Mrs Harris Goes To Paris And Mrs Harris Goes To New York Part 3

'Are you looking for a dress for your daughter?' Mrs Harris inquired.

The old man shook his head, for his children were I scattered and far removed. 'No,' he replied, 'I come here from time to time because I like to see beautiful clothes and beautiful women. It refreshes me and makes me feel young again.'

Mrs Harris nodded a.s.sent. 'No doubt abaht that!' she agreed. Then with the pleasant feeling that she had found someone else in whom she might confide she leaned towards him and whispered: 'I've come all the way from London to buy meself a Dior dress.'

A flash of insight, half a Frenchman's marvellous perspicacity, half the completion of the memory he had been trying to dredge up, illuminated the old gentleman, and he knew now who and what she was. The old picture of the dark-stained hallway and creaking stairs with the pail at the top, returned, but now a figure stood beside the bucket, a large slatternly woman in a bedraggled overall, outsize shoes, reddish-grey hair, and freckled skin, sole commander of battery of brooms, mops, dusters, and brushes. She had been for him the only cheerful note throughout the gloomy precincts of the college rooms.

A slattern whose husband had deserted her, the sole support of five children, she exuded unfailing good humour and a kind of waspish but authentic and matter-of-fact philosophy sandwiched in between comments upon the weather, the government, the cost of living, and the vicissitudes of life 'Tyke what you can get and don't look no gift 'orse in the eye,' was one of her sayings. He remembered that her name had been Mrs Maddox, but to him and another French boy in the college she had always been Madame Mops, and as such had been their friend, counsellor, bearer of tidings, source of gossip and intramural news.

He remembered too that beneath the brash and comic exterior he had recognised the intrepid bravery of women who lived out lives of hards.h.i.+p and ceaseless toil to render their simple duties to their own, leavened with no more than the sprinkling of the salt of minor grumbling, and acid commentary upon the scoundrels and scallywags who ran things. He could see her again now, the reddish-grey hair hanging down about her eyes, a cigarette tucked behind one ear, her head bobbing with concentrated energy as she charred the premises. He could almost hear her speak again. And then realised that he had had.

For seated next to him in the most exclusive and sophisticated dress salon in Paris, was the reincarnation of his Madame Mops of half a century ago.

True there was no physical resemblance, for his neighbour was slight and worn thin by work - the old gentleman's eyes dropping to her hands confirmed the guess - but that was not how he recognised her; it was by the bearing, the speech, of course, and the naughty little eyes, but above all by the aura of indomitable courage and independence and impudence that surrounded her.

'A Dior dress,' he echoed her - 'a splendid idea. Let us hope that you will find here this afternoon what you desire.'

There was no need in him to question her as to how how it was possible for her to fulfil such a wish. He knew from his own experience something of the nature of these special Englishwomen and simply a.s.sumed that she had been left a legacy, or had suddenly acquired a large sum of money through one of those ma.s.sive and extraordinary football lotteries he was always reading about in the papers as conferring untold wealth upon British railroad porters, coal miners, or grocery a.s.sistants. But had he known just how Mrs Harris had come by the entire sum needed to satisfy her ambition he would not have been surprised either. it was possible for her to fulfil such a wish. He knew from his own experience something of the nature of these special Englishwomen and simply a.s.sumed that she had been left a legacy, or had suddenly acquired a large sum of money through one of those ma.s.sive and extraordinary football lotteries he was always reading about in the papers as conferring untold wealth upon British railroad porters, coal miners, or grocery a.s.sistants. But had he known just how Mrs Harris had come by the entire sum needed to satisfy her ambition he would not have been surprised either.

They now understood one another as did old friends who had much in life behind them.

'I wouldn't let on to anyone else,' Mrs Harris confessed from the comfort of her new-found friends.h.i.+p, 'but I was frightened to death to come 'ere.'

The old man looked at her in astonishment - 'You? Frightened?'

'Well,' Mrs Harris confided, 'you know the French ...'

