A Moment in Paris Page 4

  ‘It is quite a delight to me to see how well she becomes that white dress. There is a certain innocent quality ... But rather a lot of the gamine also. One wonders why so many men are attracted by the undeveloped. But I would not have believed Philippe would find it quite so irresistible. He is a mature man, mature in every way, and whether or not he will find it easy to live with such a lack of sophistication only time will prove.’

  ‘It could be that Mademoiselle O’Brien’s absolute lack of sophistication is one of her greatest attractions in the eyes of the Comte,’ Diana could not resist remarking. ‘Quite possibly he has had just a little too much sophistication in his life.’

  Denys Armand smiled faintly.

  ‘Very likely you are right, but one must not deny the girl’s looks. Those eyes of hers are wonderful, and she is not too uncertain of herself to know how to use them. She is an instinctive coquette. Let us hope the Duchesse de Savenne will be so impressed by her external attributes that she will not inquire too deeply into her antecedents.’

  ‘The Duchesse de Savenne?’

  ‘Monsieur le Comte’s godmother. An immensely shrewd old lady, with a biting tongue at times. Even Philippe has been known to hesitate before deliberately incurring her displeasure.’

  ‘I see,’ Diana said, and felt she had been presented with a fresh problem. Or was this one exclusively Philippe’s? ‘And the Duchesse has not so far met Miss O’Brien?’

  ‘Not so far. But of course she will have to be presented and more or less passed judgment on before any serious marriage plans are entered into. Family approval is all-important in France when a marriage contract has to be drawn up, and apart from everything else we do not accept divorce.’

  ‘But there isn’t any question of divorce...’

  ‘At this stage, how could there be?’ Madame Armand returned sweetly. Then she deliberately changed the subject.

  A little later Diana decided to make her escape, but as if her intention showed in her face she found the Comte at her elbow as she was about to rise from her chair and edge towards the

  ‘You are not to go yet, mademoiselle,’ he told her. ‘Celeste needs you, and it is important that you should remain.’

  ‘But Celeste is quite all right,’ she protested, looking round at a group that included Celeste, and amongst whom were some obviously impressionable young men. ‘I can’t think that there is any reason why I should stay down here any longer, and I would rather go to bed.’

  ‘Would you?’ His sardonic eye rested on her, and then on her bare throat. ‘It is a pity I forced you to denude yourself of your pearls.’

  She regarded him coldly.

  ‘And even that is quite unimportant,’ she said. ‘What I wear here is—or should be—of no interest to anyone.’

  He smiled enigmatically.

  ‘Wear what you please, but all I ask is that you do not cut the ground from Celeste s feet altogether.’ His voice grew more serious. ‘Our little altercation earlier is forgotten, I hope? I have a bad temper, and lose it easily, but you will have to grow accustomed to that. Also, I repeat, Celeste needs you.’

  Diana felt suddenly rather helpless, although she was still indignant with him.

  ‘In a few days ... perhaps a week . we shall be going to the country,’ he said. ‘But before we leave Paris, there is someone to whom she has not yet been introduced as my future wife ... someone she must meet.’

  Before she could stop herself, Diana uttered the name that apparently awed even him. ‘The Duchesse de Savenne?’

  ‘So you have been having a little conversation with Madame Armand,’ he remarked dryly. ‘It didn’t escape me that she got you alone for a little while. Did she go so far as to ask you what you think I see in Celeste?’

  Diana flushed, and for a moment she looked almost distressed.

  ‘The last thing I want to do is to discuss you and your affairs, monsieur,’ she told him. ‘They are absolutely no concern of mine.’

  ‘For the time being,’ he told her even more dryly, ‘you will have to make them your concern. You will have to help me with Celeste. It is true that my godmother is a—well, a tartar, I think you would call her in your country!—but I am fond of her, and I wish her to become fond of Celeste.’

  ‘But you would still marry Celeste, whether your godmother approved of her or not?’ Diana heard herself asking.

  A haughty expression such as she had not yet seen on his face swept up over it. His dark eyes withered her with the disdain of their look.

