Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (42 page)

The whole vista of the long, large rectangle, sequestered as it was by its columned promenades, gave it the appearance of a hidden island, complete unto itself in all the hurly-burly of Paris.

“Like a secret garden,” Iris said ecstatically. “Can we go inside the courtyard?”

“Um hum. Come, we’ll amble along one of the loggias.”

Louisa consulted her watch. “It’s eleven-thirty. That gives us two hours before meeting Paul. Enough time, granted, but you’ll want to spend some time at the flower market along the quays — that is, if it’s not a bird market today. So we mustn’t linger too long.”

• • •

La Chandelle,
on the Rue de Lille, was a good bit more impressive than the place Paul Chandon had chosen on the Ile St. Louis. It looked expensive, smelled expensive, and had a decided aura of sophistication.

The maitre d’ asked, with suave cordiality, if they were expecting someone.

“Monsieur Chandon’s table,” Louisa answered. “Has he arrived yet?”

“Please,” the man said pleasantly. “This way, Mesdames.”

He led them past a polished bar and through to a bright, cheerful room with great bowls of silvery, dried flowers massed in stunning profusion. There was sparkling napery on the tables, the gleam of crystal and silver and a general air of easy affluence.

In spite of this, Iris noted that several of the men diners were in casual attire, with carelessly-worn jackets and ties loosened. At least two men wore no ties at all.

You wouldn’t see that in Manhattan, she thought, where a great emphasis was placed on neckties. Women might go half naked, but the strictures for men were merciless enforced.

She rather approved of the more relaxed status quo here, and then saw Paul Chandon, standing at their approach. He himself was without a tie, though he had on a lightweight jacket that was unbuttoned.

Two days had passed since she had seen him, thought it seemed, for some reason, far more than that. She gave him a quick, critical look and, whatever she might think of him, had to acknowledge that this Paul Chandon was a strikingly handsome man. Coming to terms with that fact, she accepted it, and promised herself that she would be very understanding with her aunt. Lesser women than Louisa had capitulated to men not as prepossessing in their appearance.

And I will be nice, she told herself. I will be charming, agreeable, and utterly adorable.

A mischievous thought came to her. How about going all out and being
so
utterly adorable that Paul Chandon would find her too enchanting to resist?

In short, seduce the would-be lover of her own aunt.

Now
that
sounds too much like a Feydeau farce, she decided with an inward grin, and answered Paul’s greeting.

“Hello yourself,” she said gaily. “And how are you, Monsieur Chandon?”

He was very well, he said, standing like a sentinel until the women were seated. “But I am sorry about last night. Something came up that was totally unexpected. So I thought that, at least, I could make up for it just a little bit by this.”

He added, hastily, “I mean, naturally, make it up to myself for the loss of your charming company last evening.”

“Don’t give it another thought,” Louisa said. “We had a very pleasant day and had dinner at a restaurant I remembered from previous trips.”

She outlined their itinerary of yesterday, and when she mentioned the
Auberge Bretagne
Paul’s face lit up.

“But I know it,” he said. “I have been there several times.”

“Marvelous crayfish,” Louisa commented. She looked about. “I can imagine that there will be
enormous
portions in this pretty, hospitable place and I am counting calories.”

“Count them when you return to New York,” he replied, smiling.

She laughed, and turned to Iris. “Shall we have our bread and cheese in our rooms tonight?” she suggested.

“I’m all for it. And afterwards I’ll wash my hair. It’s way past due. I’m letting myself go in the most awful way. Paris has laid a spell on me.”

“I was almost sure it would,” Paul said.

“Oh, were you?”

He laughed, didn’t pursue the subject, and told the waiter who came over that the ladies would have very dry martinis and he himself would have a bock.

Iris was dying of curiosity to know what “a bock” was, but she would sooner have cut her tongue out than ask. And when their drinks came, Paul’s bock turned out to be beer.

So now I know what a bock is, she thought, and decided that her knowledge of the world was improving.

“I suppose you have bought some Paris dresses,” Paul said to Iris as they sipped their drinks.

“Not a one. Nor will I. Oh, a scarf or two, probably. But in the main, presents to take back home.”

