Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (50 page)

She nodded wretchedly. “I guess that’s about it.”

“Well, I think we can find out without too much difficulty.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I will ring up the Paris office of Paul Chandon et Cie and say that I understand M. Chandon the younger is bound for the Côte d’Azur in the next few days. I will pretend to be a journalist, say that I myself will be on the Côte d’Azur and that I wish to interview him for an article.”

He beamed at her. “If the answer is yes, then we will indeed be certain that
your
Paul Chandon is the Paul Chandon I spoke of. The interview will be politely and regretfully denied, of course, as the Chandon family keeps — as you Americans say — a low profile. Personal publicity is something they are inclined to shun. However, it is an identity we are trying to establish, and the article is only a subterfuge.”

A waiter approached, and Monsieur Marchand ordered a cognac for Iris and himself.

Then he regarded her speculatively.

“Suppose,” he said, “that we find out that the young man in question is
my
Paul Chandon. What would your reaction be to that bit of news, Mademoiselle?”

Iris’s fingers twisted in her lap. “I wouldn’t know what to think,” she said. “Monsieur Marchand … these Chandons you speak of. I suppose they’re well off?”

“If I had their means,” he said dryly, “I would spend the rest of my life doing nothing but enjoying life’s pleasures. I would throw my typewriter away and sleep until noon every day.” He smiled. “Of course I would do no such thing, any more than Victor would give up driving for me and go into a factory. But yes,
ma chére,
they are very well off indeed. Neither father nor son would have any reason to pursue an impressionable American woman for reasons of bettering their lot in life.”

“I see.”

“Ah, here are our drinks.” He took a quick sip of the liqueur and then got up.

“And now I will make the call,” he announced.

“You’re sure you don’t mind doing this?” Iris asked him.

“Why should I? This is a small adventure for me. It is all, as you ebullient Americans say, great fun.”

He gave her a conspiratorial wink and then, expertly weaving his way through the nests of tables and chairs, went inside the cafe.

Iris waited, trying not to think, which was like saying, trying not to breathe, because the whole thing was beginning to assume the proportions of a nightmare.

She needed a good, stiff drink. Not cognac, but a good old honest martini.

Claude Marchand was gone for a very long time. I’ll go nuts, Iris thought, crossing and uncrossing her legs.

At last he came back. Tense, on edge, Iris watched his progress throught the clutter of tables. Once someone tapped him on the arm, and Iris saw his eyes light up. He even sat down briefly, and spoke a few animated words to a man of about his own age.

Then he got up and made his way back to her.

He picked up what was left of his cognac and tossed it off. “I made two telephone calls,” he told her. “I couldn’t get any information whatsoever from the office of the Chandon firm, so I had to fall back on a friend who works on a newspaper.”

“Did you find out anything?” Iris asked him anxiously.

“I did. My newspaper friend made one phone call and found out two important things. He rang up a service that provides information about people of newsworthy interest. Every newspaper, magazine and film company uses this celebrity service. In short, Mademoiselle, Paul Chandon
fils
has booked a flight to Nice leaving Paris on Wednesday.”

He lifted his shoulders expressively. “I think,” he said, “that we can be quite certain that the young man you know is the same Paul Chandon.”

“I can’t believe it,” Iris whispered. The sun, mercilessly bright, blinded her. She was conscious of Claude Marchand’s eyes on her, of his curious, blue-eyed scrutiny.

“I just don’t know what it means,” she said finally.

“Why don’t you drink that cognac,” he suggested. “You look a bit pale.”

“I’d like a martini. Could I have a martini?”

“You won’t get a decent martini here,” he told her. “How about scotch?”

“Yes, all right.”

He signalled for the waiter. “Johnnie Walker, no ice, no water.” He snapped his fingers.
“Tout de suite.
The young lady is feeling ill.”

“Oui oui.”

The scotch was brought on the double.

“Drink it,” M. Marchand ordered.

Obediently, Iris raised the glass to her lips.

“All down, finish it,” he said authoritatively.

She swallowed the rest of it and felt its effects almost immediately.

