Authors: Anne Weale
She had just signed her na
m
e when Hubbard brought up the telegram.
“Not bad news, I hope, madam,” he said anxiously when she had read it.
Andrea hated having to deceive the old man, but it was essential if none of the staff was to guess why she had left.
“I’m afraid it is, Hubbard. A relative of mine is seriously ill. I will have to catch the first train to Liverpool. Would you find out how they run, please.”
“Certainly, madam. This is most distressing for you. Shall I telephone Mr. Justin’s club and tell him what has happened?”
“No, no. There’s no time to lose. I’ll leave a note for him and call when I arrive. I may be away for some time. My, er, aunt lives alone and someone will have to stay with her—that is, if she recovers.”
“I’ll call Miller to pack your bags, madam.”
“No. That isn’t necessary.
I
won’t take very much at the moment.”
Hubbard hurried away, clucking concernedly to himself, and Andrea breathed a sigh of relief that so far all had gone smoothly. Her great fear now was that Justin would come home before she left the house.
Having found her passport and calculated how much money she would need to last her for a week or two, she took her jewelcase into Justin’s bedroom and slipped it into his handkerchief drawer. Then she remembered her emerald ring and, twisting it off her finger, put it with all the other things he had given her.
With the exception of the money she must have to live on until she found work again, she would take nothing that had not belonged to her before their wedding.
She was sealing the note when Hubbard returned to say the next train for Liverpool left in just under an hour.
“I’ve called a taxi, madam. Is there anything else you wish me to do?”
“Only to give this to my husband when he comes in.” She handed him the envelope. “Thank you, Hubbard. Thank you for everything you’ve done since I came here.”
“It’s been a privilege, madam. May I take your case?” Her heart was thudding as they went downstairs. At every step she expected the front door to open and Justin to come in.
“It’s very unfortunate that Mr. Justin should be out just now. Are you sure you ought not to wait for him? He might want to drive you up. It would be almost as quick,” Hubbard said, opening the door for her.
Andrea glanced quickly along the street, but there was no one in sight.
“I think I should go at once. The telegram said it was most urgent.”
“Whatever you think best, madam. Ah, here is your cab.”
He went down the steps to open the door of the taxi and Andrea followed, remembering the very first night she had come to this house and the day she had entered as its mistress. How brief her reign had been, but how much she had learned in that short time.
“Goodbye, Hubbard. Take care of Mr. Justin for me, won’t you?”
As she held out her hand her voice broke and with a quick clasp she ducked her head and climbed into the taxi. A few seconds later the driver pulled away from the curb, and half-blinded by tears she took her last
lo
ok at the house in which she had known so much unhappiness but that from now on would enclose all that was most dear to her.
The next morning she caught the boat train from Victoria and began her second journey to Paris. She had lain awake half the night wondering where to go. To stay in England was impossible if she was to return to modeling. She had not enough money to go to New York even if all the complicated formalities could be overcome. Paris was the only place where she was likely to get a job but that was far enough away to allow a clean break with the past.
It was true that living in Paris might arouse poignant memories, but at least she was unlikely to encounter anyone she knew, for the chances of meeting the Bechets was slight and they were her only acquaintances there.
CHAPTER
NINE
Andrea reached Paris
in the late afternoon and spent the night at a hotel recommended by the travel agency. The next day she found a cheap but clean pension in a side street near the Place St. Michel
and
took a room on the top floor. It was very different from the luxurious suite that she had occupied on her first visit to the French capital. The bed was an old-fashioned iron contraption with brass rails and creaking springs, and the only furniture was a heavy mahogany cupboard, a rickety wicker table and an upright chair.
A
faded silk screen concealed the washbasin and bidet in the corner. But although it was cramped and shabby, the mattress was fairly new, the bed linen clean and, as the proprietor proudly demonstrated, the tap produced hot water.
Having paid a week’s rent in advance, Andrea unpacked her suitcase and then went down to the bistro on the street for a late lunch. She spent the rest of the afternoon walking and returned to the pension about six o’clock, having bought some rolls, a box of cheese and some fruit to eat in her room. Soon after seven she went to bed and lay watching the sun sink behind the roofs and chimneypots beyond the narrow window.
