Under the Stars of Paris

by Mary Burchell

  It was Madame Moisant herself who brought Anthea her wonderful green dress, all done up in the familiar striped box which, even now, had sickening memories for her.

  “Monsieur Florian will call for you at seven-thirty, and you must be ready then. It is essential that you should be early at the Opéra,” Madame Moisant explained firmly. “He will bring the cloak with him.”

  “I’ll be ready waiting in the hall downstairs,” Anthea promised. “Does he know where to come?”

  Héloïse, who was in the room, permitted herself a scornful laugh at this, but Anthea resolutely ignored her.

  “Of course,” said Madame Moisant, with a frown which could have been either for Anthea’s stupidity or Héloïse’s impertinence. “It is in the book, I suppose.”

  By this somewhat biblical term Madame Moisant did not mean the telephone directory, as most people do, but the register of particulars of the firm.

  “Oh, yes—of course.”

  “Let me see your shoes.”

  Anthea produced for inspection the lightly strapped silver sandals which she had previously been told to bring from home. These Madame Moisant passed as “possible”.

  “Gloves and an evening bag you are to have from the boutique. The gloves, of course, cannot be returned, but the bag will be,” stated Madame Moisant, determined evidently that there should be no silly mistakes about this.

  “Yes, madame. Thank you.” Somehow Anthea maintained her meek and attentive air, though really she could hardly keep from dancing with joyful anticipation.

  The day passed at last. The pearl and rhinestone bag had been chosen from the boutique, also the perfectly plain but exquisitely elegant white gloves. Still Anthea had seen nothing of Monsieur Florian.

  It sometimes happened like this, of course. The whole day would pass without the mannequins seeing anything of him, unless he called one or other of them for special designing or fitting. But, somehow, Anthea had been sure he would say something to her about the evening’s arrangements. She had terrible visions of his not being able to find the house, or of their arrangements foundering in some other simple manner, for lack of a little co-ordinating.

  However, it seemed that Monsieur Florian was not tormented by any similar doubts. At any rate, he made no move to get in contact with her, and she went off finally—in a taxi and clutching the dress-box which, this time, she was entitled to carry.

  Alone in her own room she once more shook out the cloudy beauty of her green dress and exulted in real ownership at last. But she could not help remembering the terrible night when it had hung there before—stained, dishonoured, and only temporarily restored—the inescapable witness to the crime which should have ended in her dismissal.

  Well—things were very different now. This time the presence of Florian himself sanctioned everything that she was doing.

  In her anxiety not to be late, Anthea was downstairs in the hall at least ten minutes before her escort was expected. And for half of that time at least, the cross-eyed concierge had a wonderful time peeping at her through the window and obviously speculating on the doubtful path by which Anthea had achieved such magnificence.

  When Florian finally arrived, with the white mink cloak over his arm, the explanation was complete. Almost bursting with interest—and personal hopes for the future—she watched while he put the cloak round the insignificant English Miss from the humble top storey. Then she hurried out to wish them both a good evening, and receive from Florian the good, but by no means lavish, tip which established him in her mind for ever as a real gentleman.

  Outside stood Florian’s large and handsome car, and even his blasé chauffeur paid Anthea—or the white mink cloak—the tribute of a special salute. Then he closed the door, enveloping Anthea and her employer in sudden unfamiliar intimacy, she could not help thinking, and they drove away towards the Opéra.

  Florian, looking very distinguished but, as usual, rather worn, leaned back in one corner of the car and turned sideways so that he could see Anthea.

  “Yes—it’s good,” was his comment—she supposed on her general appearance. Then he smiled and said, “You can relax now and enjoy yourself. Do you know Tosca well?”

  “No, Monsieur Florian, I have never heard it. But Odette assures me I shall like it.”

  “Of course. Everyone likes Tosca,” Florian agreed. “Or, if not, they may as well be dead,” he added carelessly. “How did you manage to live to your age without hearing it?”

  Anthea explained that her father and his circle had been more interested in the stage and the ballet than in opera.

  “So? And you had to do what your father did?”

  “On the whole, yes.”

  “And now he is dead?”

  “Oh dear, no! He is very much alive,” Anthea said, laughing. “He—married again.”

  “After which there was not the same welcome for the young daughter?” suggested Florian, who could read inflections of speech as other people read words, Anthea had noticed more than once.

  “Something like that, monsieur.”

  “Strange,” said Monsieur Florian.

  “Not really, monsieur. Quite often the second wife is not specially anxious to have a daughter of the first marriage around.”

  “To be sure. That was not what I found strange.”

  Anthea wanted very much to ask what he did find strange about the arrangement. But just then the car began to slow down as it joined the long stream of traffic moving up to the great main entrance.

  “What a tremendous number of people seem to be going.” Anthea looked interestedly out of the window.

  “Yes. It is the first time Peroni sings Tosca here.”

  “Oh?”. She glanced quickly back at him. “Then it’s the first time you have heard her Tosca also?”

  “No,” he said coolly. “I have heard her do it in Rome.”

  “And is she very fine?”

  “Very.”

  “I’m curious to hear her,” Anthea said, and then wished she had not used the word “curious”.

