Free Mrs. Harris Goes to Paris & Mrs. Harris Goes to New York by Paul Gallico Page B
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Authors: Paul Gallico
most trusting apple-cheeked smile. ‘Ain’t you a dear to put me ’ere with all these nice people,’ she said, ‘I couldn’t be ’appier if I was a millionaire.’
A worried-looking man in striped trousers and frock coat appeared at the head of the salon. The angry woman called to him: ‘Monsieur Armand; come here at once, I wish to speak to you. Mme Colbert has had the impertinence to seat me next to this dreadful woman. Am I forced to put up with this?’
Flustered by the vehemence of the attack, M. Armand took one look at Mrs Harris and then to Mme Colbert hemade secret ousting movements with his hands and said: ‘Well, well. You heard. Get rid of her at once.’
The angry red in the face of the fierce old gentleman turned to purple, he half arose from his chair, his mouth opening to speak when Mme Colbert preceded him.
Many thoughts and fears had raced through the French-woman’s mind, her job, prestige of the firm, possible loss of a wealthy client, consequences of defiance of authority. Yet she also knew that though M. Armand was her superior, on this floor she was in supreme command. And now that the unwitting Mrs Harris was the subject of a cruel attack the manageress experienced more than ever the feeling of kinship and sisterhood with this strange visitor from across the Channel returning overpoweringly. Whatever happened, oust her she could not and would not. It would be like beating an innocent child. She thrust out her firm round chin at M. Armand and declared: ‘Madame has every right to be seated there. She has journeyed here from London especially to buy a dress. If you wish her removed, do it yourself, for I will not.’
Mrs Harris guessed she was being discussed and identified too the city of her birth, but took no hint as to the import of the discussion. She gathered that Mme Colbert had acquainted the gentleman in the frock coat with the story of her ambitions. She therefore favoured him with her most engaging smile and, in addition, tipped him a large and knowing wink.
The old gentleman had in the meantime resumed both his seat and his normal colour, but he was staring at Mme Colbert, his face lit up with a kind of fierce and angry joy. He had momentarily forgotten Mrs Harris in his discovery of something new, or rather on the contrary, something very old and almost forgotten - a Frenchwoman of selfless courage, honour, and integrity.
As for M. Armand, he hesitated - and was lost. Mme Colbert’s firm stand as well as Mrs Harris’s wink had unnerved him. Some of Dior’s best clients, he was aware, were frequently most odd-appearing and eccentric women. Mme Colbert was supposed to know what she was doing. Throwing up his hands in a gesture of surrender, he fled the battlefield.
The wife of the speculator snapped: ‘You will hear further about this. I think, Mme Colbert, this will cost you your position,’ got up, and stalked from the room.
‘Ah, but I think it will not!’ The speaker was now the old gentleman with the tufted eyebrows, fiercely prominent nose, and the rosette of the Légion d’Honneur in his buttonhole. He arose and declaimed somewhat dramatically: ‘I am proud to have been a witness that the spirit of true democracy is not entirely extinguished in France and that decency and honour still have some adherents. If there are any difficulties over this I will speak to the patron myself.’
Mme Colbert glanced at him and murmured: ‘Monsieur is very kind.’ She was bewildered, sick at heart, and not a little frightened, as she peered momentarily into the dark abyss of the future - Jules passed over again, a broken man, she dismissed from her job and no doubt blacklisted by a malicious woman.
A girl stationed at the door called out: ‘Number wan, “Nocturne”,’ as a model in a beige suit with wide lapels and flaring skirt minced into the room.
A little shriek of excitement was torn from Mrs Harris. ‘Lumme. It’s begun!’
In spite of her state of mind Mme
A worried-looking man in striped trousers and frock coat appeared at the head of the salon. The angry woman called to him: ‘Monsieur Armand; come here at once, I wish to speak to you. Mme Colbert has had the impertinence to seat me next to this dreadful woman. Am I forced to put up with this?’
Flustered by the vehemence of the attack, M. Armand took one look at Mrs Harris and then to Mme Colbert hemade secret ousting movements with his hands and said: ‘Well, well. You heard. Get rid of her at once.’
The angry red in the face of the fierce old gentleman turned to purple, he half arose from his chair, his mouth opening to speak when Mme Colbert preceded him.
Many thoughts and fears had raced through the French-woman’s mind, her job, prestige of the firm, possible loss of a wealthy client, consequences of defiance of authority. Yet she also knew that though M. Armand was her superior, on this floor she was in supreme command. And now that the unwitting Mrs Harris was the subject of a cruel attack the manageress experienced more than ever the feeling of kinship and sisterhood with this strange visitor from across the Channel returning overpoweringly. Whatever happened, oust her she could not and would not. It would be like beating an innocent child. She thrust out her firm round chin at M. Armand and declared: ‘Madame has every right to be seated there. She has journeyed here from London especially to buy a dress. If you wish her removed, do it yourself, for I will not.’
Mrs Harris guessed she was being discussed and identified too the city of her birth, but took no hint as to the import of the discussion. She gathered that Mme Colbert had acquainted the gentleman in the frock coat with the story of her ambitions. She therefore favoured him with her most engaging smile and, in addition, tipped him a large and knowing wink.
The old gentleman had in the meantime resumed both his seat and his normal colour, but he was staring at Mme Colbert, his face lit up with a kind of fierce and angry joy. He had momentarily forgotten Mrs Harris in his discovery of something new, or rather on the contrary, something very old and almost forgotten - a Frenchwoman of selfless courage, honour, and integrity.
As for M. Armand, he hesitated - and was lost. Mme Colbert’s firm stand as well as Mrs Harris’s wink had unnerved him. Some of Dior’s best clients, he was aware, were frequently most odd-appearing and eccentric women. Mme Colbert was supposed to know what she was doing. Throwing up his hands in a gesture of surrender, he fled the battlefield.
The wife of the speculator snapped: ‘You will hear further about this. I think, Mme Colbert, this will cost you your position,’ got up, and stalked from the room.
‘Ah, but I think it will not!’ The speaker was now the old gentleman with the tufted eyebrows, fiercely prominent nose, and the rosette of the Légion d’Honneur in his buttonhole. He arose and declaimed somewhat dramatically: ‘I am proud to have been a witness that the spirit of true democracy is not entirely extinguished in France and that decency and honour still have some adherents. If there are any difficulties over this I will speak to the patron myself.’
Mme Colbert glanced at him and murmured: ‘Monsieur is very kind.’ She was bewildered, sick at heart, and not a little frightened, as she peered momentarily into the dark abyss of the future - Jules passed over again, a broken man, she dismissed from her job and no doubt blacklisted by a malicious woman.
A girl stationed at the door called out: ‘Number wan, “Nocturne”,’ as a model in a beige suit with wide lapels and flaring skirt minced into the room.
A little shriek of excitement was torn from Mrs Harris. ‘Lumme. It’s begun!’
In spite of her state of mind Mme