Nurse Angela (8 page)

At her restless stirring, he released her and stared out onto the black, shimmering water of the Seine.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Th
ey
sat there for a long time watching the faint tremor that came and went over the inky water as the night breeze gently kissed its surface. Presently, Angela gave a slight shiver, and Simon pulled her gently to her feet. Together they strolled back to the Boulevard St. Michel and sat down at one of the small sidewalk cafe's to drink coffee. A deep silence fell between them
,
as each entered a separate realm of thought. Separate, yet curiously intermingling.

Simon was filled with gratitude for the way Angela had helped to lay bare his hidden fears and self-deceptions, and for giving him a new hope of finding the truth. He would again seek out the man who might be able to help him trace Albert Poiret. Tomorrow he would go to the same cafe where he had met him. He found himself delving deeper and deeper into the past, reliving those
far-off
days of his childhood during the occupation. The scorn of the other children, their insults called after him in the street as his father walked and talked with the enemy; his mother’s terrible,
inconsolable grief from which he had felt shut out when his father had died; his own loneliness and bitterness as his mother lived with her sorrow. Now, after all those years he was beginning to see the past in true perspective. But what of the future? It was almost too much to hope that his dream would come true.

Angela’s thoughts were somewhat confused. She too, was remembering—remembering Simon’s words at the very start of their. journey. “I have thought lately about marriage.” “I could never ask any woman unless my conscience was clear.” “Suppose she should find out from someone else.” Her heart was heavy with thoughts she could not put into words. In spite of the fact that he was now in a happier frame of mind about things and in spite of her own assurances that it would make no difference to a woman about his father, he still wanted to pursue the matter. What she herself thought or felt was of no account. Indeed, why should it be? It was Paulette who mattered; Paulette whom he loved and wanted to marry. He had no doubt talked it over with her and she had insisted that he find out the truth. That was why he felt he must go on with his search. She glanced at his worried face. He was probably thinking about Paulette now.

After a few exchanges about things of no importance to either of them, they walked back to Angela’s hotel. Each was wondering what the other had been thinking, trying to piece together words and phrases of personal significance, living again a look or turn of phrase that revealed the feelings of one for the other.

At the door of the hotel, Simon said with a slight smile, “We have been serious tonight, haven’t we?”

“Yes.” There was a moment’s pause. Then she said, “It still means a lot to you, this business of finding out the truth about your father, doesn’t it?”

“Yes. Yes it does, Angela. I can’t tell you why, except perhaps that it’s like some unfinished business that irks me. I want to make an entirely fresh start in what I hope will be a new life.
Besides
...
”
He gave her a long look. “In spite of what you have said, and in spite of my new attitude toward this thing, I still feel it would not be fair to—”

She looked away from him and said abruptly. “You don’t need to explain, Simon. In fact, I’d rather you didn’t. I must go in now. I’m tired.”

He was immediately full of concern. “Of course, you must be. All this walking around we’ve done since dinner.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “I’m afraid I haven’t been very good company for you tonight, but we’ll make up for it. What about tomorrow night?”

“I ...
if you don’t mind, Simon I’d like to be on my own for the next few days ... find my way around, explore a bit.”

“But what about the evenings?” he protested.

“I’ll be all right. I’m sure you must have friends you want to visit,
spend some time with. Besides, you may find out much more in the evenings—that’s when people have the most leisure. People who might give you the most valuable information perhaps only visit their haunts after dark. Why not give me a call, say Saturday, if you’re free?” He mustn’t feel obligated to ask her out to dinner every evening as if it were his duty, she thought.

“Very well,” he said stiffly, “if that is what you want. But, Angela, I’d feel much happier if you’d promise to phone my mother. I don’t like the idea of your being alone.”

“I promise ... and thank you.”

He looked at her for a moment, then took her hand.

“Good night, my dear. The thanks are all on my side for the understanding and help you’ve given me tonight. If I have any success in my search before Saturday, may I call you? I won’t trouble you otherwise, I promise,” he said wistfully.