  ‘A member of my family does not withdraw from anything, mademoiselle,’ he told her icily. ‘Once committed, we abide by our commitments. There are no extenuating circumstances.’ Many weeks later she was to recall his words, and believe in them even more than she did when she heard them first. ‘Whatever Denys may have said to you, you can take it that I fully intend to marry Celeste.’

  She looked down at the floor to hide her confusion, ‘I’m sorry, monsieur.’

  ‘I’ll believe that you’ll do everything in your power to help me ... and Celeste.’ He turned partially away from her. ‘You may go now if you wish.’

  But during the next few days there was very little Diana was able to do that she herself felt was of any value to Celeste.

  The girl was instinctively lazy, and although she wanted to acquire polish and appear more at ease in sophisticated society, she was only too happy basking like a kitten in the lap of unaccustomed luxury, and putting out little effort.

  She would return from lavish outings with Philippe, more eager to display the jewels he had bought her than study French verbs.

  ‘Let’s have some tea,’ she would say, ringing frenziedly for Hortense; and when it arrived she would smoke cigarette after cigarette and appeal to Diana, who had spent the morning quietly with Lady Bembridge, or done some shopping on her own account, to give an account of her movements. Frequently she tried to induce Diana to talk about her past life, and on this subject Diana was about as communicative as a clam. All she would admit was that she was as good as alone in the world, and leave it at that.

  Celeste would sigh a little sometimes.

  ‘To me you’re a bit of a mystery, you know,’ she said more than once. ‘Why are you bothering about this teaching business when you ought to be married? You’ve got looks...’ She surveyed Diana’s looks thoughtfully. ‘You’re not ravishing like Denys Armand, but you’ve got the most wonderful colouring, and you’re my idea of a lady. You could fit in anywhere, I should say ... even married to Philippe!’ She put back her head and laughed rather shortly. ‘Would you like to be married to Philippe?’

  Diana looked rather prim.

  ‘That’s the sort of question I’d rather not answer,’ she replied. ‘For one thing, it’s quite impossible.’

  Celeste turned huge eyes towards her.

  ‘What’s impossible? I mean, what is impossible? Not likely to come off...? Well, years ago I never dreamed I’d be marrying a Comte! I was turned out at sixteen to earn my own living, and for a long time it never struck me I could do anything better for myself than marry someone I met on a film set. It was only gradually that it began to sink in that I’d a lot of appeal, and I might do better. Even so, I guess I never thought I’d end up by marrying anyone like Philippe.’

  Diana asked her a question, rather abruptly. ‘Are you honestly sure in your heart that you’ll be happy when you’re married to him?’

  Celeste shrugged. ‘What is happiness?’ she wanted to know staring at her engagement ring. ‘Certainly not having to make do without money, and yet there are people who say too much money gets in the way of happiness! But I’d rather run the risk and have all I want—and can get!—as well as a man who may, or may not, love me for ever! After all, not many men do love a woman for ever, do they?’

  Diana regarded her thoughtfully.

  ‘Some do,’ she replied quietly. ‘And quite a lot of women love only one man in the whole of their lifetime.’

  Celeste
lighted a cigarette, and as the flame of the gold lighter lit up her face, the fact that she was tormented occasionally by strong twinges of doubt was given away by her uneasy expression.

  ‘There’s one thing I would like to know,’ she admitted, puffing furiously at the cigarette. ‘Philippe has said some charming things to me sometimes. He pays me the sort of compliments American men would never dream of thinking up, and the way he looks at me when I’m all ready to go out, and wearing something that’s cost the earth, I could swear he does love me. But he’s never said so in so many words...’ Her long eyelashes fluttered upwards swiftly, and she stared straight at Diana.

  ‘It’s usual for a man to say ‘I love you,’ isn’t it, to a girl? And even if he said it in French I’d understand. ... I looked it up in a French dictionary.’ She repeated the words softly: ‘Je t’adore!” I thought it sounded rather nice.’ Her eyelids fluttered again, and she looked down at the toe of her smart suede shoe. With a little burst of wistfulness she confessed: ‘I want him to love me violently!!! Not just in a half-hearted manner, but violently!’

