Paris: The Novel

shall meet again, mademoiselle, and perhaps not. But there will be a note for you in a week’s time.”

    Louise had lied. She quite often did with strange men—for her own protection. It was better that they should think that she was a respectable young woman with a family to protect her.
    And it was mostly true. She was a respectable girl, studying in Paris. And she was living in the apartment of a widow who had been recommended by the British consul.
    But she was not being watched over, even from a distance, by her parents. Because her parents were dead.
    It had happened soon after her return from the Loire. She’d been feeling so pleased with herself. Back at the big, Edwardian house behind its high hedges, the world had seemed so secure. She’d rather shocked her parents by telling them that, until such time that she found a husband, she’d like to teach French in one of the better London schools. They didn’t approve, but she was quite determined to be independent.
    And then suddenly the world had changed. It had been such a foolish business, really. Her father had a Wolseley motor car of which he was very proud, and he liked to drive it himself. He and her mother had gone out one misty day. There weren’t many cars driving on the lanes near the house.
    But the big tractor coming toward them had been too much even for the solid Wolseley. And suddenly Louise hadn’t any parents anymore.
    Mr. Martineau, the senior partner at Fox and Martineau now, had been very helpful. Her father had left her an inheritance in trust. Enough to tempt a prospective husband, perhaps, though not enough to keep her in the style to which she’d been accustomed. She’d get the principal when she was thirty and only a modest income until then.
    So what was she to do? Become a French teacher in London, perhaps? Or something more adventurous?
    She had no one else to please. No one to approve or disapprove. She was of age. She could do exactly what she wanted.
    And the British pound went a long way, in postwar France.
    So she had gone to Paris. She could live quietly there, take some courses,and continue to lead a genteel student life for as long as she wished. Or until something interesting turned up, of course.
    After all, she was French really, whoever and whatever her parents were.

    Chanel. She was to present herself at 31 rue Cambon, just behind the Ritz Hotel, where the
maison de couture
had its sublime headquarters. Chanel: of Paris, of Deauville in Normandy, where the racing set gathered, of Biarritz on the Atlantic coast in the south where the rich Spanish liked to holiday. Chanel, who lent her Paris house to Stravinsky, and underwrote the production of
The Rite of Spring
. Louise couldn’t believe it.
    Madame Chanel herself was there, just back from the South of France. Dark-haired, very simply dressed, it seemed to Louise that she exuded an elegant sexuality, and that she had the eyes of a watchful panther.
    “So, you are the one Luc Gascon found. Turn around. Walk forward. Turn, and walk back. Tell me about your education and upbringing.”
    Louise did so.
    “So you speak elegant French and English. That is rare. You could do very well, depending on how you wish to live. How many lovers have you had?”
    “None, madame.”
    “If you wish to succeed in life, you should do something about that at once. Choose wisely. My lovers made me rich. The rest comes from my talent and hard work. Are you ruthless?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “The English bring their children up not to be ruthless. It is all a lie. Those who succeed are just as ruthless as the rest of us. This we call English hypocrisy. Are you a hypocrite?”
    “No, madame.”
    “Good. Hypocrites soon become boring. That is their punishment. Nobody wants to talk to them. Find a rich lover and become ruthless. The girls will show you how to walk. I shall pay you a little. Maybe more, later, if you are any good.” And with brief instructions to one of her assistants, she waved Louise away.
    In the succeeding days, Louise learned how to walk, and much else besides. As to the rich lover, she decided she would have to think about that.

    It was a week later that, sitting in the restaurant early in the evening, Luc Gascon saw Louise approaching. He rose politely to greet her, and she accepted his offer of a little food.
    “Just a salad.” She smiled. “I am slimming.”
    “I have a bottle of Beaune, as you see. A glass can do you no harm.” He