‘I’m not a rich man,’ he protested.
Noelle smiled understandingly and put her hand on his thigh. Lanchon stared at her a long moment and then nodded.
‘You’re right,’ he said. He reached into his wallet and began peeling off francs, watching her face as he did so.
When she seemed satisfied, he stopped, flushed with his own generosity. After all what did it matter? Lanchon was a shrewd businessman, and he knew that this would insure that Noelle would never leave him.
Noelle watched him as he drove happily away, then she went upstairs, packed her things and removed her savings from her hiding place. At ten o’clock that night, she was on a train to Paris.
When the train pulled into Paris early the next morning, the PLM Station was crowded with those travellers who had eagerly just arrived, and those who were just as eagerly fleeing the city. The din in the station was deafening as people shouted cheerful greetings and tearful farewells, rudely pushing and shoving, but Noelle did not mind. The moment she stepped off the train, before she had even had a chance to see the city, she knew that she was home. It was Marseille that seemed like a strange town and Paris the city to which she belonged. It was an odd, heady sensation, and Noelle revelled in it, drinking in the noises, the crowds, the excitement. It all belonged to her. All she had to do now was claim it. She picked up her suitcase and started towards the exit.
Outside in the bright sunlight with the traffic insanely whizzing around, Noelle hesitated, suddenly realizing that she had nowhere to go. Half a dozen taxis were lined up in front of the station. She got into the first one.
‘Where to?’
She hesitated. ‘Could you recommend a nice inexpensive hotel?’
The driver swung around to stare at her appraisingly. ‘You’re new in town?’
‘Yes.’
He nodded. ‘You’ll be needing a job, I suppose.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re in luck,’ he said. ‘Have you ever done any modelling?’
Noelle’s heart leaped. ‘As a matter of fact, I have,’ she said.
‘My sister works for one of the big fashion houses,’ the driver confided. ‘Just this morning she mentioned that one of the girls quit. Would you like to see if the vacancy is still open?’
‘That would be wonderful,’ Noelle replied.
‘If I take you there, it will cost you ten francs.’
She frowned.
‘It will be worth it,’ he promised.
‘All right.’ She leaned back in the seat. The driver put the taxi in gear and joined the maniacal traffic heading towards the centre of town. The driver chattered as they drove, but Noelle did not hear a word he said. She was drinking in the sights of her city. She supposed that because of the blackout, Paris was more subdued than usual, but to Noelle it seemed a city of pure magic. It had an elegance, a style, even an aroma all its own. They passed Notre Dame and crossed the Pont Neuf to the Right Bank and swung towards Marshall Foch Boulevard. In the distance Noelle could see the Eiffel Tower, dominating the city. Through the rearview mirror, the driver saw the expression on her face.
‘Nice, huh?’
‘It’s beautiful,’ Noelle answered quietly. She still could not believe she was here. It was a Kingdom fit for a Princess … for her.
The taxi pulled up in front of a dark, grey stone building on the rue de Provence.
‘We’re here,’ the driver announced. ‘That’s two francs on the metre and ten francs for me.’
‘How do I know the job will still be open?’ Noelle asked.
The driver shrugged. ‘I told you, the girl just left this morning. If you don’t want to go in, I’ll take you back to the station.’
‘No,’ Noelle said quickly. She opened her purse, took out twelve francs and handed them to the driver. He stared at the money, then looked at her. Embarrassed, she reached into her purse and handed him another franc.
He nodded, unsmiling, and watched her lift her suitcase out of the taxi.
As he started to drive away, Noelle asked, ‘What’s your sister’s name?’
‘Jeanette.’
Noelle stood on the kerb watching the taxi disappear, then turned to look at the building. There was no identifying sign in front, but she supposed that a fashionable dress house did not need a sign. Everyone would know where to find it. She picked up her suitcase, went up to the door and rang the bell. A few moments later the door was opened by a maid wearing a black apron. She looked at Noelle blankly.
‘Yes?’
‘Excuse me,’ Noelle said. ‘I understand that there is an opening for a model.’
The woman stared at her and blinked.
‘Who sent you?’
‘Jeanette’s brother.’
‘Come in.’ She opened the door wider and Noelle stepped into a reception hall done in the style of the 1800’s. There was a large Baccarat chandelier hanging from the ceiling, several more scattered around the hall, and through an open door, Noelle could see a sitting room filled with antique furniture and a staircase leading upstairs. On a beautiful inlaid table were copies of Figaro and L’Echo de Paris. ‘Wait here. I’ll find out if Madame Delys has time to see you now.’
‘Thank you,’ Noelle said. She set her suitcase down and walked over to a large mirror on the wall. Her clothes were wrinkled from the train ride, and she suddenly regretted her impulsiveness in coming here before freshening up. It was important to make a good impression. Still, as she examined herself, she knew that she looked beautiful. She knew this without conceit, accepting her beauty as an asset, to be used like any other asset. Noelle turned as she saw a girl in the mirror coming down the stairs. The girl had a good figure and a pretty face, and was dressed in a long brown skirt and a high-necked blouse. Obviously the quality of models here was high. She gave Noelle a brief smile and went into the drawing room. A moment later Madame Delys entered the room. She was in her forties and was short and dumpy with cold, calculating eyes. She was dressed in a gown that Noelle estimated must have cost at least two thousand francs.
‘Regina tells me that you are looking for a job,’ she said.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Noelle replied.
‘Where are you from?’
‘Marseille.’
Madame Delys snorted. ‘The playpen of drunken sailors.’
Noelle’s face fell.
Madame Delys patted her on the shoulder. ‘It does not matter, my dear. How old are you?’
‘Eighteen.’
Madame Delys nodded. ‘That is good. I think my customers will like you. Do you have any family in Paris?’
‘No.’
‘Excellent. Are you prepared to start work right away?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Noelle assured her eagerly.
From upstairs came the sound of laughter and a moment later a red-headed girl walked down the stairs on the arm of a fat, middle-aged man. The girl was wearing only a thin negligee.
‘Finished already?’ Madame Delys asked.
‘I’ve worn Angela out,’ the man grinned. He saw Noelle. ‘Who’s this little beauty?’
‘This is Yvette, our new girl,’ Madame Delys said. And without hesitation added, ‘She’s from Antibes, the daughter of a Prince.’
‘I’ve