Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (44 page)

Now the area opened up into a great, unbroken expanse just off the river, and the cobalt-blue sign,
Place de l’Alma,
told her she had reached her destination.

It was a pleasing sight, this riverside retreat, and rather like Gracie Square in Manhattan, or Sutton Place, though to Iris’s eyes far more alluring, and infinitely more expansive. In the background handsome buildings rose; apartments, most likely.

That it was a posh district was readily evident, and in that respect also a kind of kissing cousin to the upper East Side purlieus. And while Iris would have chosen the Palais-Royal as a place to live in Paris, this would be, she decided, her second objective.

One could dream, couldn’t one?

It was beautiful and peaceful to walk along the Seine in the shade of leafy trees, with the river scents, pungent and heady, drifting into one’s nostrils. It was cool and verdant and beguiling, without the sound of street traffic dinning in one’s ears.

A few nursemaids, starched and prim, were wheeling shiny baby buggies; children played placidly. A boat whistle sounded.

And there were chestnuts underfoot … chestnuts in profusion. But Iris was selective. They must be plump and firm and golden-brown, and most of them that lay scattered at the base of the trees were worm-eaten, dull-colored and squashed.

It took her quite a while to find half a dozen beautiful, fat, sumptuously-bronzed specimens to take back with her. Pleased and satisfied, she dropped them carefully into a plastic bag and put them away in her tote.

Then she sat down for a well-deserved rest on one of the many benches that lined the embankment, thinking of her next and last foray, which would occupy the whole of her afternoon.

It was in Montparnasse that she would while away the rest of the day. Magical Montparnasse, the old “Greenwich Village” of Paris.

She stretched out her legs and leaned back, settling herself comfortably. A delicious breeze riffled her hair, and the river, tranquil and gray-green, flowed on, hypnotic and lulling.

She closed her eyes, drinking in the glory of the day.

And dozed off.

A voice, very close to her, woke her with a start.

Opening her eyes, she was for a moment disoriented. Then, blinking a little in the bright sunlight, she saw that a gentleman somewhat past middle age was bending over her.

“C’est le votre,
Mademoiselle?” the gentleman asked, holding up a tote bag.

Her
tote bag which must have slid off her lap. “Oh, thank you,” she said. “I seem to be always losing things these days.
Merci,
Monsieur.”

He dangled the bag and then put it on the seat beside her. “You are American,” he said delightedly. “Would you mind very much if I sat down too?”

“Oh, please do,” she answered, and he promptly joined her on the bench.

“I guess I fell asleep,” she said sheepishly.

“It’s the kind of day to fall asleep,” he consoled her. “I myself fall asleep often, without planning it. Sometimes, even standing up,” he added, with a chuckle.

“I’ve been doing a lot of walking. Which takes its toll.”

“It does indeed.”

His accent was delicious, like melted butter, Iris thought. He had bright blue eyes, wore a navy beret, and seemed somewhere between fifty and fifty-five — about her own father’s age.

He was different from her father, however. He was urbane, distinguished-looking and probably had been, Iris guessed, something of a ladies’ man in his younger years.

Whereas her father was your typical American businessman, without a trace of this gentleman’s European suavity. And she doubted that her father had ever been a swinger.

Yet she instantly knew that this man was not trying to attack her, make a play, or be an annoyance. He had been walking by, had seen her bag on the ground, and had made her aware of it.

You knew instinctively when a man had something nefarious on his mind. As you knew, just as instinctively, when he didn’t.

This man would pass muster. She liked him right away. She wouldn’t mind talking to him at all … in fact, she would very much enjoy it.

“Where do you live in the United States?” he asked her.

“New York City. Manhattan. Do you know New York, Monsieur?”

“Very well indeed. And I have many friends there. A most exciting city.”

“A little worse for wear these days.”

“Most of the large cities are a little the worse for wear. Here too.” He smiled warmly, expectantly. “Is this your first glimpse of Paris?”

“Yes. And if you’d like my opinion of it, I can tell you that I’m madly in love with this city.”

“Being in love with a city is a nice thing,” he agreed, his eyes twinkling. “Are you in love in any other way?”

