PEGGY PLAYS PARIS

When Peggy Lane sets out across the English Channel bound

for France, she is both thrilled and frightened. Thrilled because at

last she will be in ParisCity of Lightthe glamour center of the world. Frightened because this will be the most difficult

undertaking the young actress has ever attempted.

The role of Irma, in One Last Chance, young Randy

Brewsters latest play, has been played only by Amy Preston, Peggys greatest friend back in the States. But now, just when the Penthouse company has been invited to present the play in the

Festival of Nations at the Thtre Sarah Bernhardt in Paris, a

great honor for so young a company, Amy is seriously ill and

cannot make the trip.

It is up to Peggy to step into this important part, and she has to

admit that she is completely confused by the role. And it doesnt help matters one bit when Andr Rodier, the attractive but

arrogant young dramatic critic, tells Peggy with brutal frankness

that she still has a lot to learn about acting.

Peggys ludicrous efforts to get about Paris without understanding a word of French, her difficulty in adjusting to

French ways, and most of all, her frantic attempt to make the part

of Irma come alive bring her almost to the brink of despair. But

Andrand Francehave had their effect on Peggy; and when the curtain goes up on the last performance, and Randy himself is

there to see his play performed, Peggy goes on stage with joy in

her heart because she knows she has mastered the part of Irma at

last.

Peggy Lane Theater Stories

PEGGY FINDS THE THEATER

PEGGY PLAYS OFF-BROADWAY

PEGGY GOES STRAW HAT

PEGGY ON THE ROAD

PEGGY GOES HOLLYWOOD

PEGGYS LONDON DEBUT

PEGGY PLAYS PARIS

PEGGYS ROMAN HOLIDAY

PEGGY LANE THEATER STORIES

Peggy Plays Paris

By VIRGINIA HUGHES

Illustrated by SERGIO LEONE

GROSSET & DUNLAP Publishers New York

COPYRIGHT BY GROSSET & DUNLAP, INC. 1965 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Library of Congress Catalog Card No. 65-13778 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

CONTENTS

1 STRANGER ON THE TRAIN 1

2 WRONG DATE 12

3 FRENCHMEN! 25

4 Cest la Vie 37 5 FATE INTERVENES 46

6 DRAMATIC CRITICISM 55

7 ROUND TWO: ANDR 62

8 CULTURE CLASH 75

9 SURPRISE FROM NEW YORK 83

10 MAY BERRIMAN 94

11 THE SPANIARDS VOW 102 12 PEGGYS DECISION 112 13 DELAYED REACTION 119

14 TO TRUST HIM OR NOT? 130

15 ONE LAST CHANCE 138

16 OBJECT LESSON 146

17 AMERICANS IN PARIS 155

18 PREVIEW AUDIENCE 162

19 HAPPY ENDING 169

1

I

Stranger on the Train

Outside the train on the pier, the porters shouted in

French as they passed luggage through the open

windows of the compartments. But Peggy Lane no

longer listened. Mentally counting her suitcases,

now stacked on the racks above the row of seats

facing her, the young actress wearily settled her dark

chestnut curls against the upholstery of her chair.

Leaving London, arriving in France, all of it so

quickly, was too utterly confusing.

And she had been up all night. First, the actors

and actresses with whom she had worked in London

had given her a farewell dinner that ended only

when she boarded the boat train at Victoria Station.

Then had come the excitement of crossing the

English Channel and seeing the white cliffs of

Dover fade from view in the mists. Peggy had

stayed on deck, watching the stars, shivering a little

in the chill, but not wanting to miss anything.

Finally, as the night faded, the port of Dunkirk had

2

appeared all of a sudden, bathed in the early

morning light.

Immediately, people had stirred everywhereimmigration officers checking passports, ship

officials distributing landing cards, crew members

hustling luggage ashore, passengers buttoning coats.

At first, it had been amusing to try to tell French

custom officials in sign language that she had

nothing to declare and to try to learn from French

railroad officials, also in sign language, where she

must go. But now she was tired, and she suddenly

felt absolutely isolated in a land where she didnt speak the language. It had been so different when

she arrived in Great Britain. Celia Wycliffe, an

English girl, had taken her through customs, and

Randy Brewster had surprised her by meeting her at

the pier. But shed see Randy and all the members of the Penthouse Theater Company from New York

this morning. Then she could enjoy Paris and not

feel like such a stranger.

Peggy relaxed into the cushion, and her soft wide

mouth curved into a semi-smile as she closed her

eyes and remembered happily that she actually was

in France. Her nap lasted only a few minutes.

Someone had entered the compartment. Too tired to

straighten up, Peggy studied the newcomer from

under her thick dark eyelashes.

Tall, slender, but with wide shoulders, he walked

3

with an economy of motion that Peggy would learn

was typically French. Thick black hair, cut a little

more shaggily than the American style, matched

brown eyes so dark they appeared to be black.

Ignoring Peggy, he moved to the window and deftly

took his suitcase from the porter. He started to

install the bag in the rack above the seats opposite

Peggy, then turned to her with an irritated frown

because her suitcases occupied the rack that

belonged to him. As he frowned at her, he caught

her studying him. Embarrassed, Peggy closed her

eyes and pretended to be asleep. She could feel his

eyes on her face. Peggy stole another quick look,

and again he caught her watching him. Firmly, she

shut her eyes and feigned sleep.

She felt the train lurch forward once, then glide

gently away from the station. She stole another

glance. He was handsome, she decided, wondering

who he was and what he did and where he lived and

what his life was like. He was reading now. Her

eyes caught the name of the newspaperLa Revue. It was the paper that she had been told in London

would decide the fate of the Penthouse Theaters production of Randolph Clark Brewsters One Last Chance. The company and the play had been invited

to represent the United States at the Paris Thtre

des Nations. This was a great honor, especially for

so recently established a company and for such a

4

young playwright as Randy.

Peggy was joining the company in Paris because

Amy Preston, Peggys New York roommate, had mononucleosis, and the doctors had ordered her to

take a long rest. Peggy would take her role in the

play. She shivered a little at the thought. Playing to

an audience in a language they didnt understand, or understood imperfectly, was a big enough challenge.

But, in addition, if she had understood correctly

Randys cable from New York, she would have only two days of rehearsals. It simply wasnt enough time for the part of Irma, and she knew it. But there

seemed no other solution if the play was to be

presented at the festival.

Bad luck for Amy that she couldnt play her role of Irma in Paris, Peggy thought sadly. Amy had

been Peggys best friend since the two of them had arrived at the Gramercy Arms, a theatrical rooming

house in New York, on the same day nearly two

years ago. Peggy, who had left college in her home

town of Rockport, Wisconsin, to study at the New

York Drama Academy, had immediately liked the

shy, soft-spoken blonde from Pine Hollow, North

Carolina. It was a pity she and Amy couldnt both be in the play in Paris. But, of course, there was only

one part. Its Amys helplessness that makes her portrayal of Irma so convincing, Peggy thought

irrationally. But youve never felt helpless. And how

5

on earth can you convincingly play something

youve never felt? The French youth looked up, pointedly meeting

Peggys eyes. Peggy blushed. Unconsciously, she had been staring at his newspaper. It appeared as if

shed been reading it. Voulez-vous lire mon journal? he inquired. Pardon, said Peggy, giving the word what she

hoped was the proper French pronunciation. Je ne parle pas franais.

Je ne parle pas franais, he repeated, correcting her pronunciation of every syllable of

every word. You should learn, he said in English. Americans are so arrogant, he observed, turning back to his paper. They never learn any language but their own. You are in France now, he advised, as if it might be a surprise to her, and in France, you must speak French. He began reading again.

How am I ever going to learn, Peggy thought

angrily, if everyone is as rude as you? No, she

corrected herself immediately, he wasnt really rude. Youre angry because what he said is true. How many times on the ship coming over had Peggy

wished that she had worked harder at a foreign

language? All the Europeans on the boat seemed to

know several, while Peggy had had to make do with

English. But Im not arrogant, Peggy protested silently. Its simply that you cant practice speaking

6

French unless you have someone with whom to talk.

Not quite true, said the small voice of Peggys conscience. You could have practiced with Gaby

Odette. Gaby was a Parisian who now lived at the

Gramercy Arms in New York while she launched

her own theatrical career. Dear Gaby! Peggy thought

suddenly with warmth. Your countrymen cant all be as cold as this one or you wouldnt be so warm yourself. Maybe your friends can help me to

understand France.

Gaby had cabled that she was writing to several

of her friends in Paris, and that Peggy must

immediately telephone Gabys good friend, Andr Rodier, whom Gaby was wiring to expect Peggys call. Dear Gaby! Briefly, Peggy wondered who

Andr Rodier was and what he was like. No matter.

Any friend of Gabys would be nice. And a French friend in Paris would be welcome. Heavens! Did

Andr speak English?

