Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (47 page)

She waved them on, and walked away.

“Why don’t we take the elevator, too?” Iris suggested to Paul. “It’s pretty dark down there now.”

“I won’t let you be mugged,” he reassured her. “So no need to worry.”

“Mugged? Where do you get those American phrases?”

“From girls like you,” he said casually.

“I’ll bet,” she retorted. “And women like my aunt.”

He nodded. “And women like your aunt.” “Yes, I’m sure there are always one or two around,” she flashed back.

“Steady there …”

She had stumbled, and now moved closer to the railing at her left.

“Need some help?” Paul asked.

“If I do, I’ll whistle.”

“Oh, you whistle too? By the way, you do have a nice voice, as your aunt said. You really should study with a good teacher. You still have the head tones of someone very young.”

“But then, as you pointed out on another occasion, I
am
someone very young,” she answered to that.

“True.”

“An ingenue.”

In the dim light his smile, amused and tolerant, flashed.

“Just someone very young,” he said.

“And you prefer a woman a bit more … shall we say, seasoned?” she asked, challengingly.

“I prefer a woman who is warm, responsive, and — ”

And rich? she was about to add, but caught herself in time. She had behaved very well and she wasn’t going to spoil it now. Not tonight, at any rate.

On the next flight she stumbled again.

“Having trouble?” Paul asked.

“It’s just that I drank too much. I should never have had that damned brandy.”

“You should never have had those damned martinis,” he corrected her.

“They’re what I’m accustomed to, thank you. Whereas, brandy’s not. And you and I had most of the wine.”

“Wine won’t hurt you.”

“Too much of it will.”

“Too many martinis will, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“I do mind. How many flights are there left?”

“Four more.”

“I can’t make it,” she said flatly, and sat down on one of the steps.

“Shall I carry you down?”

“If you do, I’ll report you to the police.”

“For what reason?”

“Making unwelcome advances.”

“No danger of that.”

“Why? Am I so repulsive?”

“You are beautiful,” he said. “Very beautiful. But also
noli me tangere.
Look, but do not touch. I have left my reckless twenties behind, Iris, and along with it,
les jeunes filles.”

“You really are an impossible person,” she cried, jumping up. “And if you refer to me as a little girl one more time, I’ll — ”

“Yes?” he said interestedly. “You will do what?”

“Never mind,” she flung at him, and started running down the steps.

He ran down after her. “You will break a leg,” he cried.

At the bottom she was breathless. He caught up to her. “You certainly can run,” he said admiringly.

“Where,” she demanded, “is that elevator?”

“Right over this way,” he said, and they walked a short distance to where, along with several other people, Aunt Louisa stood waiting.

“Got down all right, I see,” she commented.

“Except that your niece almost fell once or twice,” Paul remarked. “However, I took good care of her. Well, shall we take a little stroll through Pigalle?”

“Thank you, no,” Louisa replied. “I don’t relish getting hit over the head by some Pigalle thug.”

“Discretion is the better part of valor in this vicinity,” he agreed. “There’s a taxi stand just up ahead.”

The group of people with whom Louisa had been waiting seemed happy about the taxi stand. They were, clearly, late American tourists, and in this poorly-lit street that seemed to go nowhere, no one could blame them for being uneasy.

So that, along with the three of them, there were also half a dozen patrons of the restaurant on the hill trooping toward the cab stand.

Paul, like a proper host of the city, saw that all of them were accommodated before he flashed a cab for themselves.

“That was thoughtful of you,” Louisa said. “It’s so dark at the foot of the Butte. They were all absolutely terrified.”

During the ride back, the song that had been played for their table was running through Iris’s mind. She was, at first idly and then doggedly, trying to remember the words. She had heard it only a few months ago, and recalled that she had been humming it at odd moments for days afterwards.

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.

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 …”

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.

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.

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

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.”

“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.

Perversely, 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?”