Mrs. Harris Goes to Paris & Mrs. Harris Goes to New York (12 page)

There were many plants and flowers Mrs Harris did not even know the name of, small rubbery-looking pink blooms, or flowers with yellow centres and deep blue petals, every conceivable kind of daisy and marguerite, bushy-headed peonies and, of course, row upon row of Mrs Harris’s own very dearest potted geraniums.

But not only were her visual senses enthralled and overwhelmed by the masses of shapes and colours, but on the soft breeze that blew from the Seine came as well the intoxication of scent to transport the true lover of flowers into his or her particular heaven, and such a one was Mrs Harris. All the beauty that she had ever really known in her life until she saw the Dior dress had been flowers. Now, her nostrils were filled with the scent of lilies and tuberoses. From every quarter came beautiful scents, and through this profusion of colour and scent Mrs Harris wandered as if in a dream.

Yet another familiar figure was promenading in that same dream, none other than the fierce old gentleman who had been Mrs Harris’s neighbour at the Dior show and whose name was the Marquis de Chassagne, of an ancient family. He was wearing a light brown spring coat, a brown homburg, and fawn-coloured gloves. There was no fierceness in his face now and even his tufted wild-flung eyebrows seemed at peace as he strolled through the lanes of fresh, dewy
blossoms and breathed deeply and with satisfaction of the perfumes that mounted from them.

His path crossed that of the charwoman, a smile broke out over his countenance, and he raised his homburg with the same gesture he would have employed doffing it to a queen. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘our neighbour from London who likes flowers. So you have found your way here.’

Mrs Harris said: ‘It’s like a bit of ’eaven, ain’t it? I wouldn’t have believed it if I ’adn’t seen it with me own eyes.’ She looked down at a huge jar bulging with crisp white lilies and another with firm, smooth, yet unopened gladioli with but a gleam of mauve, crimson, lemon, or pink showing at the stalks to indicate what colours they would be. Drops of fresh water glistened on them. ‘Oh, Lor’!’ murmured Mrs Harris, ‘I do ’ope Mrs Butterfield won’t forget to water me geraniums.’

‘Ah, madame, you cultivate geraniums?’ the marquis inquired politely.

‘Two window boxes full and a dozen or so pots wherever I can find a place to put one. You might say as it was me ’obby.’

‘
Épatant!
’ the marquis murmured to himself and then inquired: ‘And the dress you came here to seek. Did you find it?’

Mrs Harris grinned like a little imp. ‘Didn’t I just! It’s the one called “Temptytion”, remember? It’s black velvet trimmed wiv black bugle beads and the top is some sort of pink soft stuff.’

The marquis reflected for a moment and then nodded: ‘Ah, yes, I do remember. It was worn by that exquisite young creature— ’

‘Natasha,’ Mrs Harris concluded for him. ‘She’s me friend. It’s being myde for me, I’ve got three more days to wait.’

‘And so, with infinite good sense, you acquaint yourself with the genuine attractions of our city.’

‘And you— ’ Mrs Harris began and broke off in the middle of her sentence, for intuitively she knew the answer to the question she had been about to ask.

But the Marquis de Chassagne was not at all put out, and only remarked gravely: ‘You have guessed it. There is so little time left for me to enjoy the beauties of the earth. Come, let us sit on this seat in the sun, a little, you and I, and talk.’

They sat then, side by side on the green wooden bench, in the midst of the sensuous colours and ravishing perfumes, the aristocrat and the charwoman, and conversed. They were worlds apart in everything but the simplicity of their humanity, and so they were really not apart at all. For all his title and eminent position, the marquis was a lonely widower, his children married and scattered. And what was Mrs Harris but an equally lonely widow, but with the courage to embark upon one great adventure to satisfy her own craving for beauty and elegance. They had much in common these two.

Besides her geraniums, Mrs Harris remarked, she also received cut flowers from time to time with which to brighten her little basement flat, from clients about to leave for a weekend in the country, or who received presents of fresh flowers and would make it a point to present Mrs Harris with their old and half-wilted blooms. ‘I get them ’ome as fast as ever I can,’ she explained, ‘cut off their stems and put them in a fresh jug of water with a penny at the bottom.’

