Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (51 page)

Supposing that the Paul Chandon who took his afternoon aperitif at this cafe was not
her
Paul Chandon? In that case the other Paul Chandon would be unknown to her … and there would be no one she recognized here.

Her thoughts became so muddled that she felt a wave of vertigo, and a terrible feeling of loneliness.

It suddenly occurred to her that whichever Paul Chandon was going to come for an aperitif would probably come from the direction of the Etoile. Horrified at the possibility of being seen before she wanted to be, she left her place of shelter and walked swiftly to the farther end of the cafe. The hedge, on this side too, was a small haven from which she could resume her watch.

And then, as her heart jumped sickeningly in her chest, she saw him.

It was Paul. It was Paul …
her
Paul!

So it’s true, she thought dizzily. M. Marchand had guessed right. This was the Paul Chandon of the wine family.

She stared, transfixed. Paul, tall, erect, his steps jaunty and casually assured, gave a glance around, and then chose a table that was more or less centrally situated. He pulled out a chair, sat down in it and, without even looking round, raised a hand for a waiter.

In a second or two a
garçon
was at his side. Iris could hear the interchange clearly.

“Dubonnet blonde,” Paul said and then, looking up, added,
“Ca va, Francois?”

“Bien, et vous?”

“Comme ci, comme çà.”

The waiter went away, and when he came back it was with the drink and a newspaper. There was a nod from Paul, and the waiter went off.

Still Iris hesitated. He could be waiting for someone … say, a pretty, chic young French girl, with sexy eyes and a Parisian dash.

I have to be sure, Iris thought.

She saw Paul take a sip of his drink and then open the newspaper. But he could be waiting for someone …

She regarded him from her stance at the boxwood hedge. There he was,
her
Paul Chandon, the man who had stirred her heart after many a long hiatus. For almost two years Iris Easton had told herself that falling in love was dangerous … falling in love could break your heart.

But that was long ago and far away, she told herself now, as she gazed at the man who had dashed down the barriers and let love in again.

Paul, she thought. Oh, Paul, my dearest love.

Yet she was wary and, she told herself, better to be safe than sorry. It was all or nothing now, so far as she was concerned and she had to be sure that
her
Paul was not expecting a young female companion.

She turned away and fixed her eyes on her watch. Five minutes more, she decided. I’ll give it five minutes more.

Please God, let him be alone when I look again, she prayed, as the minutes ticked off, and when at last she did let her eyes dart back to his table he was still alone and reading his newspaper, absorbed in its contents.

It was now almost five-twenty.

He’s not waiting for anyone, Iris decided jubilantly. He was going to be alone, she was sure of it. She watched him light a cigarette, and thought, he’s so wonderful to look at.

It was now or never, she told herself, and walked toward him.

He didn’t see her until she stood at his table. Then, sensing a presence, he looked up — looked up and stared incredulously at her.

“Hello, Paul,” Iris said.

He kept staring at her.

“I just happened to be passing by,” she said, and to her amazement her voice was strong and clear. “And I saw you sitting here.”

He kept on looking at her in that stunned, befuddled way before he jumped up, spilling his drink and knocking the newspaper off the table.

“Oh, I
am
sorry,” Iris cried, and knocked heads with him as both made an attempt to retrieve the paper. At the same time a sticky liquid, from the spilled drink, trickled down her neck.

“
Mon
Dieu,”
Paul muttered, swiping at her with a handkerchief he pulled out of his pocket. “I am so sorry.”

“No, my fault,” Iris protested.

A boy came over with a rag and cleaned off the table top with a philosophical shrug, then left, the sopping cloth held gingerly in his hand.

“Is your dress spoiled?” Paul asked anxiously.

“No, it’s wash and wear, don’t give it another thought.”

“But sit down, please!”

She slid into a chair.

“It was just such a surprise to see you,” Paul said, sitting down too.

He looked warily at her, warily and questioningly, and suddenly he seemed very young, even, in an odd way, younger than herself. He sat on the edge of his chair, and the assured man she had watched from her vantage point at the edge of the cafe, became someone else … someone not certain of his ground.

“Paul, are you waiting for someone?” Iris asked quietly.

