Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (37 page)

“I just can’t help it,” Louisa said, sighing. “I’m so used to a minimum of twenty percent.”

Iris stood up, her tote bag and camera all ready over her shoulder. She was not exactly tapping her foot, but she did want to get on with it.

It earned her another odd look from her aunt. Disapproving, but something else besides … somewhat conjecturing, somewhat reflective. And as if to punish her niece for her unseemly show of haste, she took her own sweet time in gathering her belongings together.

When she did get up, she seemed to consider a moment or two and then, apparently making up her mind, faced Paul Chandon with a question.

“I suppose you’re busy and must rush away somewhere, Paul?”

He shrugged.

“Not at all, Madame. This is too nice a day to pay much attention to tiresome duties. As a matter of fact, I rather wanted to guide you over to the little bistro on the Ile St. Louis. The one I told you about.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” Louisa said, but she looked delighted.

Iris, unable to hide her annoyance any longer, put in an objection. “Isn’t it a bit early for lunch? And as I recall, we were going to the cathedral.”

Her aunt and Paul regarded her simultaneously. Her aunt with a frankly irritable expression, Paul with grave speculation. She was totally exasperated with the status quo, and at the same time felt like a fractious child, particularly when Paul and her aunt left off looking at her and turned to each other silently.

There was a long, uncomfortable interval which Iris herself at last broke.

“I seem to be not quite myself,” she said, the words coming out in a kind of staccato. “I’ll do whatever you like.”

“Are you ill, perhaps?” her aunt asked.

“No,
no!”

“It
is
early for lunch,” Louisa finally said. “Yet I’d dearly love to have it in that little bistro our friend has been telling us about. Can we go to Notre Dame first, then? And afterwards to the Ile St. Louis … would that be all right with everyone?”

“If you are sure that …” Paul began.

“Iris?” her aunt demanded implacably.

There was nothing to do but answer, with as agreeable a smile as she could muster, “All right with me. Yes, fine.”

They started walking, heading for the Pont St. Michel.

And instead of positioning himself between the two women, as would have been expected, Paul walked on the other side of Louisa, so that his comments were directed to her, rather than to both of them.

They crossed the bridge over the Seine, Louisa pausing in the center of it to give a loving, comprehensive glance at the beautiful panorama spread out before them.

On the other side, Paul pointed. “The Palais de Justice,” he said. “And just ahead, as you can see, Notre Dame.”

Iris forgot about everything else. Nothing could mar her awe and reverence. The great Gothic cathedral, with its twin towers and the lofty spire at the center of the apse, sent her into a transport.

The cathedral of Notre Dame …

“Here,” Paul said, as they drew nearer to it, “is the great square which is so famous in fiction. Victor Hugo. You have read
The Hunchback of Notre
Dame?”

“Of course,” Iris said impatiently.

“This is where Quasimodo was scourged, and where Esmeralda gave him to drink.”

“Charles Laughton was so splendid in that part,” Louisa said. “They simply don’t make films like that any more.”

“But the book was better,” Iris commented ironically.

“It’s so long since I read it.”

“And I too,” Paul said, chuckling. “I am getting on in years, I’m afraid, as I was so recently reminded.”

He was looking at Iris, but she declined to return his smiling glance. They went up the long flight of steps, worn with the tread of centuries of feet that had climbed the ancient stone, and then on into the great Gothic cathedral that was, almost certainly, the most venerated house of worship in the world.

After that, everything else was forgotten. Everything but the vast edifice itself, and in the silence that was broken only by an occasional footfall, time seemed to come to a stop, earthly matters fall away.

In this place one truly felt alone, Iris thought … alone with history and with God. Scarcely knowing that she had left the others behind, she wandered off by herself, absorbed in a transcendental reverie that took her far away from the present and into the long-gone past.

As she left the cathedral, Iris looked about for her aunt, wandering slowly through the narrow side aisles, her eyes searching for Louisa.

There were few people visiting Notre Dame at this hour of the day. Most were lunching somewhere, or sitting outside in the sun. There was no sign of either her aunt or Paul Chandon, so they must, Iris realized, have had their fill of the beauty in this place of solemn grandeur and left her to sate herself alone. After all, both of them had been here many, many times.