“But of course,” she said with sudden warmth, almost regretting the line she was taking; then remembering again the reason for his quest, she bade him a hurried good night and left him.

Tears stinging her eyes, she went to her room. She had felt it was up to her to take the initiative in leaving him free. She would hate him to feel under obligation to be her escort the whole time she was in Paris. After all, the original arrangement had been that they should merely travel together, except perhaps for just one evening out. Perhaps he felt it was expected of him to take her around, and that was something she could not bear. Besides, tonight had been something of a strain; the nearness of him and all the time feeling that some other woman filled his thoughts. Weary and suddenly homesick, she wished that Roger had been able to come with her, wished that she had never stood with Simon under the stars, or heard him say what had been to him meaningless words of love. “I love you.” She thought of the direct, sincere look in Roger’s eyes when he had said the same words. With Roger, she felt safe, cared for and carefree. A love that grew was far better than one that came on you suddenly, knocking you off balance. Was it perhaps a case of the fruit out of reach, while the ones at your
feet...

She expected her ragged thoughts to keep
h
er awake for some time, but amazingly, she fell asleep quite quickly.

She had promised to see Simon on Saturday. That meant she had four days in which to explore Paris alone. She did not think about the evenings. She set about planning where she should go. She would not, she must not, sit around moping. She was in Paris, the most exciting city in the world, and she must make the most of it. First, she would visit the great cathedral of Notre Dame, then the Louvre—she had always wanted to see the Mona Lisa. Then after
that ...
She dressed with eager anticipation.

She was climbing the narrow streets of Montmartre on the third day of her solitary sightseeing tour, when a voice hailed her from across the street. It was Suzette, accompanied by a young and handsome Frenchman.

“Angela, my dear,” Suzette cried, crossing the road to her side. “Where on earth have you been hiding, and where is Simon?”

Angela laughed with sheer pleasure at seeing someone she knew again. “I haven’t been hiding anywhere.”

“But I have telephoned you again and again.”

“Why didn’t you leave a message?”

“A message? I never thought about it. When you were out, I took it for granted that you were with Simon and would not want to see me.”

“I haven’t seen or heard from Simon since Monday evening. I don’t know where he is.”

“Not seen him?” Suzette echoed in surprise. “Have you quarreled?”

“Of course not.
I ...
just wanted to see Paris on my own, and he was busy.”

“Busy? Oh yes, I remember—trying to find out things. Well, I haven’t seen or heard from him since Monday either. Goodness knows what he is up to. But I am forgetting myself.” She turned to the young man who had been standing patiently by all this time. “Angela, my dear, this is Philip St. Chariot, a friend of mine. Philip, Miss Lindsay is from England and she is a nurse.”

Angela extended her hand and could barely suppress a smile as he put it to his lips with a slight bow.

“How do you do, Ma’moiselle?” he said in very precise English.

Suzette’s dark eyes danced. “Doesn’t he speak beautifully?”

Philip smiled broadly. “
Parlez-vous francais,
Ma’moiselle?”

Angela shook her head. “Very little, I’m afraid, so you will be able to speak all the English you like.”

“And
what are you doing up here in Montmartre, Angela?” asked Suzette. “Sightseeing, I suppose?”

Angela laughed. “Now you really have put me into the tourist class. But I don’t mind. I’ve been to see the Sacre Coeur.”

“And very beautiful it is. I was only joking about the sightseeing, of course. I don’t know why the word ‘tourist’ has come to be used in a somewhat derogatory sense. I’m glad you’re seeing something of our lovely city. And now, let’s all have lunch together. What do you say?”

Angela and Philip nodded agreement, and Philip led the way to one of the numerous cafes in Montmartre, where they sat outside at a round table under a gaily striped awning. Angela was fascinated by Philip’s accent. He did indeed speak very good English, but every now and again, he would lapse into his native tongue to express himself better. Angela found him quite charming.

