64 The Castle Made for Love Read online

  Madame Aubigny was in fact dressed very simply in black, but it was black as only a Parisian couturier could make it.

  There were touches of white and an elegant trimming of braid and it was cut so as to reveal her slim and yet beautifully curved figure.

  Yola did not miss the fact that the jewels she wore were few but quite superb.

  As they climbed into the carriage, Aimée Aubigny said,

  “You will appreciate, of course, that I must call you by your Christian name and you will not think it too familiar.”

  “I will say the same to you,” Yola replied with a smile.

  “Very well, Yola,” Aimée replied. “I think this is going to be a very thrilling adventure, but we must be careful, very careful, that no one, not even my dearly beloved Duc, has any idea that you are not who you pretend to be.”

  “Only your aunt knows my secret,” Yola said, “and she has been exceedingly kind to me.”

  “She is a wonderful person,” Aimée replied, “and she was so happy with your father after being so utterly and completely miserable when she was your age.”

  “I know nothing about her past,” Yola said, “except, I suppose, that she was married to a Monsieur Renazé.”

  “She was indeed. She was married when she was seventeen and it was a nightmare of misery and unhappiness until finally her husband died.”

  Yola made a little murmur of sympathy and Aimée went on,

  “I suppose you don’t know that Aunt Gabrielle’s father, my grandfather, was a very brilliant man.”

  “Tell me about him,” Yola begged.

  “He was a scholar and wrote a number of books, mostly rather dull and appreciated only by scholars like himself, but he was respected and admired in Bordeaux, where he lived.”

  She paused as if she was looking back into the past before she went on,

  “Unfortunately, he found his family rather a bore and, when he had a chance of marrying off his daughters, he did not hesitate.”

  “Marriage is something that always seems to occupy the thoughts of our relations,” Yola commented a little bitterly.

  “My grandfather and grandmother were no exception,” Aimée said, “and Aunt Gabrielle, who was very beautiful, was married to a man of fifty, who was, however, a gentleman of some importance in the vicinity of Bordeaux.”

  “And she obviously had no choice in the matter.”

  “Of course not,” Aimée agreed. “She was frightened of him and she actively disliked him from the moment they were married. But none of that counted beside the fact that Aunt Gabrielle’s father and mother were impressed by their new son-in-law.”

  “You say she was unhappy?” Yola asked.

  “Monsieur Renazé drank and had a habit of taking out his temper on his horses and his wife. It was the most fortunate thing that could have happened when one of his horses, unable to stand such treatment, threw him at a high jump and caused him to break his neck.”

  “And so your aunt was free.”

  “Only for a very short while,” Aimée answered with a smile. “She came to Paris, met your father and they fell in love.”

  “So her story had a happy ending after all.”

  “Just as I hope yours will,” Aimée replied. “I understand and sympathise with everything you are doing and, because I knew what had happened to Aunt Gabrielle, I was determined that I would never suffer as she did.”

  She paused before she added,

  “When my parents told me that they had arranged my marriage for me, I ran away.”

  “Where did you go?” Yola asked.

  “I came to Paris,” Aimée answered, “and fortunately I knew one or two people who moved in what were called ‘smart circles’.”

  She went on to tell Yola how first she had been taken under the protection of a young aristocrat and she fancied herself to be very much in love with him.

  “I was soon disillusioned,” Aimée said, “and it was entirely my own fault that I was deceived by his good looks, his charm and the innocent belief that I was the only woman in his life.”

  “When you found out the truth, were you very unhappy,” Yola enquired.

  “Desperately, but only for a short while,” Aimée said lightly. “Paris is very gay and very alluring and it was easy to forget. There were so many other men paying court to me.”

  Yola waited and after a moment Aimée went on,

  “I had learnt my lesson the hard way and I was determined not to be deceived a second time. I refused a number of invitations, some of them very glamorous and then I met the Duc.”

  “Did you know at once that you were in love with him?” Yola enquired.

  “Almost at once,” Aimée answered, “but I was determined not to make a fool of myself and therefore I was very cautious and played for time.”

  “What happened?” Yola asked, now really interested.

  “Eventually I realised what a wonderful person he was,” Aimée answered, “and how much he had to give me.”

  She saw the expression in Yola’s face and added hastily,

  “I don’t mean money. I am talking of things that are not material. I always tell him now that he has taught me everything I know of beauty and art and I think too he has given me an understanding of people.”

  “Madame Renazé said that you had a salon that was equal to Princesse Matilde’s.”

  “Aunt Gabrielle is flattering me,” Aimée said. “It is entirely due to the Duc that we entertain men of letters and creative ability. I am, from the world’s point of view, only the mistress of a very famous man.”

  Her voice softened as she went on,

  “But those who come to my house or whom we entertain at the Duc’s, never make him aware of it and they treat me in the same way that they would treat the Empress. That is very important from my point of view.”

  “Of course it is,” Yola agreed.

  Then, because he was never far from her thoughts, she said in a low voice,

  “Your aunt said that you know the Marquis de Montereau.”