For three days she existed in a dark void of despair, shut off from the bustling life around her, drained of all feeling but a dull ache of misery: Then, on the fifth day after her precipitate flight from home, she found herself near Notre Dame, and wanting to rest she went inside the great cathedral and sat down in the quiet dimness.
There was the usual number of tourists wandering around, but she was unaware of them. It was very peaceful sitting there with the sunlight filtering through the beautiful stained glass windows and falling in pools of blue
and green and rose red radiance on the worn stone aisles. Presently something of the timeless serenity of the atmosphere penetrated her apathy. She wondered how many thousands of people had come here through the centuries to find consolation and new strength in time of trouble. Many of them must have felt, as she did now, that their lives were in ruins. But was that ever true? Wasn’t there always something to be salvaged if only one could see the disaster in perspective? As a child one was told to count one’s blessings. Even though the supreme blessing of love was now denied to her forever, she still had youth and health and a means of earning a living. In time the pain of finding love only to lose it would become dulled by the routine of living.
When an hour or so later she went out into the street, it was with the determination not to let what had happened defeat her. For the first time in days she ate her evening meal with some appetite and began to think constructively about the weeks ahead. She was fairly confident that she could get a job as a model, if not at once, then as soon as preparations for the autumn fashion shows began. But she was not sure that it was wise to resume her career in the fashion world for a time. Perhaps she could find work in one of the shops catering to British and American tourists.
That night she slept without dreaming and woke up refreshed. Having decided to start looking for work immediately, she dressed in a plain linen suit over a thin blouse of the same pale green color. As she fastened the skirt she realized that she had lost
a considerable amount of weight, and the waistband was so slack that she had to pin a tuck in it. Fortunately the jacket was loose fitting. She had scarcely looked at herself in the mirror since her arrival, but now she spent some time skillfully concealing the shadows under her eyes and the accented hollowness of her cheeks.
The proprietor was in the hallway when she went downstairs. He greeted her with his usual remark about the fitness of the weather. So far Andrea had responded with a murmur of agreement. Today she managed a smile and stopped to talk for a minute or two.
Monsieur Bollet watched her go down the street. He and his stout jolly wife, Berthe, were intrigued by the beauti
f
ul English girl who looked so pale and sad. Most of their English visitors were students who had little money to spare, but the Bollets had not failed to notice that Madame Templar wore expensive clothes and her pigskin suitcase had cost thirty thousand francs if a centime. Why, they wondered, had she asked for their cheapest room and why was there a haunted look in her lovely eyes? It was a mystery they had discussed with sympathetic curiosity ever since her arrival, and as soon as Andrea was out of sight, Monsieur Bollet hurried to tell his wife that
madame
was in better spirits today.
Andrea had no difficulty in seeing the manager of the first shop that she tried, as the assistant to whom she spoke assumed that she was an important customer. But although he listened courteously to her, he regretted that he had a full staff and no prospect of a vacancy. He also explained that there were formalities to overcome before a foreigner could get work in Paris.
She met the same reply at another shop but, refusing to be daunted, set off to a third one. Then, as she was waiting to cross the road, a voice cried, “Andrea! What are you doing here?” And turning, she saw
Leonie
Bechet hurrying toward her.
Two possibilities flashed across her mind. To run. Or to pretend she was a stranger.
“What a pleasant surprise,
c
he
rie.
Why didn’t you let us know you were here, or have you only just arrived?” Leonie seized her hand and clasped it warmly.
It was too late to run and futile to deny her identity.
“Why ... hello. How are you?” she said lamely.
“So busy that my head spins. Where are you going? Can we have coffee together?”
Andrea searched frantically for some reasonable excuse, but before she could find one, Leonie said. “But how thin you are,
petite.
Have you been ill?”
A painful flush stained Andrea’s cheeks and she avoided the Frenchwoman’s concerned gaze.
“No, I’m perfectly all right.”
Sensing her embarrassment and puzzled by her reserved greeting, Madame Bechet suggested that they go to a nearby restaurant.
“Now tell me, for how long are you here, and how is Justin?” she asked when they were settled at a table and the waiter had taken their order.
“He’s not with me,” Andrea said flatly.
“You are alone?”