The gentleman emitted a sigh. 'Ah yes. I know them very well. Still there is nothing now but for you to choose the gown that you like the best. It is said the collection this spring is superb.'

There was a stir and a rustle. A chic, expensively-dressed woman came in acolyted by two sales ladies and made for the seat beside Mrs Harris where the brown rexine handbag containing the latter's fortune reposed momentarily.

Mrs Harris s.n.a.t.c.hed it away with an 'Oops, dearie, sorry!' then brushed the seat of the chair with her hand smiling cheerily said: 'There you are now. All ready for you.'

The woman who had close-set eyes and a too small mouth sat down with a jangle of gold bracelets, and immediately Mrs Harris felt herself enveloped in a cloud of the most delectable and intoxicating perfume. She leaned closer to the woman for a better sniff and said with sincere admiration: 'My, you do smell good.'

The newcomer made a testy motion of withdrawal and a line appeared between the narrow eyes. She was looking towards the door as though searching for someone.

It would be time to begin soon. Mrs Harris felt as eager and excited as a child and mentally apostrophized herself: 'Look at you, Ada 'Arris! Whoever would have thought you'd be sitting in the parlour at Dior's in Paris one day, buying a dress with all the toffs? And yet 'ere you are, and noffink can stop you now-'

But the woman next to her, the wife of a speculator, had found whom she sought - Madame Colbert, who had just emerged from the dressing rooms leading off from the stairs, and she beckoned her over, speaking sharply and loudly to her in French as she neared: 'What do you mean by seating a vulgar creature like this next to me? I wish her removed at once. I have a friend coming later who will occupy her chair.'

Mme Colbert's heart sank. She knew the woman and the breed. She bought not for love of clothes, but for the ostentation of it. Nevertheless she spent money. To temporize, Mme Colbert said: 'I am sorry, madame, but I have no recollection of reserving this seat for a friend of yours, but I will look.'

'It is not necessary to look. I told you I wished this seat for a friend. Do as I say at once. You must be out of your mind to place such a person next to me.'

The old gentleman next to Mrs Harris was beginning to colour, the crimson rising from the neckline of his collar and spreading to his ears. His blue eyes were turning as frosty as his white fringe.

For a moment Mme Colbert was tempted. Surely the little cleaning woman from London would understand if she explained to her that there had been an error in the reservations and the seat was taken. She would be able to see just as much from the head of the stairs. Her glance travelled to Mrs Harris sitting there in her shabby coat and preposterous hat. And the object of this contretemps, not understanding a word of the conversation, looked up at her with her sunniest and most trusting apple-cheeked smile. 'Ain't you a dear to put me 'ere with all these nice people,' she said, 'I couldn't be 'appier if I was a millionaire.'

A worried-looking man in striped trousers and frock coat appeared at the head of the salon. The angry woman called to him: 'Monsieur Armand; come here at once, I wish to speak to you. Mme Colbert has had the impertinence to seat me next to this dreadful woman. Am I forced to put up with this?'

Fl.u.s.tered by the vehemence of the attack, M. Armand took one look at Mrs Harris and then to Mme Colbert he made secret ousting movements with his hands and said: 'Well, well. You heard. Get rid of her at once.'

The angry red in the face of the fierce old gentleman turned to purple, he half arose from his chair, his mouth opening to speak when Mme Colbert preceded him.

Many thoughts and fears had raced through the French-woman's mind, her job, prestige of the firm, possible loss of a wealthy client, consequences of defiance of authority. Yet she also knew that though M. Armand was her superior, on this floor she was in supreme command. And now that the unwitting Mrs Harris was the subject of a cruel attack the manageress experienced more than ever the feeling of kins.h.i.+p and sisterhood with this strange visitor from across the Channel returning overpoweringly. Whatever happened, oust her she could not and would not. It would be like beating an innocent child. She thrust out her firm round chin at M. Armand and declared: 'Madame has every right to be seated there. She has journeyed here from London especially to buy a dress. If you wish her removed, do it yourself, for I will not.'