The marquis looked astounded at this piece of intelligence.

‘ ’Ow, didn’t you know?’ Mrs Harris said. ‘If you put a copper in the water with wilted flowers it brings them right back.’

The marquis, full of interest, said: ‘Well now, it is indeed true that one is never too old to learn.’ He went on to another subject that had interested him. ‘And you say that Mademoiselle Natasha has become your friend?’

‘She’s a dear,’ said Mrs Harris, ‘not at all like you might expect, high and mighty with all the fuss that’s made over her. She’s as unspoiled as your own daughter would be. They’re all me friends, I do believe - that nice young Monsieur Fauvel, the cashier - it’s his ’ouse I am stopping at - and that poor Mme Colbert— ’

‘Eh,’ said the marquis, ‘and who is Madame Colbert?’

It was Mrs Harris’s turn to look surprised. ‘’Ow, surely you know Madame Colbert - the manageress - the one who tells you whether you can come in or not. She’s a real love. Imagine putting Ada ’Arris right in with all the toffs.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said the marquis with renewed interest, ‘that one. A rare person, a woman of courage and integrity. But why poor?’

Mrs Harris waggled her rear end more comfortably into the bench to enjoy a jolly good gossip. Why, this French gentleman was just like anybody else back home when it came to interest in titbits about other people’s trouble and miseries. Her voice became happily confidential as she tapped him on the arm and answered: ‘ ’Ow, but of course you wouldn’t know about her poor ’usband.’

‘Oh,’ said the Marquis, ‘she has a husband then? What is the difficulty, is he ill?’

‘Not exactly,’ replied Mrs Harris. ‘Madame Colbert wouldn’t dream of telling anybody about it but, of course, she’s told me. A woman who’s buried a husband as I ’ave can understand things. Twenty-five years in the same office ’e was— ’

‘Your husband?’ asked the marquis.

‘No, no, Madame Colbert’s, the brains of his office he is. But every time he comes up for a big job they give it to some count or some rich man’s son until his ’eart is near broken and Madame Colbert’s too.’

The marquis felt a curious tingling at the base of his scalp as a faint glimmer of light began to dawn. Mrs Harris’s voice for a moment mimicked some of the bitterness contained in that of Mme Colbert’s as she said: ‘There’s another chance for him now and no one to speak up for him or give him a ’and. Madame Colbert’s crying her poor dear eyes out.’

A little smile that was almost boyish illuminated the stern mouth of the old marquis. ‘Would Madame Colbert’s husband by any chance have the name of Jules?’

Mrs Harris stared at him in blank amazement, as though he were a magician. ‘Go on!’ she cried, ‘ ’ow did
you
know? That’s ’is name, Jules, do you know him? Madame Colbert says ’e’s got more brains in his little finger than all the rest of them in their striped pants.’

The marquis suppressed a chuckle and said: ‘Madame Colbert may be right. There can be no question as to the intelligence of a man who has the good sense to marry such a woman.’ He sat in silent thought for a moment and then fishing into an inside pocket produced a card case from which he extracted a finely-engraved card and wrote on the back a brief message with an old-fashioned fountain pen. He waved the card dry and then presented it to Mrs Harris. ‘Will you remember to give this to Madame Colbert the next time you see her.’

Mrs Harris inspected the card with unabashed interest. The engraved portion read ‘Le Marquis Hypolite de Chassagne, Conseiller Extraordinaire au Ministère des Affaires Étrangères, Quai d’Orsay,’ which meant nothing
to her except that her friend was a nob with a title. She turned it over, but the message thereon was scribbled in French and she did not understand that either. ‘Right-o,’ she said, ‘I’ve got a ’ead like a sieve, but I won’t forget.’

A church clock struck eleven. ‘Lor’!’ she exclaimed, ‘I ’aven’t been watching the time. I’ll be lyte for me fitting.’ She leaped up from the bench, cried: ‘So long, ducks, don’t forget to put the penny in the jug for the flowers,’ and was off. The marquis remained sitting on the bench in the sun looking after her, an expression of rapt and total admiration on his face.