  “I know him well,” Aimée replied, “but because I think it is important for you to make up your own mind about him, because I think that second-hand impressions are always odious, I am not going to tell you about him. But you will meet him tomorrow evening.”

  She saw the expression in Yola’s eyes and laughed.

  “I know you are longing to ask me a thousand questions,” she said, “but believe me, I am being wise when I tell you that you will answer them yourself after you have met Leo, as everyone in Paris calls him.”

  As she spoke, the carriage drew up outside a shop in the Rue de la Paix and Yola glanced out the window, expecting that they would be outside number six.

  This was where Charles Frederick Worth created gowns that always heralded the latest fashion and which were slavishly accepted by almost every woman in Paris from the Empress downwards.

  To her surprise, however, she found that they were at the other end of the street and, as the footman jumped down to open the carriage door, Aimée explained,

  “We have been talking so much that I have not had time to tell you why we are not visiting Worth. For one thing he is a gossip and by tomorrow all Paris would know that he has transformed you into something different from your appearance on arrival in his salon.”

  “I did not think of that,” Yola exclaimed.

  “Also, I think that Pierre Floret,” Aimée went on, “who is a genius in his own way, is the right designer for this particular occasion.”

  “Again, I can only say thank you,” Yola replied with a smile.

  They stepped out of the carriage and walked into the shop.

  The salon was on the first floor and when Aimée arrived she was greeted with an impressive welcome by the vendeuse, who asked them to be seated while she sent for Monsieur Floret.

  “Pierre Floret is a young man,” Aimée explained. “He is ambitious and has an artistic genius such as Worth had when he first came to Paris
.”

  “I thought Monsieur Worth was still a genius,” Yola said.

  “He is,” Aimée agreed, “but he has become very blasé.”

  She smiled and added,

  “Who shall blame him? Because the Empress will order from no one else, he has every other woman in Paris on her knees begging him for something original, something different, so that she will stand out among the thousand other women asking for the same thing.”

  Yola laughed.

  “Pierre Floret is only twenty-two,” Aimée continued, “but you will see that his mind and his talent are a hundred years in advance of his age.”

  As Pierre Floret bowed politely over Aimée’s hand and apologised for having kept her waiting, Yola thought that he looked both intelligent and artistic. He was a very thin young man who looked as if he seldom had time to eat.

  When Aimée explained to him that Yola required gowns to make her look older and very sophisticated, he asked no questions.

  He merely looked at her with the appraising eye of an artist and she felt that he took in not only every detail of her appearance but also her character and personality, so that he could reflect them in what she was to wear.

  “This is very important, Monsieur Floret,” Aimée said. “Very important indeed, both to me and to my dear friend.”

  Pierre Floret seemed to pause for a moment as if he was considering something.

  Then he said,

  “You have been very kind to me, madame, and I owe at least half my business to your patronage. Now I will repay a little of what I owe you.”

  “How will you do that?” Aimée enquired.

  He lowered his voice so that they could not be overheard and replied,

  “I am sure I don’t have to tell you that every couturier keeps his latest collection under lock and key until the moment he shows it to the public.”

  “Yes, and I have heard that a great deal of spying goes on between you all,” Aimée said with a smile.

  “We are working now on our autumn collections,” Monsieur Floret continued. “The petite crinoline, the creation of Monsieur Worth, has swept Paris and now everyone is waiting to know what will appear in August.”

  “I too am waiting,” Aimée said. “Are we to dispense with the hoop altogether?”

  “My secret, which I will tell only to you,” Pierre Floret responded, “is that I already know what the great Monsieur Worth has in mind.”

  Aimée’s eyes sparkled.

  There was nothing a Frenchwoman loved more than to know what was to be the dernier cri before anybody else.

  “Tell me – tell me what it is!” she begged excitedly.

  “I will not only tell you,” Monsieur Floret replied. “I will show you, if you and your friend will come with me.”

  “But of course,” Aimée said, rising to her feet.

  She and Yola followed Pierre Floret from the salon into the back of the building where there were small fitting rooms.

  Beyond them at the end of a passage was a door. He drew a key from his pocket and unlocked it.

  “I keep my sewing room secret from all the rest,” he said, “and this is where I hide the finished productions.”

  He opened the door of what proved to be a small room.

  There were a few gowns, only about a dozen and a half, hanging from a steel bar.

  He took down one and held it up.

  Both Aimée and Yola gasped.

  It was a gown not only without a crinoline, but everything had been swept from the sides to the back.

  It was obvious that the gown would mould the figure from the front with an almost Grecian-like closeness and then fall from the waist into a long train.

  It was so elegant, so lissom and so graceful that Yola wondered why anyone had ever thought the crinoline was anything but stiff and unnatural!

  “So this is the latest vogue!” Aimée murmured almost reverently.

  Monsieur Floret picked another gown and yet another from where they were hanging.

  The décolletage was low and still off the shoulders, the waist very small and the arms displayed except for a few ruffles of lace or a cluster of ribbons.

  The skirts with their fullness at the back were sometimes caught up at the sides with garlands of flowers. Others fell in a cascade of frills and lace in a train.

  “This is what my friend, Mademoiselle Lefleur, must wear tomorrow night!” Aimée cried.

