A Moment in Paris Read online

  This time Diana felt a trifle staggered.

  ‘But there is someone living in the house apart from yourself and the Comte?’ she insisted.

  ‘Oh, yes, an old aunt of his, a Lady Bembridge, who married an Englishman. But she’s crippled with arthritis and I hardly ever see her. Besides, she doesn’t approve of me. She shudders every time I open my mouth.’

  ‘Then she can’t be very much of a companion for you?’

  ‘No.’ She drew fiercely on her cigarette, and then exhaled smoke languidly. ‘I expect you wonder how all this came about. My meeting with Philippe, and how and when he fell in love with me? Well, it was when he was touring America and studying American methods of film-making. I had a small part in a not very important film, and as soon as he saw me he flew off the handle about me at once. He decided it was high time he married, and that I’d do very nicely for a wife. I wasn’t very certain at first...’

  ‘Then what made you become certain?’ Diana asked.

  ‘Oh, when he began to give me expensive presents and really take me about. He rented whole suites in hotels for me, and bought me the most heavenly jewellery and wonderful clothes!’ She indicated the dress boxes on the floor. ‘These have been made for me since I came to Paris, and if you look at the labels you’ll see that I’m now being dressed by the most exclusive fashion house of the lot. Just an exciting name to me until a few weeks ago!... And there’s a Madame Denys Armand, who designs the most fabulous things, who has been given the order for my trousseau. Sometimes I wonder whether I’m really awake!’

  ‘And if you suddenly discovered it was all a dream would you be very upset?’

  Celeste smiled strangely. ‘What do you think? Every whim granted, and a man who is so good-looking it would be a pleasure to sit and look at him for hours on end! You know, I honestly can’t believe he’s going to be my husband very soon ... My husband!’

  ‘Then you really are in love with him, and not just the thought that you’ll be a Comtesse?’

  Celeste sent her a long look from her wonderful deep violet eyes.

  ‘I’m nineteen, and he’s thirty-seven,’ she remarked, studying the polished tips of her fingers. ‘It’s a big gap, isn’t it? But it doesn’t really worry me.’ She avoided the subject of love. ‘Of course I want to be a Comtesse, but that isn’t everything. I’ll have to live up to it, won’t I? And that won’t be easy. That’s why you’re here, to try and give me a little bit of polish and bring me up to top-drawer standard, like Philippe! For of course I know I’m not in the same class as he is.’

  Diana tried to soften the reason why she had been offered a fabulous salary, and assured her that with a little effort on both their parts it should be easy to acquire the polish.

  ‘I suppose I do love him in a kind of a way,’ Celeste admitted, returning to a question she had previously ignored. ‘I love it when he makes love to me, and that’s important, isn’t it?’ She lifted the violet eyes to Diana’s face. ‘I’ve had men in my life before,’ she confessed, ‘but it’s never been quite like this ... feeling light-headed at the thought of actually belonging to a man, if you know what I mean?’

  Diana did know—or, rather, she understood—but in the polite world in which she had been brought up, uninhibited revelations of that sort were not normally indulged in, and she looked away.

  Celeste leaned forward and caught at her wrist.

  ‘I like you,’ she said. ‘Or I believe I could like you! You’re not a bit as I expected you would be, someone with a bun and wearing glasses, who would look down her nose at me. You’re young, and you’re not too snootily English. Between us, perhaps, if we worked hard, we could surprise Philippe ... let him see I’m not so very unlike those ancestresses of his he’s always talking to me about! The Duchesse of Somewhere-or-Other, who was a famous beauty, and the Marquise de—’

  There came a sharp tap at the door, and they looked at one another. Diana, who had been quite touched by the other’s appeal—although she doubted whether even Bernard Shaw in his heyday could have brought about quite such a metamorphosis as she was asked to bring about—expected the owner of the bedroom to call “Come in”, but she didn’t do so. She looked for an instant almost afraid.

  Then the tap came again, and before Celeste could even attempt to voice an inquiry, the door was swung inwards and the Comte de Chatignard stood looking in upon them.