You would like to see the newspaper? the young Frenchman asked courteously, this time in

English.

Guiltily, Peggy started. She had been staring

again. Her eye had been caught by a headline that

read: THTRE DES NATIONS. The article was signed

with the name of Thierry de Constant who, Peggy

had learned before leaving England, was the most

important drama critic in Paris.

7

Yes, thank you, Peggy said. What interests you? inquired the Frenchman. The article about the theater festival, Peggy

replied.

Shall I read it to you? he asked. I can read a little French, Peggy said shyly. Very good, he said approvingly, handing her

the paper.

Peggy studied the words, trying to make out if the

review was favorable or not, but even the French she

did know deserted her. All she could understand

from the article was that a Greek company was

performing Sophocles Oedipus Rex at the Festival of Nations.

What do you think of the French critics? the young man inquired. Do you think they are harder to please than those in New York?

One review really isnt enough to make a comparison, Peggy said, not willing to admit she couldnt read the review after all.

There are others, he said politely, indicating two other articles.

Suddenly, Peggy spotted the name Andr Rodier

signed to one of the columns. Heavens! Was Gabys friend Andr a critic? Did he write for La Revue?

Hurriedly, she studied the article. It had a London

dateline, but Peggy couldnt translate the name of the play. Wrinkling her forehead, she tried to think

8

what play had opened recently in London.

Do you think he writes well? the Frenchman said casually.

Its too difficult to judge when it isnt ones own language, Peggy replied evasively.

Do you agree with his criticism? the stranger inquired.

I havent seen the play, Peggy said. But I thought you were interested in the theater,

the Frenchman said in a politely bored voice. In France, were told that Randolph Clark Brewster is one of the most promising young playwrights in the

States. I saw his Come Closerhe tapped the newspaperin London. Promising, he said, not great. But I guess you like the more commercial

things. Big shows. Big productions. Lots of

costumes. Thats America, he said. Brewsters plays are staged off-Broadway because theyre too good to be commercial. I thought if you liked the

drama that you might have seen one or two of

them. With that parting shot, he leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.

Oh! Peggy fumed inwardly. Of all the rude

people! So the article in La Revue by Andr Rodier

was about the closing performance of Come Closer

in London. Peggy herself had taken six individual

curtain calls that last night. Didnt like the drama! Preferred commercial theater! Of all the nerve! She

9

was tempted to tell him indignantly that she, Peggy

Lane, had acted in that play. She suppressed the

impulse. What did that review say? He had asked

her if French critics were harder to please than

American ones. Was it a bad review? Peggy stole a

look at the newspaper in his lap. His hand was

folded over it so she couldnt take it from him without disturbing him. What did that review say? It

was maddening not to know. He might have read it

to her. But then, he had offered, and shed declined the offer. But he really was rude! Peggy thought

over his remarks. No, he didnt know who she was or that shed been in the play. Her name probably wasnt mentioned in the article. It was just that he had a trick of rubbing her the wrong way.

He appeared to be sleeping now, and Peggy tried

to close her own eyes. But suddenly she was wide

awake, watching the passing French countryside. It

was all sunshine and tall green poplar trees planted

in straight lines and old stone houses and quite

proper vegetable gardens.

Abruptly, Peggy began worrying about the part of

Irma again. She had her lines letter perfect. She was

a quick study, and since she knew the play well, she

had learned them in only a few days. Shed almost known them already from watching Amy play the

part so often. It was the interpretation of Irmas character that puzzled her. Amy seemed to have

10

found a clue to Irma that eluded Peggy. She

certainly didnt want to disgrace herself or the United States by giving a bad performance to an

audience composed of sneering Frenchmen like this

one. Sneering! That was it, thought Peggy. Hes polite, but behind the politeness, hes making fun of me. Ill show him

Theres an American company coming to Paris, her companion remarked as if theyd been talking all along. At the Thtre Sarah Bernhardt. I suppose youll go. Americans always like to be with other Americans. I often wonder why they travel.

What on earth do you reply to that? Peggy asked

herself. She started to tell him that shed be in that American play, but before she had a chance, he

spoke again.

I dont advise you to goto the American play. In Paris, you should see Corneille and Racine and

Molireat the Comdie-Franaise. Or Sophoclesat the Sarah Bernhardt. He gave the last words the French pronunciation. Then, again

before Peggy could reply, he changed the subject.

Did you see the French movie Gare du Nord. Gare du Nord, a train official

interrupted, poking his head into the compartment.

Peggy looked blankly at him for a second, then

realized with a quick beat of her heart that that

meant they were in Paris. Paris! City of Light!

11

Peggy stared out the window, but she could see

nothing but the walls of the station. They had been

talking, and she hadnt realized when the train entered the city.

Are these your bags? the Frenchman inquired, not unkindly.

Peggy nodded.

Ill take them down for you, he volunteered. Thank you, replied Peggy, rising to help him. Sit down, he ordered. You are in France now.

Its not like America. Here, girls dont take down the bags.

If she hadnt been an actress, Peggy knew she would have been open-mouthed in astonishment.

12

II

Wrong Date

Peggy stood in the line outside the station, her

suitcases at her feet. She wasnt certain what the queue was for, but she had followed the porter, and

he had left her there. Apparently, people were

waiting for taxis, which pulled up and took on

passengers with fair regularity.

You speak English? a voice behind her said in a thick French accent.

Peggy turned and nodded to a heavy-set man

wearing chauffeurs livery. I have the private taxi service, he said. I take

you and your valises wherever you wish. Very fast.

Very cheap. No waiting, he added, indicating the line with a movement of his head. Where you wish to go? he demanded, picking up one of Peggys suitcases.

Thtre Sarah Bernhardt, said Peggy. Oh, the man exclaimed, pretending to put down

the suitcase. That is very far. Have you money?

13

How much? Peggy asked hesitantly. Nine dollarsAmerican, said the man. Nine dollars, repeated Peggy, surprised.

Thats quite a lot. Thtre Sarah Bernhardt is on the Right Bank,

the chauffeur told her. It is very far. Nine dollars. Again, he moved as if to put down her bag but kept

holding it.

All ri Peggy began to agree, but before she could finish speaking, the young Frenchman from

her compartment on the train appeared at her side

and took control of the situation. With one fluid

motion, he rescued her suitcase from the chauffeur

to whom he spoke emphatically in French.

How much did he ask? he inquired of Peggy, as the chauffeur disappeared into the crowd.

Nine dollars. Nine dollars! Thats forty-five francs! Its

robbery! Peggy shrugged helplessly. What should it be?

she asked.

Seven or eight francs, no more, he said. Its five dollars from Kennedy Airport into

Manhattan, Peggy defended herself. You are in France. I know, Peggy said accusingly, meaning that

the chauffeur who had tried to cheat her had been

French.

14

He studied her face. Come, he said kindly, taking her arm, Ill get you a taxi.

In only minutes, Peggy and her suitcases were

installed in a small French car operated by a little

gnome of a man who kept smiling reassuringly at

Peggy as the young Frenchman gave him

instructions in French. Peggy saw a bill change

hands. Reaching into her handbag, she located her

passport case, opened the money compartment, and

silently offered it to her train companion.

15

He rejected her offer with a twist of his head. I have told you, he said. You are in France. In France, girls dont pay. His voice changed as he reached inside the taxi window to touch her hand

gently. Youll be all right now, he said kindly. But you must learn to speak French.

It wasnt until the taxi was underway that Peggy wondered how hed known where she was going. She had heard him say the name Thtre Sarah

Bernhardt to the taxi driver. It was curious. Perhaps

he had heard her tell it to the private chauffeur. She wondered if hed remember the conversation on the train about the American company that was to

perform at the Sarah Bernhardt and connect her with

it. She half hoped he would. It was incurably

romantic of her, but she would like to know who he

was. In spite of his constantly changing personality,

he seemed interesting. Perhaps if he came to the

theater, hed recognize her and come backstage. . . . Oh, stop it. Next youll have him wearing armor and riding a white charger. You dont need to be rescued from anything. Nothing except a dishonest taxi

driver. Come to think of it, where was this one

taking her? She didnt see anything that looked like a theater.

La Madeleine, the driver said excitedly to Peggy, pointing straight ahead.

Peggy stared out her window. It didnt matter that

16

she couldnt understand his language. The stately neo-classical temple centering the circular

intersection was the Church of the Madeleine. Peggy

stared at the massive cream-colored pillars almost in

awe. Then as the taxi crawled forward slowly, she

looked around, catching a glimpse of gray or cream-

colored buildings adorned with black wrought iron,

their ground floors housing small shops and

restaurants which spilled out onto the sidewalks as

outdoor cafs. Traffic moved merrily and a bit

wildly, with strange foreign cars darting in every

direction. It was all gay and colorful. Even the

people looked gay and colorful.

