  Because of the lateness of the hour and the responsibility of her burden, she allowed herself a taxi home, so that when she finally arrived safely in her, room, there was time to relax, as she had hoped, and then to dress at leisure in the wonderful green model.

  Roger called for her in good time, and when she heard his ring at the door far below, she caught up her evening cloak over her arm, and moved carefully down the stairs and into the lift, so that when she stepped forth he should see her right away in the wonderful dress, without any of its beauty obscured.

  When she reached the gloomy hall, he was waiting for her there, having appeased the concierge in the usual manner. And as she stepped out of the lift, she heard him catch his breath.

  “I thought you said you had nothing suitable to wear!” He took her hand gently, as though he thought so radiant a vision might disappear at a touch.

  “I hadn’t really.” She laughed delightedly. “But Madame Moisant let me borrow this from the Collection. Wasn’t it angelic of her?”

  “Angelic,” Roger agreed, but he was looking at Anthea as he said it.

  Then he put her cloak round her and they went out to the car together.

  Oh, the joy of driving through lamplit Paris on an early spring evening! The romantic glimpse of moonlight on the waters of the Seine—the subtle, indescribable atmosphere of romance everywhere. Anthea felt it touch her like a wand of magic. And when she finally entered the great ballroom with Roger, it seemed—as the ridiculous Héloïse had said—as though there were a little touch of the Cinderella story about all this.

  He danced well, she found. And all the standing and the wearisome posing of the day was forgotten. Her feet felt light and gay—and so did her heart. It was the most wonderful ball she could remember!

  After a while he said, “Did you get a proper meal before you came?”

  “Not really—no. I was terribly late at the salon.”

  “Then come on now and let’s find the buffet”—he swung her out of the stream of dancers. “Too many of you girls think you can live on a lettuce leaf and a lot of excitement.”

  She laughed, but she came with him very willingly, for it was wonderful to be looked after again.

  Others seemed to have had the same idea, and the big supper-r
oom was already crowded, but Roger found her a space near one of the windows and went in search of refreshments.

  Left alone, she looked around her on the lively and brilliant scene. So many people!—and she knew none of them. And yet she did not feel lonely—not with Roger coming back at any moment. She stood on tiptoe to see if she could catch a glimpse of him. And, as she did so, the people near her parted, slightly and she suddenly saw Odette—beautiful and indescribably soignée in a pale gold dress Anthea had never seen before.

  She saw Anthea at the same moment and smiled in a friendly way. Then suddenly her expression changed to incredulity—and finally consternation. She murmured something to the man beside her and made her way quickly to Anthea’s side.

  “Are you mad?” she said softly. “What are you doing, wearing that dress?”

  The smile was shocked from Anthea’s face, but she answered bravely enough.

  “Madame Moisant said I could borrow it.”

  “Madame Moisant? Impossible! Why, the dress is only three weeks old,” exclaimed Odette reproachfully, as though it were a baby too young to be taken from its mother. “Do you tell me that Madame Moisant—Madame Moisant—herself gave you permission? You must have made a mistake, petite. How did she say it, exactly?”

  “She didn’t actually speak to me myself,” Anthea explained. “She sent a message by Héloïse——”

  Suddenly the most appalling chill crept down Anthea’s spine, and at the same moment Odette said angrily,

  “She is wicked, that one! And you—you are incredibly stupid. Monsieur Florian would kill you—but kill you—if he knew. How could you suppose that anyone would be allowed to borrow a model in the first weeks of the season?”

  “But I understood—Héloïse assured me—that he dresses you for such occasions—that even the rest of us sometimes are allowed to borrow models.”

  “But not from the Collection, stupid one! Not from the new Collection. You must go at once, and change your dress. He is probably coming here tonight. If you are very fortunate he may be late and miss you, and tomorrow I will try to help you put back the dress without being found out. But hurry, hurry!”

  “Oh, Odette, thank you for the warning! I must find my partner.” And, infected by Odette’s near panic, Anthea turned quickly and made her frightened way towards the buffet.

  She would explain somehow to Roger. He would understand. Thank heaven he understood everything so well! It would spoil his evening, but he would forgive her. How could she have been so stupid?—“Pardon, madame”—to a large, unresisting back. “Pardon, monsieur”—she slipped under an arm raised in greeting to someone.

  Then she saw Roger—but he was making slowly in the other direction. She changed course abruptly, and, as she did so, knocked the elbow of someone standing near her.

  “Eh—eh—scusi, signora,” said an Italian voice, and—with a chill that reached her soul—she felt some cold liquid splashing on her shoulder.

  “No!” Anthea said almost in a whisper. “No!” and she stood perfectly still at last, like someone in a nightmare, watching the red stain of wine spreading down the dress she should not have borrowed.

  Chapter Five

  All around Anthea there was the chatter and laughter of people enjoying themselves. Their world went on though hers had stopped. Near at hand, the few people aware of her predicament expressed mild sympathy at what they evidently took to be a piece of misfortune, rather than a disaster of overwhelming magnitude. Only she knew what this moment really meant.

  She was alone—alone—in this appalling situation. Even dear Roger, when he found her, could not enter into the horror of her position.

  She began to move slowly back to the place where Roger would expect to find her. In spite of all the strangers round her, she felt she would have cried helplessly if she had not been too frozen and numb with horror to be able to give any expression to her dismay.