  His brow was black, and his eyes were cold.

  ‘I gave you to understand that we would be lunching punctually at one o’clock today, Celeste,’ he said, ‘and it is now a quarter past twelve! I expected you to bring Miss Craven down to drink an aperitif with my aunt, but you are not even dressed!’ He cast a disdainful glance at the disordered room, and although Diana would scarcely have believed it possible, his expression hardened still more.

  Celeste said in a fluttering, nervous voice: ‘I’m so sorry, Philippe. I didn’t realize it was so late. But I’ll be ready in ten minutes if I can only have Hortense.’

  He gazed at her with a disconcerting steadiness, but after a moment the black eyes softened.

  ‘I’ll give you half an hour,’ he told her. ‘I’ll telephone and put back our luncheon arrangement by half an hour.’ Then he spoke sharply to Hortense as she arrived. ‘Show Mademoiselle Craven to her room, after which you must return here and assist Mademoiselle O’Brien to dress. And restore some sort of order to this room,’ he added, ‘it’s in a revolting state!’

  As Diana followed the trim figure of the maid along the thickly-carpeted corridor she heard Celeste apologizing once more.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Philippe!’ And she sounded abject.

  Diana thought: ‘So he’s fastidious. Fastidious and hard, and cold and punctual. And not above making the girl he’s going to marry look small in front of a complete stranger to her!’

  And she spared a much more sympathetic thought for Celeste.

  ‘It’s to be hoped she’s in love with him. Or would it be better, perhaps—from her point of view!—if she isn’t?’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Diana washed her hands and powdered her nose in a room that was so unlike the room she had occupied while she was governess to the Fleming children that she wished Margot could see it

  Margot was an attractive, butterfly personality who entertained lavishly, but did not concern herself overmuch with the comfort of those she employed. She and Diana had had a year together at the same Swiss finishing school, and that was one reason why Diana had thought it would be pleasant to work for her. But she had overlooked the fact that it is one thing to be young and carefree in a carefree establishment, and quite another to have to seek favours from an ex-roommate.

  Margot’s husband was some sort of junior attaché at the Embassy, and he enjoyed Paris almost as much as his wife did. Their flat had been a sort of club for their friends, both French and English, and their children had been left almost solely to the care of Diana. She had looked after them for three months, and endeavoured to get the better of a state of rowdy hoydenism which was the result of their having lived almost exclusively on the Continent without the right sort of supervision, and when Peter Fleming received an abrupt recall to London was almost relieved that she was to be deprived of a job.

  Not that she hadn’t grown very fond of the children—a boy and a girl—for they had some endearing qualities, but the endless parties that went on at the flat, and the apparently incurable irresponsibility of the parents, had begun to get her down.

  The one thing Margot had done for her was find her another position, and it was due to her that Diana had entered that imposing building where the Comte de Chatignard had an entire suite of offices. And now, owing to Margot, she had found her way to another imposing house that was one of the oldest in Paris, situated in a quarter that was occupied only by the cream of that fashionable world where money and elegance went hand in hand, and all-night parties were conducted in a manner that never disturbed the dignity of the atmosphere.

&n
bsp; Somewhere—in quite a different Paris—there were theatres and night-clubs and shops and midinettes, and serious vendeuses who sold the fabulous garments that were the heart and core of a smart Parisienne’s wardrobe; but here in this leafy corner there was none of that. In the spring it was a world of tender green; in the summer the spreading branches protected it from the trying heat of the sun, and on a February day such as this it was still and cold and grey ... and dignified.

  She looked out of her window at a kind of enclosed courtyard, in the middle of which a towering chestnut tree looked almost nakedly bare. And she thought how deliciously cool it would be beneath its branches in the summer.

  Then she took another appraising glance at herself in the mirror and decided she had done all she could to improve her appearance. She was not at all sure that her new hat suited her, but her hair curled softly beneath it, rather like the bronze-gold petals of a tulip turning up from her neck. And the jewel-green velvet made her grey eyes look somehow a little green, too.