Rue Royale, the driver announced as the taxi pulled away from the square that Peggy was to learn

was called a place in Paris. The taxi moved down

the Rue Royale, weaving in and out of traffic.

La Place de la Concorde, said her guide, accompanying the words with fluent gestures. As

they approached the place, Peggy recognized the

tall, thin monument centering the intersection: the

Luxor Obelisk. Its twin, Cleopatras Needle, was in Central Park in New York City. Breathlessly, Peggy

looked out one window and then the other as the taxi

halted for traffic. Fountains, statues, massive gates,

antique street lights, streetwide promenades, a

beautiful cream-stone wall far to her left and a tree-

lined park far to her right greeted her eyes.

17

Frequently called the most beautiful square in the

world, the place was a harmony created from

spaciousness, light, and architectural art.

The taxi sped forward and the driver called, Les Champs Elyses, gesturing to his right. Peggy could see only a wide avenue bordered by trees and

flanked by old-fashioned street lights, but she knew

it was one of the most admired shopping districts in

the world, and that Le Jardin des Tuileries, which the driver called to her attention on her left, was the

famous seventeenth century formal garden in front

of the Louvre, itself once the home of French

royalty but now a museum housing a treasure of art.

Suddenly, Peggy remembered her history. It was on

this very spot, La Place de la Concorde, that Louis

XVI and his queen, Marie Antoinette, had met their

deaths by guillotine. Peggy shivered. It was so

beautiful that it didnt seem possible it had once been the scene of violence.

Paris est trs beau, the driver said happily, as if reading her thoughts, or at least half of them.

Very beautiful, Peggy agreed. Trs beau, she repeated softly.

Once past the intersection, the driver turned the

taxi left; then, having maneuvered it into the traffic

pattern, he gave his attention to Peggy. La Seine, he announced, pointing to the right.

The Seine! The river celebrated by so many

18

poets! It looked just the way the artists had painted

itopaque waters spanned by ancient bridges, its banks lined with the stalls of book vendors and

painters.

Le Palais du Louvre, the driver said again, and Peggy realized he was giving her a side view of the

enormous palace. What treasures it held! The Mona

Lisa, the Winged Victory of Samothrace, the Venus

de Milo, Rubens Marie de Medici Room. To say nothing of the remaining crown jewels of France

and the gemmed sword of Charlemagne. Streaks of

sunlight played on the old stone walls, and sunshine

danced on the waters of the Seine. Peggy sank back

against her seat, too happy to absorb any more.

Thtre Sarah Bernhardt, the driver announced importantly.

Thank you, Peggy said. Merci she repeated, remembering that she was in France. He smiled

gaily at her, and Peggy was certain he understood

how much she meant by the one word.

Paris est trs beau, the driver repeated softly, as he deposited Peggys suitcases at the entry to the theater.

Trs beau Peggy agreed. Inside the theater, Peggy realized that she hadnt

even looked at the Sarah Bernhardt from the outside.

The lobby was a cool, wide, high-ceilinged,

semicircular corridor with stately stairways and a

19

black-and-white marble-inlay floor.

There didnt seem to be anyone around. Odd. There should be someone at the box officewherever it wasand some company rehearsing. On a wall to her left, she spied a poster which gave the

schedule of the playsbut in French. Top billing went to the Greek company she had read about in La

Revue. Reading on down, Peggy made out that a

company from Chile would perform a play by

Miguel. Good! Shed never seen Miguel staged, although he was one of the handful of playwrights

ever to be awarded a Nobel prize. The Latin poet

had fled Spain toward the end of the Spanish Civil

War, vowing his plays would never be performed

again until liberty had been restored in Spain. Still,

the Chilean company was listed for a Miguel play.

Peggy didnt know the drama, at least not under its title in French.

Her eyes moved on down the poster, and her

heart lurched as she read: PENTHOUSE THTRE DE

NEW YORKONE LAST CHANCEpar RANDOLPH CLARK BREWSTER. Its beat quickenedthis time not in elation, but in shock. The Penthouse Companys opening night was listed as May 19. Surely, there

must be a mistake! Their performances started May

9. Today was May 7, and they had two days of

rehearsals before their opening. But the poster

definitely read May 19. Puzzled and anxious, Peggy

20

opened her handbag and groped for the cable from

Randy. May 9, she read. She hadnt made a mistake. Well, nothing to do but find out which was

correctthe poster or the wire. But who was she going to ask? What if no one spoke English? Oh,

nonsense, she scolded herself. You can manage.

Besides, someone always pops up who speaks

English. All the same, she wished the Frenchman

from the train were there.

Resolutely, she marched down the corridor,

pulled at a door. It wouldnt open. The auditorium was locked. There has to be a stage door, she

reminded herself. Where would it be? In the back, of

course. She crossed the lobby, and as she

approached the entry doors, she spotted the box

office tucked away in a cubbyhole of an office. It

too was deserted. Peggy checked her watch. Not

quite ten. Undoubtedly, it was too early. Well,

thered certainly be someonea watchman or someoneat the stage door. She decided to leave her luggage in the lobby.

Walking toward the side of the theater, Peggy

noticed a sidewalk caf in the theater building itself.

Smelling coffee, she remembered she hadnt had breakfast. She turned the corner and walked along

the street, stopping once in awe to admire the nearby

Tower of St. Jacques, a Gothic monument of the

sixteenth century.

21

But this theater didnt seem to have any back. She had come to the next cross street, and there wasnt anything on it that looked like a stage door. Slowly,

she retraced her steps and about halfway back she

spotted a sign that announced: UNIVERSIT DU

THTRE DES NATIONS. This must be the stage door.

She walked up two steps, pulled open the door, and

entered a tiny, shabby hallway. A doorbell button on

the second, inside door was marked: Concirge.

Peggy rang the bell, but no one came. She waited a

few seconds, then tried the door. It wasnt locked. As she stepped into the interior hallway, she

suddenly knew that she had come to the right place.

This was the stage entrance. She could feel the

presence of the theater all around herthe lingering ghosts of actors and actresses who had walked here

in the past, the dim echo of music from orchestras

long silenced, and the ringing applause of audiences

who had clapped and cheered before they went

home a hundred years ago.

There were several doors in the hallway, but

Peggy instinctively began climbing the steps,

knowing without thinking about it that those stairs

led to the stage. Again she was right. On the first

landing, she walked through a small room, almost a

passageway, groped her way through darkness for a

step or two, and emerged on the stage of the Sarah

Bernhardt. She had entered at stage right, and as she

22

walked to the center, she stayed with the ghosts and

the past for a moment before she cast a practiced eye

over the auditorium. It had about twelve hundred

seats, she judged. Good. Not too large. They

wouldnt have to shout to be heard. One, two, three, four, five tiers of boxes and balconies which circled

the house. Acoustics probably were okay. Then for a

second Peggy was all artist as she admired the

elegance of red velvet cushions, gilt leaf on antiqued

ivory wood, handworked friezes, and geometric

harmony achieved with the curved lines of the

circle.

Footsteps sounded behind Peggy. She whirled

around. A tall, thin workmanhe was clad in dark trousers and a blue denim shirteyed her admiringly. Were all Frenchmen tall and thin with

dark hair and dark eyes? Peggy wondered. He spoke

to her in French.

Je ne parle pas franais, Peggy said, shaking her head. Im American, she added. Where is the American company?

He repeated the word American, giving it a French pronunciation.

Yes, said Peggy. American. Where are the American actors?

He shook his head, saying something in French at

the same time.

Do you speak any English? Peggy asked

23

hopefully.

Un peu, he said. A little. Oh! Peggy exclaimed in relief. Im an

actress, she said, talking much too fast. Im with the New York company, and Im supposed to meet the other actors here. Only the poster says were not going to play until the nineteenth and I thought it

was the ninth. So I must find out which date is right,

and I need to find out what hotel well be at. Do you know the hotel? She stopped, completely out of breath.

The man shrugged, still smiling. More slow, he instructed her. Slowly, Peggy repeated herself.

Again, he shook his head. Peggy started again.

Non, he stopped her, speaking in French. Feeling helpless, Peggy remembered shed been

up all night and that she was absolutely worn out.

How was she going to make him understand that she

must find the Penthouse Company so she could go

to the hotel and sleep?

Actors, Peggy said, striking a dramatic pose. Actors, she repeated. Actors from New York.

New York, he echoed her. Actors. Then a slow smile of comprehension spread over his face.

Too soon, he advised. Greek now. I know. Peggy nodded. When do the New

York actors arrive? New York actors arrive, he repeated, puzzling.

24

Once again the smile came. Dix jours, he said, holding up both hands and spreading all his fingers.

It was Peggys turn to smile. Ten days, she said.

Oui, he agreed. Yes. Ten days, Peggy murmured. Ten days! What on

earth would she do? She was so tired, and it was

impossible to communicate with these people. What

would she do about a hotel? Helplessly, Peggy felt a

tear slide down her cheek.

