Paris The Novel

Chapter Thirteen




• 1898 •


Love was not eternal. Human love, at least. Only the love of God was eternal, and ever-present. Marie knew this.

Love might come suddenly, unsought, from a place not looked for, and stay for a while before departing into the distance, to a place where it cannot be reached.

Or so it said in novels, plays and stories.

But life was not like that for Marie Blanchard, or anyone she knew. She would marry someone from a family like her own. He might be a man like her father, or a banker, a lawyer, a doctor, someone from a family with money. He might be one of their neighbors on the boulevard Malesherbes, like the Prousts. Or he might be from one of the big families in Fontainebleau with their fine houses in and around the town, and their big apartments in Paris. He might come from one of the wealthy shipping families in one of France’s ports, or one of the regional insurance families. His family might own a newspaper in the provinces, or even in Paris. He would be a few years older than herself.

They would live surrounded by a network of cousins, and have children and grandchildren. And one day, when she departed this life, Marie would have the satisfaction of knowing that, though she would be gathered into the arms of the Almighty, here on earth she would live on through the ever-broadening family she left behind, and be remembered by them.

It was quite simple. It was what she knew, or thought she knew.

The first thing that she noticed about him at the Sunday lunch was how handsome he was. She was careful not to stare at him. The demure manners of her strict upbringing prevented her from making a fool of herself.

She had not met anyone quite like him before. He came from a different world. That had made her curious about him at once. So she listened, and watched.

And she had been glad that they were to meet again so soon.



The day after the lunch party, her father called her into his little library and told her to sit down.

“Tell me, Marie, you and your brother are going to Versailles with Monsieur de Cygne this coming Saturday, are you not?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“And why is that, do you think?”

“Monsieur de Cygne was kind to offer a tour so that we could show the palace to Marc’s American friend.”

“That is true. But it is also an excuse. I think de Cygne is taking you all to Versailles so that he can discreetly get to see more of you.”

“Do you know this?”

“No. But I think it is likely, and so does your mother. I think, quite simply, that he wishes to get to know you better. Have you any objection?”

“No, Papa.”

“Do you like him?”

“He was rather severe about Captain Dreyfus.”

“A lot of people are getting far more angry about this Dreyfus affair than he was. Do you find him agreeable in other ways?”

“It is too early to say, Papa.”

“That is fair. You and he may find you have nothing in common. But if you do come to know each other better, and if one day he were to make a proposal, you would have to consider carefully. It would be a marriage which, socially, many people would envy. But I do not wish you to consider that at all. There should be no question of your marrying a man for whom you do not feel affection. You would also have to consider that his way of life and his attitudes are different from ours. I know and like his father, who is a charming man. But he is an aristocrat. In a sense, he is apart from even a rich family like ours. He does not consider himself the same kind of human being as a Blanchard. Under the charm and good manners of almost all the aristocrats I know, there is a certain snobbishness, even a coldness toward the rest of humanity. Not always, but often. Keep these thoughts in your mind and use your judgment. No one can do this for you.”

“Yes, Papa,” she said.



Versailles had been a success. She felt that she’d done herself credit, and she was fairly sure that de Cygne had been impressed with her. And the little walk in the Galerie des Glaces had been a triumph.

She only did it because of him. He must find me very straitlaced, she thought. They say the women in America are much more free in their manners than well-brought-up women are in France. I’m sure he thinks me dull.

So she’d seized the opportunity to do something a little unusual. De Cygne and Fox had certainly admired her performance. He hadn’t said anything. She’d hoped he would, but he hadn’t, which was vexing.

So she’d have to try something else to get his attention, next time they met. But when would that be? She wondered if she could suggest some expedition to Marc, without letting him guess her purpose of course. That would be too embarrassing. But she hadn’t seen Marc for over a week. There seemed to be a coldness between Marc and her father, though she had no idea why.

She found a book on America in her father’s library, and read that. It was all about great spaces, and railways across the plains, and the huge opportunities for the continent’s future trade. She read it all, and she made notes of questions she could ask the American when they did meet. Questions that would show that she wasn’t just a pretty rich girl without a thought in her head.

Once her father came upon her reading the book and asked her with surprise what she was doing.

“When I met that American friend of Marc’s,” she said, “he seemed quite nice, but I couldn’t think of anything to say to him, because I know almost nothing about America. I found the book in your library.”

“Well, it’s a good book, but hardly women’s reading,” he remarked with a smile. “If we go to the bookshop, I’m sure we can find you something more amusing.”

“You could buy me a book and surprise me,” she suggested. “But there’s no hurry.”

After all, it wasn’t as if she was going to marry Hadley. That was quite impossible.



It wasn’t often that Éloïse Blanchard received a message from her brother asking for her advice. Naturally, she came at once.

“What do you think of Roland de Cygne?” he asked, as they sat alone in the salon.

“He’s all right in his way. I haven’t much in common with him, myself.”

“And if he married Marie and made her happy?”

“I should try to like him—if he made her happy. Why? Is he going to?”

“Not at present, it seems. I have just had a letter from him, with the sad news that his father suddenly died. There will be something in the newspapers tomorrow, he thinks.” Jules paused a moment. “Given my friendship with his father, I might have expected to receive a faire-part announcement in due course, but he was under no obligation to write to me like this.”

“Perhaps, with Marie in mind …”

“The thought occurred to me. Including her in a party to visit Versailles hardly constitutes a declaration of interest, but the letter suggests that he wishes me to know his situation. He writes that for the moment, he will be in mourning—which might go on for some time in an aristocratic family like that. He also has to decide whether to resign his commission and take over the running of the family estate—to settle down in the country, as he puts it—or to continue his military career.”

“If he settles down, he’ll want a wife. If not, he may stay single.”

“Ah. You think so. That’s how I read it as well.”