  Monsieur Floret looked astonished.

  “Tomorrow night, madame?”

  “Why not?” Aimée enquired. “The Duc is giving a party at his house in the Champs Élysées. There is to be a large dinner and afterwards many more people will join us. I wish Mademoiselle Lefleur to be sensational and could she be anything else in a gown like that?”

  Monsieur Floret thought for a moment and then he said,

  “Madame, you are right. I intended to keep these as a surprise for a party to be given for the Prince of Wales, who is arriving any day now to see the Exhibition or else for the one at the Tuileries when the Czar Alexander comes to Paris with his two sons.”

  Aimée smiled.

  “You know as well as I do that the crush in the Tuileries will be so tremendous that no one will be able to see anything.”

  “That is true,” Monsieur Floret agreed.

  “What is more,” Aimée went on, “if the Empress is outshone in her own Palace, she will be furious and there might be repercussions that would hurt you.”

  “You are right, madame, you are always right!” Pierre Floret exclaimed. “Let your friend Mademoiselle Lefleur introduce the new fashion to Paris ahead of Monsieur Worth. He will be furious, but there will be nothing he can do, because I understand that a large number of gowns in his collection have already been completed.”

  Once the decision was made, Yola had only to be fitted into one of Monsieur Floret’s beautiful creations and it had to be altered slightly. Then, having ordered dozens more to be made at breakneck speed, they drove back towards the Rue du Faubourg St. Honoré.

  “I shall feel very shy of appearing different from anyone else,” Yola said.

  “It is the dream of every woman to be different,” Aimée replied, “but remember, we have a great deal more to do. I told the servants before we left the house that Felix is to be there when we return.”

  “Who is Felix?”

  “The supreme hairdresser in all Paris,” Aimée answered, “and there is nothing he will enjoy more than creating a new coiffure specially for you. He always tells me how bored he is with the same faces that he sees day after day.”

  There was no doubt, Yola thought, that Felix was an artist.

  He considered her for a long time, looking at her from every angle, walking round and round her like a hungry panther, which he rather resembled.

  Then he swept her long black hair back from her forehead and arranged it with the skill and expertise of a great creator.

  “No curls,” he muttered. “Definitely no curls! Mon Dieu! But how bored I am with curls.”

  “Women think it makes them look young,” Aimée said, smiling as she sat in Yola’s bedroom and watched the coiffeur at work.

  “Hair will not alter the face, madame, only frame it,” Felix replied.

  “That is true and while my friend’s hair is very lovely only now will it been shown to its best advantage.”

  “I have created something new for her,” Felix replied, speaking, Yola thought, as if she was not there. “Tomorrow when I do it again I will arrange her jewels in it.”

  Yola said nothing, but she knew it was because she was in Aimée’s company that the hairdresser assumed she would wear a large number of jewels.

  When Felix finished, Aimée clapped her hands.

  “You look lovely!” she said. “But older – definitely older. And now Jeanne will make up your face.”

  Every woman in Paris used cosmetics, but Yola, being a jeune fille, had used only a very little powder with just a touch of faint pink lip
-salve when she left school.

  Now Aimée’s lady’s maid took her hand, exclaiming as she did so,

  “M’mselle has the skin of a magnolia!”

  “That is what I thought,” Aimée said.

  When she had finished, Yola looked at her reflection with surprise.

  She had no idea that just a touch of mascara on her eyelashes, the faintest bloom of rouge on her cheeks and a skilfully applied salve on her lips could make such a difference.

  She realised that because she was moving in the circle of the demi-mondaines, however exclusive Aimée was, she must expect to be made up far more than anyone in the Social world.

  Even so, her lips were not as red as Aimée’s, for Yola’s whole mouth constituted the only patch of colour about her. She was sure her pale cheeks and skilfully mascaraed lashes were her way of looking different.

  Since tonight they were to dine with no one but the Duc, Aimée lent Yola one of her own gowns.

  “He must see you as everyone else will,” she advised, “and I want it fixed in his mind that you are a young woman who can take care of herself and has come to Paris merely to look for amusement.”

  Accordingly she lent Yola a small crinoline of black lace over pale pink satin.

  It was a simple yet provocative gown and, when she was ready, Yola went to Aimée’s bedroom to see if she approved.

  “Very attractive!” her hostess said. “But it is nothing compared to the way you will look tomorrow night! I think it needs some jewels – otherwise you look too unsophisticated.”

  “I have nothing very spectacular with me,” Yola replied. “There are some very fine jewels in the Beauharnais collection, but they are in the bank and I was afraid my grandmother might become suspicious if I had wanted to take them with me to Paris.”

  “What is more the Marquis might recognise them!” Aimée added. “You must be very careful and never let anything connect you with the Beauharnaises.”

  “Yes, of course, I am aware of that,” Yola said.

  “For tonight I will lend you a small diamond necklace of my own,” Aimée went on. “It is what I always wear with that gown and I think you will admire it.”

  This was an understatement. The diamond necklace had huge black pearls hanging from it and was a unique and very lovely piece of jewellery.