“You have many friends?”

“Yes, I guess I do, friends and acquaintances. We all do, don’t we?”

“We do when we’re young,” he said.

“Why not when we’re older?”

“Because when we are older, circumstances change.”

She gave him a curious glance. He was certainly paying a bit more attention to her today. For what reason?

She narrowed her eyes. To get on the good side of her? And would he next produce some friend of his, saying, “I thought it would be nice if there were four of us.”

“Friends,” Paul continued, “loom rather large in our scheme of things. But I know people, of all ages, who have joined the Peace Corps and left friends, and family, behind. Friends don’t make a life, Mademoiselle.”

“They help,” Louisa said ruminatively. “But they can’t make up for the most important things.”

Like the loss of a loved one, Iris thought. No one could make up for something like that.

“You have not been to the Beaubourg?” Paul asked, with a small smile.

“Not yet, but it’s on the agenda,” Louisa replied. “What do you think of it, Paul?”

“What do I think of it? That it’s terrible, ugly and garish … and yet exactly what Paris needed.”

He laughed. “You will have to make up your own minds, when you go there. Naturally I miss the proximity of Les Halles, which is now in Rungis.”

“I’ll miss it too,” Louisa said. “How many times have I gone there, after a long night’s wandering. I can’t believe it’s gone.”

Then Louisa and Paul compared notes about all the good times each had had at the former Paris central market, and all the good times they had had at other places.

Meanwhile Louisa, Iris noted, sparkled, grew rosy and animated and said, yes, she would have another martini, thank you.

“Mademoiselle?”

“One’s my limit during the day, thank you.”

The second drink for the other two arrived, and the conversation between Louisa and Paul resumed. But there was something else Iris was aware of. Every time she looked up from sipping the single martini she was nursing, she was sure that Paul Chandon’s eyes had been on her, and that when she looked in his direction, they slid away quickly.

Now
what was he up to, she wondered uncomfortably, and was vastly relieved when it was decided that they would give the order for their lunch.

Iris studied the gigantic menu and said she would have paté de maison and steak tartare.

“With all these goodies?” Louisa cried. “You must be coming down with something!”

“It’s all I want.”

“It can happen that someone in love loses the appetite,” Paul hazarded. “That could be the answer.”

“Not for me,” Iris said tartly.

“Too bad,” he said, with one of his teasing smiles. “I am sorry to hear that, Mademoiselle.”

“I wouldn’t want you to lose sleep over it,” she answered evenly.

“I will try not to.”

He threw down his carte. “I have made my selection.”

Louisa, raising contrite green eyes, said that she was still wavering. “Forgive me, but I’m having rather a struggle.”

“There is no hurry,” Paul said gently. “In fact, quite the opposite.”

“But I must make up my mind,” she said, avidly scanning her menu, and after a minute or two made her decision, laughing at her greed.

Paul gave the order to the starched waiter and, in doing so, was very much the assured host.

“Et pour moi,
” he finished, “asparagus vinaigrette.
Après Ça,
filets de poisson poches au vin blanc.”

“Très bien, Monsieur. Et maintenant, le vin?”

“Pour Madame et moi-même,
une carafe de Chenin Blanc.”

The waiter scribbled.

“Pour Mademoiselle, une demi-bouteille de Bordeaux rouge.”

“Merci, Monsieur.”

After that, Paul leaned back, puffing on his Gauloise. “Have you done any sightseeing today?” he asked.

“Yes, of course,” Louisa said. “Among other things, I introduced Iris to the Palais-Royal.”

“Ah, the Palais-Royal. It’s a gem.”

He tapped ashes in a small porcelain tray that bore the house name. “It’s interesting how the centuries come and go, but change, in some aspects, so little. Today, more than three centuries after that palace was built, the general outlines of it are still intact. Did you know that the eminent cardinal suffered from disabling headaches?”

“I seem to have heard that he also suffered from terrible hemorrhoids,” Iris said bluntly.

“True,” Paul said, with one of his dazzling smiles. “Only, since we are at lunch, I had not meant to bring that up.”