Mrs Harris guessed she was being discussed and identified too the city of her birth, but took no hint as to the import of the discussion. She gathered that Mme Colbert had acquainted the gentleman in the frock coat with the story of her ambitions. She therefore favoured him with her most engaging smile and, in addition, tipped him a large and knowing wink.

The old gentleman had in the meantime resumed both his seat and his normal colour, but he was staring at Mme Colbert, his face lit up with a kind of fierce and angry joy. He had momentarily forgotten Mrs Harris in his discovery of something new, or rather on the contrary, something very old and almost forgotten - a Frenchwoman of selfless courage, honour, and integrity.

As for M. Armand, he hesitated - and was lost. Mme Colbert's firm stand as well as Mrs Harris's wink had unnerved him. Some of Dior's best clients, he was aware, were frequently most odd-appearing and eccentric women. Mme Colbert was supposed to know what she was doing. Throwing up his hands in a gesture of surrender, he fled the battlefield.

The wife of the speculator snapped: 'You will hear further about this. I think, Mme Colbert, this will cost you your position,' got up, and stalked from the room.

'Ah, but I think it will not!' The speaker was now the old gentleman with the tufted eyebrows, fiercely prominent nose, and the rosette of the Legion d'Honneur in his b.u.t.tonhole. He arose and declaimed somewhat dramatically: 'I am proud to have been a witness that the spirit of true democracy is not entirely extinguished in France and that decency and honour still have some adherents. If there are any difficulties over this I will speak to the patron myself.'

Mme Colbert glanced at him and murmured: 'Monsieur is very kind.' She was bewildered, sick at heart, and not a little frightened, as she peered momentarily into the dark abyss of the future - Jules pa.s.sed over again, a broken man, she dismissed from her job and no doubt blacklisted by a malicious woman.

A girl stationed at the door called out: 'Number wan, "Nocturne",' as a model in a beige suit with wide lapels and flaring skirt minced into the room.

A little shriek of excitement was torn from Mrs Harris. 'Lumme. It's begun!'

In spite of her state of mind Mme Colbert felt suddenly an inexplicable welling up in her of love for the charwoman and bending over her she gave her a little squeeze. 'Look well now,' she said, 'so that you may recognise your heart's desire.'

THEREAFTER, for the next hour and a half, before the enthralled eyes of Mrs Harris, some ten models paraded one hundred and twenty specimens of the highest dressmaker's art to be found in most degenerately civilised city in the world.

They came in satins, silks, laces, wools, jerseys, cottons, brocades, velvets, twills, broadclothes, tweeds, nets, organzas, and muslins- They showed frocks, suits, coats, capes, gowns, clothes for c.o.c.ktails, for the morning, the afternoon, for dinner parties, and formal and stately b.a.l.l.s and receptions.

They entered trimmed with fur, bugle beads, sequins, embroidery with gold and silver thread, or stiff with brocades, the colours were wonderfully gay and clashed in daring combinations; the sleeves were long, short, medium, or missing altogether. Necklines ranged from choke to plunge, hemlines wandered at the whim of the designer. Some hips were high, others low, sometimes the b.r.e.a.s.t.s were emphasized, sometimes neglected or wholly concealed. The theme of the show was the high waist and hidden hips. There were hints and forecasts of the sack and trapeze to come. Every known fur from Persian lamb, mink, and nutria to Russian baumarten and sable were used in tr.i.m.m.i.n.g or in the shape of stoles or jackets.

It was not long before Mrs Harris began to become accustomed to this bewildering array of richness and finery and soon came to recognise the various models upon their appearance in rotation.

There was the girl who walked slinky-sly with her stomach protruding a good six inches before her, and the pet.i.te one with the come-hither eyes and provocative mouth. There was the model who seemed to be plain until Mrs Harris noted her carriage and quiet air of elegance, and another who was just sufficiently on the plump side to convey the idea to a stout customer. There was the girl with her nose in the air and disdain at her lips, and an opposite type, a red-haired minx who wooed the whole salon as she made her rounds.