  She left her austere but beautiful room and walked silently along the corridor. The maid had explained to her a little of the geography of the house, and it was not particularly difficult to find her way to the main salon where Lady Bembridge would be awaiting her.

  Lady Bembridge was partly sitting, partly lying, on an Empire couch in the wide window. Diana hadn’t seen quite such a wide window before, and there was a certain amount of heraldic glass let into it. The deep gloom of the February day was banished by the soft shimmer of the lights that fell across wonderful examples of tapestry and chairs covered in satin damask. Tables with a delicate inlay of rare woods upheld great bowls and vases of flowers, and the warm air was spicy with their perfume.

  A fire of logs burned in an enormous fireplace, and the white ash, falling soundlessly to the great hearth, added its aromatic incense to the perfume of the flowers.

  ‘Ah, so there you are, my dear!’ the Comte’s aunt exclaimed, and beckoned her to come nearer. She was a plump, shrewd, but thoroughly amiable-looking woman in an extremely smart outfit.

  ‘Do sit down,’ she said, vaguely indicating any one of the chairs near her. ‘Philippe should join us any minute now, and I suppose we shall have the pleasure of Celeste’s company as soon as she’s put on all that make-up she wears. For a young girl it seems to me a trifle excessive, but young things nowadays don’t seem to know the value of a natural complexion.’

  She peered rather hard at Diana, as if she was both intrigued and surprised by what she saw.

  ‘You’re very attractive, my dear,’ she told her. ‘English, of course?’

  Diana nodded.

  Lady Bembridge clasped her be-ringed hands.

  ‘I always say you can tell an English girl as soon as she enters a room. It isn’t only the complexion, but something about the carriage of the head, and the way she behaves. Neither shy nor too forthcoming.’ She picked up a pearl-handled lorgnette and levelled it at Diana. ‘I’ve lived in England for years, and I speak English whenever the opportunity arises, so it will be nice to have you in the house. One of these days I shall go back to England, and it would be a pity if I were not as fluent as I used to be.’

  Diana agreed, and murmured something that sounded appropriate. And then because she didn’t know quite what to say, she asked the elderly lady whether she liked England.

  ‘Of course,’ the reply came immediately. ‘Kensington Gardens and Fortnum & Mason’s! So delightful taking tea at Fortnum & Mason’s! Do you often do so, my dear?’

  ‘I have done,’ Diana answered.

  Lady Bembridge sighed.

  ‘A little flat in one of the nicest parts of London, and perhaps a cottage in the country. That is what I should like. You see, I became very English while I was living there, and I miss it all so much. But how can I go back while I have a nephew to look after?’

  ‘The Comte de Chatignard told me that he is to be married in three or four months, and then, surely, you can safely allow his wife to take on your responsibilities?’

  ‘What, Celeste?’ Lady Bembridge demanded. She put back her head and laughed briefly but cruelly. ‘You’ve seen her, of course? And heard her talking with that dreadful Middle-West accent of hers? I believe it’s called “Middle-West”, but I’ve never been to America, so I wouldn’t really know. But if Philippe imagines you’re going to eradicate that in a matter of weeks! Well, it’s asking rather a lot of you, my dear, that’s all I can say!’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Diana said quickly. ‘There are a lot of accents in the world, and sometimes it’s just a question of becoming accustomed to them to find them quite pleasant. And Celeste—Miss O’Brien has a lot of charm.’

  Her eyes met and held Diana’s. ‘Charm! Can you see her, Miss Craven, when you have finished with her—and what is four months, I ask you?—being so completely transformed that my nephew’s intimate friends and relatives will be able to look upon her as an ideal wife for him, a suitable Comtesse? Even if I admit that she will look well at the head of his table ... so long as she remains silent!—how far will that get him?’

  ‘A pretty woman—a beautiful woman, is always an asset to a man,’ Diana murmured awkwardly. ‘Particularly one in the Comte’s position.’

  Lady Bembridge looked scornful.

  ‘What sort of an asset? Someone to make love to when he has nothing better to do ... But a mistress would provide him with that land of satisfaction! Why does he have to turn her into a wife?’