“You mean with a man? No. I was once … or I thought I was. But it didn’t work out. That kind of love will have to wait.”

“What a pity.” His eyes swept over her, but not acquisitively. Appreciatively, yes … but there was no suggestion of lechery. This was not a dirty old man.

She said, dryly, “I still feel I have a little time.”

His smile, which made small grooves around his blue eyes, agreed with her. “Oh, plenty of time,” he concurred. “Only it makes me a little sorry. Being in love with someone makes the days seem so much shorter, don’t you think so?”

“But I’m not sure I want the days to be shorter.”

He nodded, and was a little wry. “It’s a question of age,” he said, and smiled again. “When you are my age, the days often seem too long. There is an old saying. The years fly by, but the days drag.’“

He slid down in his seat. “How long have you been here, Mademoiselle?”

“Five days.”

“And what have you done with those five days? If you don’t object to my asking.”

“Not at all. Well, let’s see. We’re staying at a hotel on the Place Vendôme, so I know that part of the city. And then … well, the usual, I expect. Notre Dame, Palais de Chaillot, Eiffel Tower, the Opéra, Champs Elysées …”

He nodded. “As you say, the usual.”

“But a lot more,” she said defensively. “We went to the Ile St. Louis and had lunch at a very French bistro which was
not
the usual, Monsieur … and after that we went to St. Germain.”

“Deux Magots,
naturellement.”

“That’s just the attitude
he
took,” Iris said resentfully. “That you only go to St. Germain to get a snap of yourself at Deux Magots. And it isn’t like that at all!”

Her companion sat up, and put a hand on her elbow. “You have left me somewhat behind,” he said, shaking his head. “You must forgive me, but I am only an elderly Parisian to whom matters must be explained in unfragmented detail. Yes?”

He held up a finger. “There is you, Mademoiselle. And then there is a we. After that there is a he. I
know you.
… you are sitting here beside me and you are very lovely to look at. But who is we and who is he?”

Then he leaned back again. “Tell me the whole thing from the beginning,” he suggested, with such an adorable grin that Iris wanted to hug him.

How nice men could be when they weren’t young and nasty.

“What’s your name?” she asked, moving closer to him.

“I will tell you mine if you will tell me yours.”

“I’m Iris Easton, of New York City.”

“I am Claude Marchand of Paris, France.”

He bowed ceremoniously.
“Enchanté,
Mademoiselle Iris.”

“Enchantée,
Monsieur Claude.”

“And now that we have been properly introduced, proceed with your story,” he bade her.

“I don’t have much of a story,” she said. “Except that, in a way, yes, there have been some complications. In short … well, I’m here with my aunt, who is a widow and not old. She’s forty-six, to be exact.”

“That seems quite young to me,” the man said dryly. “Considering that I am considerably older.”

“You don’t look it.”

“Thank you, Mademoiselle, I will leave you money in my will.”

“I’d settle for some more perfect chestnuts.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She showed him her cache of nuts. “These are the things that mean something to me,” she confided. “Shall I get on with my story?”

“By all means.”

“Well … so she and I are here together. Her husband died just over a year ago, and this is her first trip abroad without him. I’m her favorite. Which is a little silly, since I’m her only young relative. But we love each other dearly.”

She paused. “I’m not boring you?”

“Far from it. What comes next?”

“We arrived, as I said, five days ago and started right out sightseeing. A wonderful first day. Then the second day started out just as auspiciously. We took a long, beautiful walk, starting from the Concorde, then went over to the Left Bank and up along the quays there, and at the Quai des Grand Augustins we went into some of the antique shops. Aunt Louisa has a lot of money and buys old things of value. Then, after we spent some time at the bookstalls, we went to a cafe on the Place St. Michel.”

She paused again, this time for breath, and her companion remarked that so far it seemed quite pleasant but otherwise uneventful.

“So far,” Iris agreed. “But at that sidewalk cafe, what do you suppose happened?”

“I can guess, but tell me,” Monsieur Marchand said, an amused glint in his eyes.

“Oh, all right, so I was accosted. At least I wasn’t pinched, the way they do in Italy.”

“
I
was never pinched in Italy,” he said.

“No, you probably did the pinching,” she answered shyly.

