Eva Ibbotson

“Yes, I do. I have it. And while I am performing there can be no question of… anything. But—” She broke off. ” ‘arriette, please come?” For to tell the truth, she had not actually erupted in quite that way since her engagement and somehow it was not as it had been before. “You see, I do this for Vincent… for the restaurant… but of course one knows that Vincent himself would not necessarily approve. He comes from a very strict family. And you being the daughter of a professor… that always lends a certain something.”

“Of course I’ll come, Marie-Claude. I can take a book and wait until you’ve finished.” She smiled. “Monsieur Dubrov has a copy of The Maxims of de Rochefoucauld in his office. If I carry that, then everyone can see I’m the daughter of a professor. Shall I put my hair in a bun?”

“Thank you, ‘arriette.” Marie-Claude’s ravishing smile was a little more wistful than usual and though Harriet was wearing one of Aunt Louisa’s least fortunate purchases—a sludge-green dress spotted in purple—she forbore for once to criticize.

And ten minutes later they were in the cab which Harry Parker had sent, bound for the Sports Club.

“Everything is ready!” said Parker, coming forward to meet them.

“This is my friend, Miss Morton,” explained Marie-Claude. “Her father is a professor.”

Harry Parker, recognizing the girl that Verney had brought from the garden at Follina, cordially shook her hand. “Good, good! They’re just on the last course—you’re in excellent time. Everything is laid out for you. The cake looks splendid, I must say!”

“And the money?” asked Marie-Claude sharply.

“The money is waiting for you as promised,” said the Club secretary a little stiffly.

They passed through the service door and into the kitchen quarters. From the banqueting room they heard the noise of laughter, of raised voices, to which Marie-Claude listened with a professional air. “Drunk, but not too drunk,” she said, turning to Parker. “In fact, exactly right! Where do I change?”

“In the little room along the corridor. We can wheel you straight in from there. There will be four men in livery and Monsieur Pierre, the Minister’s chef, will accompany you and pretend to plunge in his knife just before you come out. It should give a really good effect. He’s a great tall fellow with an amazing mustache and in his white hat—” He broke off, for Marie-Claude had given a little cry and clutched Harriet’s arm. “Good heavens, there’s no danger of his hurting you,” he said reassuringly. “He’s a very good amateur conjuror—used to have everyone in stitches back in Montpellier, we understand. He showed us how to bunch the sparklers so that they looked like Catherine wheels; in fact he’s been most helpful altogether.”

They were walking down the corridor and, passing an open door, caught a glimpse of an enormously tall, hatchet-faced man haranguing an underling.

“Here we are,” said Harry Parker, throwing open another door to reveal the trolley with the waiting cake in all its splendor. “We’ve put a screen there, and a mirror—and there is a wash-basin behind those curtains. No one will disturb you. Shall I fetch another chair for you, Miss Morton?”

“There is no need, thank you.”

“Well, that’s fine, then. About fifteen minutes?” he said to Marie-Claude.

Harriet glanced at her friend. Surely she couldn’t be suffering from stage-fright? She had gone quite white and totally silent.

“I’m sure that will be fine,” Harriet said and, aware that Mr. Parker was waiting for something, added, “The cake looks absolutely beautiful.”

“Yes, I think it’s a success,” said the secretary with quiet pride. “I’ll leave you alone, then. Just knock on the door when you’re ready.” And he went, throwing a puzzled glance at Marie-Claude. How pale she was! The artist’s temperament, no doubt. But what a stunner!

Marie-Claude had vanished behind the screen.

” ‘arriette, please come!” The voice was unrecognizable as that of the self-assured and cheerful French girl.

Harriet peered round the screen. Marie-Claude had made no attempt to change, but stood looking down at the envelope containing her fee which she held in a trembling hand. “I can’t do it, ‘arriette! I can’t perform. It’s impossible!”

“But, Marie-Claude, why? What’s the matter? They’re just a few old men having dinner; they won’t harm you.”

“Certainly they won’t harm me!” For a moment, Marie-Claude showed some of her former spirit. Then her face crumpled. “That man in the kitchen—the chef who is to cut the cake—he’s Vincent’s cousin! He’s the head of the whole family and very, very strict. He was not at all in favor of Vincent becoming engaged to me because I am a dancer, but Vincent persuaded him that ballet was respectable. If he sees me it will be the end of everything. He will write and tell Vincent—” And Marie-Claude, the practical and invincible Marie-Claude, broke into piteous tears.