the others trooping silently behind them.
“They have told you,” he continued, “that the area around the rue de la Paix and the Vendôme is the original center of haute couture? The Englishman, Worth, began to make high-fashion clothes here over a century ago. I believe the Maison Worth building is still in the rue de la Paix.” His warm grip held her arm and Sam was finding it almost as distracting as having her hand kissed. “Patou, another old house, is around the next corner. And of course Madame Grès is in the rue de la Paix also. But it is all more than a little passé, this old district. And Paris changes. They are building a great glass and aluminum monstrosity in Les Halles that is called another fashion center, very ‘international chic.’” He gave her a wry smile. “Much of Paris complains Les Halles is tasteless, a sacrilege. When you talk of anything modern, of progress, Parisians react with debates about good taste.”
Sophie drifted up to Sam’s elbow. “It is the salon, here,” she said vaguely. “You want I continue?”
Alain des Baux turned, his expression pleasant in spite of the interruption. Then his golden eyes took in the model’s disheveled red hair, the disreputable kimono, the blots of smudged mascara in a pale face still slightly swollen from hysterical tears. Quite softly, his lips hardly moving, he said something to her in French.
At first Sophie didn’t seem to hear. Then, in slow motion, she clapped her hands to her mouth and bent her head to look down at herself.
Alain des Baux said something again in the same softly pleasant voice, and the model lifted her face to him, wide-eyed, cringing as though he had struck her. With the same unfocused motion she extended her hand, offering the Maison Louvel’s ring of keys. When he took them, Sophie turned on her heel and ran from the room.
Alain des Baux looked as though nothing had happened. “My sister still comes here, you saw her this morning? I apologize for what you found when you came in, but my poor sister collapses at the sight of blood. A real phobia. And of course the old di Frascati ducchessa is impossible, a veritable pest, and so is the granddaughter.”
“Is it true, that the girl is a—” Hemophiliac, she wanted to say, but stopped just in time. “Going to get married?”
He shot her an odd look. “Already engaged, I think. To one of the lesser Savoia, a baron or something. Fortunately, the boy manages a bicycle factory in Pisa and is somewhat solvent.” He was still studying her face. “It’s very important to them, these poverty-stricken nobility, to make a good marriage with someone of their class, to keep their titles. It is all they have left. I know this is something that is very difficult for Americans to understand.”
“Oh, I understand,” Sam said politely. She was thinking of the pale, fragile girl who was so sick and the titled fiancé who managed a bicycle factory. If you were European, she supposed it made sense.
Nannette had hurried up. With a nod from Alain des Baux she led the way across the salon.
“I can remember in the old days there were several fitters here,” he said, taking her arm again, “all of them kept very busy. And a very intimidating lady who always wore severe black, rather long dresses was the vendeuse. There were always at least two mannequins—I know this because at twelve years of age I fell violently in love with one of them, an incredible blonde with violet eyes. I was so enamored, wanting to come with my mother every time she had a fitting, that my poor mother began to think I was going to become a couturier like her good friend the Marquis Hubert de Givenchy. I think she was greatly relieved when I lost interest, when the love of my life decided to marry a rich German businessman and go to live in Frankfurt.”
Sam looked over her shoulder, still wondering what had happened to Sophie. The man at her side steered her
“They have told you,” he continued, “that the area around the rue de la Paix and the Vendôme is the original center of haute couture? The Englishman, Worth, began to make high-fashion clothes here over a century ago. I believe the Maison Worth building is still in the rue de la Paix.” His warm grip held her arm and Sam was finding it almost as distracting as having her hand kissed. “Patou, another old house, is around the next corner. And of course Madame Grès is in the rue de la Paix also. But it is all more than a little passé, this old district. And Paris changes. They are building a great glass and aluminum monstrosity in Les Halles that is called another fashion center, very ‘international chic.’” He gave her a wry smile. “Much of Paris complains Les Halles is tasteless, a sacrilege. When you talk of anything modern, of progress, Parisians react with debates about good taste.”
Sophie drifted up to Sam’s elbow. “It is the salon, here,” she said vaguely. “You want I continue?”
Alain des Baux turned, his expression pleasant in spite of the interruption. Then his golden eyes took in the model’s disheveled red hair, the disreputable kimono, the blots of smudged mascara in a pale face still slightly swollen from hysterical tears. Quite softly, his lips hardly moving, he said something to her in French.
At first Sophie didn’t seem to hear. Then, in slow motion, she clapped her hands to her mouth and bent her head to look down at herself.
Alain des Baux said something again in the same softly pleasant voice, and the model lifted her face to him, wide-eyed, cringing as though he had struck her. With the same unfocused motion she extended her hand, offering the Maison Louvel’s ring of keys. When he took them, Sophie turned on her heel and ran from the room.
Alain des Baux looked as though nothing had happened. “My sister still comes here, you saw her this morning? I apologize for what you found when you came in, but my poor sister collapses at the sight of blood. A real phobia. And of course the old di Frascati ducchessa is impossible, a veritable pest, and so is the granddaughter.”
“Is it true, that the girl is a—” Hemophiliac, she wanted to say, but stopped just in time. “Going to get married?”
He shot her an odd look. “Already engaged, I think. To one of the lesser Savoia, a baron or something. Fortunately, the boy manages a bicycle factory in Pisa and is somewhat solvent.” He was still studying her face. “It’s very important to them, these poverty-stricken nobility, to make a good marriage with someone of their class, to keep their titles. It is all they have left. I know this is something that is very difficult for Americans to understand.”
“Oh, I understand,” Sam said politely. She was thinking of the pale, fragile girl who was so sick and the titled fiancé who managed a bicycle factory. If you were European, she supposed it made sense.
Nannette had hurried up. With a nod from Alain des Baux she led the way across the salon.
“I can remember in the old days there were several fitters here,” he said, taking her arm again, “all of them kept very busy. And a very intimidating lady who always wore severe black, rather long dresses was the vendeuse. There were always at least two mannequins—I know this because at twelve years of age I fell violently in love with one of them, an incredible blonde with violet eyes. I was so enamored, wanting to come with my mother every time she had a fitting, that my poor mother began to think I was going to become a couturier like her good friend the Marquis Hubert de Givenchy. I think she was greatly relieved when I lost interest, when the love of my life decided to marry a rich German businessman and go to live in Frankfurt.”
Sam looked over her shoulder, still wondering what had happened to Sophie. The man at her side steered her
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