  But Florian seemed to think it quite a suitable word,

  “Of course. It is quite an experience.”

  Their car drew up opposite the long flight of steps, and Florian handed her out.

  “Now, remember that from now until you return to the car you are as much on view as in the salon,” he warned her. “Walk slowly up the steps.”

  Trembling very slightly with excitement, Anthea did as she was told, and, as she slowly mounted the steps and entered the crowded foyer of the Opera House, she was aware of gasps, even exclamations, and those sudden, slight silences which are more telling than any open expression of admiration.

  Beside her Florian made one or two casual observations, as though he were completely unaware of the effect she was causing. And, once they entered the building, he greeted several people with a slight, pleasant bow and smile. Among these Anthea recognized his bitterest rival in the dress world. She also noticed that the bow was a little deeper and the smile a little more pronounced on this occasion.

  “If you will wait here a moment, I will fetch the tickets,” Florian said. And Anthea was left standing at a superb point of vantage at the top of the great staircase.

  The “moment” extended to a good ten minutes, and Anthea—who was becoming more knowledgeable about these matters—guessed that the wait had been prolonged on purpose. People did everything but stop short and stare at her. And, by the time Florian returned with the tickets, she was a centre of attraction in what was, in any case, a very well-dressed gathering.

  “Come——” He smiled at her, but made no mention of having left her on her own. He took it for granted that, if she did not know the technique by instinct, at least she recognized it when it was presented to her.

  Before actually entering the auditorium, he sauntered with her through the pillared promenade, pointing out details of interest. He was a charming and amusing guide, and nothing in his manner suggested for one moment that
she was on show. But never in her life had Anthea been stared at by so many people.

  She supposed that in the old days it would have disconcerted her. Now she found she frankly enjoyed it. Not only for her personal satisfaction but because the amount of interest she caused was the measure of Florian’s success at this moment.

  When they entered their box, he said to her,

  “Go forward to the front and look round, as though you are interested in the general view of the house. Then turn and stand speaking to me for a few moments.”

  She did exactly as she was told, aware that the back view of the cloak seen thus must be breathtaking. Then he let her sit down and told her with a smile that she might now enjoy herself.

  To Anthea the whole performance was infinitely pleasurable and interesting. But she was aware that her whole attention sharpened and intensified when she heard the first, indescribably musical call of Tosca offstage—“Mario! Mario!”

  Irresistibly, she glanced at the man sitting beside her. But Florian, leaning forward slightly, his thin, rather fine-drawn features clear-cut in the light from the stage, showed nothing but the ordinary interest of any member of the audience just before the prima donna enters.

  And then Peroni swept in, on a wave of adoring applause—a tall, unexpectedly slender, utterly dynamic creature, with a voice and personality of dark splendour.

  Anthea was fascinated. She forgot about Florian and the personal complications which possibly existed there’ and surrendered herself completely to the drama on the stage. That drama which had harrowed, enthralled and delighted so many thousands before her.

  Even to anyone of Anthea’s small experience, it was obvious that Peroni was a great artist, and as the curtain fell on the first act, she turned enthusiastically to her companion and exclaimed,

  “She’s wonderful!”

  He agreed with a smile, but did not offer to discuss the matter further. And then they went out and promenaded among the dazzling throng—and everywhere they went people looked with interest at the famous designer and the girl with him in the fabulous cloak.

  Presently they met Roger and Eve, and since Florian stopped, with a gracious greeting, Anthea had the ignoble—if understandable—pleasure of making Eve look insignificant.

  “Everyone is talking about that marvellous cloak.” Eve looked at Anthea with ill-concealed envy. “Doesn’t it make you feel odd to wear something that doesn’t actually belong to you?”

  “No,” Anthea said composedly.

  “It does belong to Mademoiselle Gabrielle for the evening,” Florian explained coolly. “No one else owns it yet, and so—temporarily it is hers. Perhaps no one ever will own it,” he added carelessly.

  “What do you mean?” exclaimed Eve, and, to tell the truth, Anthea looked almost equally startled.

  “Why, a model of this sort is created for a special occasion, madame. It is not necessarily ever sold, unless some very unusual—and, in this case, extremely wealthy—client happens to take a fancy to it.”

  “Do you mean it is a sort of wildly extravagant advertisement?” Eve asked incredulously.

  “One might think of it that way.”

  “But what other way, if not an advertisement?” Eve pressed.

  Florian gave that faint, disturbing smile.

  “As I said—it is created for a special occasion.”

  And then the bell rang, and they returned to the theatre.

  “I don’t quite understand.” Anthea spoke softly to him as they re-entered the box. “What is this special occasion?”

  “Never mind, petite. It is just a manner of speaking. Enjoy the second act. It is in the second act that one has the height of the drama.”

  She turned her head and looked at him, unable to identify the exact emotion in his voice as he said that. Quiet and expressive as always, the tone curiously conveyed the impression that he was not referring to the actual drama on the stage.

  “Has that some particular meaning, monsieur?” she asked in a whisper, as the conductor came into the orchestra pit.

  But Florian only smiled slightly and did not appear otherwise to have heard the question.

