No Escape from Love, page 6
When he came back from having made all the necessary arrangements not with the Chamberlain but with his secretary, who kept the accounts appertaining to the household, he was wondering how he could tell her that she must change her appearance.
Then he told himself with one of his cynical smiles that it was not her clothes that should be altered but her face.
Vernita rose as he entered the salon.
Her eyes had an anxious expression in them and the Count was sure that she had been worrying since he had left her.
“Everything is arranged,” he told her in a quiet voice.
He handed her three cards that bore the Princess’s crest signed by the Chamberlain.
“These will enable you to order the materials you need from any well-known shop and the goods will be delivered here,” he said.
“Thank you very much,” Vernita replied.
“I have also arranged your salary,” the Count continued. “You will receive three hundred francs a year, payable monthly and, of course, your board and lodging.”
“That is too much! “ Vernita gasped.
The Count smiled.
“I doubt if you will find it goes very far in Paris,” he replied, thinking of the wild extravagance of the Princess who paid more than that for a new bonnet.
Then he remembered that living as she had Vernita would know exactly how far a franc would go and he said,
“This is a Royal household and the Emperor would not wish any member of it, high or low, to be paid inadequately.”
“You know I am grateful, monsieur,” Vernita said.
“I will take you home,” the Count suggested.
He opened the door to let Vernita precede him and only as she reached the doorstep did she realise that in her position she should have followed him.
When they were driving down the Rue du Faubourg Saint Honoré she said in a low voice,
“I hope I shall not fail and – disappoint you.”
“It is the Princess you have to please – not me,” the Count answered, “and I doubt if I shall be staying long in Paris.”
His words made Vernita turn to look at him quickly and she asked,
“You are going away, monsieur?”
She did not know why but she felt upset and apprehensive at the idea.
“I may have to return home at any moment,” the Count answered. “That is why I would like to give you some good advice before I leave.”
“I will listen to – to anything you wish to – say.”
“It is hard for us to talk here,” the Count said, driving his horses down the boulevard. “What I am going to suggest is that when you have finished your packing, you have dinner with me tonight.”
Vernita’s expression turned to one of surprise.
This was somehow the last thing she expected him to say to her.
“D-dinner?” she faltered.
“It would be so much easier if we could talk together in some quiet restaurant,” the Count said.
“But – but – the Princess?”
Vernita was sure that the Princess would think it extremely reprehensible and positively insulting that the man she quite obviously fancied should take out one of her servants.
“The Princess will not know where we are,” the Count answered. “She is in fact dining at a party to which I have not been invited.”
Vernita was silent for a moment and then said,
“It would not be – wrong?”
She was not quite certain what she meant except that it was utterly revolutionary for her to be asked out to dinner.
She had never dined alone with a man and she had the feeling that her mother would disapprove of her accepting such an invitation.
The Count appeared to consider her question, then he suggested,
“It would certainly not be wrong – unconventional perhaps – but I am afraid I cannot think of a suitable chaperone and do we really need one?”
“No – I suppose – not,” Vernita replied.
She was conscious that her heart was beating quickly and that although she was trying to consider the invitation sensibly there was a flicker of excitement rising within her that she could not suppress.
“Very well then,” the Count said. “I will call for you at seven o’clock.”
They were travelling down the Rue des Arbres as he spoke and Vernita asked him quickly,
“Please – what shall I wear?”
It was a very feminine question, which made him smile.
“We will go somewhere very quiet,” he replied. “If you have a simple evening gown put it on, if not, what you are wearing at the moment is very charming.”
“But unsuitable for my position. I realised you were thinking that when we were at the Hôtel de Charost.”
“I also thought,” he replied, “that it would make very little difference what you wore as it would be impossible for you to change the shape of your face and the size of your eyes.”
She felt herself quiver at the note in his voice.
Then the horses came to a standstill and the groom jumped down from behind the chaise to help Vernita to alight.
“Seven o’clock,” the Count repeated quietly, raising his hat.
Vernita did not look back as she walked across the dirty pavement and into the dark gloomy house.
Only as she reached the attic bedroom where she had lived for so long did she run to the trunks that stood against the wall.
She started to pull out the garments that lay at the bottom of them, frantically trying to discover something in which the Count would think she looked attractive.
*
The Count was punctual and Vernita was waiting downstairs for his horses to turn into the street.
The small hall suddenly seemed so unpleasant that she wondered how she and her mother had been able to tolerate it for so long.
The paper was peeling from the walls and although there was a carpet on the stairs it was worn and sadly in need of being beaten.
As the Count had noticed, a smell of cooking was wafting up from the basement and there were various old coats and hats hung on a hatstand by tenants who were too lazy to carry them up to their own apartments.
