Martha in Paris by Margery Sharp Read Free Book Online Page A

trickier proposition. Angèle, unlike her mother, soon discovered that besides a Taylor mère there existed a Taylor fils —by the simple expedient (which she felt no more than her duty) of following Martha one Friday and questioning the Taylor concierge. Scenting romance as the poor nomad of the desert scents the far rose-gardens of Damascus, Angèle aspired to be Martha’s confidante. “Not a syllable will I breathe!” hissed Angèle (making an extremely unwelcome appearance one night by Martha’s bed). “Maman is so old-fashioned, she might well object to your going where there is any young man at all!—How many opportunities has she not denied me ,” hissed Angèle, her hair coming down all over Martha’s pillow, “by her old-fashioned notions! Even le Croix Rouge I am not allowed to join! But I promise you to keep your secret!”
    Martha no more wanted Angèle as a confidante than she wanted Mrs. Taylor as a luncheon-guest. But there was probably something in what Angèle said, and Martha paid, reluctantly, the price of her complicity by meeting her eye across the table whenever Madame Dubois animadverted on Mrs. Taylor’s morgue Britannique , also by allowing their evening promenade in the Luxembourg to take on the character of a Latin passeggiata .—“Do you see him? He isn’t here? Perhaps to-morrow!” consoled Angèle. “Oh, what fun if he should suddenly come up and address us!” Martha, who knew that Eric always went straight home as soon as the Bank shut, was sufficiently unperturbed; occasionally even pretended to start, as at a hoped-for figure, just to see Angèle jib too like a horse at a wind-trundled dustbin-lid. A better-educated heart might have been touched to pity by Angèle’s silly vicarious excitement; but only Martha’s eye had been educated, and she baited Angèle without remorse.
    Martha had the situation in hand. As the temperature dropped, she wasn’t even compelled to put up with Eric’s daily company in the Tuileries, because she now lunched at home in the rue de Vaugirard. She just turned up at the Taylor flat on Fridays.—The approaching end of Martha’s first term in Paris in fact found her very comfortably circumstanced: at the studio occupying a certain definite position, in the rue de Vaugirard with Madame Dubois and Angèle more or less under her thumb, and with a proper hot bath laid on once a week.
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    In the studio, the talk began to be of the Christmas vacation. Sally was flying back to Park Avenue regardless of expense, Nils formed the project of hitch-hiking home to a Stockholm suburb, and didn’t much mind whether he got there or not. Martha’s destination was of course Richmond. She was to make the journey alone, after Angèle put her on the boat-train—this last safeguard a concession to Dolores. “Martha has learnt to take a ’bus, she can learn to take a train,” argued Mr. Joyce. “But suppose she takes the wrong one?” pleaded Dolores—with some uneasy vision of Martha white-slave-trafficked to Istamboul. Her fears, however idiotic, were so obviously genuine, Mr. Joyce settled for Angèle and wrote Madame Dubois instructions on the point. “But wait and see!” grumbled, or promised, Mr. Joyce. “Soon Martha will be taking whatever trains necessary, alone!”
    Harry Gibson’s loyal but not entirely disinterested offer to nip over and fetch Martha himself was hardly considered. Both his wife and his friend unhesitatingly turned it down.
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    As Dolores would have been the first to acknowledge, Paris wasn’t Istamboul. Not even to please Mr. Joyce would she have allowed Martha to be consigned to spend two years in Istamboul. Paris was still Paris. On the second Friday in December, as Martha arrived at the Taylor flat, Eric stood waiting for her on the threshold wearing a harassed but nonetheless