Andrea thought briefly of saying that she was with friends, that Justin had been too busy to come. But she knew Leonie was bound to learn the truth eventually and to lie could only involve her in a worse predicament.
“Yes, I’m alone,” she said tightly. “You see
...
we’ve separated.”
“No! But I cannot believe it.” Leonie gazed at her, astounded. “Surely you do not mean this?”
Andrea bit her lip and nodded.
“But what has happened? How did this come about?” Leonie asked incredulously.
Andrea opened her purse and fumbled for her cigarette case. Her hand shook as she flicked the lighter.
“It was my fault,” she said in a low voice. “You see ... I married Justin for his money.”
And then, without attempting to excuse or spare herself, she told Leonie the truth about her marriage and its failure.
“So, you see, I am not a nice person. Not at all what you thought me,” she ended bleakly when the whole unhappy story was out.
Leonie
studied her gravely for a moment.
“What are you going to do now?” she asked.
Andrea shrugged. “Find work. I’ve been to a couple of shops this morning, but they had no vacancies. I’ll find something eventually.”
“You mean you do not want to be a model anymore?”
“Not f
o
r a while. I don’t want to attract attention. There will be enough
publicity as it is when the London papers find out what has happened.”
Leonie pursed her lips contemplatively. “You English are so strange,
”
she said. “You are so much afraid to show what you feel. You say you have left
Justin because you cannot keep the bargain. But the real reason you keep hidden inside yourself like a guilty secret.”
“What do you mean?”
Leonie leaned across the table and laid her hand on Andrea’s arm. Instead of cold contempt there was a wealth of understanding and compassion in her eyes.
“You love him,
ma pauvre
petite
,”
she said softly. “It is in your face and voice when you speak of him. It is the reason you are so thin and pale. That is why you cannot bear to stay with him; because, as you wanted money, now you ache for love. Have you told him this?”
“No, no. How could I? It would only embarrass him. He doesn’t believe in love. He doesn’t need it,” Andrea said wildly. “Don’t you see, that’s why I had to leave. I couldn’t go on living with him in case he might guess.”
“How do you know that he does not feel the same way? Perhaps he loves you and is afraid to say so. Men are great cowards when it comes to declaring what is in their hearts if it may not be acceptable.”
Andrea gave a bitter laugh.
“Justin isn’t afraid of anything,” she said dully. “He’s the most confident person I’ve ever known.”
“Have you thought what he will do now?” Leonie asked.
“
I suppose he’ll
...
divorce me,” Andrea said, a treacherous quiver in her voice.
“Perhaps. Or he may find you and make you go back with him.”
“How can he? He doesn’t know where I am, and if he did I wouldn’t go.”
“But, as you say, he is very confident, very strong and self-willed. It would not be difficult for him to find you. He can afford to pay a detective to discover where you are.”
“Yes, I suppose so. But he couldn’t force me to go back,” Andrea said uneasily.
“No? I think he could very easily do so if he wished,” Leonie replied dryly.
It was the first time that such a contingency had occurred to Andrea, and the more she thought about it, the
more alarmingly possible it seemed. She could recall several instances in which Justin had shown a markedly possessive streak. No, “possessive” was not quite accurate. He did not need to be possessive because people and events always went as he wanted them to. Now that a decision had been taken out of his hands he might be very angry, angry enough to do as Leonie suggested. She had a swift vision of him finding her hiding place and taking her back to London, not because he wanted her, but because legally she belonged to him unti
l
he chose to let her go.
“Leonie, if he got in touch with you, promise me you would not tell him I am here,” she said anxiously, and then, as Leonie hesitated, “I don’t expect you to like me now that you know what I am, but do this one thing for me. Promise you won’t help him to find me if he should try to.”
Leonie patted her hand.
“Don’t distress yourself,
cherie.
I promise that I will not tell him you are here. Now, do you trust me enough to tell me where you are living in case of emergency? I do not like to think of you alone in Paris if something bad should happen, an accident perhaps—or who knows? Whatever has occurred between you and Justin, I am still your friend,
you know.”
A little reluctantly Andrea gave her the address of the pension. It was not that she did not believe Leonie’s promise but that she was sure that, if Justin was determined to hunt her down, he would stop at nothing to gain that end.