25

III

Frenchmen!

Five minutes later, Peggy was sipping strong black

coffee and nibbling a delicious crescent-shaped roll

called a croissant in the sidewalk caf beside the

theater entry. The French electricianPeggy had guessed he was an electrician because he did

something at the light board before he led her out of

the theaterhad gone to find someone, presumably someone who spoke English. Tears, it seemed, were

understood in every language. She hadnt been able to translate a word that he spoke on their way out of

the theater toward the caf, but she had understood

by the soothing tone of his voice that she neednt be frightened.

He was returning now, accompanied by a blue-

eyed, sandy-haired youth with a fierce red beard

neatly barbered and combed. He was dressed

casually in slacks and a shirt and carried a book in

his hand. As they approached, Peggy saw that it was

a volume of plays by Racine. He must be a student,

26

she decided, and she responded to his shy, tentative

smile. Hello, he said. Jacques here tells me youve been crying. Youre in Paris now, and you must be happy.

Youre not French! Peggy exclaimed. You have a British accent.

Not quite, he replied. He took a chair and motioned Jacques to take another. Aussie, he clarified. Im a student at the acting school here. Ive been here two years now, and I love it. He smiled again. What is your name?

Peggy Lane. Im with the New York group. Only I understand Im too early. I came from London to join the company here, and theres been a mixup.

Im David Cooper, and this is Jacques Duval. Hes chief light man at the theater. Peggy nodded to acknowledge the introduction as David continued

talking. Your companys not due for another ten days. Im sure about that because Im assigned to be your interpreter. Once more, he smiled, and this time he pulled his beard. Ten days in Paris isnt too tragic, he told her cheerfully.

Its marvelous, said Peggy. I can see everything.

Dont waste too much time at museums, he told her. Just try to feel Paris. Thats the important thing.

27

But I want to see the museums, Peggy protested.

All right, he agreed. Theyre important in a way. Theyre the past. But theres something more important here. You must try to feel it.

I dont understand, said Peggy. No, he said, I dont suppose you do. Look

his tone changed as he changed the subjectdo you have a hotel?

Peggy shook her head. Where are we supposed to be staying?

No special place, he advised her. The neighborhood is full of hotels. You want to see

Paris? he asked. Well, the best thing then is to have the complete experience. Just strike out and

find a hotela French hotel. Get all involved in inadequate French and sign language and French

people who speak un peu English. They all speak un

peua littleEnglish. He frankly laughed now. Do you think I could? asked Peggy, pleased

with the suggestion.

Why not? Its the only way to see Paris. If you go to an American hotel, or see only the museums

and the tourist places, youve missed the best of Paris.

Ill do it, she agreed. Good girl, he said approvingly. Wheres your

luggage?

28

In the lobby of the theater. Leave it there, and when youve found a hotel,

come back and Ill carry it for you. I dont want to trouble Youre in France, he interrupted, grinning at

her.

I know, said Peggy, laughing, and in France, girls dont carry the luggage.

Youre learning, he approved. Now go along. Ive got a class, and Jacques here should be working. But come back if you have any problem.

You can find me in a studio on the third floorat the back of the theater, where you found Jacques.

He rose and patted her shoulder, while Peggy

said, Merci to Jacques, who also got up and smiled his farewell before the two departed.

When they had gone, Peggy finished her coffee

and then, choosing a street at random, began to look

for a hotel. She wandered along, pausing to admire

the effect created by flowers in a window, the

delicate detail of a wrought iron gate, the

architectural perfection of whole blocks of houses

each in perfect harmony with one another. She was

conscious that she was in an unfashionable district,

but somehow, unlike the rundown districts of

American cities, it didnt make her feel pity for the people who lived in it. Paris casts a spell, she

thought, and it seems like a dream, or is it just that

29

Im tired? Abruptly, she wondered how she was going to recognize a hotel.

She hadnt passed anything that looked like one. She scanned the street, but there were no signs.

Suddenly, the glow she had felt since the French

electrician had taken her in charge wore off, and she

again knew she was alone, as she had known it on

the train. There was no point in stopping a passerby

to ask. No one would understand what she said.

Bewildered, she looked around, her eyes focused

now not on the beauty of the street but on the

practical problem of recognizing a hotel.

Almost immediately, the problem was solved. On

the six-story house across the street, she spotted a

red, white, and blue plaque: HTEL DE TOUEISME.

The building looked exactly like the others on the

block, cream-colored, with wrought iron balconies,

French windows, and red geraniums in boxes. It was

so picturesque that Peggy decided immediately that

she wanted to stay there.

Crossing the street, she walked up to the black

double doors and rapped the brass knocker against

the wood. While she waited, she speculated on what

she would find on the other side. She rapped again.

This time, one of the doors began to open and a tiny

Frenchwoman, a dust cap on her head, an apron tied

around the waist of her dark blue dress, and a broom

in her hand, poked her nose through the crack.

30

Oui? she asked. Je ne parle pas franais, Peggy said, hating

that she had to say it. English? she asked. The maid pulled the door open wider and

beckoned. Entrez, she said, smiling. Inside in the lobby, Peggy admired the recently scrubbed marble

floor, the fading fleur-de-lys patterned paper on the

walls, and the curve of the circular stairway to her

left. There was a big door on her right, and the

Frenchwoman edged toward it. Un moment, she said, nodding her head.

She reappeared almost immediately, this time

accompanied by a small, delicately boned man

dressed in slacks and an English tweed jacket. His

mustache seemed to widen his smile as he

approached Peggy.

Yes, he said softly. You wish something? Oh, Peggy said in relief. You speak English. A little, he said, smiling. But you are in

France. You must speak French. Oh dear, Peggy thought in wry amusement, do

they all say that? Im sorry, she said. Im trying to learn.

You wish a room? he asked. Peggy nodded. For at least two weeks or longer.

Im an actress, and I need to be near the theater. Ah! he said, pleasure in his voice, you will be

at the Thtre Sarah Bernhardt, no?

31

Yes. Very good. Here, we have many actors. It makes

my work interesting. But come, I will show you a

very good room, not too expensive. How much? Peggy asked. She remembered the

private chauffeur at the train but was ashamed of herself for thinking about him after the other taxi

driver and the French electrician had been so kind.

Thirteen francsby the day, said the man. It is a very good room.

Hastily, Peggy mentally translated thirteen francs

into American dollars and cents. Why, it was quite

cheap I She could easily afford it.

Seeing her hesitation, her companion looked sad.

It is too expensive? The price includes breakfast. Breakfast? said Peggy. Yes, he replied. The maid will bring breakfast

to your room at whatever hour you say. It is our

custom. It is not too expensive? No, said Peggy, but Id like to see the room. Of course. He led the way toward the circular

stairway. There are many stairs, he apologized. One, two, three, four, five, Peggy counted the

landings as they passed them. She was having

trouble breathing by the time they arrived at the top,

but still she wanted to stay at this hotel. Even the

circular stairway with its carpeting of fading roses

was charming.

32

Selecting a huge iron key, the man inserted it in a

keyhole and flung open the door with a flourish.

Voil! he said proudly. There it is. The room wasnt large, but it was light and airy.

The bed, covered with a chintz spread, looked

comfortable, and the old marble fireplace, topped

with a Louis XIV mirror, gave the chamber a touch

of elegance. Yellow wallpaper in a delicate flower

print intensified the sunlight streaming through the

French windows, and there was a balcony. When

Peggy spotted the balcony, she knew she must have

the room.

Walking across the faded green carpeting, she

pulled open the windows and stepped outside. The

roofs of Paris were at her feet, and far below were

the waters of the Seine. Ill take it, she decided. It is settled, said the man. Here is your key.

When you have time, you can write your card. He backed toward the door.

Card? said Peggy. The registration. It is nothing. Ill do it after I clean up. I hope you will be very happy here, he said,

bowing formally as he backed out the door.

Im sure I will, said Peggy, returning to the balcony. Oh, she exclaimed, turning again, I have to make a telephone call. Where is the telephone?

In the office, he told her. When you have time,

33

I will telephone for you. Half an hour later, with fresh makeup, newly

combed hair, and hands scrubbed clean of the grime

of the train, Peggy descended the circles of steps and

presented Andr Rodiers telephone number to the hotel manager, who introduced himself as Monsieur

Sorel. Taking the slip of paper with Andrs number, he dialed, spoke rapidly in French, then

handed the receiver to Peggy. Peggy put it to her

ear, and heard a voice repeating, allo, allo. Hello, said Peggy. Monsieur Andr Rodier,

please. Im Andr Rodier, the voice said. Whos

calling?