And then, of course, there was the one and only Natasha, the star. It was the custom in the salon to applaud when a creation made a particular hit, and Mrs Harris's palms, h.o.r.n.y from application to scrubbing brush and mop, led the appreciation each time Natasha appeared looking lovelier than the last. Once, during one of her appearances, the charwoman noticed a tall, blond, pale young man with an odd scar on his face standing outside, staring hungrily as Natasha made an entrance and said to herself: 'Coo, he ain't arf in love with her, he ain't ...'

She was in love herself, was Mrs Harris, with Natasha, with Mme Colbert, but above all with life and the wonderful thing it had become. The back of her card was already covered with pencilled numbers of frocks and dresses and frantic notes, messages and reminders to herself that she would never be able to decipher. How could one choose between them all?

And then Natasha glided into the salon wearing an evening gown, Number 89, called 'Temptation'. Mrs Harris had just a fleeting instant in which to note the enraptured expression on the face of the young man by the door before he turned away quickly as though that was what he had come for, and then it was all up with her. She was lost, dazzled, blinded, overwhelmed by the beauty of the creation. This was IT IT!!! Thereafter there were yet to come further stunning examples of evening gowns until the traditional appearance of the bridal costume brought the show to a close, but the char saw none of them. Her choice was made. Feverish excitement accelerated her heartbeat. Desire coursed like fire in her veins.

'Temptation' was a black velvet gown, floor length, encrusted half-way from the bottom up with a unique design picked out in beads of jet that gave to the skirt weight and movement. The top was a froth of cream, delicate pink, and white chiffon, tulle and lace from which arose the ivory shoulders and neck and dreamy-eyed dark head of Natasha.

Rarely had a creation been better named. The wearer appeared like Venus arising from the pearly sea, and likewise she presented the seductive figure of a woman emerging from tousled bedclothes. Never had the upper portion of the female form been more alluringly framed.

The salon burst into spontaneous applause at Natasha's appearance and the clacking of Mrs Harris's palms rounded like the beating upon boards with a broomstick.

Cries and murmurs of 'La, la!' and 'Voyez, c'est formidable!' arose on all sides from the males present while the fierce old gentleman thumped his cane upon the floor and beamed with ineffable pleasure. The garment covered Natasha most decently and morally and yet was wholly indecent and overwhelmingly alluring.

Mrs Harris was not aware that there was anything extraordinary as to the choice she had made. For she was and eternally would be a woman. She had been young once and in love. She had had a husband to whom her young heart had gone out and to whom she had wished to give and be everything. Life in that sense had not pa.s.sed her by. He had been shy, embarra.s.sed, tongue-tied, yet she had heard the love words forced haltingly from his lips whispered into her ear. Incongruously, at that moment she thought of the photograph upon her dressing table with herself in the tiered muslin dress that had seemed so grand then, only now she saw herself clad in 'Temptation' in the picture instead.

The bridal model showed herself perfunctorily; the gathering, buzzing as it emerged from the two salons were sucked towards the exit leading to the grand staircase where, lined up like ravens, the vendeuses, vendeuses, the black-clad sales women with their little sales books under their arms waited to pounce upon their customers. the black-clad sales women with their little sales books under their arms waited to pounce upon their customers.

Mrs Harris, her small blue eyes glittering like aquamarines, found Mme Colbert. 'Number eighty-nine, Temptytion,' she cried, and then added, 'oh Lor', I 'ope it don't cost more'n what I've got.'

Mme Colbert smiled a thin, sad smile. She might almost have guessed it. 'Temptation' was a poem created in materials by a poet of women, for a young girl in celebration of her freshness and beauty and awakening to the mysterious power of her s.e.x. It was invariably demanded by the faded, the middle-aged, the verging-on-pa.s.se women. 'Come,' she said, 'we will go to the back and I will have it brought to you.'

She led her through grey doors into another part of the building, through endless meadows of the soft grey carpeting until at last Mrs Harris came into yet another world that was almost stifling with excitement.