As the horses came to a standstill outside, Vernita saw they were drawing not the chaise in which she had ridden with the Count in the morning, but a closed carriage with both a coachman and a footman on the box.
The latter sprang down to open the door and the Count got out so resplendent in his evening clothes that Vernita drew in her breath.
It was a long time since she had last seen a gentleman looking so smart, and it made her think of the parties her father and mother attended when they had first reached Paris two years ago.
Nothing could have been more glamorous or more colourful, she had thought, than the levees and drawing rooms, and she had never forgotten an assembly to which her father had taken her in the Tuileries.
The hundreds of footmen in their green and gold livery, the gorgeously begilt Palace Officials who paraded the antechambers, the pages with their gold chains and medallions and the uniforms of the aides-de-camp had dazzled her.
The gentlemen who partnered her at the balls had either worn uniform with gold epaulettes or had seemed equally resplendent in their knee-breeches and long-tailed coats with white cravats in which glittered jewelled tiepins that complemented their glittering fobs.
Now, as the Count advanced across the pavement towards her, Vernita wished she had chosen a more elaborate gown than the one she was wearing.
Because she should really have been in mourning for her mother, she had refused to entertain the idea of putting on any gown that was blue or pink, yellow or green, all of which had been purchased in Bond Street for their French visit.
Instead she had found in her mother’s trunk a gown in pale mauve gauze, which had chiffon softly draped around the décolletage and small sleeves that made it seem less formal than some of the others.
It was a gown that, after buying it, Lady Waltham had complained was too young for her, but because it was her favourite colour, she had sometimes put it on to dine alone with her husband and daughter but had not considered it elaborate enough for any other occasion.
There was a long wrap of the same colour in velvet to wear with it and it was in fact one of the few evening wraps that had not been edged or lined with fur and had therefore escaped being sold.
It was so long since Vernita had worn evening-dress that, when she tried to see herself in the small cracked mirror that hung on the wall in the attic, she had been pleased with her appearance.
She felt as if like Cinderella her Godmother had waved a magic wand and her rags had turned into a ball gown.
Now she was half-afraid that the Count would be ashamed to be seen with her and she looked up at him, her eyes wide and anxious as he reached her side.
Taking her hand, he raised it to his lips.
“You are not only punctual,” he said, “which is unusual for one of your sex, but you look very lovely.”
The words, Vernita told herself, meant less in French than they would have in English.
Nevertheless she blushed and found it difficult to reply.
The Count led her across the pavement and helped her into the carriage and, when they drove off, Vernita could not help a little thrill of excitement at being able to lean back against soft cushions with a rug over her knees.
“I have planned to take you somewhere very quiet where we can talk,” the Count said, “but perhaps you would have enjoyed one of the more fashionable restaurants where one can see and be seen?”
“No, no, of course not,” Vernita replied quickly, “and I am sure it would be wrong for you to be seen with me.”
“Not as far as I am concerned,” the Count answered, “but you might receive a lot of invitations that you would find it embarrassing to refuse.”
She realised he was paying her a compliment and she enthused after a moment,
“It is very – exciting for me to go anywhere – and I have never dined at a restaurant in Paris.”
She knew that her mother would have thought it vulgar to eat anywhere except in their own house or those of friends.
As if the Count knew what she was thinking, he said,
“As I am a bachelor, you could not come to the house where I am staying. So, as I wished to talk to you alone there is no alternative for us but to visit a restaurant.”
“No, of course not,” Vernita agreed.
But she could not help thinking of the cheap common places that Louise Danjou was always asking her to visit and feeling glad she had never been tempted to accept her suggestions.
The carriage stopped in a small square with flowering shrubs in the centre of it and a number of striped awnings that proclaimed the presence of small discreet restaurants beneath tall well built houses.
The footman helped Vernita out of the carriage and she found herself in a restaurant, which was very different from what she had anticipated it would be like.
Instead of a vast room filled with tables, which was what she expected, there were several small rooms opening out of one another with velvet sofas around the walls and only a few tables in each.
There were pictures and mirrors on the walls and flowers, which scented the air.
A Madame in rustling black welcomed them and led them to a sofa-table that was situated at the end of the room and seemed to be isolated from the others.
Vernita sat down and large menus encased in red leather were placed in front of them both.
Vernita looked at hers helplessly. There were so many dishes to choose from and she had almost forgotten what the names described.
“I know you are hungry,” the Count said, “and I am therefore going to order for you. It is always a mistake when you have eaten very little for a long time to have heavy dishes that are difficult to digest.”
Vernita was thankful that she had to do nothing but listen to him ordering carefully what seemed to her to be a very large meal.
Then he chose the wine and sat back comfortably, turning sideways so that he could look at her.