Im Peggy Lane, Peggy said formally. Gaby Odette suggested that I telephone you. Gaby and I

are friends in New York. Yes, he said. I have a cable from Gaby. Where

are you? he asked conversationally. At a hotel. I dont know the name. Its near the

Thtre Sarah Bernhardt. Oui. Gaby said you would perform at the

Thtre des Nations. But I think your play is not for

two weeks. You have arrived early. I made a mistake, said Peggy. I thought it was

the ninth, not the nineteenth. He laughed, a very nice laugh. For an

American, he said, that is amusing. Americans are

34

always on time. Never too early, never too late. And

now you have made a mistake of ten days! Peggy didnt know whether to laugh with him or

to be offended.

What do you do now? he asked. Until your company arrives?

See Paris, said Peggy. Good, he said. Ill show you. Paris, I think, is

very nice at this season. You are at a hotel? he said sharply. You are all right?

Naturally, said Peggy, as if finding a hotel in a strange city in a foreign country were an everyday

experience for her.

Thats good, he said. I am working now. I am at La Revue. But this evening, we could have dinner,

if you wish. So he was the critic for La Revue! Peggys heart

beat faster. Gaby should have told her.

We can have dinner? he asked again. Love to, said Peggy. What time? Oh, you Americans, he said, youre always

worried about time. But today, it is good to be

worried about time. Because tonight, I must work.

We will take dinner at seven oclock if that suits you.

Seven is okay, said Peggy. Bon. Its settled. Now what do you like to eat? Anything.

35

But you give me no assistance. All right. But I am surprised that an American girl has no opinions.

American girls always have opinionson every subject, even subjects about which they know

nothing. It is very amusing. His words reminded Peggy of the young

Frenchman on the train. Andr Rodier was using the

same trick of needling her without actually being

rude. Good heavens! France was supposed to be a

nation of individualists. Were they all alike?

Any French food will be delicious, Im sure, said Peggy. The manner in which she spoke needled

him back.

You are a sensible girl, he advised her smoothly, ignoring her sarcasm. We will dine on the Left Bank. Thats the other side of the river. At seven oclock promptly. Tonight, we will be American and dine promptly at seven. He gave her the name and address of the restaurant, waited while

Monsieur Sorel handed her paper and a pen to write

it down, then repeated the hour. Dont be late, he said. I must work tonight and for a good dinner, one must have time.

Im an American, said Peggy, needling him again. Ill be on time.

Very good, he replied. At seven. I am looking forward to seeing you, he added, his voice changing as warmth replaced the reserved

36

amusement.

They all are alike, Peggy decided, returning the

receiver to Monsieur Sorel. The man on the train

had been the same wayfirst politely rude, then very kind. There was something about the voices

toothey sounded somewhat alike. Probably all French accents sounded the same in English. Well,

tonight should be interesting. What should she

wear? What does one wear to meet a French drama

critic at a restaurant on the Left Bank in Paris?

Excitedly, Peggy thanked Monsieur Sorel, her mind

already with her suitcases at the Thtre Sarah

Bernhardt, mentally trying to choose the right dress

for her first date in Paris.

37

IV

Cest la Vie

A strange chanting, not quite singing, greeted

Peggys ears as she re-entered the Thtre Sarah Bernhardt. The Greek company must be rehearsing!

Hastening into the auditorium, which she now found

unlocked, Peggy chose a seat midway in the

orchestra, forgetting all about her suitcases and her

dinner date.

It took her only seconds to identify the play and

the scene being rehearsed. It was Sophocles Oedipus Rex, and the fifteen-actor chorus was

reciting the first strophe. Peggy had arrived almost

at the beginning of the rehearsal, just after Oedipus

had announced that the death of Laius must be

avenged. The chorus, garbed in ankle-length Greek

tunics of sackcloth, moved as one unit while they

chanted the hymn to Apollo, but their dress and their

demeanor whispered of the tragedy to come.

Peggy watched, fascinated. The paramount

difficulty in the modern staging of any of the plays

38

of the three great Greek poets of the fifth century,

B.C.Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripideswas management of the chorus. Yet, it was impossible to

stage a Greek tragedy without a chorus.

Peggy knew that some scholars thought that

Greek tragedyand all tragedy of western civilization was an outgrowth of what the Greeks

had donehad its roots in the ancient festival of worship of the god Dionysus. They speculated that

theater had originated with songs chanted in his

honor. Their theory was that sometime during the

middle of the sixth century B.C., Thespis of Attica

had selected one member of the chorus to speak to

all the others, narrate the history of the god, and

even act out dramatic episodes of the gods career. Thus, drama had begun. Aeschylus, the great

predecessor of Sophocles, had added the second

actorreally the third, if you counted the chorus as one unit, which the Greeks did.

Peggy watched as this chorus finished its ode, and

Oedipus, majestic, every inch a ruler, strode onto the

stage. He too, although a king, wore sackcloth, but

in a lighter shade than that of the chorus and the

assembled citizens of Thebes. For the first time,

Peggy noticed that all the players were wearing stark

gray makeup. With the grays of the sackcloth, the

effect was somber and dignified, foreshadowing the

tragedy.

39

Listening to the rich, resonant voice of Oedipus,

Peggy shivered. In low, musical tones, he

unknowingly pronounced his own doom as he

proclaimed the death sentence on the undiscovered

murderer of Laius. Sophocles tragedy, however, was more profound than simple crime and

punishment. It taught a lesson about the necessity

for self-knowledge. For Oedipus himself had killed

Laius, his father, and married Jocasta, his own

mother, all unknowingly. Abandoned as an infant

because the oracles had forecast this very tragedy,

Oedipus had grown to manhood believing himself

the son of other parents.

Peggy was lost in the play until she sensed

movement at her side and glanced over to see that

David Cooper quietly had taken a seat next to her.

They didnt speak until the Greek actors had finished the scene.

What do you think? asked David. Theyre great, said Peggy. And with a

playwright like Sophocles to back them up, how can

they miss? Dont worry, said David, grasping what she

hadnt said. Really, the festival isnt for the competition. Its to show the best plays from all over the world. The prizes arent too important. He smiled the warm smile that was part grin and already

was familiar to Peggy.

40

41

But theyre so good, Peggy said uneasily. Youre afraid that your play isnt? he asked. No, said Peggy. Its a good play. But Randy

has used so many unconventional techniques that

Im half afraid a foreign audiencewhich doesnt know Englishwill miss the point.

You dont know Greek, David reminded her. Youre not missing the point. Emotiontruth, its universal.

True, said Peggy. True on both counts. But I know the story of this play, and it helps.

The audience gets a program with a synopsis, and theres simultaneous translation into French for those who need it.

Thats good, said Peggy. I didnt know that. Whats the play about? One Last Chance is the

title, I know that much. Well, said Peggy, speaking hesitantly, its

theme is that nothing is ever really what it appears to

be. Its so different from anything Randys done before that its hard to explain. Theres this girlshes crippled and poor.

Your part? David asked. Peggy nodded. Her mother has lavished every

attention and affection on her. Shes done everything. And Irmathats the girlis completely dependent upon her.

And? prompted David.

42

But the girl isnt really crippled, said Peggy, struggling to explain. She just thinks she is. Because her mother wants her to believe it.

So the mother doesnt love her? said David. Well, it looks that way, said Peggy. But thats

not the real truth either. When Irma finds outthat shes not crippled, I meanshe gets more helpless than ever. Its as if her only strength had been in her mothers love and when she finds out that that love doesnt exist, shes absolutely destroyed.

Whew! What a role! Randolph Brewsterthats his name, isnt it?must be part French, creating such great roles for women. Have you noticed that

French plays always have great roles for women?

With the Englishespecially the classicsits not so true. But what happens at the end?

Well, when you just tell it, rather than act it, it sounds melodramatic. Peggy was silent a moment. Irmathats my partis supposed to have been crippled when she was a baby. She was hit by a car.

That happens, David agreed quietly. Thats not too melodramatic.

Irma finds out that her mother has been blackmailing the driver of the car all those years.

She thinks her mother has kept her in a wheelchair

for money. But thats not the truth either? David suggested. No, said Peggy. I mean its part of the truth.

43

You dont find out the deepest truth until the end. Of course not, said David, or you wouldnt

have a good play. Irma hates her mother when she finds out, said

Peggy, or she thinks she does. And when you hate, you want to kill. Only Irma is helpless. Shes never walked a step in her life. So she cant escape her mothereven by killing her.

I want to see this play, said David. It must be something.

It is, said Peggy. The last scene is the most difficult. Irma sees her mother have a heart attack

and watches her grope for her medicine. The attack

is so severe that the mother cant quite reach the medicine cabinet.

So Irma has her revenge and her freedom. No, said Peggy. Irma, that helpless girl, who

has never walked a step in her life and who doesnt believe she can walk, gets up from her wheelchair

and walks across the room and gets the medicine for

her mother. So she doesnt hate her mother after all. No, said Peggy. The next level of truth is that

the mother has been thinking of Irma all along. The

money was for Irma. She thought from the time of

her first heart attackwhich was when she saw the car hit Irmathat she might die any day. She didnt want Irma left without anything. So she took the

44

wrong wayblackmailbut still she was doing it for her daughter. She knew that when she diedand she thought it might be any timewhoever took charge of Irma eventually would discover that she

wasnt crippled and that everything would be all right.

