Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (46 page)

He looked down at her. “Paris is, I sometimes think, at its best in the cold months. Then there are no tourists about at all, and Paris belongs to the Parisians again.”

“I suppose we
are
a bother,” she said tartly, and he laughed.

“Some are, but certainly not the company in which I find myself,” he said, and for a brief moment touched her arm.

Iris resisted an impulse to pull away from his touch, or look down pointedly at his hand on her. But remembering the promise to her aunt, she smiled nicely … and in any event, the hand didn’t rest there for very long.

At last they were at the top.

There, looking like all the countless pictures she had seen of it, was Sacré Coeur, in its field of green lawn and, as Aunt Louisa had said, as white as alabaster.

They walked the distance over to the parapet. “Now we’ll just stand here and wait,” Louisa said. “And Iris, darling, it is worth waiting for.”

It was a few minutes before seven, and on this early September evening the sky was still brilliant, but slowly gathering the colors of the coming night. The sun had set but, as it died, spread the vestiges of its radiance throughout the great expanse of sky that covered Paris. Little by little the flame and vivid pinks became softer, more diffuse, turning to gentle violets and darker purples.

And at last, as if a giant hand had snuffed out the day, it was evening.

“Watch now,” Louisa said softly.

There was at first only a shadowy, mysterious city down below, with no more nuances of color in the sky. In the deepening dusk, all seemed muted and waiting, as if time itself had been arrested … until suddenly, eerily, there was a pinpoint of brightness down below … like the flick of a match.

And then a city, which had been nearly invisible a few seconds before, was incandescent with light. Night-time Paris had come to life.

“It’s all right,” Louisa said gently. “I cried too, the first time.”

The Place du Tertre, that traditional haven for painters, was now empty of them. Palettes and brushes had been put away for the day, and the great outdoor restaurant, with its seemingly limitless rows of umbrellaed tables, all lit with small, rosy lamps, was like a festival in the darkness.

“This is really something,” Iris exclaimed, overwhelmed. “It’s all like a great, fantastic party!”

“Europeans like the open air,” Louisa said, “as you can readily tell from their streetside cafes.”

“Yes, and I think it’s marvelous.”

They were led to a table on the border of the area, which gave them a measure of privacy. It also afforded a view of the night sky, where they could see the stars that were appearing overhead.

“I’ll have a
very
dry martini,” Iris announced. “I am quite undone by that incredible transformation we just saw … the lights going on all over the city. Oh, don’t look at me! I still feel like bawling.”

“Only someone with a heart of stone would fail to vibrate to it,” Louisa agreed. “Paul, a martini for me too, please.”

“Deux martinis, très sec, et pour moi un Dubonnet blonde,”
he told the waitress.

“Merci, Monsieur,
” the girl said, with a flirtatious, red-lipped smile. She was young, pretty and with a rather shocking cleavage.

It was all enormously festive and exciting and Iris, as she had promised, sat back and allowed herself to enjoy the delightful surroundings to the full.

It was certainly romantic, with the sparkle of crystal and silver on damask cloths, the winking radiance of the little table lamps and the riot of color the rows of overhead umbrellas provided.

A strolling violinist, clad in Romany garb and very dashing, played songs of yesterday and today. He played well, and the music added its bit to the overall effect. Occasionally someone sang a few bars along with the violin.

The martini, when delivered, was excellent, dry and bracing. “It’s perfect,” Iris said gratefully.

“So is mine,” Louisa declared, and all three of them clinked glasses with cheerful abandon.

To sit up here at the top of Paris, under the darkening sky, midst the rows and rows of tables that made tiny little islands, was like being separated from the rest of the world, totally removed from reality. The soft glow of the lamps which — as far as the eye could see — lit the dark of the Montmartre night, was almost hypnotic.

The shadowy street that surrounded the large central area of the outdoor restaurant seemed to pulse with recollections of things past. It was easy to imagine that, tired after a day’s painting, Utrillo, lugging his artist’s paraphernalia, was heading for the steps they had earlier climbed. Or Vlaminck, not yet famous, was on his way home to a spare meal of bread and cheese.