“Jules, he has committed himself to nothing. He merely indicates that Marie should wait and see what, if anything, he decides to do. I think it’s arrogant.”

“You’re a little harsh. He is risking that Marie could marry someone else in the meantime. I think he is quite honest. The poor fellow’s not sure what to do.”

“You would say that. You’re a man.”

“Well, we shall have to wait and see. I am writing to him at once to express my condolences. His father was a good fellow. But this brings me back to Marie. I have a small problem, and I need your help.”

“Ask it.”

“James Fox, the lawyer. He’s being very helpful about this trouble with Marc. He may have found a position for the girl, and a couple to adopt the baby. Both in England. Well out of the way.”

“Excellent. He seems discreet.”

“Entirely. He’s a good man. He’s proposing to include Marie and Marc in a little cultural expedition, like the one de Cygne organized to Versailles.”

“Do you object?”

“Not in the least. Whether de Cygne will want to join them now seems unlikely. But I need a chaperone for Marie.”

“Isn’t Marc going? He was her chaperone at Versailles.”

“That was different. At that time, neither de Cygne nor Fox had any idea about the scandal. But now Fox does, and I expect the American may know too. It will lower our entire family in their eyes to think I’d send Marie out with such an unfit person as chaperone.”

“Has Marie herself any idea about Marc’s little problem?”

“Of course not. Even Marc would not tell her, I am certain.”

“Of course not. As you say.” Éloïse sighed. “Why is it, my dear brother, that people of our class bring up their young women in such complete ignorance until they are married? Don’t you find it absurd?”

“Perhaps. But you know the rules. If I don’t bring her up that way, she won’t find a husband. At least, not one we’d want. She must be pure.”

“One can be pure without being ignorant.”

“That has never been proved,” her brother answered, wryly.

“So you want me to be her chaperone?”

“You wouldn’t mind?”

“When?”

“The second Saturday in March.”

“Ah. Then I can’t. You know I will do anything for Marie, but I have promised to spend that weekend with friends at Chantilly.”

“In that case, either her mother or I will have to go.”

“Is that so bad? It might be a pleasant outing.”

“No doubt. But I do not wish to spend an afternoon with Marc.”

“My poor Jules,” said Éloïse. “You’ll have to forgive him one day.”

Her brother did not answer.



Frank Hadley was enjoying Paris. Every morning, as soon as there was enough natural light, he would start work—sometimes drawing, painting or studying. By mid-morning he was usually working with one of several artists in their ateliers. Three days a week, after a light lunch, he spent a couple of hours with a student who gave him French lessons. In the evenings he went out to meet his growing circle of friends. No matter how difficult it was at first, he spoke nothing but French, and tried to read as much as possible in French too. As a result, his French was improving rapidly. His greatest friend remained Marc Blanchard.

There had been one awkward moment.

“Did you tell Fox about my problem with Corinne Petit?” Marc suddenly asked him one day.

“I did. When we were at Versailles. I apologize, Marc. I don’t know why I did it. I’m an idiot.”

“Just don’t do it again.”

“I certainly won’t.”

“As it happened, you did me a favor.” And he told Hadley what Fox had done.

“Why would he do that?”

“Simple enough, I should think. He’s helping three of his family’s clients in one transaction. I dare say he reckons that the more he shows my father he can trust him, the more of my father’s business may come their way.” He smiled. “As for our family’s little secret, I’m sure it’s nothing compared to some of the stuff he knows about his clients.”

Hadley nodded.

“By the way,” Marc continued, “you won’t ever mention this business to Marie, will you?”

“Of course not. Never. But you don’t think she might hear?”

Marc shook his head.

“Not a chance. In the same circumstances, would an American girl know?”

“Girls from respectable families are brought up with very strict morals. But they’re not shrinking violets. They usually have some idea of what’s going on.”

“If my parents have anything to do with it, not a word of this will ever be spoken in front of her. She will be totally innocent.” He grinned. “But don’t worry, Hadley, I can introduce you to plenty of girls who aren’t so respectable.”

Frank Hadley considered.

“So tell me,” he said quietly, “where does Mademoiselle Ney fit into all this respectability?”



Sometimes, Marc had to admit, his private life was getting too complicated. Women found him attractive, he told himself. That was the trouble. Apart from two models and the banker’s wife who’d sat for him, and Corinne Petit, of course, there had been numerous casual encounters.

Hortense Ney, however, was a very different matter.

At first, he had hardly known what to make of her. Though she was not yet married, it was clear that she had long ago reached the age of independence. She spoke little, yet was very much in control of herself. When he asked her to sit down across from the window and look across to the wall on his left, so that he might study her for a while and see how the light fell across her face, she sat very still, her expression unsmiling and quite immobile. She was slim, her face pale. She wore a long skirt, and an elegant jacket closed tightly up to her neck, the sleeves with a small, fashionable puff at the shoulders. The ensemble was topped off by a little hat with a feather. Everything was neat, controlled, buttoned up.

So that it was hardly surprising that Marc experienced a growing curiosity to discover what lay underneath this cool, closed perfection.

“Were you expecting to be painted sitting down?” he asked after a while.

She did not turn her face toward him, but her shoulders moved just enough to suggest a shrug.

“I suppose so.”

“I am going to ask you, if you please, to stand up and this time to look toward me. If I move about, do not turn to look at me, but stay in the same attitude.”

He did move about. She kept perfectly still.

“If I asked you to stand like that for an hour or two,” he asked, “do you think you could do it?”

“Yes.”

“I shall provide you with a chair to stand beside. I should like you to come next time wearing a dress, something that you might wear in the evening, open at the neck. Naturally, your hair will be coiffed as though you were going to a dinner party. Please also bring a fan.”

“As you wish, monsieur. That is all for now?”