With a last, lingering look at the great rose windows she went through the huge, parted doors that had welcomed so many people for so many years. Then, blinking in the sudden brightness after the time spent in the shadowy confines within, stepped back a bit.

She was groping in her tote bag for her sunglasses when she caught sight of them. There was her aunt, standing in the great square outside, and there was Paul Chandon beside her. They were at some distance and looked, like the others down below, slightly in miniature.

They also looked as if they were very much enjoying each other’s company. Iris watched them curiously. From where she stood, her aunt looked incredibly youthful, with her trim figure and slim, pretty legs. Several inches shorter than her companion, her face turned up as she spoke animatedly to him, she presented a most attractive picture.

For a second or two longer Iris, unobserved, regarded the two. Now her aunt had lifted a hand to smooth away a strand of hair the wind had blown across her forehead. With a gallant gesture, Paul Chandon reached down and brushed another strand away.

An imaginary strand, Iris told herself irritably … and an exaggeratedly gallant gesture.

Why, he’s not going to “guide” us to that bistro on the Ile St. Louis, she thought. He had no intention of showing them the place and then bowing out of the picture. He would wheedle her aunt into invitation. They were probably talking about it right this minute!

“Of course you’ll join us for lunch,” Louisa would say cordially.

Well, why not?

Because he’s spoiling everything, Iris thought vexedly. He was pushy and arrogant and who was he, anyway? Someone they knew nothing about, idling his days away.

What did he do for a living, if anything? Why was he bumming about on a weekday, instead of being in an office somewhere?

If he was on vacation, what was he doing in Paris, where he obviously lived? If he were on vacation, he’d be somewhere else … not here, in the city.

“I am Paul Chandon …”

That was all he had said about himself.

Why in the world was Aunt Louisa behaving in this foolhardy manner?

There was only one explanation. Her aunt was encouraging this stranger because he had made a play for her niece, and Aunt Louisa had some insane notion that here, like manna from heaven, was a handsome and “presentable” young man for her niece to have a few dates with … and all without any blame to herself for having introduced him to Iris.

I can handle this, Iris decided grimly, and set her lips. Then she went down the steps. They saw her finally, as she came toward them.

“Here she is,” Louisa said gaily, and as Iris walked up to them, added, “You will join us for lunch, Paul, won’t you?”

“I only meant to show you where the restaurant was,” he reminded her, and then shrugged engagingly. “However, I haven’t eaten yet either, so thank you very much, I would like to.”

I knew it, thought Iris … I knew it …

The Ile St. Louis was reached by going round to the side of the cathedral where there was a paradise of beautiful gardens and where people sat on white-painted benches, their faces turned up to the sun, and small children played.

“I’m so fond of this spot,” Louisa said. “Isn’t it idyllic, Iris? The trees, the foliage, the fragrances …”

“It’s a good place in which to sit with a book and read for an afternoon,” Paul suggested. His eyes followed Iris’s as she looked up at the massive flying buttresses that flanked the cathedral.

“That’s inspiring too, isn’t it,” he said. “A place in which to put aside worldly cares.”

He looked back at her quizzically.

“And in which to forget minor irritations,” he added. Then, putting a hand briefly on her arm, met her eyes.

“Are you,” he asked, “feeling more serene now? After your long session in the church?”

She flushed angrily. It was as if he had said,
are you more resigned to my unwelcome presence?

I would like, Iris thought, to see you fall, fully clad, into the Seine. Or simply vanish in a puff of smoke.

But she gritted her teeth and smiled. “How could anyone feel anything but serene on a day like this?”

“I am glad,” he said, with that faintly sardonic smile, and turned back to her aunt.

Finally they came to a small chain-fence gate, which Paul opened. They went through it and stepped onto a quaint little iron bridge, which spanned the river at this narrow point. And then they were on the Ile St. Louis, which was almost like a little tail of the Ile de la Cité where Notre Dame stood.

It was very pretty, with its tree-lined embankments. Paul led them down a narrow street and then into a narrower one where, among three or four restaurants, was a corner one.