He asked if he might take her out to dinner that evening. She hesitated.

“Ah, please, Angela,” he pleaded. “Please do not disappoint me. It is not many time I meet an English lady.”

Suzette was smiling. “You’ll be quite safe with Philip. He’s a nice boy.”

Actually, Angela was glad to accept. Though she had enjoyed wandering about Paris alone during the day, she had felt rather lost in the evenings. Roger had been right when he said that Paris could be lonely at night.

After lunch, Philip left them, and later that evening when he called for her, he asked her if she would like to go anywhere special.

“Oh, Philip, you know Paris well. Take me to one of the less glamorous places. One of the little cafes where ordinary people meet.”

“But, Angela, ’ere in the Quartier Latin are ordinary people. I wanted to show you some of the grand places of Paris.”

He looked so disappointed that Angela laughingly gave in. “All right. Take me somewhere glamorous first, then to one of the other places afterward.”

He smiled delightedly and hailed a taxi. “I have always wanted to take a beautiful woman to La Tour d’Argent.”

“What is it like?” she asked, secretly intrigued at being openly called a “beautiful woman.” Few Englishmen are ready with such a compliment.

“You will see,” he replied mysteriously. “You will see.” They crossed a bridge over the Seine and soon were going up in an elevator to the restaurant on the fifth floor of a tall building. As they stepped out of the elevator, Angela caught her breath at the wonderful scene that met her eyes.

“Oh, Philip, it’s beautiful, simply
beautiful...”
she breathed, her eyes shining.

Philip smiled delightedly. They were in a softly lighted, crescent-shaped room, with long, uncurtained windows revealing the twinkling lights of Paris. It was like dining in the heavens. Far below in a glittering pattern of lights was the yellow ribbon of the Seine and the magnificent outline of Notre Dame. Angela thought she had never seen a sight more breathtakingly wonderful.

“Oh, Philip, thank you. It’s a scene I shall never forget. It has taken my breath away.”

Philip smiled. “Not everyone has your appreciation.”

“Surely no one could help but appreciate this.” She made a sweeping gesture at the view above and below.

“There are many women who are so busy trying to be—what you say—sophisticated, that they are
blasé
even about anything as beautiful as this.”

So they dined between the lights of Paris and the stars. Angela believed she had never tasted food so delicious. She thought with some inward amusement of the dull, “wholesome” fare at the hospital. She would come down to earth next week with a great jolt indeed. But Kirkwhite Annex and Lockerfield seemed extremely remote at this moment. She thought fleetingly how wonderful it would have been had Simon been in this wonderful place with her. But she quickly stifled such thoughts.

They lingered over dessert and their last glass of wine, reluctant to leave such exciting, glamorous surroundings. But the moment finally came when they had to leave to make room for others.

“I am afraid the other places you want to go to will be—what you call—
anticlimax
after that,” Philip said when they were once more outside. “Do you still wish to go?”

She laughed. “Yes Philip, I would like to.”

He pulled a wry face. “Why is it that, people are always so intensely interested in the working class of another country?”

“Simply because the ‘working class’ as you call them, are more representative of real people. The place where we’ve just been was lovely, of course, and I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. But really, Philip, how many of the people dining there were French? It’s my guess that the majority of them were either English or American tourists.”

“I expect you are right, Angela. Very well, we go to Montparnasse.”

This was a part of Paris Angela had not yet seen. Streets where old men lay huddled in shop doorways, or stretched out on the pavements over basement grills where the warm air drifting up would steal comfortingly over their thin, frail old bodies. Philip took her arm and led her down some steps leading to one
of the numerous basement cafes from where came the sound of music and singing. At first, Angela found the noise and smoke and the crowd confusing. Then gradually, her eyes picked out groups and couples either sitting at small tables or standing about. A few were dancing, but with very little attempt at keeping either in time or step. Somehow, Philip managed to find two vacant places at a table where a couple were just leaving.