“Yes. I have made some quick sketches of you. Now I have to study them.” He smiled. “Most carefully. It will take me many hours.”

“Oh.” Her face, just, registered surprise.

“You only have to return,” he said pleasantly, “but I have to begin to understand you, and I have much to learn.”

It was a line he had used a few times already. It usually worked.



She had come for her sittings once or twice a week. He had discovered gradually that, though she didn’t talk much, she was well-informed. She saw all the exhibitions, went to galleries, plays, and sometimes the opera, although music interested her little. She attended charity events and was even a trustee for one or two. It seemed that she knew a good deal about her father’s legal practice, and Marc soon realized, from small remarks Hortense let fall, that she had a sharp eye for making money.

But she had never given any hint of interest in sex. Hadley came by one day during a sitting and afterward remarked: “That’s a cold, prim woman.”

It might be so, but to Marc, there was something about her, something contained yet erotic, that made him all the more curious. By the third week, he started making small moves, delicate suggestions, to see if he got any response.

He didn’t. She observed him calmly with her brown eyes, but gave him nothing for his pains.

A month had passed before one afternoon he found it necessary to rearrange the line of her dress over her breasts. Stepping forward to do so, he paused a moment longer than he need have.

“Are you trying to make love to me, monsieur?” she quietly demanded.

Taken aback, he hesitated.

“Why do you ask?”

“I have had that impression for some time.”

“I am sure it would be interesting,” he said.

“Perhaps. There is only one way to find out.”

“Assuredly.”

It was a week later, coming to see his friend, that Hadley had found her at the studio wearing only a sheet she had hastily draped over herself. He had beat a hasty retreat, but later Marc had confessed to him: “It’s quite amazing. I just can’t get enough of her.” He’d nodded thoughtfully. “Or she of me.”

“And she seemed so cold. Is this her first adventure?”

“No. Her first was a long time ago. In Monte Carlo. She’s very careful. Has adventures when she’s away.” He grinned. “I am the first in Paris.”

“Congratulations.”



As Fox looked at the party going to Malmaison, he knew he was lucky. But he was nervous as well.

He was lucky because he’d gotten exactly whom he’d wanted. Marie and her brother, of course, and Marc’s friend Hadley. He was glad to have the American there, both because he was a nice fellow, and also because he provided cover. But luckiest of all, he’d gotten both Marie’s parents as well. And in its way, this was even more to his purpose than having Marie herself.

Part of the reason both Jules and his wife came, he supposed, was his choice of venue. When he’d told Jules, the older man had been most intrigued. “No one’s been there for years. I didn’t know one could even get in.”

“I just wrote and asked,” said Fox blandly. He did not say that his letter had also mentioned the fact that he’d like to show the place to the family of the owner of the Joséphine department store.

De Cygne had not been able to come, so there were six of them altogether in the big landau Fox had hired.

They were joined by one, tiny additional passenger. For a week ago, Jules Blanchard had given his wife a charming present: a brown-and-white King Charles spaniel, to which she was already devoted, and who came with them on the trip.

It was a jolly party. If Jules Blanchard was barely on speaking terms with Marc, one would never have known it. The puppy, a tiny, fluffy ball of life, kept them all amused as they rolled pleasantly along.

But James Fox was nervous, and with good reason. The more he had thought about his strategy, the more correct it had seemed. But even without de Cygne—who could reappear any day—his chances were not good. Any attempt to court Marie, to declare his interest openly, and he could be quite certain that her family would make it impossible for him to see her again. They might like him, but he was a Protestant. His only hope, therefore, was to become so much a part of their family that they would make an exception for him. He must become like a brother to her.

Could he manage to conceal that he was in love with her? His English manners helped. With perfect self-control, he could become her best friend without giving himself away. But he still needed to see her regularly.

How to accomplish this? He could see her father on business more often. That was a start. But it didn’t get him into Marie’s company. And he certainly couldn’t invent an expedition like this every week.

Today gave him the chance to work on both her parents. He must watch for opportunities somehow. He had to find a way into their house on a regular basis.

So he wasted no time in pleasing Madame Blanchard.

“As an Englishman, madame, your choice of puppy gives me particular pleasure,” he pointed out. “This breed originated in England a couple of centuries ago. Although,” he smiled, “there are certain perfidious persons who say that they were brought to England by the French princess who married our King Charles.”

“They’re becoming very popular,” said Marie.

“Yes. But let me tell you something. People have been breeding these little spaniels with pugs, thinking this will make them even neater looking. And the results are not entirely successful. Whereas I can see that the dog you have comes from the pure old breed, which I think is better.”

“He’s quite right, you know,” said Jules. “That’s exactly what the breeder told me.”

As for his wife, she gave Fox a smile that told him that he’d scored a point.

“There’s a dog exactly like that in an early painting by Manet,” Hadley remarked.

“He knows everything,” Marie cried delightedly.

“He certainly does,” said Marc with a grin. “Soon, Hadley, you’ll know more about France than we do.”

“You’re setting me up for a fall, I see,” Hadley answered amiably. “And by the way,” he added, “I know almost nothing about this place we’re going to.”



Marie was impressed. They had scarcely arrived at the gate before a balding, middle-aged man came hurrying out to meet them. After briefly greeting Fox, he turned at once to her parents.

“Monsieur and Madame Blanchard? I am the private secretary of Monsieur Iffla, and he asks me to present you a thousand apologies. He had particularly hoped to meet you. But then this morning he had word that his niece was sick, and so he was obliged to go back into Paris to see her. But he hopes you will enjoy your visit here. I am to show you anything you wish.” He bowed and smiled. “Monsieur Iffla and his nieces are great admirers of the Joséphine department store,” he continued, “and it is a great honor to welcome you to the house of the Empress Joséphine who, I understand, inspired your choice of name for your store.”