  Diana cast a glance round the lovely room, and it seemed to her so full of the evidences of the Comte’s violent love that she felt she had to mention them. After all, men didn’t shower presents of that quality on a girl—in addition to being willing to marry her!—without feeling something rather more than a lukewarm attachment.

  Celeste’s face brightened quite remarkably.

  ‘I never thought of that,’ she admitted.

  The next day she came back from lunching at the Ritz and looked so thoroughly pleased with herself that Diana was surprised. She hadn’t seen her wear quite such a carefree expression before, and in addition she looked particularly lovely. ‘Philippe asked a business friend to join us for lunch, and he was American. What do you think of that? A one hundred per cent American from Illinois, and I was so thrilled I just talked my head off all through lunch!’

  She struggled into a white silk sweater and black matador pants, and then curled up on a settee.

  ‘Just think,’ she said excitedly, ‘we both spoke the same language—and I don’t just mean the Queen’s English!—and he’s seen one or two of the films I’ve made, and if only Philippe would allow it he could offer me a wonderful part now! But,’ she pouted, ‘you can see Philippe allowing his Comtesse to appear in films, can’t you? The very idea brought cold sparks to those dark eyes of his—’ Diana was able to visualize the cold sparks very easily—‘and Mr. Sherman (his name is Robert Sherman, by the way) was tactful enough to drop the subject. But he’s interested in antiques, and very interested in old French castles, and Philippe has invited him to stay with us when we go to his own chateau. Somewhere in the Pyrenees, wherever the Pyrenees may be.’

  ‘It’s a chain of mountains separating France from Spain,’ Diana explained. She had often wondered where the Comte’s family home was situated, and now her eyes brightened. ‘Much farther south than we are here.’

  ‘Then perhaps it’ll be a bit warmer than it is here, Celeste remarked, looking out of the window at the bare trees of Paris. Then her face fell considerably. ‘But Philippe says I’ve got to be very good and study hard when we go away from Paris, and that you’ve insisted on it.’ She looked a little reproachfully at Diana. ‘I want to learn a lot of things, but I’m not at all sure I’m going to like the country. I’ve never been used to it, and Paris is so exciting!’ She was plainly thinking of the night-clubs and the endless different restaurants she had become accustomed to visiting with Philippe. ‘And before we leave we’ve got to visit some awful godmother of Philippe’s, and I believe we’re having lunch with her tomorrow. I shall be scared out of my wits!’

  ‘You won’t,’ Diana attempted to reassure her. ‘She’s only human, and she can’t eat you.’

  ‘But Philippe says I’ve got to be careful what I say, and I must look my best.’ Her eyes were suddenly haunted. ‘I wish I didn’t have to meet any of Philippe’s relatives, and really close friends. But if I’m going to marry him ... well, I suppose I’ve got to, haven’t I?’

  ‘If you’re going to marry him,’ Diana echoed her softly. Surely there wasn’t any doubt...

  They left for the Duchesse de Savenne’s home just before noon. The house was within easy reach of the heart of Paris, and the journey by car was quite a brief one.

  But it took them out into the quiet of the countryside, where already the signs of spring were everywhere. It was easy to believe the sap was rising and bubbling in seemingly lifeless branches, and that the hard crust of the brown fields would soon be rich and green. Farther south—even a little farther south, Diana thought—everything would be much farther advanced than it was here, and in the Pyrenees...

  High in the Pyrenees it would still be winter, but in the foothills there would be warm airs and flowers creeping up the valleys. There was the nearness to the Mediterranean, for one thing; and the solid rampart formed by the mountain range protected the villages huddling in its shelter.

  They swept between a pair of gates, and ahead of them was the stately bulk of a house. The Comte was driving his powerful cream car himself, and Diana occupied the back seat with Lady Bembridge. Celeste, in dark, soft mink and a pale rose dress, with no other ornamentation than a pair of large pearl studs attached to her ears, was seated beside the Comte, and Diana could imagine how her gloved hands clenched one another as they described a triumphal flourish and drew up before the house.