And the mother dies anyway, even after Irmas given her the medicine, said David, almost hushed. Its the classic pattern.

No, said Peggy. Thats the hard part. If the mother diedthe classic patternpunishment for guiltlike in Sophocles playI wouldnt be worried that the audience might misunderstand. The

mother keeps on living. Thats the deepest truth, said Peggy, that we do wrong and hurt one another, but that somehow we must forgive and go on

living. David was silent. Finally, he pulled his beard,

almost in bewilderment. It could be great, he commented. It could be really great. Something actually new. Something purely American.

Maybe, said Peggy, though its not that new. In the great tragediesfrom Sophocles to Shakespearethe death of the hero served as forgiveness for the crimes of a nation. Life always

went on, but better, with new rulers. Except America

believes in the individualwe really do, even in spite of automation. What Randys saying is that the

45

individual and his capacity to understand and

forgive others is the solution to the wrongs of the

world. Whew! said David. Do you think a French

audienceremember the French pride themselves on being individualswont understand?

Im not sure, said Peggy. How does it play? Better than I tell it. Only if Irma isnt perfect, or

if the mother isnt perfect, or if they cant play together, its nothing. Only melodrama, with the wrong ending.

I can see that, said David. This is a play that demands everything from its actors.

Its difficult, said Peggy. Youre sure of yourself? Youve done it enough

times so that you know Irma? Ive never played it, said Peggy. I wanted to in

New York. But both the author and the director

judged that my best friend was more right for the

part. But now shes ill and cant come to Paris. Ive got to do it, and Im worried.

Youll only have two days of rehearsals, David protested. Thats not fairto you or to the play.

Thats life, said Peggy. Youre in France now. He grinned at her. You

mean, Cest la vie.

46

V

Fate Intervenes

It seemed pitch dark in the salle de bain until

Peggys eyes adjusted and she realized it was only twilight dark. Where was the light switch? Her hand

groped along the wall by the door. Nothing. She

looked up. No cord. Well, there must be a light

switch somewhere because she could see a light

fixture. The huge tub, a table, and a chair were the

only furniture in the small bathroom. Europeans

might not believe in three showers a day, but they

certainly took bathing seriously. That tub did look

inviting, and she was so dirty from the train. Where

was the fight switch?

Never mind, Peggy decided. You can bathe in the

dark. Then have a nap or youll be dull company tonight. She flipped the lock on the door, and the

room was flooded with light. Now how did that

happen? She touched the door, examining the wood

near the lock. Nothing. Experimentally, she turned

the lock the other way. Immediately the light went

47

out.

So thats it, Peggy thought. She locked the door, which turned the light back on, and began running

water into the tub. This hotel certainly conserved

electricity. But, oh, the hot water felt good. She

swished the bubble bath around and leaned back,

relaxing. The hot water and the perfume of the

bubble bath were soothing, and her thoughts

wandered, focusing on nothing . . .

With a start, Peggy realized that shed almost allowed the tub to run over, and simultaneously she

decided shed better go to her room and he down before she fell asleep right there.

Her pale green suit was slightly wrinkled from

the suitcase, Peggy noticed later, as she stood before

the Louis XIV mirror. However, its green color set

off her dark chestnut hair to perfection. The soft

wool costume was new, and Peggy didnt feel entirely at home in it yet. She really needed to wear

a dress for about a year before she considered it

hers.

Were the copper-colored shoes and handbag

right? Peggy couldnt see the shoes in the mirror, which wasnt full-length but began only above the mantel. The handbag didnt look too bad. Shed tried several accessories in different colors with this

suit, but nothing seemed exactly right. Well, about

white kid gloves there wasnt any question. Only

48

white kid would be chic enough for Paris.

She glanced at the mantel. Her traveling clock

said six thirty. She still had enough time, but she

should leave because she might have trouble getting

a taxi. Perhaps Monsieur Sorel could telephone for

her. Could you telephone for a taxi in Paris? You

couldnt in New York. But you could in Chicago. Well, shed learn.

Downstairs in the office, Monsieur Sorels eyes complimented her appearance.

Im going out to dinner, Peggy told him, smiling. Is it possible to telephone for a taxi?

Ah! Dinner! His eyes lighted up again. With someone French, I hope? He was obviously hinting. You should dine with a Frenchman, so he can tell you the food.

Yes, Peggy said, deciding shed humor him. Hes French. The one you telephoned for me this morning.

Voil! Monsieur Rodier. He is a fortunate man. Thank you, said Peggy, blushing. Now I telephone the taxi, he said. She told him the place she wanted to go, and

listened while he telephoned. Then she went outside

to wait after he had assured her that the taxi

dispatcher would give the driver the address.

In only minutes, a little blue French car pulled up

to the sidewalk and a smiling driver with massive

49

shoulders and bushy black eyebrows opened the

door. Peggy slid into the back seat the way shed been taught by May Berriman, the retired actress

who owned the Gramercy Arms, where Peggy lived

in New York. May, who mothered all her girls but

who had special affection for Peggy, had told her to

enter a car sideways so that thered never be any ungraceful movement of the skirt. Peggy had

practiced, and it worked, and now it was second

nature to her.

She settled back to enjoy the drive through Paris,

but theyd gone only a few blocks when she realized that they were caught in a traffic jam. Why was

there a traffic jam at quarter to seven? She hoped the

restaurant wasnt too far or she would be late. The taxi seemed to creep along, and she couldnt

see anything but cars behind, cars ahead, and cars on

both sides. Occasionally, theyd come to an intersection, and it seemed there were no traffic

rules because vehicles moved in all directions. She

began to be nervous.

She looked at her watch. Impossible! It was ten

after seven! Peggy hoped it wasnt much farther to the restaurant. Andr Rodier had said he had to work

that evening. Was he covering a play that night?

What was curtain time in Paris? It was eight-thirty in

New York, but it varied in London. What if it were

eight oclock in Paris? She leaned forward. Yes, the

50

driver probably would know, but how was she going

to ask?

At last, it appeared that theyd come through the heaviest part of the traffic. The driver was

accelerating now, and the little sedan sped down the

avenue, weaving and shaking off the traffic behind it

as a terrier shakes off water. Seven-thirty! Well, she

hoped it wasnt much farther. Andr Rodier would be furious, and with good reason. In addition, she

was hungry. She remembered that all shed had to eat that day was the croissant with the Australian

boyhow long ago that was!and a funny sandwich made with French bread split down the

middle and stuffed with sausage and cheese. David

had suggested it when they stopped to rest and talk

at a sidewalk caf while he was carrying her

suitcases to the hotel. Shed like one now. She leaned forward, and the driver sensed her question,

and pointed ahead. Within a few yards, he pulled

over to the curb, and motioning to a building at the

left, announced Voil! David had taught Peggy that voil meant here

we are or here it is, but as Peggy looked out the window, she knew there must be a mistake. A high,

cream-stone wall with decorative gates enclosed an

elegant eighteenth-century mansion that could only

be a private home. Peggy could see a fountain in the

courtyard, green grass and trees, and a small, dark-

51

haired girl playing all alone with a cat.

Restaurant? Peggy said hesitantly to the driver. He pointed to the mansion, spoke excitedly in

French.

Peggy didnt understand a word. She shook her head. It just wasnt possible that this was a restaurant on the Left Bank. Come to think of it,

they hadnt crossed the Seine. They were still on the Right Bank!

Where was she? It had taken more than forty-five

minutes to get here. Where had he brought her?

Restaurant, she repeated, her voice betraying her anxiety.

The driver shook his head and used some words

that Peggy recognized hed said before, but she didnt know their meaning.

Helplessly, she put her hands to her head. The

unconscious gesture of despair had its effect on the

driver. He spoke to her again in French, but his

voice was solicitous now. Peggy didnt know what to do. She never had felt so completely incapable of

coping with a situation. It was maddening. For a

minute, she hated France.

Then she realized that all she had to do was find

the slip of paper Monsieur Sorel had returned to her

after he had telephoned the taxi. There it was. Right

in her handbag where shed put it. Strengthlessly, she handed the paper to the driver. He exploded with

52

a volley of words, which Peggy suspected it was as

well that she didnt understand. Excitedly, he began telling her all about the mistake, but she couldnt translate a word. She pointed to the paper. He

nodded. He understood that she wanted to go to that

address. Next, she pointed to her watch. He looked

blank. Then came the slow smile of comprehension.

Using his finger, he pointed to the minute hand.

Then with a slow motion, his finger began circling

the face of the dial. The finger stopped at twelve.