“Leave it to Iris to call a spade a spade,” Louisa said. “It’s all right, dear, we all know that about poor Richelieu.”

“I imagine most of us know of his outrageous extravagance,” Paul commented.. “His household — servants and aides — numbered something like twelve hundred persons. That, by anyone’s standards, is living in style.”

“While the poor went without bread,” Iris observed.

“While the poor went without bread,” he agreed. “But they finally decided that they would have their bread and they took their revenge. The Revolution and the guillotine.”

He smiled. “When I was young, just a young boy, I read a book that remains to this day one of my favorites of all literature.”

“What was that, Paul?” Louisa asked.

“It began,” he said, “with these lines: ‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair …’“

“A Tale of Two Cities,”
Iris said, and wished he hadn’t quoted that. It was too near to her, too dear to her and to have Paul Chandon, for whom she had little regard, recite those almost sacred lines — and further, to know them so well — endowed him with a sensitivity she was disinclined to acknowledge.

“Yes, of course,” he said, and gave her another one of his maddeningly teasing smiles. “You not only speak French very well but you are also very proficient in literature. Victor Hugo … Dickens …”

But before Iris could think of a suitable retort, the waiter wheeled over a cart and, with grandiose flourishes, began serving their meal.

A meal which was very good indeed ‘by anyone’s standards,’ Iris thought, paraphrasing Paul’s earlier phrase.

Paul himself, however, seemed appetite-less, and ate only sparingly, leaving most of the food on his plate.

At something like 100 francs per portion, this seemed a rather cavalier attitude to Iris. Also, his behavior, so insouciant on the day they had met him, had subtly changed. He was not abstracted … it wasn’t that. He talked in lively fashion, but he seemed, at odd moments, thoughtful and … careful, Iris decided.

As if every move of his counted. As if he must do everything exactly right, without mistake … and so was not totally relaxed.

When they were having their coffee and the brandies Paul ordered with it, he said, “And now may we discuss our postponed dinner together? I am so sorry it had to be delayed, and I hope you will forgive me. But unless for some reason it is out of the question for you, may we have dinner tomorrow evening?” He gave a wry little smile. “And this time, nothing will intervene … at least on my part.”

“That would be lovely, Paul.”

He looked at Iris. “Mademoiselle?”

“Why not?”

Why not indeed? There were many reasons why not, but she was powerless to voice them. It seemed she was stuck with Paul Chandon, whether she liked it or not, unless she wanted to bow out and leave her aunt to the mercies of this upstart.

“Wonderful,” he said warmly. “If you have no objections, I thought it would be pleasant to dine on the Butte. The Place du Tertre.”

“It would be perfect,” Louisa said enthusiastically. “Of course it’s not the best of weather today. If it rains tomorrow the Place du Tertre wouldn’t do, would it?”

“It won’t rain tomorrow,” he promised. “It will rain late tonight, but tomorrow will be fair again.”

“How do you know that?” Iris asked.

“I have listened to the weather reports on and off.”

“Where I come from, the weather reports are generally unreliable.”

“They are generally unreliable here too, but this time I am inclined to believe them.”

His flashing smile came once more.

“Because I want them to be correct,” he added.

“I hope you’re right,” Louisa said. “There’s nothing I’d like more than an evening on the Butte, and Iris will adore it.”

When they finally rose to go, Iris’s watch showed her that it was now after three. Most of the afternoon gone, she thought discontentedly.

And her aunt, being ushered out by a gallant Paul, was undeniably more impressed with him than ever.

It certainly looked like a losing battle.

Outside on the street, Louisa said, after thanking Paul for a “lovely, lovely lunch,” that if they were going to Montmartre and the Butte tomorrow, it would be a good idea to start early.

“Do you think you could possibly manage to call at the hotel at around five? So that Iris can see the transformation of the city as night falls. It’s really part of the whole thing.”

“I will be there at five on the dot.”

He looked down at them. “What are you going to do now?” he asked.

“Oh … I did think I might hop over to the Quai des Grand Augustins, since we’re so near it,” Louisa said. “I saw something in one of the antique shops and I’d like to look at it again.”