  There were gardens crowding in close to the house that were very formal, and just now they were devoid of colour, but their very formality must have set Celeste’s heart beating more quickly. They spoke of large regiments of gardeners, and a love of order and unfailing good taste, while the American girl had a love of flamboyance in her veins which she was striving hard to conquer.

  Philippe slipped out from behind the driving wheel and helped his fiancee to alight. Then he assisted his aunt—whose movements were a trifle slow because of her rheumatic affliction—and last of all Diana. She was aware of him smiling at her very faintly as he stood momentarily near to her.

  He was wearing a beautifully tailored dark lounge suit, and his tie was exceedingly restrained. His linen could hardly have been more immaculate.

  For an instant, as she looked up into his dark eyes, a strange thought leapt through Diana’s mind. ‘He’s the best-looking man I’ve ever met, and Celeste is very, very fortunate; but I don’t envy her. It would be madness to envy her, for it would be death to be married to a man like that and know that he didn’t love you. For love is beyond criticism and impatience and the recognition of flaws. Love is humble, and grateful, and it doesn’t want anything altered. Anything...

  As she stood there, in the sunshine on the drive, she felt that she ought to warn Celeste. And then the Comte’s hard fingers pressed against her elbow, and it seemed to her that his smile grew harshly mocking.

  ‘We are invited to lunch, mademoiselle,’ he said smoothly. ‘And my godmother will not excuse unpunctuality.’

  Diana hurriedly pulled herself together, and mounted the steps to the great front door. She was wearing rather a sober shade of grey, but by contrast with it her copper-bright hair and her pale but flawless skin were undoubtedly at their best. And all her accessories were entirely right.

  Celeste, naturally, went ahead of her and Lady Bembridge, and it was not until they had crossed a marble-floored hall and a wide strip of richly carpeted corridor that Philippe must have realized his betrothed’s footsteps were faltering. He slid a hand inside her arm and gripped it firmly, and the footsteps seemed to gather strength. Diana drew a swift breath of relief: for Celeste squared her shoulders and, when a pair of white double doors were drawn inwards, she was able to walk forward with a certain amount of assurance.

  The Comte dropped his hand, and Diana manoeuvred herself into a position nearer to Celeste’s elbow. The old lady in the carved elbow-chair near the window—through which streamed all the reflected brightness
from the gardens—sat a little more upright and studied them as they approached. She was a very old lady indeed, and she was also very deaf. She spoke loudly to the slender, exquisitely elegant young man who stood beside her chair.

  ‘Which one is it, Michael? Philippe usually goes for the fair ones, but I always said he’d have enough sense to marry a brunette. They’re not so ornamental, but you can tell whether or not they’re dyed. Ah, but this girl’s a redhead...!’ Afterwards Diana understood only too clearly what the Comte had known he was facing up to when he recognized the futility of trying to evade his godmother’s blessing on the marriage he had decided to contract. He had known the Duchesse de Savenne all his life—and she had been interested in his arrival even before he occupied the cot above which she stooped to peck at his cheek once he had been laid there by the nurse. She was among the most eccentric of elderly ladies bearing a time-honoured title, and her deafness made her a positive menace, as well as a source of astonishment.

  She used an old-fashioned ear-trumpet—declining to have anything to do with modern methods of relieving her particular affliction—and she held it out to whom ever she was in conversation with at the time, and the recipient of her uncensored confidences had (if he was tall, and she was seated) to bend practically from the waist to be on a level with the somewhat fearsome-looking instrument.

  Michael Vaughan was both tall and supple, so that he curved gracefully above her, and it was the sight of him there that prevented Diana speaking until too late. ‘I like the look of her,’ the Duchess boomed in Michael’s ear. ‘She’s got the sense to dress quietly. No gaudy colours to fight with that hair!... It would be quite unpardonable.’ And she beckoned imperiously.