During Mrs Harris’s fitting that morning Mme Colbert dropped into the cubicle to see how things were going and assisted the seamstress with a hint here and a suggestion there when Mrs Harris suddenly gave a little shriek. ‘Lumme! I almost forgot. ’Ere ’e said I was to give you this.’ She secured her ancient handbag, rummaged in it and finally produced the card and handed it to Mme Colbert.

The manageress turned first red and then deathly pale as she examined the paste-board and the message on the reverse. The fingers holding the card began to shake. ‘Where did you get this?’ she whispered. ‘Who gave it to you?’

Mrs Harris looked concerned ‘The old gent. The one that was sitting next to me with the red thing in ’is button’ole that day at the collection. I met ’im in the Flower Market and ’ad a bit of a chat with ’im. It ain’t bad news, is it?’

‘Oh, no, no,’ murmured Mme Colbert, her voice trembling with emotion and hardly able to hold back the tears. Suddenly and inexplicably she went to Mrs Harris, took her in her arms and held her tightly for a moment. ‘Oh, you wonderful, wonderful woman,’ she cried, and then turned and fled from the cubicle. She went into another booth, an
empty one, where she could be alone to put her head down upon her arms and cry unashamedly with the joy of the message which had read: ‘Please ask your husband to come to see me tomorrow. I may be able to help him - Chassagne.’

O
N
the last night of Mrs Harris’s magical stay in Paris, M. Fauvel had planned a wonderful party for her and Natasha, an evening out with dinner at the famous restaurant ‘Pré Catalan’ in the Bois de Boulogne. Here in the most romantic setting in the world, seated in the open-air beneath the spreading boughs of a venerable hundred-and-sixty-year-old beech tree, illuminated by fairy lights strung between the leafy branches, and with gay music in the background, they were to feast on the most delicious and luxurious of foods and drink the finest wines that M. Fauvel could procure.

And yet, what should have been the happiest of times for the three started out as an evening of peculiar and penetrating sadness.

M. Fauvel looked distinguished and handsome in dinner jacket in the lapel of which was the ribbon of the military medal he had won. Natasha had never looked more ravishing in an evening dress of pink, grey, and black, cut to show off her sweet shoulders and exquisite back. Mrs Harris came as she was except for a fresh, somewhat daringly peek-a-boo
lace blouse she had bought with some of her remaining English pounds.

Her sadness was only an overlay on the delight and excitement of the place and the hour, and the most thrilling thing of all that was to happen tomorrow. It was due to the fact that all good things must come to an end and that she must be leaving these people of whom in a short time she had grown so extraordinarily fond.

But the unhappiness that gripped M. Fauvel and Mlle Petitpierre was of heavier, gloomier, and thicker stuff. Each had reached the conclusion that once Mrs Harris departed, this idyll which had brought them together and thrown them for a week into one another’s company, would be at an end.

Natasha was no stranger to the ‘Pré Catalan’. Countless times she had been taken there to dine and dance by wealthy admirers who meant nothing to her, who held her clutched to them in close embrace upon the dance floor and who talked interminably of themselves over their food. There was only one person now she wished to dance with ever again, whom she desired to hold her close, and this was the unhappy-looking young man who sat opposite her and did not offer to do so.

Ordinarily in any country two young people have little difficulty in exchanging signals, messages, and eventually finding one another, but when in France they have emerged, so to speak, from the same class and yet are still constrained by the echoes of this class strange obstacles can put themselves in the way of an understanding. For all of the night, the lights, the stars, and the music, M. Fauvel and Mlle Petitpierre were in danger of passing one another by.

For as he gazed upon the girl, his eyes misty with love, M. Fauvel knew that this was the proper setting for
Natasha - here she belonged amidst the light-hearted and the wealthy. She was not for him. He had never been to this colourful restaurant before in the course of the modest life he led and he was now more than ever convinced that it was only because of Madame Harris that Natasha endured him. He was aware that a curious affection had grown up between that glamorous creature, Dior’s star model, and the little cleaning woman. But then he had grown very fond of Mrs Harris himself. There was something about this Englishwoman that seemed to drive straight to the heart.