She nodded. He meant they could be there by eight

oclock. She nodded again. He understood she wanted him to start the car, and with one last

solicitous word to her, he floor-boarded the

accelerator and they were off on the wildest ride of

Peggys life. The little blue car shot down the avenue, careened

around a corner, bolted into the traffic of a place,

scooted around a policeman directing traffic, barely

avoided running into a building, and ricocheted

down another street. Peggy shut her eyes and

refused to look any more. If she were going to die

that day, it was fate. She was helpless to do anything

about it.

In no time at all, they had crossed the center of

Paris, and were gliding to a stop in front of a

restaurant on the Left Bank. The name on the

restaurants canopy was correct.

53

Merci, merci, Peggy said, her voice coming from deep within her.

A self-satisfied look on his face, the driver

motioned for her to look at her watch. It was five

minutes until eight. He reached over the front seat to

open the door for her, and only then did Peggy think

that she didnt know how to pay him. She had English money and American money, but no French

francs. In the excitement of the day, shed forgotten to change money. Well, perhaps he would accept

what she had.

Offering him a five-dollar bill in one hand and a

British pound note in the other, she tried to tell him

with her expression that these were the only choices.

He looked confused, and said something in

French.

Then a new voice cut in. You must learn to speak French. You cant expect taxi drivers to speak a foreign language. They dont in the States. The young Frenchman from the train had poked his head

through the taxi window, his dark eyes betraying the

anger not audible in his voice. This is my day for helping arrogant American girls with taxis, he said smoothly.

54

VI

Dramatic Criticism

Looking taller and equally as handsome as he had on

the train, the young Frenchman deftly handed Peggy

out of the taxi, listened as the driver gave a

prolonged and dramatic explanation, nodded his

thanks, dismissed the taxi, and turned his gaze on

Peggy.

He moved back a few steps to view her from a

short distance, examined her critically, and said in a

voice that left no room for argument: The suit is good. That line is from Dior, and its right for you. But the shoes and purse ruin it. They spoil the whole

effect. You must wear nothing but deep cream for

the shoes and purse. Cant you see the cream tones in the green of the suit?

Peggy looked down at her clothes. He was right.

Why hadnt she thought of it herself? But she was too stunned to say anything more than I beg your pardon.

I forgive you, he said easily, taking her arm.

55

In Paris, you must learn more about style. Actresses need to know about style.

How did you know Im an actr Im Andr Rodier, he said, laughing down at

her.

Oh, you! Peggy said in exasperation. Youre late, he said, ignoring her wrath.

Youre an American, and I expected you to be on time. You surprise me. Perhaps youre not completely American after all.

Maybe you dont understand Americans, Peggy cut in.

He continued to ignore her. I think we cannot have dinner. There is no time. The play begins at

eight thirtymore or less. In France, there is no hurry. But that is not time for dinner. One does not

spoil a good dinner because an American girl will

not learn to speak French so that she can tell the taxi

where to go. His tone changed, and his eyes were warm as he looked down at her. You are very hungry? he asked.

Yes. Very hungry, Peggy replied. Well take an appetizer, he said. Pt and

bread, I think. Theres time for that. Then you wont be hungry, and you can enjoy the play.

Play? questioned Peggy. I told you. I work tonight. But you will enjoy it

too. Or you should. We will see the Greeks, he

56

announced. With a hand at her elbow, he led her to a

small table, helped her to a chair, and then without

consulting her preference, beckoned a waiter and

ordered decisively.

Well dine after the play, he announced, turning back to her. We wont dine so well, because Paris dines at this hour, not after the theater as they do in

New York. But I know one or two restaurants that

serve dinner late. Did you know that? he demanded. That the restaurants in Paris serve only at the dinner hour?

No, Peggy said. Tell me, why is there a traffic jam at six thirty?

Jam? Too many cars. Paris works until six thirty. The day begins at

nine or nine thirty. Lunch is from twelve or twelve

thirty until two or two thirty. The day ends at six or

six thirty. Thank you, said Peggy. At what kind of a hotel are you staying? he

demanded.

A French hotel, she replied. Good, he approved. Avoid Americans, at least

at first. You cant know Paris unless you stay with the French.

The waiter served the pt and crusty French

bread.

57

You break itlike this, he told her, demonstrating how to open the loaf and spread the

pt.

We have it in New York too, Peggy said stiffly. Pardon, he said quietly. His voice was so strange that Peggy stared for a

second, seeing with surprise that her mild reproof

had bothered him. What kind of a person is he? she

asked herself. He criticizes and needles and insults,

but when you defend yourself, even mildly, hes hurt. She had no time to puzzle over his personality

because Andr took the initiative again.

I saw you in London, he said. You still have a lot to learn about acting.

I beg your pardon, said Peggy, who wasnt at all used to hearing her work criticized so bluntly,

and especially not the performances she had given in

England. The critics had been unanimous in praising

her.

Dont apologize, said Andr. You apologize too much. Youre young. You can learn.

When an American girl says, I beg your pardon, in that tone, she isnt apologizing, Peggy said angrily. Shes telling you she thinks youre rude. Its a polite way of telling you that youre rude.

How am I rude? he demanded, amused. You criticize all the time, Peggy said frankly.

58

Its not polite. Especially when people dont know each other well.

How can they become acquainted if they dont say what they think? he demanded. Leisurely, he finished his coffee, not at all disturbed by her

censure.

Oh, you! Peggy said in exasperation. You know Im right. You werent good in

London. Thats why you mind my saying it. You know its true. But then the play itself wasnt that good. How can an actress be good in her part if she

doesnt have a good play? Thats too much! Peggy snapped. Come

Closer is a very good play. It was written by a friend

of mine, and its a very good playespecially for a young playwright.

You apologize for the play when you point out hes young, said Andr. What has the age of the author to do with whether a play is good? Im not talking about whether its going to make money. Im talking about whether or not its going to live for one year or fifty years or one hundred years or two

thousand yearslike the play well see tonight. Oh, said Peggy, deflated. Americans always apologize for their country.

When I say something true about America or

American contributions to art, the answer I always

get from Americans is, Were too young.

59

Well, Randy is young, Peggy said. It shows in the play, Andr said in disgust. All

that false glamor, all that false sophistication. Why

doesnt he write about simple people with problems that simple people have? Why do Americans always

write plays set in international resorts with exotic

people like ex-child movie stars and young heiresses

who have never before been outside the family

estate? The criticism smarted. Andr was describing

Come Closer, Randys play which Peggy had done in London. What did you say about Come Closer in the newspaper article this morning? Peggy asked.

You read it, he said flatly. I couldnt, said Peggy. Its time you admitted it, he chided. You

should have admitted it this morning, and Id have read it to you.

Im sorry, said Peggy. Is that an apology or another way for an

American girl to tell me Im rude? Its an apology. I am rudea little, he acknowledged. I knew

who you were on the train this morning. I looked at

your luggage tags. Why didnt you introduce yourself? Peggy

asked.

I wanted to learn your taste.

60

My taste? What youre likeyour standard of valuesif

you really love the drama. You decided I didnt. Im not certain. It was mean to ask me to criticize your article

without telling me you had written it. Why? If you said something true or

interestingeither good or badId appreciate it. Youre a new type to me, Peggy admitted. Im French. You should learn to be a little

Frenchand appreciate honest criticism. How do you know I dont? Ill learn, he said. But I can read French, Peggy insisted, at least,

a little. His eyes questioned her statement.

I can, Peggy defended herself. Only, since Ive been in France, I cant seem to do anythingeven things I can do other places.

In America, you mean. Peggy nodded. And in London. Thats very good, he said. Youre feeling

France. Not too many Americans can. They come

here in groupson tourist tours. They stay with Americans in hotels where all the staff speaks

English. They go to all the tourist places and they

may see a museum or two. Then they think theyve

61

seen France. They should stay at home. But if

France is destroying you a little, thats good. What? Peggy demanded, not understanding

him at all.

I said, he said, explaining patiently, France is destroying you a little. When you come into a new

culture, you have to be destroyed a little, or you

havent had the experience of the culture. It happened to me when I went to the States. Without

it, you simply take your own country with youso theres no point in traveling. You have to be confused, so you can learn that there are other ways

of doing things than how Americans do them. Thank you, Peggy said softly. Someone was

trying to tell me that this afternoon, and I didnt understand him.

Who? demanded Andr. A Frenchman? No, said Peggy. An Aussie. You cant learn anything about France from an

Australian. Thats as bad as being with Americans. Im disappointed in you.

Hes been in France two years. He loves Paris. Maybe he can teach you something then, Andr

said wistfully. You could learn better from a Frenchman, however, he almost snarled, signaling the waiter for the check. Come on, he ordered, or well be late. Youve caused me enough trouble for one day.

