Mrs. Harris Goes to Paris & Mrs. Harris Goes to New York (8 page)

A curious feeling of peace pervaded Mme Colbert and a strange smile illuminated her countenance as she said: ‘Who can say, perhaps you will be lucky for me too.’

A
T
five minutes to three that afternoon three people whose lives were to become strangely entangled, found themselves within a whisper of one another by the grand staircase in the House of Dior, now crowded with visitors, clients, sales girls, staff, and members of the press, all milling about.

The first of these was M. André Fauvel, the young chief accountant. He was well set up and handsome in a blond way, in spite of a scar upon his cheek honourably acquired, and the source of a military medal won during his army service in Algeria.

It was sometimes necessary for him to descend from the chilling regions of his account books on the fourth floor to the warmth of the atmosphere of perfumes, silks, and satins, and the females they encased, on the first floor. He welcomed these occasions and even sought excuses for them in the expedition of catching a glimpse of his goddess, the star model, with whom he was desperately and, of course, quite hopelessly in love.

For Mlle Natasha, as she was known to press and public in the fashion world, was the toast of Paris, a dark-haired,
dark-eyed beauty of extraordinary attraction and one who surely had a brilliant career before her either in films or a rich and titled marriage. Every important bachelor in Paris, not to mention a considerable quota of married men, were paying her court.

M. Fauvel came from a good middle class family; his was a good position with a good wage, and he had a little money besides, but his world was as far removed from the brilliant star of Natasha as was the planet earth from the great Sirius.

He was fortunate, for that moment he did catch a sight of her in the doorway of the dressing room, already encased in the first number she was to model, a frock of flame-coloured wool, and on her glossy head perched a flame-coloured hat. A diamond snowflake sparkled at her throat, and a sable stole was draped carelessly over one arm. M. Fauvel thought that his heart would stop and never beat again, so beautiful was she and so unattainable.

Glancing out of her sweet, grave eyes set wide apart in narrowing lids, Mlle Natasha saw M. Fauvel and yet saw him not, as, showing a sliver of pink tongue, she stifled a yawn. For truth to tell, she was prodigiously bored. None but a few at Dior’s knew the real identity much less the real personality of the long-limbed, high-waisted, raven-haired Niobe who attracted the rich and famous to her side like flies.

Her real name then was Suzanne Petitpierre. Her origin was a simple bourgeois family in Lyons and she was desperately weary of the life her profession forced her to lead, the endless rounds of cocktail parties, dinners, theatres, and cabarets, as companion to film men, motor manufacturers, steel men, titled men, all of whom wished to be seen with the most glamorous and photographed model in the city. Mlle Petitpierre wanted nothing of any of them. She had no ambition for a career in films, or on the stage, or to take
her place as the châtelaine of some noble château. What she desired more than anything else was somehow to be able to rejoin that middle class from which she had temporarily escaped, marry someone for love, some good, simple man, who was not too handsome or clever, settle down in a comfortable bourgeois home, and produce a great many little bourgeois offspring. Such men existed, she knew, men who were not consistently vain, boastful, or super- intellectual to the point where she could not keep up with them. But they were somehow now all outside of her orbit. Even at that very moment when she was beneath the gaze of many admiring eyes she felt lost and unhappy. She remembered vaguely having seen the young man who was regarding her so intently, somewhere before, but could not place him.

Finally, Mrs Harris, of Number 5 Willis Gardens, Battersea, London, came bustling up the staircase already crowded with recumbent figures, to be received by Mme Colbert. And then and there an astonishing thing took place.

For to the regulars and
cognoscenti
the staircase at Christian Dior’s is Siberia, as humiliating a spot as when the head waiter of a fashionable restaurant seats you among the yahoos by the swinging doors leading to the kitchen. It was reserved strictly for boobs, nosies, unimportant people, and the minor press.

Mme Colbert regarded Mrs Harris standing there in all her cheap clothing, and she looked right through them and saw only the gallant woman and sister beneath. She reflected upon the simplicity and the courage that had led her thither in pursuit of a dream, the wholly feminine yearning for an out-of-reach bit of finery, the touching desire, once in her drab cheerless life, to possess the ultimate in a creation. And she felt that somehow Mrs Harris was quite the most important and worthwhile person in the gathering
there of chattering females waiting to view the collection that day.

‘No,’ she said to Mrs Harris. ‘Not on the staircase. I will not have it. Come. I have a seat for you inside.’

She threaded Mrs Harris through the throng, holding her by the hand, and took her into the main salon where all but two of the gold chairs in the double rows were occupied. Mme Colbert always kept one or two seats in reserve for the possible unexpected arrival of some V.I.P., or a favoured customer bringing a friend.

She towed Mrs Harris across the floor and seated her on a vacant chair in the front row. ‘There,’ said Mme Colbert ‘You will be able to see everything from here. Have you your invitation? Here is a little pencil. When the models enter, the girl at the door will call out the name and number of the dress - in English. Write down the numbers of the ones you like best, and I will see you afterwards.’

Mrs Harris settled herself noisily and comfortably on the grey and gold chair. Her handbag she parked on the vacant seat at her left, the card and pencil she prepared for action. Then with a pleased and happy smile she began taking stock of her neighbours.

Although she had no means of identifying them, the main salon contained a cross-section of the
haut monde
of the world, including a scattering of the nobility, ladies and honorables from England, marquises and countesses from France, baronesses from Germany, principessas from Italy, new-rich wives of French industrialists, veteran-rich wives of South American millionaires, buyers from New York, Los Angeles, and Dallas, stage actresses, film stars, playwrights, playboys, diplomats, etc.