“Monsieur Iffla is very kind,” said Jules, and one could see that he was flattered.

What a good man Fox was, thought Marie. What trouble he had taken to ensure a fitting reception, and to give her parents so much pleasure.

For if Jules Blanchard was rich, Monsieur Iffla’s wealth was on a completely different scale. Born in Bordeaux, of a Moroccan Jewish family, he had taken a Christian wife, and emerged from a career in banking and investment one of the richest men in France. Not only his wealth, but his magnificent acts of philanthropy had earned him the nickname Osiris—the Egyptian god, the Lord of Life.

And if it weren’t for Osiris, this charming national treasure of Malmaison would probably be in ruins.

It was a manor house, really, whose elegant proportions earned it the title of château. Or, since it lay not four miles west of the Bois de Boulogne, one might almost call it an intimate suburban palace.

It was a few years after the French Revolution when Joséphine de Beauharnais had bought the little estate after marrying the rising young general Napoléon. By the time he returned from his campaign in Italy, the young conqueror found that Joséphine had already spent far more than he could afford on improvements to the place. But in the end Joséphine’s extravagance had produced a delightful retreat, where she’d lived herself until her death. Since the days of Napoléon, the house had had several owners until it had been occupied and stripped by the military in the war of 1870, from which it had not recovered.

But now Osiris was taking the place in hand.

“It will still be years before we have entirely restored the place,” the secretary explained, “but Monsieur Iffla has a fine collection of Napoleonic objects which will find a natural home here. He is a great admirer of the emperor.”

“What does he admire in particular?” Marc inquired.

“Many things. But especially that Napoléon gave the Jews religious freedom.”

As they walked through the house, their guide pointed out the music room; the fine dining room in the Pompeian style; the council chamber, which had been decorated to look like the inside of a lavish military tent; and the library, which might have belonged to a Roman emperor. These were full of Napoleonic character. But Marie and her mother preferred the rich but charming room of Joséphine with its canopied bed.

“One must always remember,” their guide remarked to her, “that Joséphine became elegant, but she was also a little exotic. She was brought up amid plantation life in the Caribbean. That was perhaps what fascinated Napoléon: that she was different.”

“I have never traveled anywhere,” Marie remarked.

“You have plenty of time, mademoiselle,” he said kindly. “Plenty of time.”

One of the last rooms they visited was the Salon Doré—a salon that had once been beautifully gilded, but was now in a state of terrible disrepair.

“This was horribly damaged in the war,” the secretary remarked. The curtains had been torn to shreds, he explained, the furniture had had to be thrown out, even the gilt paneling had been smashed.

At one side of the room, on a table, were various items that had been salvaged. These included a rather nondescript chess set, which caught her father’s eye. He smiled.

“I have read that the emperor Napoléon was an indifferent chess player,” he remarked. “Too impatient. Perhaps Joséphine was better.”

“Papa took up chess recently,” Marie told them all. “But he doesn’t practice.”

“I’m so bad that no one wants to play with me,” her father said. “And Marie refuses to learn.”

She noticed Fox looking thoughtful.

“Do you play, Monsieur Fox?” she asked.

“Funnily enough, I’m in the same situation as your father,” he replied. “Perhaps we should play occasionally?” he suggested to Jules.

“My dear Fox,” her father replied, “this is a stroke of fortune. Why don’t you come around one evening? What about Thursday?” He glanced at his wife.

“I hope you will dine with us,” she said to the Englishman. “Just en famille. Then you two men can play chess afterward.”

Fox bowed.

“You’re very kind. I should be delighted,” he answered.

Marie gave him a smile. She liked the way he made her father happy.



The little park outside was delightful. Marie walked between Fox and her father, while her mother was accompanied by Marc and Hadley. Marie was quite content, but she quite often glanced at the American and wished that she, and not her mother, was beside him. Their guide, meanwhile, was explaining the challenge that the park presented.

“The empress Joséphine kept all kinds of exotic animals here. Ostriches, zebras, even a kangaroo. This we cannot replicate.” He smiled. “The original park was larger. The real question is, what can be done about the plants?”

And now Marie’s mother gently intervened.

“The empress had an orangerie with all kinds of rare plants, from around the world. And her rose garden changed the history of gardening.”

“My wife knows a great deal about gardens and plants,” Jules said proudly.

“Then you will know, madame, that the empress Joséphine’s huge collection of roses was wonderfully recorded by the artist Redouté.”

“And her lilies too,” Marie’s mother corrected. “I have several prints at Fontainebleau.” She looked about. “A garden takes much longer to build than a house. I think you’ll have to leave the rose garden until later.”

It was this little exchange that gave Marie the chance to bring the American into the conversation.

“What sort of gardens do you have in America, Monsieur Hadley?” she asked. “Are they anything like our European gardens?”

“Not as good, I have to say,” he answered easily. “The traditional garden of Colonial America is usually not large, but somewhat formal, with clipped box hedges, quite geometric. A modest version of what you find in some French châteaus, or old English gardens, I think. My parents have a garden like that at their house in Connecticut.” He smiled. “Our houses are quite modest. My parents’ house is typical.” And he briefly described the pleasant white clapboard house his parents occupied, with its picket fence and quiet old trees.

“It sounds enchanting,” Marie said.

“It is. But it’s not at all French,” he said.

“Why so?”

“Because I have noticed that in Europe, people put walls around their houses if they can. They defend their privacy as if they lived in a little fortress. And the bigger houses are set up to suggest the social status and power of their owners. The big plantations in the South have some of that character, but up in the Northeast, our tradition is more democratic. There was never a lord of the manor. Equal citizens got together to elect their local officials. Our houses, big or small, have low fences. It’s all about being a good neighbor.”