“Better?” her friend asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

“And now,” M. Marchand said, “would you like to know what I think this is all about, this business of your aunt and Paul Chandon?” He gave her a quick, somewhat defensive look. “Remember,” he reminded her, “that I am a writer, with an imagination that sometimes runs away with me. Yet, if I were not, I might be just as puzzled as you are yourself.”

“Please go on,” she implored him.

“Very well. We are, after my friend’s telephone calls, 99 and 99/100ths percent certain that the young man who has caused you such anguish and the son of the Chandon dynasty are one and the same. Yes?”

“I guess so.”

“Now, you claim that he persistently clings to your aunt, which has been a great worry, since you have suspected that he has eyes for her money. Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Only, since the Chandon family is fortunate enough to have amassed a considerable fortune, this would not make sense.” He searched her face. “Would it?” he persisted.

“No.”

“Then what is he after?”

“I don’t know,” she muttered.

There was such a long silence that she raised her eyes and, though the shade of her sunglasses, saw a faint smile on his face.

“Do you know?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said softly. “But I can conjecture.”

“I’d be very grateful if you’d tell me,” she said faintly.

“I will, but I think you have already started to guess. You are a bright, intelligent, aware young lady. So I doubt it will be too difficult for you to reach the same conclusions I have. In other words, Mademoiselle, I feel very strongly that this Paul Chandon, whom we both probably agree is the Paul Chandon of the distilleries, is in fact someone your aunt knows well — he, and his family. And that for some reason I personally can not surmise, your aunt wanted you to meet him as a stranger.” He looked keenly at her. “Could that be impossible,” he asked.

“Why, I met him purely by accident,” Iris cried. “We were at this small cafe on the Place St. Michel, and he pretended I’d lost something from my bag. It wasn’t true … he simply took it out of my bag and …”

The scene came back to her. First the walk up the Quai des Grands Augustins, then the bookstalls. And in a replay of the morning of their second day, something else. Her aunt tugging at her arm, as she looked at her watch, and saying something like, “We’ve spent enough time here, Iris …”

And then, as they were sitting in the cafe, Louisa had again looked at her watch.

More than that! The phone call, that first evening, which Louisa had simply said, casually, had been from a friend. A call that could have led to an arranged meeting.

But he had picked her pocket!

“Why should she do it like that?” she cried passionately. “If she wanted to introduce me to someone … a man …”

M. Marchand’s eyes were curious and attentive.

There was another flashback. This time in Manhattan. Her aunt saying, “Oh, and I know young men who can take you to discos and the theater …”

And herself: “Auntie, you won’t try to matchmake?”

“Have you come up with any answers?” M. Marchand asked.

“Possibly. If you don’t mind, may I have another scotch?”

“Just one more, because I think you need it.”

When it was in front of her, she took a deep swallow.

“Oh yes. Thank you.” She leaned on the table and shook her head. “Yes, I guess I do have some ideas about the whole thing,” she said slowly. “I think that, with the best intentions in the world, my aunt tried to play God with my life. She shouldn’t have done it.”

She raised brimming eyes, choked, and looked down again.

“You think your aunt arranged something,” M. Marchand said. “Yes, I too feel that it must have been along those lines. I don’t know why she did it, but — ” He put a thoughtful finger to his lips. “But she must have had her reasons,” he said finally. “And it’s not anything to be unhappy about, is it? You were worried about your aunt and there is no longer any reason to worry. There is left only the fact that, as I see it, this young man has fallen in love with you, was attracted at first meeting, and what was originally planned to be just a man and a girl enjoying a few good times together became something else. Something so powerful, in fact, that he chooses to join you on the Côte d’Azur.”

M. Marchand leaned back in his chair. “You have made a conquest, Mademoiselle.” he said softly. “No man goes rushing after a girl the way young Paul is doing … unless he is badly smitten.”

He shook his head regretfully. “A pity you don’t care for him,” he commented. “Too bad you dislike him so much.”

“How could I like him when I thought he was an unsavory character?” she cried.

“True,” he said. “I don’t like unsavory characters either.”

“That
was the reason I disliked him.”

“But you don’t dislike him otherwise?”