She found herself in a curtained-off cubicle on a corridor that seemed to be a part of an endless maze of similar corridors and cubicles. Each cubicle held a woman like a queen bee in a cell, and through the corridors rushed the worker bees with the honey - armfuls of frilly, frothy garments in colours of plum, raspberry, tamarind, and peach, gentian-flower, cowslip, damask rose, and orchid, to present them where they had been ordered for trial and further inspection.

Here was indeed woman's secret world, where gossip and the latest scandal was exchanged, the battlefield where the struggle against the ravages of age was carried on with the weapons of the dressmaker's art and where fortunes were spent in a single afternoon.

Here, attended by sales women, seamstresses, cutters, fitters, and designers, who hovered about them with tape, scissors, basting needle and thread, and mouths full of pins, rich French women, rich American women, rich German women, super-rich South American women, t.i.tled women from England, maharanees from India, and even, it was rumoured, the wife or two of an amba.s.sador or commissar from Russia, spent their afternoons - and their husband's money.

And here too, in the midst of this thrilling and entrancing hive, surrounded by her own entourage, stood the London charwoman, encased in 'Temptation' - whom it fitted astonis.h.i.+ngly, yet logically, since she too was slender, thinned by occupational exercise and too little food.

She issued from the wondrous, frothy foam of seash.e.l.l pink, sea-cream and pearl white like - Ada 'Arris from Battersea. The creation worked no miracles except in her soul. The scrawny neck and greying head that emerged from the shoulder decollete decollete of the gown, the weathered skin, small b.u.t.ton-bright blue eyes, and apple cheeks contrasted with the cla.s.sic fall of jet-encrusted black velvet panels were grotesque - but still, not wholly so, for the beautiful gown as well as the radiance of the person in it yet managed to lend an odd kind of dignity to this extraordinary figure. of the gown, the weathered skin, small b.u.t.ton-bright blue eyes, and apple cheeks contrasted with the cla.s.sic fall of jet-encrusted black velvet panels were grotesque - but still, not wholly so, for the beautiful gown as well as the radiance of the person in it yet managed to lend an odd kind of dignity to this extraordinary figure.

For Mrs Harris had attained her Paradise. She was in a state of dreamed-of and longed-for bliss. All of the hards.h.i.+ps, the sacrifices, the economies, and hungers and doings-without she had undergone faded into insignificance. Buying a Paris dress was surely the most wonderful thing that could happen to a woman.

Mme Colbert was consulting a list 'Ah, oui oui,' she murmured, 'the price is five hundred thousand francs.' The apple cheeks of Mrs Harris paled at this announcement. There was not that much money in the whole world. 'That is five hundred English pounds,' Mme Colbert continued, which is one thousand four hundred American dollars, and with our little discount for cash- '

Mrs Harris's yell of triumph interrupted her. 'Blimey! That's exactly what I've got. I'll 'ave it! Can I pye for it now?' and moving stiffly beneath the crinolines, jet, and interior reinforcements of the dress, she reached for her purse.

'Of course - if you wish. But I do not like to handle such an amount of cash. I will ask M. Fauvel to descend,' Mme Colbert replied and reached for a telephone.

A few minutes later, the young, blond, M. Andre Fauvel appeared in the cubicle, where the shrewd appraising eyes recognised him at once as the man who had gazed with such a hopelessly lovelorn expression upon Natasha.

As for M. Fauvel, he looked upon Mrs Harris rising out of 'Temptation', registering sheer and almost unconcealed horror at the picture of this earthy person desecrating the gown modelled in the collection by his G.o.ddess. To the inflamed mind of young Fauvel it was as though one of the girls from the Rue Blanche or the Place Pigalle had wrapped herself in the flag of France.

The creature smiled at him, revealing missing and imperfect teeth and wrinkling the cheeks so that they looked like fruit shrunken by frost, as she said: 'It's all 'ere ducks. Fourteen hundred dollars, and that's me last penny. Strewth!' And she handed him the sheaf of dollars.