“Waiting for someone?”

“I mean … a girl, a companion?”

“No,” he said. “I come here alone … nearly every afternoon. For my aperitif … and then I go home. I am not waiting for anyone.”

“All right, then,” she said, and it was not so difficult after all. “It’s not true, Paul, that I just happened to be passing by. I came here because I was told you might be here. I’m glad you are, because there’s something I want to say to you.”

She quickly put on her sunglasses. It was because of the late afternoon sun, and the dazzlement of his dark eyes looking into hers … and his nearness.

“Paul,” Iris went on, “I found out a few things quite by chance. Never mind how. But I did. And I just want you to know that I had an entirely wrong idea of you, and I know I was hateful. So I came here to apologize. Whatever I said, whatever I did, please forgive me.”

She looked away, swallowing, and then back at him. “The masquerade is over, Paul. I know who you are. And I know that you and my aunt are friends. I know that she must be well acquainted with your family. But I forgive you both for setting up this little charade. The main thing is, I want you to understand why I was so unpleasant to you.”

“Wait,” he said, holding up a hand. “Wait, Iris. Your aunt is not an acquaintance of my family. Nor of mine. Ah yes, she is a friend of mine
now,
and I think she is a charming and lovely lady. But before a week ago I had never seen her in my life. Not until that day when I met you both in the Place St. Michel.”

“I don’t understand,” Iris said, pushing her sunglasses up to her forehead.

“Nor do I, Iris. All I know is that I saw you at that cafe and I told myself that I wanted to meet this girl and get to know her. Why? I asked myself. Why was it so important to know this girl? Of all the girls one sees, that one girl stands out and …”

He seemed almost angry. “You were just a pretty girl,” he said, gesturing. “A young … really
too
young American girl like those one sees in Paris every summer, every year. And you were not very receptive. In fact, you were decidedly hostile. Perhaps that was it … that I wanted to put you in your place. It was a challenge.”

She nodded. “I know I was unfriendly and … and hostile, as you said. You picked my pocket, admit it! Pretended that something had fallen out of it. So I was peeved about that, and then later I thought you were after my aunt for her money.”

The impact suddenly jolted her. “You don’t really mean to say that my aunt is a stranger to you?” she demanded.

“She was then,” he said emphatically.

“And all this wasn’t planned?”

“I certainly didn’t plan to fall in love with you,” he said loudly, so loudly that heads were turned in their direction.

He glared at the amused glances that came their way, and lowered his voice. “Which, to my concern and discomfort, I did,” he finished and lit a cigarette with fingers that shook slightly.

“I didn’t plan to fall in love with you either, but apparently I did,” Iris said bravely.

The waiter came over, pencil poised over his pad. “
Oui
, Mademoiselle?” he said to Iris.

“Later,” Paul said irritably. “Go away, Francois.”

“Oh la la,” the man said, walking off with a grin.

“Say it again, what you just said,” Paul demanded. “I want to be sure I heard you correctly. Say it again.”

“I didn’t plan to fall in love with you,” Iris repeated, her face on fire.

“You didn’t plan to … but you did? You said you did?”

“Somewhere along the way,” she muttered, looking at her fingernails.

“And you do now? You’re … you care for me?”

“Why are you so surprised?” she cried. “You’re an attractive man … you must know that!”

“You are a beautiful girl, but that doesn’t mean that every man in the world falls in love with you.”

“True,” she said, her eyes focused on the box hedges that bordered the cafe.

There was a little pause and then Paul said, “Don’t look over there. Look at me, Iris.”

“I’m looking at you,” she said, and dragged her eyes away from the shrubbery.

“Why,
chérie,”
Paul said, searching her face. “Am I to believe that you mean what you say? That you say? That you … that you do care for me?”

She pulled her sunglasses down again.

“I told you I did … do,” she said. “What more can I say?”

“Much more,” he replied. “But for the moment, it’s enough. Iris, my dear, my sweet … ah, Iris …”

He threw back his head and breathed deeply of the perfumed Paris air. He laughed jubilantly, and slapped a hand on the table.