62

VII

Round Two: Andr

The curtain went down, and promptly rose again as

the cast of Oedipus Rex came onstage to take their

bows. Applause rolled through the auditorium but

was almost drowned by the shouts of Bravo! Did you enjoy it? whispered Andr. Yes. When the lights came on, Andr said, Look at

the theater. I think you dont have anything quite like it in New York. This is the French eighteenth

centuryeven if it was built in the nineteenth, he explained.

Peggy smiled. I saw it this afternoon. It was named for Sarah Bernhardt about 1900,

Andr went on. She played here, you know. La Tosca, LAiglon, La Samaritaine, Camille. I wish Id seen her.

The Divine Sarah, said Peggy. Dont we all! But its not just the past, said Andr. The first

performance of Jean-Paul Sartres The Flies was

63

here too. Isnt that the past brought up to date? Peggy

commented.

Youre right, he said. Im surprised you knew.

Dont be insulting, said Peggy, feeling quite comfortable with him now.

Most Americans dont. They dont know much about the past.

Youve met the wrong Americans, Peggy retorted. We do too learn about the past. We learn about the Greeks, and the Roman Empire, and the

Middle Ages, and the Renaissance. Why dont you learn French?

Peggy could see that Andrs mood was different by the time they were seated in the restaurant, but

she didnt know him well enough to understand what had caused the change. Rather than the helpful

instructor of the theater, he had reverted to the

needling stranger of the train.

While he consulted with the waiter, Peggy

inspected the restaurant. This one wasnt stylish, but it certainly had its own style. Big, noisy, crowded,

with small oak tables all jumbled together, it was

decorated with mirrors, a large map of the world,

and red velvet curtains scattered with dancing pigs

in fifty different poses. But it was the customers

64

who interested Peggy. To her left were a couple in

evening dressthe man in white tie and tailcoat, the woman in silk and furswhile at the marble and brass bar which extended the length of the room

three workmen in blue denim argued excitedly as

they devoured frogs legs and large quantities of French bread.

Well start with onion soup, Andr informed Peggy. Thats a must at Au Pied de Cochon. Youre an American, so I suppose youd like steak, he suggested.

Surprised, because it was the first time Andr had

consulted her preference on anything, Peggy nodded

assent, although she didnt really care what she ate. Do you want to try something special? he

asked. Or do you already know steak tartare? Thatll be all right, said Peggy, thinking it must

be steak with some sort of French sauce.

Youre sure? he asked. At Peggys affirmative reply, he gave the order, told Peggy that he was

having sole, and, the ritual of choosing food

concluded, pounced. Do you think America will ever produce art? Do you think youll ever do anything as good as what we saw tonight? Ill take you to Comdie Franaise. I dont think you can equal Racine or Molire. Whats the matter with America that you cant do anything in art?

We can, we do, Peggy retorted. Weve got

65

Eugene ONeill, and Tennessee Williams, and Thornton Wilder

ONeill, he cut in, yes, youve got Eugene ONeill. And you dont even appreciate him. Do you know where you have to go to see ONeill produced? Sweden, thats where. You cant see ONeill produced in New York. He snapped his fingers contemptuously.

Thats not true, Peggy protested hotly. They do ONeill at Circle-in-the-Square, and Actors Studio did a beautiful production of Strange

Interlude, and the new Lincoln Center repertory

theater included Marco Polo in its first season. You

can too see ONeill in New York. All right, Andr conceded. Maybe you can see

him occasionally in New York. But not in the rest of

the States, he said triumphantly. He got banned in Texas. They did a production of Long Days Journey into Nightand he got banned.

In one small town, said Peggy, who knew the story. And the director left that town and went to Dallas. Hes formed a repertory theater, theyre doing good work, and Id like to act there.

Why dont you? Andr suggested quietly. Maybe I will, said Peggy. But dont say we

dont do ONeill, because its not true. All right, said Andr. Youve got one

playwright. One playwright to measure against

66

Corneille, Racine, Molire Stay in the twentieth century, said Peggy,

furious. We were building a country and fighting Indians in the seventeenth century.

Okay, he agreed. But France wins in the twentieth century too. Youve got one playwright. Weve got Sartre, Claudel, Camus, Cocteau, Ionesco, Anouilh

Some of them arent first-rate playwrights, Peggy said angrily. Some of them are personalities or philosophers or novelists, and thats not the same as being a playwright. Weve got more than one too. Weve got more than ONeill. Weve got Thornton Wilder and Arthur Miller and Tennessee Williams

and now weve got Edward Albee. She was almost shouting.

Albee, said Andr musingly. You just may have a playwright. Well have to wait and see. But heres the soup. Be careful or youll burn yourself, he cautioned Peggy as the waiter placed earthenware

pots in front of them.

Ouch! said Peggy, pulling her hand away from the pot.

I warned you, said Andr. Use a spoon, and be careful with the cheese. Its Gruyre and its stringy.

He was right. The cheese took managing. It

wasnt sprinkled on top as shed expected. It was

67

baked into the soupa thick crust of it on the top, which permeated deep into the pot. Now she knew

why the earthenware had been so hot. The soup had

been baked in an oven to diffuse the cheese. It was

delicious!

Tell me about this restaurant, said Peggy. She judged it best to try to forget her anger and introduce

a new subject.

You lost the debate, Andr said, elated. Thats why you dont want to talk about playwrights any more. But youre right. The restaurant is interesting. Its one of half a dozen interesting restaurants in this area, which is called Les Halles. Its the market district of Paris. If I didnt have to work tomorrow, Id take youbut the market doesnt begin for a couple of hours. What you do, he said, is enjoy your eveningthe theater, the opera, a party, whatever you likethen you come here to eat and talk for a few hours. Then you go to the market. All

the fresh food eaten in Paris comes here firstthe meats and the poultry and the fish and the vegetables

and the fruits. Its exciting. You must see the market before you leave Paris. During the few hours its open, its the busiest place in the worldeven more hurried than New Yorks Grand Central Station at rush hour, he said, laughing.

But you asked about the restaurant. Youre right, its special. This one and the others in the area were

68

designed to serve the workersthe men who lift the heavy crates of fruit, carry the sides of beef, and

weigh the big baskets of vegetables. So the food has

to be both substantial and well prepared, because

they work hard. I told you most of the restaurants in

Paris close after the dinner hour. Well, other people

besides workers get hungry. So they learned about

69

these restaurants, and they started coming here. Now

you can see everyone here. Its one of the things to do in Pariseat at a restaurant in Les Halles.

Thank you, said Peggy. Im glad you brought me here.

Its nothing, he said. I want you to see Paris. And you have to see the market. You cant understand a people until you see what they eat.

Peggy laughed. Okay, she said.

70

Thats better, said Andr. I dont like to hear girls debate. All American girls debate too much.

Before Peggy could devise a sufficiently crushing

reply, the waiter arrived with their dinner. Peggy

inwardly recoiled in horror from the concoction

placed in front of her. It looked like raw hamburger,

with a raw egg on top. So this was steak tartare!

That insufferable Andr! Hed known all along what he was doing when he ordered it. She could tell by

the way he watched her. Well, shed show him! If she choked, shed eat it and not give herself away.

The meat looks good, he said innocently. Delicately, he sampled his own sole. Sometimes, the beef in cooked steak isnt too good, but they dont dare use bad beef in steak tartare.

The only thing I dont like, said Peggy, affecting nonchalance, is the egg. Usually, I remember to tell them no egg. She lifted the half eggshell from the top of the meat. Ugh! It looked

even worse. Well, she might be able to get the steak

down, but she positively couldnt eat a raw egg. How is your sole? she asked enviously. Closing

her eyes, she took her first bite.

Not too bad, he replied. Its cooked one or two minutes too long. Would you like to trade? His eyes wrinkled at the corners from suppressed

amusement.

Why, no, Peggy said carelessly, I dont really

71

care that much about fish. They ate in silence. Peggy tried to watch the other

diners so she wouldnt see what she was eating. Andr was right. All Paris was here.

Tell me about the Lincoln Center theater, said Andr. Did you see it last season?

Peggy nodded, glad of the distraction. Actually, its only one manifestation of something new in the United States. Were finally getting repertory theatersnot only in New York, but all over the country. Minneapolis, Washington, the West Coast,

Dallas. Youve always had itthe Comdie-Franaise is so old. Now, under the arts program

since World War II, youve got the Opera and Thtre de France and

You know about us? he asked in a kind of pleased wonder.

Why not? Peggy asked in surprise. France always has produced the greatest actresses . . . Her voice trailed off, while she puzzled over Andrs reaction. He seemed almost like a child, grateful for

her attention.

You havent finished your steak, he said accusingly. No dessert unless you finish your steak.

Resentfully, Peggy forked down the last few

bites. She was resolved that she wouldnt let this maddening Frenchman see that shed made an error.

72

They ate dessertmarvelous crme caramel, a burnt-sugar-flavored custardin hostile silence. After Andr h