“These are the ideals of the French Revolution,” Jules remarked.

“Tell me, sir, your house at Fontainebleau is a château?”

“Not at all. It’s in the town. But it has a very nice garden.”

“And what encloses the garden?”

Jules laughed.

“A high wall.”

“Perhaps Monsieur Hadley should see the garden,” suggested Marie, “to judge for himself.”

“We’ll arrange it sometime,” said her father.

“The truth is,” said Marc, “that most Frenchmen know only two things about America: Lafayette and Buffalo Bill. I think we should all come to America to visit you, Hadley.”

“You’d be more than welcome,” Hadley replied. “My parents would be glad to repay some of your hospitality. Come in the summer and we can all go up to the cottage in Maine.”

“A cottage,” said Marie. “That sounds even more charming. Does it have a thatched roof?”

“When Americans like Hadley speak of a summer cottage,” her brother explained, “they mean something different. I’ve seen a photograph of the Hadley summer cottage. It’s a huge shingle house on a rocky coastline, with the sea on one side and a lake on the other.”

“It’s a pretty nice place,” Hadley admitted. “The sun comes up over the sea and sets over the lake. It’s wild but comfortable.”

“Do you row on the lake?” Marie asked.

“I do.”

“He rowed for his university,” Marc told them. “You can see he’s built to be an oarsman.”

The conversation turned back to the delights of Malmaison after that. But on the way back, though she tried not to look at him, Marie to her surprise found herself imagining Hadley rowing across the wild American lake, his shirt open, and his thick mane of hair blowing in the wind.

One other member of the party was also lost in thought on the journey back, but his concerns were very different.

He was thinking that he now had four days to learn to play chess.



Fox’s first evening visit was a great success. Before the meal he chatted easily with Marie and her mother, and played with the puppy just as if he were a member of the family.

At dinner, he talked delightfully about his childhood in England and holidays up in the wilds of Scotland. The conversation turned serious for a little while when he and her father discussed the latest vicious quarrels in the newspapers over the Dreyfus case. But he then told a story of two brothers getting into a fight over Dreyfus and suing each other, which was so absurd that they were all in fits of laughter.

Afterward, he and her father had their game of chess. It was a close thing, they both agreed, but in the end Fox prevailed. This pleased her father even more than if he’d won.

“I want my revenge next week,” he demanded.

“I could manage Wednesday or Friday, but not Thursday,” Fox replied. “On Thursday I go to the opera.”

“Wednesday, then,” said Jules, with a quick glance at his wife.

“Dinner will be at eight,” she said with a smile.

Two days later Marie was amused to see her father reading a chess manual.



Marie went to see her aunt that weekend. Unlike the rest of her family, Aunt Éloïse chose to live in a quarter that was not fashionable. The apartment lay just south of the university Latin Quarter near the Luxembourg Gardens, but it was large and light, and the walls were hung with paintings, mostly of the Barbizon school and the Impressionists that had followed it, all of which she’d bought herself over the years. She was delighted to see Marie and wanted to hear all her news.

“What of Monsieur de Cygne?” she asked.

“We have heard nothing recently. My father says that he took extra leave to deal with his father’s affairs and the family estate.”

“And what do you feel about him?”

“It is flattering that he may have taken an interest in me.”

“And that he may again.”

“He is very agreeable, but I hardly know him. That is all I can say.”

“You have no other prospects at present?”

“If I have, nobody has told me. Aunt Éloïse,” she went on, “will you please tell me if my father and Marc have quarreled.”

“What makes you think they have?”

“Marc never comes to the apartment anymore, and Papa doesn’t want me to visit his studio.”

“You’d have to ask them if they’ve quarreled. I might not know. Perhaps your father doesn’t think you should disturb Marc in his work.”

“But I never see him.”

“Well, you can certainly meet him if he comes here, or if I take you both out. Your father cannot object to that.” She paused. “If we go out, I may ask him to bring his American friend. I think he’s a good influence on your brother. Would you mind?”

Marie’s heart missed a beat.

“I don’t mind. Monsieur Hadley seems nice enough.” She shrugged. “As far as I can tell.”



In the coming weeks she met Marc several times at her aunt’s. He was usually with Hadley.

She noticed that Hadley’s French was getting very fluent now. Not only that, he was picking up all kinds of the idiomatic expressions the French love. Instead of saying, “To return to the subject,” for instance, he’d say: Pour revenir à nos moutons, “To return to our sheep.” He might say, “He bores me stiff.” But he might also say Il me casse les pieds, “He breaks my feet.” And this new confidence with the language made a difference in their relationship.

He began to converse with her.

He’d talked before, of course. But when he sat down on the sofa beside her at Aunt Éloïse’s apartment and turned to her, and looked into her face seriously with his handsome eyes and asked what she thought of the Dreyfus affair, or some other piece of current news, or whether she liked a particular painting by Manet, and why, she experienced two reactions.

She felt short of breath. It wasn’t the questions. It was the fact of his presence, so close to her, the fact that her heart would palpitate, she hardly knew why. She managed never to blush; she was grateful for that. She made herself concentrate very hard on everything he said as if he were a teacher in a classroom, and made herself think hard before she replied. That got her through.

“You look a bit distressed sometimes, when you’re talking to Hadley,” Marc told her. “But you mustn’t mind him. It seems the American girls are used to discussing all kinds of things and having their own opinions in a way that men wouldn’t care for here.”

But the other reaction she experienced was even stranger to her.

It was a thrill of a new kind of excitement. She felt uplifted, as if this stranger from another world was taking her into a new and larger life. To a place where she could grow, like an exotic plant, become a person she had never dreamed of being before.

So when Marc asked her if she was still finding his friend a little difficult, she replied: “No. He’s American, but I’m getting used to it.”