She slumped in her chair. What was the use? What in the world was the use of fighting it? Dislike Paul? Why, even when she had thought he was an unpleasant, grasping type she had been drawn to him, had responded to his wonderful good looks, his magnetism, his voice, his manner, his body contact.

“No,” she said breathlessly. “I don’t dislike him otherwise. In fact, even when I thought he was up to no good, I … I wanted to like him. I was attracted, but … well, my defenses have been up for quite a long time. I resisted any involvement that might hurt me. That might hurt me
again.”

She twisted her fingers miserably. “I was so rude to him,” she said. “Rude and horrid. I feel awful.”

“But still he stuck around, and is now going to follow you somewhere else, so his feelings for you must be very strong. But I wouldn’t worry, Mademoiselle. You can make it up to him. On the Riviera, there will be blue skies, warm and sunny days, and long, romantic evenings.”

M. Marchand drained the last of his cognac and gave her a sly little look. “As a matter of fact,” he told her, “you might be able to straighten this out today.”

“How?” she demanded. “We’re leaving tomorrow and how could I do anything today?”

“My friend’s call to our celebrity service netted him some additional information,” he said. “It seems that Paul Chandon, on almost every afternoon at around five o’clock, takes his aperitif at
Le Moineau,
on the Rue Vernet. So it is very possible that he would be there
this
afternoon.”

He folded his arms. “If, as it seems likely, he will be there, then of course you will be certain that there has been no mistake … that the Paul you know is the Paul Chandon I have been talking about. And after that, you can, as you say, straighten things out.”

He smiled hearteningly at her. “Is your stomach tied up in knots, Mademoiselle?”

“Yes,” she admitted.

“Then you are probably in love. That’s nice. I envy you.”

“But aren’t you married?”

“My dear wife died four … no, five years ago. But I have a daughter and a son-in-law and two grandchildren. And a mistress.”

“Oh, I see.”

He chuckled. “My writing,” he said, “is my mistress. And a most demanding one.”

“And I mustn’t keep you any longer! Thank you.
Thank
you. You’ve been so kind to me. I’m more grateful than I’d ever be able to say.”

“Don’t lose my card,” he said. “I would be happy to know the outcome of this little story. So I hope that I will hear from you again.”

He glanced at the bill the waiter gave him, pulled some money out of his pocket and, taking Iris’s arm, walked out to the sidewalk with her.

He picked up her hand and kissed it gently. “The Rue Vernet is just off the Etoile,” he said. “Not hard to find.”

He smiled his blue-eyed smile and bowed.
“Bonne chance,”
he said warmly. “Good luck, Iris Easton.”

She watched him go off, spry, jaunty and with a springing step. I owe that man a great deal, she thought. Some day I hope I can repay his kindness.

Then she looked at her watch. It was just one o’clock. At five o’clock, on almost every afternoon, Paul Chandon had an aperitif at
Le Moineau,
on the Rue Vernet, just off the Etoile.

There were hours to kill.

Easy enough, in Paris, to while away hours. It was just that five o’clock seemed so very far away. And time had suddenly become very precious.

Iris approached the cafe
Le Moineau
at a few minutes before five.

It was a modest building, but it had a large, cheerful outside area with a picture of a sparrow on its sheltering canopy.

It was the second time that day she had seen it. An hour earlier she had canvassed the territory off the Etoile, in order to find the cafe and be sure she knew where it was.

An hour earlier there had been only a sprinkling of patrons. Now, however, the place was jumping, with most of the tables occupied and a lot of noise and laughter as Parisians, stopping by for their after-work drink before going home to supper, talked over the events of the day with friends and colleagues.

Iris stood a slight distance away and tried to breathe normally. She was tired from walking about, apprehensive, shivery and terribly afraid that, after all, Paul would think she was insane to hunt him down like this.

What if his feelings for her were only minimal? What if everything that had seemed so logical while she was talking to M. Marchand wasn’t
like
that?

She stood, irresolute and suddenly dejected, near a boxwood hedge that made a place of concealment for her. What am I doing? she asked herself agitatedly.