“What are you thinking of?” Paul asked Iris.

“Lots of things … all very nice.”

“My thoughts are nice too,” he said, and gave her a teasing look. “Of course I am thinking of pretty ladies, whereas you are undoubtedly thinking about — ”

“You think your thoughts and I’ll think mine,” she retorted, smiling. “
I
was thinking about how much I love Paris.”

“Very commendable,” he said. “So do I.”

He hummed a few bars of the song, and before she knew it, Iris was humming too. At which Paul picked up the words.

“I love Paris in the winter, when it drizzles,” he sang and Iris, chiming in, added, “I love Paris every moment … every moment of the year …”

And then, quite carried away, she finished the song with him.

“That was charming,” Louisa cried. “Both of you have such beautiful voices. As for me, I can’t even carry a tune. And Paul, your taking the second part, the harmony, was really lovely.”

“One of my few gifts,” he said, with a flashing smile. “Is everyone ready for another drink?”

Iris, when the second martini was brought to her, thought that she was having no trouble keeping her promise to her aunt. It was impossible, under the circumstances, to feel anything but joyous in such a beguiling setting and on such a balmy night.

She felt like dancing, like getting up on the table and dancing. She felt like filling one of her shoes with champagne and handing it out for all to drink from.

She was brought out of this reckless reverie by the violinist standing at their table. He threw a white-toothed smile Iris’s way, bowed gracefully, and asked what she would like him to play.

“Oh dear,” she said, drawing a blank. She couldn’t think of anything but
Autumn Leaves,
and Parisians must be sick and tired of that old chestnut.

“Please … you decide,” she said to Paul.

“Very well,” he said, and after thinking for only a moment, told the man,
“Toujours je t’aime, chérie.”

It was one of the
very
sentimental songs, and the musician played it soulfully, his eyes first on Iris, then Paul.

Iris, acutely embarrassed, toyed with her bracelet. She could have killed Paul Chandon for his ill-chosen selection. It was only natural that the violinist would assume that the two younger people were attached to each other.

Couldn’t Paul have realized what would happen? And how must her aunt feel about this ridiculous mistake?

She felt that there would be no end to it. With melting cadenzas and little trills, the violinist wrung the last drop of poignancy from the song, until Iris’s nerve ends were thoroughly frazzled.

At last he finished, with a final flourish of the bow across the strings. Then he clicked his heels together and made a sweeping bow.

“Merci,
” Paul said, and put a bill in his hand.

“Merci, Mesdames, Monsieur,”
the man said, and with another bow, moved on.

“Iris, we must thank Paul for choosing that beautiful piece,” Louisa said, and to Iris’s relief she didn’t look the slightest bit put out.

“Thank you,” Iris said obediently.

“It’s always been a favorite of mine,” Louisa confessed. “Though I haven’t heard it in years.”

“Is it a favorite of yours?” he asked Iris.

“Oh, you can’t beat these unabashedly sentimental numbers for a heart tug or two,” she answered carelessly. And then because he looked really hurt and suddenly rather vulnerable, she added, “I like it very much and I heard it only recently, in New York.”

“Where?” her aunt wanted to know.

“At the Hotel Meurice. They have a Continental restaurant I’m fond of. A girl with a really good soprano voice sang it. Incidentally, that man is very good on his instrument.”

“He’s probably a student at the Conservatoire.”

The next song played, to Iris’s amusement, was
Autumn Leaves.
There must be still a few Americans left in Paris, she decided.

“Well, I suppose we should think about ordering,” Louisa said, and Paul signalled for the menus.

Louisa only glanced at hers. “Escargots, of course.”

“And for me as well,” Paul said. “Mademoiselle?”

“Thank you, but no.”

“An unadventurous palate?”

“In this case a squeamish one.”

“Perhaps some day you will change your mind.”

“I don’t forsee it, but anything’s possible.”

“Yes,” he said. “As you say, Mademoiselle, anything is possible.”

The constant “Mademoiselle” grated on her nerves. If I hear it one more time, Iris thought, I’ll have a fit.