The seat to Mrs Harris’s right was occupied by a fierce-looking old gentleman with snow-white hair and moustaches,
tufted eyebrows that stood out like feathers from his face, and dark pouches under his eyes which were, however, of a penetrating blue and astonishingly alert and young looking. His hair was combed down over his brow in a sort of fringe; his boots were magnificently polished; his waistcoat was edged with white, and in the lapel of his dark jacket was fastened what seemed to Mrs Harris to be a small rosebud which both fascinated and startled her, since she had never seen a gentleman wearing any such thing before and so she was caught by him staring at it.

The thin, beak nose aimed itself at her; the keen blue eyes scrutinised her, but the voice that addressed her in perfect English was sere and tired. ‘Is there something wrong, madam?’

It was not in the nature of Mrs Harris to be abashed or put out of countenance by anyone, but the thought that she might have been rude stirred her to contrition and she favoured the old gentleman with a self-deprecating smile.

‘Fancy me gawking at you like you was a waxworks,’ she apologised, ‘where’s me manners? I thought that was a rose in yer buttonhole. Jolly good idea too.’ Then in explanation she added - ‘I’m very fond of flowers.’

‘Are you,’ said the gentleman. ‘That is good.’ Whatever hostility had been engendered by her stare was dispelled by the engaging innocence of her reply. He looked upon his neighbour with a new interest and saw now that she was a most extraordinary creature and one he could not immediately place. ‘Perhaps,’ he added, ‘it would be better if this were indeed a rose instead of a - rosette.’

Mrs Harris did not understand this remark at all, but the pleasant manner in which it had been delivered showed her that she had been forgiven for her rudeness and the
tiny shadow that had fallen across her mood was dispelled. ‘Ain’t it loverly ’ere?’ she said by way of keeping the conversation going.

‘Ah, you feel the atmosphere too.’ Puzzled, the old gentleman was racking his brain, trying to catch or connect with something that was stirring there, something that seemed to be connected vaguely with his youth and his education which had been rounded out by two years at an English University. He was remembering a dark and dingy closet, dark-panelled, that had been his bedroom and study, cold and austere, opening off a dark hallway, and incongruously, as the picture formed in his mind, there was a pail standing in the hall at the head of the stairs.

Mrs Harris’s alert little eyes now dared to engage those of the old gentleman. They penetrated the fierceness of his exterior, peering through the fringe of white hair and menacing eyebrows and the immaculate front of his clothing to a warmth that she felt within. She wondered what he was doing there, for his attitude of hands folded over a gold-headed cane was of one who was unaccompanied. Probably looking for a dress for his granddaughter, she thought and, as always, with her kind, resorted to the direct question to satisfy her curiosity. She did, however, as a gesture of benevolence advance the prospective recipient a generation.

‘Are you looking for a dress for your daughter?’ Mrs Harris inquired.

The old man shook his head, for his children were I scattered and far removed. ‘No,’ he replied, ‘I come here from time to time because I like to see beautiful clothes and beautiful women. It refreshes me and makes me feel young again.’

Mrs Harris nodded assent. ‘No doubt abaht that!’ she agreed. Then with the pleasant feeling that she had found someone else in whom she might confide she leaned towards
him and whispered: ‘I’ve come all the way from London to buy meself a Dior dress.’

A flash of insight, half a Frenchman’s marvellous perspicacity, half the completion of the memory he had been trying to dredge up, illuminated the old gentleman, and he knew now who and what she was. The old picture of the dark-stained hallway and creaking stairs with the pail at the top, returned, but now a figure stood beside the bucket, a large slatternly woman in a bedraggled overall, outsize shoes, reddish-grey hair, and freckled skin, sole commander of battery of brooms, mops, dusters, and brushes. She had been for him the only cheerful note throughout the gloomy precincts of the college rooms.

A slattern whose husband had deserted her, the sole support of five children, she exuded unfailing good humour and a kind of waspish but authentic and matter-of-fact philosophy sandwiched in between comments upon the weather, the government, the cost of living, and the vicissitudes of life ‘Tyke what you can get and don’t look no gift ’orse in the eye,’ was one of her sayings. He remembered that her name had been Mrs Maddox, but to him and another French boy in the college she had always been Madame Mops, and as such had been their friend, counsellor, bearer of tidings, source of gossip and intramural news.

He remembered too that beneath the brash and comic exterior he had recognised the intrepid bravery of women who lived out lives of hardship and ceaseless toil to render their simple duties to their own, leavened with no more than the sprinkling of the salt of minor grumbling, and acid commentary upon the scoundrels and scallywags who ran things. He could see her again now, the reddish-grey hair hanging down about her eyes, a cigarette tucked behind one ear, her head bobbing with concentrated energy as she
charred the premises. He could almost hear her speak again. And then realised that he
had
.

For seated next to him in the most exclusive and sophisticated dress salon in Paris, was the reincarnation of his Madame Mops of half a century ago.

True there was no physical resemblance, for his neighbour was slight and worn thin by work - the old gentleman’s eyes dropping to her hands confirmed the guess - but that was not how he recognised her; it was by the bearing, the speech, of course, and the naughty little eyes, but above all by the aura of indomitable courage and independence and impudence that surrounded her.

‘A Dior dress,’ he echoed her - ‘a splendid idea. Let us hope that you will find here this afternoon what you desire.’

There was no need in him to question her as to
how
it was possible for her to fulfil such a wish. He knew from his own experience something of the nature of these special Englishwomen and simply assumed that she had been left a legacy, or had suddenly acquired a large sum of money through one of those massive and extraordinary football lotteries he was always reading about in the papers as conferring untold wealth upon British railroad porters, coal miners, or grocery assistants. But had he known just how Mrs Harris had come by the entire sum needed to satisfy her ambition he would not have been surprised either.