“Are you sure you have enough money until you find work?” Leonie asked, noting the address in her diary.
“Yes, thank you. I can manage. I don’t deserve your kindness.”
Leonie waved her thanks aside. “Now I must hurry, but I will see you again very soon, and if I hear of a place for you I will let you know,” she said, rising. “Take care of yourself,
petite,
and do not think that the world is at an end because of this thing that has happened. Love is never a mistake. It is better to suffer in love than not to love at all.”
“Is it?” Andrea said forlornly.
“But certainly. Never to love is not to live if you are a
woman.”
After they had said goodbye, Andrea stayed
in
the restaurant for lunch and then continued her search for work. But she had no luck either that day or the next, and while in London she could easily have found temporary work as a waitress or a theater usherette, in Paris her halting French precluded her from any jobs outside the limited field of the tourist shops.
Then, on the third day, Berthe Bollet came panting upstairs to tell her she was wanted on the telephone. Still nervous over
Leonie
’s warning about Justin, Andrea asked who was calling, and was relieved to find out that it was only Leonie.
“Andrea? I must talk to you at once.
Non, non.
Nothing to do with Justin,” the Frenchwoman assured her in reply to her anxious inquiry.
“Then what is it about?”
“I cannot explain it all on the telephone. Only that I am in great difficulty and it is possible that you can help me. Can I come to your hotel immediately?”
“Of course, if you think I can help.”
“I hope so. I will be there very soon.
Au ’voir
.”
Greatly puzzled by
Leonie
’s distracted tone, Andrea climbed the four flights of stairs to her room and finished dressing. While waiting for Leonie to arrive she counted her money and calculated that she had enough to last three more weeks at her present rate of expenditure. If she could not get a sales j
o
b in that time she might be forced to return to modeling.
Following Leonie’s suggestion that Justin might try to find her, she had bought copies of English newspapers to see if anything about her departure had reached the gossip columns. Apparently nothing had, and no doubt Justin was as anxious to avoid cheap publicity as she was.
When, less than fifteen minutes later, Leonie was shown upstairs by Monsieur Bollet, it took her a moment or two to recover her breath. Then she looked around the cheap room with arched eyebrows and said, “I do not like this place for you, Andrea. It is not at all comfortable and those stairs are terrible. However, we will discuss that another time. Now my first concern is to find if you will help me. First, what are your measurements?”
Completely mystified, Andrea
t
old her.
“
Tiens,
such good fortune!” Leonie exclaimed delightedly. “Now I explain everything.”
Because she was so excited and flustered the explanation was very involved, and several times she lapsed into rapid French and had to repeat herself in English. But the gist of it was she and a number of other leading Paris hostesses had organized a charity ball with a cabaret in the form of a fashion parade.
Several couturiers were allowing their creations to be shown, but at the last moment one of the models had been taken ill and no suitable substitute could be found at short notice. According to Leonie the dresses that the sick girl was to have worn were the most beautiful of all, but their designer, an extremely temperamental man, refused to allow them to be modeled by anyone whose measurements and coloring did not correspond with those of his own model, on the ground that it would destroy the perfection of his work to the advantage of his rivals.
“What makes you think he would approve of me?”
Andrea asked, when it was evident what Leonie had in mind.
“I have explained to him that you are a famous English model and very like his poor Germaine who is so sick. I am sure that when he sees you he will agree it is the only thing to do,” Leonie said confidently. “Do you say you will not help,
ma
cherie
!
You cannot imagine the anxiety I have had since that girl was carried to hospital.”
“But,
Leonie
, there is sure to be a report of the ball in the papers, and supposing they put in something about me? Of course I would like to help you, but I don’t want to risk anything that might bring Justin over here.”
“Surely it is a very small risk. I agree that these reporters are quick to sense something of interest, but there will be many distinguished guests and I think we can keep you incognito if you are so afraid.”
Andrea hesitated: torn between her desire to help Leonie out and her fear that it might result in an item headed “Financier’s Runaway Wife In Paris Dress Show”
reaching the London gossip columns. For once her identity was discovered, the reason for her being in Paris was sure to be unearthed. At the same time all her professional instincts hankered for the chance to seize this excellent way of resuming her career. At last, after Leonie had exerted all her powers of persuasion, she agreed.