“I never used such crude methods,” he replied, and then laughed. “But my salad days are so long gone that I don’t even remember what arts I did employ.”

But he looked disappointed. “Is that all?” he asked.

“No, that’s the way everything began.”

And bit by bit, she told him the whole saga. First a play for herself, then her aunt, and an entire day spent with the pushy stranger.

“Then yesterday, lunch with him, and this evening
dinner
with him,” she wound up. “She’s very, very rich, and all that gold jewelry, the alligator handbag … and after all, she’s only forty-six. Frankly, I’m worried.”

And then, though she hadn’t meant to, she confided that this morning her aunt had pleaded a luncheon engagement with friends … but that now she was fearful that it had been only a subterfuge.

“Do you suppose, instead, that she met
him
today?” she demanded.

Monsieur Marchand thought it all over. Finally he said, “You are afraid that this young man is attracted by your aunt’s money, is that it?”

“Yes, of course.”

He shrugged. “Possibly. Then again, it’s also very possible that he is attracted to your aunt herself.”

“But why?” Iris asked, bewildered. “After all,
I’m
so much nearer his age! Why would …”

He turned round in his seat and faced her. “What you mean,” he said, “is why would a man prefer your aunt to yourself?”

“No,” she cried. “I didn’t mean that! I just meant …”

He didn’t say anything more. He simply listened, and waited.

And after a while Iris slumped, dejected. Yes, she thought, lowering her eyes. That’s exactly what she had thought. That instead of falling flat on his face for her, Paul Chandon had instead made his overtures to her aunt.

“Not that I wanted him to,” she said at last. “I’m not in the habit of latching on to any man who … who …”

“I’m sure you’re not,” Claude Marchand said, patting her hand. “And I can understand that you are concerned about your aunt.”

He gave her a warm, avuncular smile.

“You are a very pretty, and friendly, and candid young woman, and I have enjoyed this time together with you, Mademoiselle Easton. I’m a little lonely these days, and a chance meeting with charming young American girls doesn’t happen to me every day in the week.”

He reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out a card case, from which he extracted a single piece of pasteboard.

“If you should ever be in trouble, or need a friend,” he told her, “here is my address and telephone number. I live nearby here. Perhaps you will feel a little bit better if you know that there is someone you can depend on in an emergency.”

He stood up, wished her a pleasant day and many other pleasant days, and said that now he was a little past due for a meeting with a colleague.

Then, with a little salute and a charming smile, he walked off and disappeared into the shrubbery beyond.

Iris put the card he had given her into her own card case, sat there for a few minutes longer, and got up. It was time to hie herself to Montparnasse for the next adventure.

She walked back the way she had come, up the Avenue Marceau, and found a Metro station near the Etoile. There was a map of Metro routes posted outside, which showed her which line to take and which station to get off, or substantially so. If she got off at the wrong station, at least it would be in the
arrondissement
she wanted.

And it was quite a little excitement to be riding the Paris subway. First one had to buy a ticket at a little booth, and Iris had trouble with what her aunt called the “yellow money,” meaning the very small change. Centimes were a mystery even to Louisa, and she generally left all her “yellow money” behind with the room attendant, along with the customary tip.

It was decided for her, however, when she simply deposited a heap of centimes on the counter. The proper amount was taken and Iris was given her ticket.

After that there was another hassle. At the bottom of the stairs that led down to the train platform, a gate suddenly closed in front of Iris, trapping her behind it. A subway car came and went, and then the gate, as if by legerdemain, opened and freed her.

It was all great fun, and when she stepped out into daylight again, after getting off at Montparnasse-Bienvenue station, found herself in a section of the city teeming with activity.

It was a very warm day and rather humid, seeming to be about ten degrees hotter than where she had just come from, the riverside freshness of the Place de l’Alma.

It was an old district, of course … and in many places a bit seedy … but it was Montparnasse, with echoes of Hemingway and Scott Fitzgerald, and Picasso, Chagall and their ilk. This was hallowed soil to any lover of the arts and, like any lover of the arts Iris was bent on wandering about on streets that had known the footsteps of those she admired, of those who were now dead … but only in the flesh.