“Et voilá,”
he said.
“Le Coquelicot.”

It was, as he had told them, far from fancy, and when they were seated, Louisa admitted that she would certainly have passed this place by, as it looked from the outside like a Greasy Spoon.

Modest in appearance, it was not a tourist place, probably due to its unprepossessing exterior which was undoubtedly designed in order to ensure strictly a French clientele.

There was, at least today, not a single person of another nationality present save for Iris and her aunt, and the sound of many Gallic voices raised in talk and laughter was diverting. Typically bistro, there were the usual red-checked cloths spread over wood trestle tables. The chairs were rush-bottomed and there was a rough-beamed ceiling.

A waiter came over and greeted them. To Paul, he said, “
Ça va,
mon gosse,”
and handed him three menus.

His eyes assessed the two people with Paul, lingering first on Iris, then Louisa, and then returning to Paul.

Iris caught the quick exchange of looks between Paul and the waiter. She felt uncomfortable and uneasy. It was as if they were being sized up for some reason.

The waiter, with a pleasant smile, left them to make their selections.

“I’m starved,” Louisa said. “I’ll have the choucroute.”

“What’s that?” Iris wanted to know.

Paul explained. “Slabs of pork, with beans, sauerkraut, and a frankfurter.”

“I guess I’ll have that too.”

When the waiter returned Paul gave the order for three choucroutes and a bottle of
vin ordinaire.

“Ah,
pain riche,”
Louisa said contentedly, reaching in a wicker bread basket. “Try it, Iris, it’s delicious.”

The bread, spread with sweet butter of which there was a generous crock, was certainly very tasty. “I do like this bistro,” Louisa said enthusiastically, “though I doubt I’d come in by myself … that is, without someone French. I’d feel out of place.”

“You wouldn’t now,” Paul assured her. “Now you are known here, and will always be a welcome guest.”

“You do seem to know all the waiters in Paris,” Iris commented.

“Only the ones at the eating places to which I go,” he replied, with a perfectly straight face.

“How amusing,” she said sweetly.

He leaned across the table.

“Permit me,” he said, politely, and brushed her chin lightly with a corner of his red-checked napkin. “You had a crumb of bread on your face.”

“Thank you.”

“Not at all.”

Iris felt the color rise to her cheeks. She was irritated beyond words at the hot flush that seemed to actually burn … and doubly irked that it was not so much flush as blush, that she was blushing, like a silly girl, a goose.

She caught her aunt’s eye and thought she saw a flicker of amusement there, a faint look of speculative merriment. For one awful moment there were tears very near the surface.

What was the matter with her?

Then she was herself again, almost instantly. It was the unfamiliar, the new, that was all. Maybe a little homesickness. She was perhaps jealous too. Jealous of Paul Chandon, who had so captivated her aunt. She wasn’t accustomed to sharing Louisa’s affections.

“I’d like some more of that butter,” she said, without a trace of tremor in her voice.

“And here is our lunch,” Paul announced, replacing his napkin on his lap as three steaming plates of food were set before them.

“Bon,”
Paul said, and all the glasses were filled.

The waiter, with a
“Bon appétit,
” hurried away.

Louisa, fork poised, gave a happy little sigh. “‘A loaf of bread, a jug of wine …’“

“And thou,” Paul finished for her. He raised his glass.
“Bonne chance et bon destin.”

There wasn’t much to do except raise one’s own glass and drink to the toast. If only he wouldn’t
smile
like that, Iris thought, averting her eyes quickly. That smile, so warm and dazzling … it seemed so sincere. Whereas, he was not sincere. He was out for something, he had something up his sleeve. He was an adventurer, up to no good, and she was a captive, fated to follow her aunt’s whims.

It was all very perplexing … and very worrisome.

But the choucroute was succulent and tasty, and the wine a little heady. It seemed innocent enough, but it had a kick all right, and they hadn’t had a bite to eat since breakfast.

“Dessert?” Louisa cried, when Paul asked what they would like for a sweet. “I’m stuffed. Absolutely not.”