Mme Colbert caught the look upon the face of the young accountant She could have told him this was something they went through a hundred times each week, watching exquisite creations meant for beautiful women carried off by raddled old frumps. She touched his arm gently, distracting him, and explained in a few swift sentences in French. It failed to abate his anger at seeing the outer sh.e.l.l of his beloved so mocked and burlesqued.

'It don't need no altering,' Mrs Harris was saying. 'I'll take it just as it is. 'Ave it wrapped for me.'

Mme Colbert smiled. 'But, my dear, surely you must know we cannot let you have this this dress. This is the model and there is yet another month of summer showings. We will make you one, of course, exactly like-' dress. This is the model and there is yet another month of summer showings. We will make you one, of course, exactly like-'

Alarm squeezed the heart of Mrs Harris as the import of what Mme Colbert was saying struck home. 'Lumme! Myke me one-' she repeated, and suddenly looking like an older travesty of herself, asked, ' 'ow long does it take?'

Mme Colbert felt alarm now too: 'Ten days to two weeks ordinarily - but for you we would make an exception and rush it through in a week-'

The awful silence following upon this revelation was broken by the cry torn from the depth of Mrs Harris - 'But don't you understand? I can't stay in Paris. I've just enough money to get me 'ome! It means I can't 'ave it!' She saw herself back in the gloomy Battersea flat, empty-handed, possessed only of her useless money. What did she want with all that money? It was owners.h.i.+p of 'Temptation' for which she craved, body and soul, even though she never again put it on her back.

Horrible, dreadful, common woman, thought M. Andre. thought M. Andre. Serves you right, and I shall enjoy handing your vulgar money back to you. Serves you right, and I shall enjoy handing your vulgar money back to you.

Thereupon, to the horror of all, they saw two tears form at the corners of her eyes, followed by others that coursed down the red-veined cheeks as Mrs Harris stood there in the midst of them, in the exquisite ball gown, miserable, abandoned, desperately unhappy.

And M. Andre Fauvel, accountant and money-man, supposedly with heart of stone, suddenly felt himself moved as he had never thought possible, deeply and unbearably touched and, with one of those flashes of insight of which the French are so capable, knew that it was the hopeless love he felt for the girl Natasha whose sweet and dear body had inhabited this garment that had brought him so suddenly to an understanding of the tragedy of this stranger who, on the brink of realising her greatest desire, was to suffer frustration.

Thereupon he dedicated his next remark to that girl who would never know how much or greatly he had loved her, or that he had loved her at all, for that matter. He presented himself to Mrs Harris with a formal little bow: 'If madame would care, I invite her to come to my home and remain with me during this period as my guest. It is not much - only a small house, but my sister has had to go to Lille and there would be room-'

His reward was almost immediate in the expression that came over the little woman's face and her cry of 'Oh Lor' love yer! Do yer really mean it?' and the odd gesture of Mme Colbert which might have been the brus.h.i.+ng away of something from the corner of her eyes as she said - 'Oh Andre, vous etes un ange! Andre, vous etes un ange!'

But then Mrs Harris gave a little shriek. 'Oh lumme - my jobs ...'

'Haven't you a friend,' suggested Mme Colbert helpfully, 'someone who would help you out while you were away?'

'Mrs b.u.t.terfield,' Mrs Harris replied immediately - 'but a whole week-'

'If she is a real friend she will not mind,' Mme Colbert counselled. 'We could send her a telegram from you.'

Mrs b.u.t.terfield would not mind, particularly when she heard all about it, Mrs Harris felt certain. Her conscience smote her when she thought of Pamela Penrose and her important producer friends and her career. Yet there was 'Temptation'. 'I'll do it,' she cried. 'I've got to 'ave it.'

Thereupon to her excitement and delight, her her horde of fitters, cutters, dressmakers, and seamstresses descended upon her with tape, pattern muslin, pins, basting thread, scissors, and all the wondrous exciting paraphernalia that was connected with making up the most expensive dress in the world. horde of fitters, cutters, dressmakers, and seamstresses descended upon her with tape, pattern muslin, pins, basting thread, scissors, and all the wondrous exciting paraphernalia that was connected with making up the most expensive dress in the world.