Early in May, Aunt Éloïse announced that she and Marie were coming to visit Marc in his studio. They came late in the afternoon. The light was good, and it looked as if Marc had tidied the place up before their coming. Against one wall was a settee and chair where visitors could sit, and a low table on which he’d set out some refreshments. His easel stood about twenty feet away, with a low dais and chair for a sitter. Stacked against the far wall were two sets of canvases, one set face out, the other reversed. Beside them was a plan chest for drawings, a roll of canvas and a pile of stretchers.

“This portrait,” he showed them the painting on the easel, “is almost complete. What do you think?”

The picture showed a slim, pale woman in a long dress, her unsmiling face half turned toward the viewer. The effect was one of conventional formality, yet there was a hint of ambiguity in the depiction, as if it were the frontispiece of a short story that the audience was waiting to be told.

“Who is she?” asked Marie.

“Mademoiselle Ney, the daughter of a lawyer. Father got me the commission, which was good of him.”

“There is something hidden yet sensual about this woman,” Aunt Éloïse remarked.

“Really?” Marc looked at her. “How interesting you should say that. I can’t see it myself. She is highly respectable, I assure you. And her father is paying handsomely for it.”

“No doubt,” said his aunt, drily. “May we see some more?”

For ten minutes or so he showed them paintings, drawings, sketches, of people, landscapes, animals, some finished, others not.

“Well, Marc, I can see you’ve been working. And I am very glad of it. Are you happy in your work?”

“I am.”

“And what of those?” Aunt Éloïse indicated the stacked canvases.

“Oh. Things I’ve abandoned. Canvases I’m going to paint over.”

“May we see them? You never know, Marc, artists are not always right about their own work. There may be something good in there.”

“Absolutely not.” He gave his aunt a hard look. “There’s nothing there that I wish you and Marie to see.”

Aunt Éloïse bowed her head.

“I understand, Marc,” she said. “An artist must always protect his reputation.”

Aunt Éloïse seemed well pleased with the visit, Marie thought. As for herself, she was delighted.

As they were leaving, she noticed Aunt Éloïse slip a roll of banknotes into Marc’s hand. Her aunt thought she wouldn’t see, but she did.

“Why did you give Marc all that money?” she asked after they had left.

“Oh,” said Aunt Éloïse, with scarcely a moment’s hesitation, “I owed him for a painting he bought for me.” But Marie wasn’t sure that this was true.



It was two weeks later that her father told Marie he had received a letter from Roland de Cygne.

“He writes that after much consideration, he has decided to rejoin his regiment and devote himself to his military duties. I think that means he has decided not to settle down and take a wife just yet. At all events, we shall not be seeing him for a while. His regiment has been posted to eastern France.”

“I am sorry not to see him, Papa, but I am not hurt,” Marie replied. It was always agreeable, she supposed, to know that such an eligible man might be a suitor; so she could not help feeling that she had lost something. A little status, perhaps.

“I must confess, I’d rather hoped he might have pursued you,” her father said frankly. “And until I knew whether he might, I didn’t look too hard for other candidates.”

“We’ll both keep a lookout, Papa,” she said.

“And he’ll be a lucky man,” he replied, and kissed her.



“Marie,” her aunt told her the following week, “I have a very important errand. Your brother’s friend Hadley wants to meet Monet. Marc tells me he’s quite set his heart on it.”

“But they say he never sees anyone nowadays,” Marie objected, “unless he already knows them.”

It was years since the great painter had retreated to the quiet village of Giverny, some fifty miles out from Paris, on the edge of Normandy. For a time he’d known peace there. But gradually, young artists had started making pilgrimages to Giverny to see him. A regular artists’ colony had developed. Nowadays, in self-preservation, Monet had been forced to close his doors, in order to get any work done.

“There is someone in Paris who may be able to give me a special dispensation,” her aunt said with a smile. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow.”



The rue Laffitte was hardly a ten-minute walk from the family apartment: across the columned front of the Madeleine, past the Opéra, and then the rue Laffitte was on the left. It was a straight, narrow street. On its modest journey northward, it encountered other, larger thoroughfares with famous names: the boulevard Haussmann, the rue Rossini, the rue de Provence, rue La Fayette, rue de la Victoire. But humble though it was, the rue Laffitte contained some of the best art galleries in Paris.

They had just crossed the Boulevard Haussmann when, ahead of them, they saw Marc and Hadley waiting. Moments later, they were in the gallery.

Monsieur Paul Durand-Ruel was already in his sixties, though he looked ten years younger. He was a dapper man with a small mustache and kindly eyes, and as soon as he saw Aunt Éloïse, those eyes lit up with pleasure.

“My dear Mademoiselle Blanchard. Welcome.”

Aunt Éloïse quickly made the introductions.

“My niece Marie has been here before, Marc I think you know, and this is Monsieur Hadley, our American friend who is studying art in Paris for a while.”

There was no particular show at the gallery at that moment, but a selection of gallery artists hung on the walls. As they went around together, Durand-Ruel chatted amiably.

“Your family still has the house near Barbizon?”

“At Fontainebleau, yes.”

“Back in my father’s day,” the dealer explained to Marie, “your aunt was buying members of the Barbizon school from us. She has two Corots, I think. And then, when I began to promote the Impressionists, as we call them now, your aunt was one of our first supporters.”

“Tell them how that adventure began,” said Aunt Éloïse.

“Our first exhibition of Impressionists was not in France at all,” Durand-Ruel explained. “During the German siege of Paris, in the war of 1870, I managed to get out and go to London. Monet, Sisley and others were painting there at that time. I made their acquaintance, and was so excited by their work that I organized a show in London, on New Bond Street. Then in the seventies, we started Impressionist shows here in Paris. And people laughed at us. They said we were mad. But your aunt saw the light. She was one of the few. She bought Manets, Monets, Renoirs, Pissarros, Berthe Morisot, the American Mary Cassatt …”

“It was you, monsieur, who single-handedly brought the Impressionists to New York,” Hadley interposed.