  Once more, as soon as the curtain was up, Anthea became absorbed in the action on the stage, following with breathless interest the reactions of Scarpia as he waited for the coming of Tosca. And then again that superb entry—

  The gasp which escaped Anthea was echoed by half the people in the house. For the cloak which enwrapped the glamorous Tosca was an infinitely inferior version—a sort of poor relation—of the exquisite cloak Anthea herself was wearing.

  Without the glorious comparison, Peroni’s costume would have been superb. But almost everyone there had seen Anthea in her memorable glory, either on the stairs or in the promenade or the theatre itself. And there she sat now—well forward in the box, as instructed by Florian—with the light from the stage revealing with pitiless clarity the terrible similarity and the terrible difference.

  A curious wave of restlessness and inattention passed over the audience. Too many people were looking away from the stage instead of at it. The centre of interest was shifting—fatally, inevitably—from the drama which should have gripped everyone at this point to the mystery in the stage box.

  Never in her life before had Anthea seen a performance killed stone dead before her eyes, but she realized in a moment what was going to happen. And then, very calmly and unhurriedly, she slipped the cloak from her shoulders, turning it back over her seat so that only the beautiful lining was showing.

  “Put on your cloak again,” Florian said softly but rather dangerously beside her.

  “No, monsieur. I am too warm,” replied Anthea in the same tone, without removing her gaze from the stage.

  He made a slight movement as though to replace the cloak.

  “No, don’t do that,” she said, still speaking very quietly, “or I shall get up and go out of the theatre.” And she turned her head and looked full at him.

  It was a mistake. She was a good deal frightened by the menacing chill of his cold, grey eyes. But something within her—she thought perhaps it was sheer, hot rage—gave her the courage to stare back at him unmoved.

  “Mademoiselle, it would be much better for you to do what I tell you,” he said gently.

  “Monsieur Florian,” she replied very coldly, “you talk too much, and distract my attention from the opera. Please don’t say any more.”

  Then she turned and looked back at the stage, hoping that he could not see the little tremors of anger and fear which rippled over her.

  The act continued. Peroni had the audience completely in her hand again. The cloak was cast aside, forgotten. Nothing mattered now except the music and the drama. Only for one brief moment, after she had killed Scarpia and made her slow exit trailing the cloak behind her, did some people glance again at the stage box. But the attentive girl who sat there in the lovely green dress seemed entirely unconscious of causing any interest.

  The curtain fell, the applause broke in waves over the house, and presently the lights went up again.

  With a physical effort, Anthea turned to Florian. And because he still looked cold and remote and wrapped away in the fastnesses of his own anger, she said in a tone of quiet rage,

  “How dare you!”

  “Mademoiselle! That really is my cue,” he said drily, but she thought he was a little shaken by the intensity of her anger.

  “I can’t tell you what I think of you here, because I couldn’t control my voice or my expression sufficiently,” Anthea went on. “But afterwards you will explain to me how you came to involve me in such a monstrous scene.”

  “I am not in the habit of explaining myself to order,” Florian said coldly.

  “Then you’ll break your habit for once,” retorted Anthea brutally.

  There was a short, astounded silence. Then Florian said,

  “Are you coming out for the interval?”

  “No.”

  “You will allo
w me to point out that you are here to display my cloak.”

  “I have displayed it,” retorted Anthea flatly.

  He looked at her again, and she was aware that a faint amusement was beginning to thaw the black frost of his anger.

  “I had not realized, Gabrielle, that you could be such a little mule,” he said.

  “No, monsieur? Then perhaps you will now reflect that when a mule kicks it is a very thorough business,” replied Anthea.

  He laughed at that. A short, angry, rather incredulous laugh. Then he got up and went out of the box, leaving her alone.

  She sat there, outwardly serene and calm, making a beautiful and suitable appearance, as she had been taught to do. Even in her anger, she had not forgotten his warning that she would be on show until she returned to the car. But suddenly, left to herself and aware of a frightful reaction after the tension, she could willingly have put her hands over her face and sobbed.

  She felt cold all at once, like someone who had had a shock, and she moved to put on her wrap. Then she remembered and pushed it away again. And at that moment Roger came into the box.

  “Oh, Roger!” She only just kept herself from flinging herself into his arms. “Oh, Roger!” She could only say his name, but it was some sort of exquisite relief to repeat anything so inexpressibly associated with security and normality.

  “All right, darling. Steady on!” Roger sat down beside her and took one of her cold hands in his. “Just what is going on here?”

  “I—I don’t know. Where’s Eve?” she countered quickly.

  “I’ve parked her with some American friends of hers. They’re nattering happily, so I slipped away to speak to you. Where’s Florian?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. And I don’t care. I think he went off in a rage because I wouldn’t go around any more making an exhibition of myself in this thing.” Disparagingly she flipped a fold of the white mink.

  “What was the idea? To humiliate Peroni?”

  “And spoil her performance. Didn’t you realize how people started to get restless and look at me and then her, comparing the two cloaks, when they should have been gripped by her performance? It was an odious thing for him to do—whatever she’d done to him.”