“Iris Easton, I love you,” he said ringingly, and once more heads were turned on them from surrounding tables.

Paul, swiveling in his chair, gave everyone in sight a benign and cordial bow. “You see, I love her,” he announced. “What do you think of that?”

There was a general clapping of hands, while Iris wanted to fall through the floor. A chorus of good-natured laughter rippled through the seated throng.

“Everybody knows it now,” Paul said, turning back to her. “Don’t be embarrassed. The French have a great respect for love.”

His dark eyes plumbed her own. “And so it seems,
chérie,
that we have found each other. What came before is of no import. There is only the future to consider.”

“Yes, the future,” she echoed, trembling.

“Together?”

“Are you sure you mean that?” she asked shakily.

“I mean for as long as we both shall live,” he said. “I mean forever. Say yes, please, and then I will tell you what we are going to do with our first evening alone together. But first you must say it. Is it yes, Iris?”

“Yes,” she answered. And then said it again. “Yes. Oh, yes, Paul.”

“C’est si bon!”
he cried exuberantly. “When your aunt learns about this! She will be surprised … not about me, naturally … she knows very well my feelings for you. She has been my
confidante.
And at one point I admit I was ready to give up. That was in the beginning, and I told myself it would be useless … that you were cold and … and even narcissistic, and I want, and
need
warmth and love,
chérie …
to give it, and receive it. But then I couldn’t give up.”

He smiled at her. “We French have a saying.
‘C’est plus fort pour moi.
’ It was too strong for me.”

“Obviously it was too strong for me too,” Iris commented. “Not that I didn’t fight it. But then, of course, I was convinced you were a snake in the grass. After my aunt, for her money. So you see, it’s all due to Claude Marchand that — ”

“To whom?”

“Claude Marchand. A man I met one afternoon on the Place de l’Alma. An
older
man, Paul, and it’s just occurred to me that he might be free for dinner tonight. That is, if I ring him up right away.”

She shushed Paul as he prepared to put in a few objections. “Yes, I too would like it to be just the two of us tonight,” she said. “But I do feel we owe it to Aunt Louisa to have her with us. I’ve been thinking such dreadful things about her. So, Paul, wouldn’t it be nice if the four of us could be together? I owe so much to M. Marchand, and he’s a widower and seems a little lonely …”

“And your aunt is a widow, and perhaps a little lonely?” he suggested.

“I was only thinking of a casual, pleasant friendship between them,” she protested.

“I read you,” he said, “like a book. You are thinking of much more than that. But go call him and we will all four dine together. It’s a lot to give up, not to have you alone tonight, but to please you,
chérie,
I would do almost anything.”

“Thank you,” Iris said, getting up. She bent and put her lips to his forehead. “I’ll be right back,
chéri.”

Marveling at how naturally the French endearment had come to her, she found her way into the interior of the cafe, located a small and stuffy phone booth, squeezed herself into it, and once more spoke to Claude Marchand.

“Ah,” he said, when she announced herself. “I was wondering how soon I would hear from you. You sound very blithe, so perhaps everything is all right?”

“Everything is so all right I could do an Irish jig,” she told him. “Would you by any chance be free for dinner this evening? With me, my aunt, and Paul Chandon … your Paul Chandon and mine. Oh, I hope you’re free to come with us!”

“How delightful. I had planned to work until around ten and then fry myself some chicken livers. Once again you have saved me from hours of arduous toil, Mademoiselle. Yes, I am free for dinner, thank you very much.”

“Could you possibly meet us at our hotel, Monsieur?” She looked at her watch. “Say, at around seven?”

“I will be happy to. Unfortunately, I keep forgetting
what
hotel you are staying at.”

“The Hotel Vendôme, on the Place Vendôme.”

“Ah yes, Then, until seven o’clock.
A bientôt,
Iris Easton.”

She was very pleased with herself when she hung up. Dialing the number of the hotel, she had a vision of Aunt Louisa and Claude Marchand walking off into the sunset together. “Allo?” the operator’s voice said.

“Yes, Mrs. Collinge’s room, please.”

There were three rings and then the voice of her aunt came to her, sounding a bit cranky.

“It’s me, Iris.”