“You are very kind,” said Durand-Ruel. “And may I congratulate you on your excellent French. It is true that we opened a New York gallery, and also that the American collectors were wonderfully receptive to the Impressionists, far more so than the French at that time, I must say.” He turned to Aunt Éloïse. “But you must have a remarkable collection yourself by now. Wherever do you put them all?”

“In my apartment,” said Aunt Éloïse, simply. “But they are scattered about in every room. Most people don’t even know what they are.” She paused. “This reminds me. I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Ask it.”

“Our friend Hadley here would like to visit Giverny, and I thought we might all go up there. I know that Monet is besieged by people wanting to take up his time, but I wondered if you might give us an introduction …”

“With the greatest pleasure. I shall tell him that you were one of the first to acquire his work—he likes to sell, you know!—and that you have the work of all his friends. He will be delighted to receive you. If you care to look around the gallery, I’ll write the letter straightaway.” And he disappeared into his office.

Marie was fascinated. She had always known that her aunt was cultivated and that she bought pictures, but she had never realized quite how far this went.

“I must look at the pictures in your apartment more carefully,” she whispered to her.

Meanwhile, Marc and Hadley were moving from picture to picture. After a few minutes, she noticed that Hadley had remained in front of one in particular for some time.

“Let us see what Monsieur Hadley is looking at,” she said to her aunt.

It was a painting of the Gare Saint-Lazare. Clouds of steam were rising from the railway tracks, as seen from behind a bridge above. The thing had an extraordinary life, and Hadley was gazing at it with rapt attention.

They were standing beside him admiring the painting when Durand-Ruel came back.

“This should do,” he said, as he handed Aunt Éloïse the letter. He looked at the painting. “You like it?” he asked Hadley.

“I love it,” Hadley replied.

“Many artists have painted the Gare Saint-Lazare, including Monet, but this is by a painter named Norbert Goeneutte. He painted at least three of Saint-Lazare in different lights.” He paused. “I’m sorry to say that he died, about four years ago. He was hardly forty years old. A considerable talent, lost.” He paused. “It’s for sale.”

“I’d love to buy it,” Hadley said frankly. “But my father gives me an allowance to study, and I don’t want to ask him for more. Perhaps later—though I’m sure you’ll find a buyer for such a fine work long before I can buy it.”

Durand-Ruel did not press the matter.

And it was then that Marie had her wonderful idea. But she didn’t say a word.



They set out early from the Gare Saint-Lazare. The train took them fifty miles down the broad valley of the Seine to the small town of Vernon. From there, it was only a four-mile ride in a cab, crossing the river by a long, low bridge and following the curve of the stream up to Giverny.

As the train puffed through the delightful countryside, Marie felt a great sense of happiness. Her little plan had worked.

Five days ago Aunt Éloïse had bought the Goeneutte painting for her. It was a private matter between themselves, and nobody else knew about it. Aunt Éloïse had the painting now, safely in her apartment, but it was agreed that when Marie could, she would buy the painting from her at the same price that Aunt Éloïse had paid the gallery. There was only one other aspect to the business, that even Aunt Éloïse did not know.

One day—she did not know when, or under what circumstances—Marie was going to give the painting to Frank Hadley.



The Seine was broad and very peaceful at Vernon that June morning as the fiacre clipped across the bridge. Here and there they passed small houses, or an old mill, with their charming, half-timbered Norman frames and tiled roofs. Everything seemed wonderfully green. It was late morning when they passed the church and came to the center of Giverny, leaving them time to have a pleasant walk about the village before having lunch at the inn. After that, they were to call upon the great painter.

“There’s something strange about this place,” Marc suggested. “Does anyone notice what?”

“No,” they said.

“Then I’ll show you.”

They had gone only fifty yards, and were walking by a small orchard, when they encountered a pleasant young fellow carrying a folder and wearing a wide-brimmed hat.

“Excuse me,” Marc said in English, “but could you recommend where to get a drink?”

“Why certainly,” the young man answered, in an accent that suggested he came from Philadelphia. “I’d recommend Monsieur Jardin’s little café, where you can get an aperitif. Or of course, there’s the Hôtel Baudy. I’d say that’s the best place in the village.”

“Thank you,” said Marc.

A few moments later they saw a couple approaching. “Go on,” he told Hadley. “You ask this time.” And sure enough the couple responded the same way, in English.

“Where are you from?” Marc asked.

“New York,” they said.

“All right,” Hadley laughed. “You’ve made your point. The place has been overrun by my countrymen.”

“I doubt this village has more than three hundred French inhabitants,” Marc said. “And there must be another hundred American artists living here as well.”

“A gross exaggeration.”

But as they passed an old mill, they heard American voices within. And seeing a handsome old monastery on a slight rise, Marc asked a local French villager whether it was still a religious house and was told, no, a charming couple called MacMonnies had just moved in there.

Yet it had to be said, the invasion of artists seemed to have brought no harm to the village. The Americans were evidently quiet, and an easel propped up at the edge of a field, or by the riverside, did nothing to disturb the natural economy.

But if the rest of the village had absorbed the visitors without fuss, one family had seen its opportunity and seized it.

The Baudy family owned the stout inn of geometrically patterned brick that bore their name, in the middle of the village. And their enterprise was obvious as soon as the little party reached the building.

“Look at that!” Marc cried, as they approached.

For there, on a grass plot just opposite the hotel entrance, were two well-maintained tennis courts.

“Tennis courts, in the middle of rural Normandy! Those have certainly been put there for the visitors. I doubt that the villagers even knew what they were.”