“You know my name,” she said to him. “I realize that Europeans are a lot more formal — and to my mind somewhat stilted — than we are. My name is Iris. Is there any reason why you can’t say that instead of Mademoiselle?”

“No reason at all,” he replied. “I wondered why you had not suggested it before.”

“Was I supposed to suggest it?”

“Different cultures have different customs, Iris.”

“I won’t dispute that, Paul.” She smiled. “I’ll have gigot, please.”

With the meal, Paul chose a hearty red wine that would, he told them, go well with snails as well as the lamb.

The violinist played, the breeze sighed through the trees, and the lamps cast their subdued radiance. There was little conversation after a while: all three of them simply sat back and reveled in the beauty of the night.

They lingered over their meal for a long time. And after their coffee and dessert, Paul suggested brandy.

“Yes, that would be nice,” Louisa agreed.

“I simply
can’t,”
Iris protested.

They had polished off the bottle of wine, which now nestled in its ice bucket drained to the last drop.

Also, two martinis before that.

“Yes, you can,” Louisa said. “It will settle your tummy after that hearty meal.”

The waitress sashayed over.

“Trois fines,”
Paul told her.
“Et l’addition, s’il vous plait.”

“Oui oui, Monsieur.”

“You French do like your firewater,” Iris commented. “All the time wine, cognac, brandy …”

“You Americans drink cocktails, we don’t,” he reminded her. “Try and get a martini, for example, at the average cafe. You won’t. They are served only where tourists go.”

He flicked his lighter for Louisa’s cigarette, and then pulled one of his Gauloises from a pack. The waitress brought their brandies, and Paul warmed his with his fingers caressing the tumbler.

“But you are right about the wine,” he admitted. “In many parts of Europe, as you certainly know, the water is not quite up to snuff. And also not as plentiful as in your country.

“And so,” he went on, “we drink wine. Many French schoolchildren have, in their lunchboxes, their
tartine,
their cookie, and a half liter of wine.”

“Don’t you think that’s a bit dangerous?”

“You mean it will make small drunkards out of them?” He shook his head. “Not at all. The familiar is not a danger. It is the forbidden that is tempting … and that leads to overindulgence.”

“Perhaps.”

They prepared to leave at a little after ten-thirty. Many of the tables had been vacated, and the violinist had packed his instrument away and departed.

“Must we go?” Iris murmured. “Can’t we stay a little longer … say about twenty years?”

“In twenty years, you’ll be forty-four, and life would have passed you by still sitting here in the Place du Tertre.”

“I’m not sure I’d mind.”

The check was paid by Paul, quickly and unobtrusively, even before Louisa noticed that it had been brought. Afterward, she protested that it was totally unfair, that he was to have been
her
guest tonight. He was a very naughty boy, she said, and what was she going to
do
about him?

For a brief moment Iris felt a grudging respect for Paul Chandon. He had handled the ticklish matter with a certain aplomb.

And then she told herself that after all it was an investment on his part; an investment that could pay off handsomely if he played his cards right. A couple of lunches and a dinner amounted to very little if the stakes were high enough.

But she resolutely declined to dwell on it. She had promised to be a good girl, enjoy her evening, and make this a night to remember. And she would damned well keep her promise.

Besides, she felt much too contented to mull over unpleasant matters. It
had
been a wonderful evening, and she
had
enjoyed it … one hundred percent.

When they finally rose to go, she was a bit unsteady on her feet. Too much booze … she should never have had that brandy. Yet this had been a banner evening, and what did it matter in the general scheme of things if she was a little bit pie-eyed?

When they made their way back to the long, steep flight of steps leading down to the street, Louisa drew back.

“I’ve just decided,” she said, “that I’ll take the elevator instead.”

“Elevator?” Iris demanded. “What do you mean, elevator?”

“There is one, and I shall take it.”

“Then we’ll all take it.”

“No, no, you must walk down,” Louisa insisted. “You and Paul take the stairs, and I’ll meet you at the bottom.”

Iris looked down. “There are more now than when we came up,” she objected.

“Same number,” her aunt said cheerfully. “And you must do it right, go down the same way you came up. It’s all,” she said airily, “part of an evening on the Butte.”