  Diana felt and looked shocked, and Lady Bembridge made a little gesture with one of her plump white hands.

  ‘Oh, you English!’ she exclaimed. ‘To you there is only one thing that is important, and that is that a man shall fall in love with a woman! That he shall find it quite impossible to live without her, and therefore have to ask her to marry him! But that is quite all right if she is suitable in every other way. ... If she is what his friends would approve of in a wife for him. But when she is not—’ She made another little gesture. ‘Philippe has had so many affairs. Why does he have to turn this into something serious?’

  Diana could not answer, and she looked round with relief as the Comte himself appeared.

  ‘You two seem to be getting along rather well,’ he observed, as he moved towards a cocktail cabinet in a corner. ‘What will you drink, Tante?’

  ‘I will have a very small, and a very dry, Martini.’

  ‘And you, Miss Craven?’ he asked, transferring his look to Diana.

  ‘Nothing for me, thank you, Monsieur le Comte.

  She was sure his black eyes gleamed with derision.

  ‘A little teetotaller, is that it?’ he said. ‘But a small sherry will not rob you of your poise.’ And he put one into her hand. Lady Bembridge sipped at her Martini as if it offended her. ‘Celeste will join us in her own good time?’ she inquired. ‘She is, perhaps, a little exhausted after your dissipations of last night? I understand it was at a very early hour this morning that you returned here.’

  ‘Four o’clock,’ he admitted. ‘But Celeste thrives on nightlife. It increases the natural rose in her cheeks!’

  ‘Hmm. Mademoiselle O’Brien is likely to prove a somewhat exhausting wife for you, Philippe, unless you renounce a few of your money-making hobbies, or make the discovery once you are married that it is not necessary to pay her so much attention.’

  ‘And isn’t that inevitable once one is married?’ the Comte inquired with lazy amusement, and this time his look included Diana as well as his aunt. ‘Once the bird is caught and tamed it ceases to have such a fatal fascination, and it’s sad but true that familiarity breeds contempt.’

  He glanced at his watch, and his expression grew more grim. ‘I requested Celeste to make herself presentable and join us here in thirty minutes,’ he said. ‘But she has already overrun the time by five minutes.’

  ‘The girl has no knowledge of time,’ Lady Bembridge murmured cuttingly. ‘But,’ she added, ‘if I were betrothed to you I would refuse to allo
w you to give me a time limit. It whets a man’s appetite to be kept waiting.’

  Celeste, when she arrived at last, however, did not look as if she anticipated a look of burning impatience on the Comte’s face. She apologized hurriedly, and the fact that she looked quite lovely didn’t seem to melt her fiancé. She was wearing a fur-trimmed outfit of misty blue, and her golden hair swung on her shoulders in a kind of pale molten splendour. Lady Bembridge levelled her lorgnette-and surveyed it as if she found it difficult to believe in.

  Outside in the courtyard a magnificent cream, chauffeur-driven car waited, and the Comte handed his fiancée into it, and then stood aside to permit Diana to follow her. But she said quickly, a faint flush rising to her cheeks: ‘I can sit beside the chauffeur if you would prefer it! You’ve probably got a lot to talk about...’

  But he took her firmly by the elbow, and smiled his cold, crooked smile. And for the first time she noticed that it was definitely crooked.

  ‘I shall have nothing to say to Celeste until I have been restored by an excellent lunch,’ he told her.

  And, incredibly, he seemed to mean that. Not until coffee time did he turn his attention from the food and want to know how they proposed to spend the afternoon.

  ‘I can drop you wherever you wish to go, but after that you must take a taxi.’ He looked along the length of his cigarette at the brightness of its tip. ‘Tomorrow night I shall be giving a dinner-party—a really formal dinner-party—which is actually for the purpose of introducing Celeste to people she has not hitherto met,’ he explained. He looked directly at Diana. ‘I leave it to you decide what she shall wear, and perhaps it would be as well to pay a visit to Madame Armand this afternoon. Madame Armand has impeccable taste, and you can choose something for yourself if your wardrobe does not include a sufficiently formal dinner dress.’