“Your first dinner in a restaurant,” he sighed, “and I have a feeling it is the first time you have ever dined alone with a man who was not your father.”
“Y-yes,” she replied. “That is true.”
“Then I am very honoured to be the first. We must make it a very special occasion, especially as it is something that will not happen again.”
“When are you leaving, monsieur?” she asked.
“I honestly do not know,” the Count replied, “but we both know we have to make the most of this evening, then perhaps forget that it ever happened.”
Vernita felt a little pang within her that she could not understand, but it was definitely a feeling of physical pain.
After tonight, she told herself, she would be just a servant in the Hôtel de Charost, where the Count would only speak to give her an order and there would be no question of their being friends as she felt they were at the moment.
“Forget tomorrow,” the Count said as if he once again knew what she was thinking, “and let us enjoy every moment of the present. Tell me what interests you.”
Making an effort to fall in with the mood he was trying to create, Vernita replied,
“Reading, when I can find the books, and riding when I have a horse.”
“I should have guessed both those things,” the Count remarked. “What else?”
Vernita made a little gesture with her hand.
“I used to play the piano a little, but I am sadly out of practice. I am afraid that I have never had an aptitude for watercolours like most of my friends.”
As she spoke she wondered if she had made a slip. While all English girls were encouraged to sketch or to paint she had no idea if their French counterparts were expected to do the same.
Hurriedly she added,
“I was admiring the horses you drive.”
“Alas, they are not mine,” the Count replied. “They belong to Vicomte de Clermont, a friend who has lent them to me. I am staying in his house in the Champs Élysée.”
“Oh, I know the Hotel de Clermont!” Vernita exclaimed. “I have often admired the coat of arms on the portico.”
“My friend the Vicomte admires it too,” the Count smiled. “As you doubtless know, he belongs to a very ancient family who were related to the Emperor Charlemagne.”
Feeling the Count might expect her to know more about the old families of France than she did, Vernita changed the subject.
“I have always heard that Sweden is a very beautiful country.”
“I think so myself, but then I am prejudiced. I would love you to see the horses I really own. I have several which I believe are unequalled.”
“I had a horse of my own,” Vernita said, “and I loved him more than anything else in the world except for my parents. I taught him to come when I whistled and, although he was very spirited with everyone else he would do whatever I asked of him.”
“What was his name?” the Count asked.
“Dragonfly,” Vernita replied without thinking and realised she had said the word in English.
For a moment her heart stood still from sheer terror at the mistake she had made.
She had in fact been so carried away that she had imagined herself back at home standing at the gate of the paddock, giving a short whistle and knowing that Dragonfly, as soon as he heard it, would come trotting up to her.
“So your horse had an English name,” the Count remarked.
“He came from England,” Vernita said quickly. “My father bought him when the Armistice was signed.”
Even as she spoke she thought it was rather a lame excuse. After all, that would give her a very short time in which to own the horse and to train him, but she hoped the Count would not realise that.
Fortunately, at that moment the waiter brought the wine to the table in a bucket of ice and opened the bottle.
The Count tasted it, nodded his head and the waiter poured out a glass for Vernita.
She looked at it doubtfully.
“It is such a long time since I have had anything alcoholic to drink,” she admitted, “that I think perhaps it would be a mistake.”
“It would be until you have eaten,” the Count agreed, “and then I promise I will look after you and not allow you to drink too much.”
There was a note in his voice that made her feel shy and because she did not dare to look at him she broke the roll that was on her plate and spread it with a small piece of butter.
The roll was fresh and because she was hungry she thought that it was delicious.
But to her surprise the Count leaned across and took the plate away from her.
“I do not wish you to blunt your appetite until you see what I have ordered,” he said. “The food here is sublime. It is one of the small places in Paris which can cater for the gourmet and that is what you are to be tonight.”
Vernita smiled.
“I am hungry and it is hard to wait.”
“I know that,” he answered, “but I know too that you will find it difficult not to gobble up the first thing that comes. Then, because you have been without food for so long, it will be impossible to eat any more.”
“How do you know this?” Vernita questioned.
“I have been hungry – very hungry at times,” the Count answered.
“Have you? But when?” Vernita asked in surprise.
“When I have been travelling,” he replied, but she felt somehow that was not entirely a truthful answer.
When the food arrived, it was so delicious that, as the Count had predicted, Vernita ate every morsel of the first course then found it impossible to eat more than a few mouthfuls of the second.
“You will disappoint Monsieur who owns this restaurant and is also the chef,” the Count said to Vernita, but it was no use.
The months of privation prevented her from doing justice to the dish and after a while she had to admit that she was defeated and the Count ate alone.
Finally, when the waiter had brought their coffee, he declared,
“Now I am going to talk to you about yourself, Vernita.”