  Everything was over, she told herself. Her short career as a mannequin would be ended—just as Héloïse had intended. Though even she, of course, could not have foreseen this last refinement of the disaster.

  And how was she to explain to Monsieur Florian what she had done? How even attempt to justify, first her taking of the dress, and then the awful thing which had happened to it while it was in her care?

  Her mind simply stopped short at the idea of finding words in which to clothe the situation.

  And finally—what would he say? In all conscience, he would be entitled to turn his cold anger on her in the manner even Odette had rather apprehensively described. It was not to be thought of! Quite seriously she contemplated putting herself in the river, rather than face that scene.

  “Anthea!” Roger’s relieved voice said her name almost beside her. “I couldn’t find you anywhere. I thought——”

  Then he too suddenly saw what had happened.

  “I say! That’s a bit awkward, isn’t it?” he observed, with masterly understatement.

  She nodded wordlessly. And suddenly she could have cried quite easily.

  He set down the refreshments he had obtained on a nearby ledge and took her hand.

  “Don’t cry,” he said gently. “It’s not all that important.”

  “Oh, Roger, it is!” She spoke in a strained whisper, because her full voice just refused to come. “It seems I shouldn’t have borrowed the dress in any case. I’ve just seen Odette, and she told me so. One of the other girls misled—misinformed me. She—Odette—says Monsieur Florian would kill me if he knew.”

  “I’ll buy the damned thing for you. Then it’ll be your dress and you’ll have every right to spill wine on it if you want to,” Roger told her. “Only don’t look like that.”

  “I can’t help it.” Her voice dropped to a husky whisper again. “And don’t make mad, generous suggestions like that or I’ll start crying right here in the middle of the supper-room.”

  “The side,” he corrected. “And quite near a convenient window alcove. Forget about the dress. I’ll buy it, I tell you. It’s the simplest thing in the world.”

  “It isn’t, Roger dear, though you are an angel to think of such a thing. I can’t imagine what it would cost, for one thing. And, for another, that doesn’t get us out of the dilemma. One doesn’t buy the dress in the Collection. One has it copied. The original dress stays in the salon to be sh-shown each day.”

  And at the thought of the show tomorrow with no Number Forty-two available, Anthea really did let two tears slide down her cheeks.

  “Darling, don’t! If this Florian is such a beast, I’m not going to have——”

  “Monsieur,” said a quiet and familiar voice rather languidly behind Anthea, “you do me an injustice. What is the trouble?”

  Anthea felt the hairs at the nape of her neck lift, and once more the sense of nightmare was so strong upon her that, though her impulse was to scream, she could not.

  Then, even before Roger or she could reply, someone took hold of her from behind and she knew it was Florian’s strong, beautiful fingers that held her arms—a little too tightly.

  “Mademoiselle, you seem to have had a most unfortunate accident to—your dress.”

  Slowly, and in a sort of terrible fascination, she turned her head, until her frightened dark eyes looked into his cold slate-grey ones.

  “Monsieur Florian——” she whispered.

  “But you must not let it spoil your evening——”

  “That’s what I tell her,” Roger put in cheerfully.

  “Without justification, monsieur, since you are unable to remedy the matter,” Florian retorted coldly. “Come,” he added imperiously to Anthea. And, with one hand still too tightly on her arm, he began to propel her towards the exit.

  “Just a moment!” Roger also started forward.

  “You may come too if you wish, monsieur.”

  “I damn well do wish,” Roger stated emphatically. While Anthea, unable to imagine what was to happen next, submitted helplessly to Florian’s direc
tion—as she would have if he had been leading her then and there to the block.

  Out on the crowded landing, he spoke briefly to someone who seemed to be in authority, and they were all three bowed into a lift and wafted up a couple of floors.

  Here they were conducted to a beautifully appointed bedroom, at which point Roger said,

  “Just what is going on?”

  “It will help, monsieur, if you neither question nor comment for a few minutes,” Florian told him curtly, and rang the bell for the chambermaid.

  While they waited for her, he stood back from Anthea and considered her critically. She went pale under his cold, thoughtful glance, even when she realized suddenly that it was at the dress, and not herself, that he was looking.

  Then he came forward and, while she gasped at the ruthlessness of it, he ripped most of the stained lace bodice from its foundation, tossing it on the floor, as though it no longer concerned him.

  Roger started forward at what seemed to him an outrageous gesture towards any girl. Then, suddenly realizing what was happening, he hesitated.

  Florian, taking no notice whatever, next detached—with the same bold, decisive movements—two of the beautiful floating panels from the skirt, and began calmly, and without haste, to fashion these into an exquisite draped bodice.

  By the time the chambermaid entered, the whole of the upper part of the dress was transformed, and the skirt merely lacking in a little of the fabulous fullness that had distinguished it.

  “Pins,” he said to the woman, without even looking at her. “And a needle and thread.”

  She stared, open-mouthed, at what was going on. Then she gasped,

  “I have only white thread, monsieur, for the linen.”

  “Very well. It will do.”

  She trotted off briskly and returned almost immediately with the required articles. Then she—and, to tell the truth, Roger too—watched fascinated while Florian coolly secured his matchless draping with a few quick stitches.

  “There!” He stood back from Anthea once more. “It will hold for the evening, if you are not too energetic, mademoiselle. And you, monsieur,” he added, with an ironical little smile, “must not embrace her too heartily, or you will probably find some of my pins.”