By late afternoon, when at last Mrs Harris was done with measuring and fitting, the most remote corner of the establishment had heard the tale of the London charwoman who had saved her wages and journeyed to Paris to buy herself a Dior dress and she was in the way of becoming something of a celebrity. Members of the staff from the lowest to the highest, including the Patron himself, had managed an excuse to pa.s.s by the cubicle to catch a glimpse of this remarkable Englishwoman.

And later, while for the last time Mrs Harris was encased in the model, Natasha herself, clad in a neat c.o.c.ktail frock, for she was about to start out on a round of evening's engagements, came and saw nothing unusual or grotesque in the figure of the charwoman in the beautiful creation, for she had heard the story and felt herself touched by it. She understood Mrs Harris. 'I am so glad you have chosen that one,' she said simply.

When the latter suddenly said - 'Coo, 'owever am I going to get to this Mr Fauvel. He gave me 'is address, but I wouldn't know where it was-' Natasha was the first to offer to take her thither.

'I have a leetle car; I will drive you there myself. Let me see where it is.'

Mrs Harris handed her the card M. Fauvel had given her with the address, 'Number 18, Rue Dennequin.' Natasha wrinkled her pretty forehead over the name. 'Monsieur Andre Fauvel,' she repeated. 'Now where have I seen that name before?'

Madame Colbert smiled indulgently - 'It is only the accountant of our company, cherie cherie,' she said, 'he is the one who pays out your salary.'

'Tiens!' laughed Natasha - 'One might love such a one. Very well, Madame Harris, when you are ready I will take you to heem.'

THUS it was that, shortly after six, Mrs Harris found herself in Natasha's sporty little Simca, negotiating the traffic rapids of the etoile and then sailing down the broad stream of the Avenue de Wagram, bound for the home of M. Fauvel. A telegram had already been dispatched to London, asking her friend to cope with her clients as best she could until her return; a telegram calculated to shake Mrs b.u.t.terfield to her very marrow, emanating from Paris as it did. But Mrs Harris cared not. She was still exploring Paradise. it was that, shortly after six, Mrs Harris found herself in Natasha's sporty little Simca, negotiating the traffic rapids of the etoile and then sailing down the broad stream of the Avenue de Wagram, bound for the home of M. Fauvel. A telegram had already been dispatched to London, asking her friend to cope with her clients as best she could until her return; a telegram calculated to shake Mrs b.u.t.terfield to her very marrow, emanating from Paris as it did. But Mrs Harris cared not. She was still exploring Paradise.

Number 18 rue Dennequin was a small, two-storey grey house with mansard roof, built in the nineteenth century. When they rang the doorbell, M. Fauvel cried: 'Entrez, entrez - come in,' from within, believing it to be Mrs Harris by herself. They pushed through the door that was ajar and found themselves in a home in exactly that state of chaos to be expected when a bachelor's sister has gone away leaving explicit instructions with the daily cleaning woman, who would naturally choose that moment to become ill. - come in,' from within, believing it to be Mrs Harris by herself. They pushed through the door that was ajar and found themselves in a home in exactly that state of chaos to be expected when a bachelor's sister has gone away leaving explicit instructions with the daily cleaning woman, who would naturally choose that moment to become ill.

Dust lay thick; nothing had been touched for a week; books and clothes were scattered about. It took no trick of the imagination to estimate the piled-up dishes in the kitchen sink, the greasy pans on the stove, as well as the condition of the bathroom and the unmade beds above.

Never was a man in such confusion. His honourable scar gleaming white in a face crimson with shame - the cicatrice rather made him attractive looking - M. Fauvel appeared before them stammering: 'Oh, no - no - Mademoiselle Natasha - you of all people - I cannot permit you to enter - I, who would have given anything to have welcomed - I mean, I have been living alone here for a week - I am disgraced-'

Mrs Harris saw nothing unusual in the condition of the place. If anything, it was comfortably like old times, for it was exactly the same as greeted her in every house, flat, or room when she came to work daily in London.