Entering the hotel, they at once found notices which announced that the hotel had stocks of all kinds of art supplies, of the best quality—paints, brushes, canvases, stretchers—everything that a resident artist might need. In the spacious dining room they found the walls covered with paintings by its many patrons.

Sitting down, they were offered all kinds of drinks, including whisky.

“Whisky for the Americans, eh?” Marc commented cheerfully.

“Perhaps, monsieur,” the waiter answered, “but Monsieur Monet always likes to drink it.”

They enjoyed a pleasant lunch. Everyone was conscious that they were about to meet a great artist, but Marc filled in a little more background for them.

“He may surprise you. He was poor for a long time, but he had a patron named Hoschedé, who owned a department store. When Hoschedé became bankrupt, the two families lived together, and finally after both Monet’s wife and Hoschedé had died, Monet and the widow married. Monet is an artist, but he’s determined not to be poor again, and a part of him wants to be a rich bourgeois. He’s been like a paterfamilias to both families for years.” He grinned. “You’ll find him very solid.”

“How do you rate him as an artist?” Hadley asked.

“You know what they say of him? He is the great eye. He may not think as much as some artists, but he sees, perhaps more than any man living.”

And then it was time to see the master himself.



Marie noticed his clothes first. Though it was quite a warm day, Monet was wearing a three-piece suit, the long jacket fastened by a single button over the chest, the other buttons left open, so that the jacket fell comfortably loose. He sported a folded white handkerchief in the breast pocket. But she knew enough to see at once that the coat was made of the finest cloth and had been made by a first-rate tailor.

His hair was cut short, and brushed forward. He had a full, rich beard. His face was large-featured and strong, the eyes luminous, but powerful. Had she met him in the garden of the family house at Fontainebleau, she might have taken him for the owner of an industrial enterprise, or possibly a general.

His wife, a stately, matronly woman, seemed to be of a similar type.

He welcomed them to his domain, addressing himself especially to Aunt Éloïse.

“I was so delighted, madame, to receive the letter of Durand-Ruel, which gave me and my wife the opportunity to welcome you to our house after all these years.”

He suggested that they might like to visit the garden first, and speak in the studio afterward. And putting on a large, broad-rimmed straw hat, he led them outside.

The main building was a long, low farmhouse with green shutters, set close to the lane, its walls pleasantly covered with flowering plants and creepers. On the garden side of the house, in the center, stood a pair of yew trees, between which a broad path led down through the garden.

But there all resemblance with any garden Marie had seen before came to an end.

The garden was not a wilderness. Far from it. For a start, everything was divided into carefully planted flower beds, though they were placed so close together that one could hardly walk between them. There were fruit trees and climbing roses. But having placed them, Monet left the plants to develop a life of their own. The result was a richness and profusion that was astonishing.

“I plant for color,” he explained. “I have daffodils and tulips, hollyhocks and daisies, and poppies. Sunflowers. All kinds of annuals. In late summer the nasturtiums appear and cover the path. And then friends bring me all kinds of things, rare plants from all over the world, and I find a place for them all.”

This rich riot of color filled over two acres.

“I should have brought my mother,” Marie exclaimed.

“Bring her another time,” he said kindly.

If she ever took him up on the offer, Marie thought, she’d better find some quite amazing and exotic plant to bring.

They wandered about very contentedly, chatting about the garden.

“I paint plants,” he remarked genially to Marc and Hadley. “I sell the paintings, and with the money I buy more plants. It’s a harmless kind of lunacy, I suppose.” He turned to Aunt Éloïse. “Would you like to see my pond?”

“By all means.”

For this it was necessary to leave the garden by a small gate at the bottom that gave onto a little local railway line.

“There’s no station here,” he explained, “but once in a while a train comes by, so we take care as we cross the tracks.” And he gave Aunt Éloïse his arm.

Once across the tracks they entered another enclosure, entirely different from the first.

“We rented the house for years before I was able to buy it,” Monet explained. “Then, five or six years ago, I was able to buy this plot across the tracks, where there was a small stream, and this enabled me to create a pond. And here,” he said proudly, “is the result.”

If the main garden was a paradise of plants, this new domain was like a dream.

Willows and delicate bushes fringed the pond. Water lilies floated upon its surface. And at a certain narrow point, a local craftsman had constructed a curved, wooden Japanese bridge over the water. Up by the house, one looked at flowers. Here one looked at lilies floating in a watery world, and at the reflection of branches, leaves, flowers and the sky and clouds above, in the soft, liquid mirror of the pond. They walked onto the bridge and gazed down, in silence.

“We started the pond in ’93,” Monet said. “But one has to wait for things to grow. Nature teaches us patience. I didn’t start to paint a thing down here until ’97.”

“I think it could become an obsession,” said Marc.

“I have always painted light striking objects—a building, a field, a haystack. This is different. The color is different. And you are right. Water draws one in. It’s very primitive. Mysterious. I think I shall be painting these lilies for the rest of my life.”

They walked slowly back. As they came to the railway line, Monet again offered Aunt Éloïse his arm. And following suit, Hadley offered his arm to Marie, who took it. And as she did so, never having touched him before, she felt something suddenly run through her so that she involuntarily trembled.

“You all right?” he asked.

“Yes. I’m just afraid of trains. I used to have dreams of getting stuck on a train track when I was a little girl.” What was this nonsense she was talking? Did she sound like an idiot?

He took her arm firmly.

“It was grizzly bears for me.” He grinned. “No trains coming. Tell me if you see a bear.”

Safely across the tracks, he let go of her arm, and she gave a little gasp.

“You’re that relieved?” he said in a friendly voice. “We’d better keep you off the tracks.”

As they made their way back through the garden, she felt the sun beating upon her head.

Monet’s house had two studios. The first had formerly been a small barn, and he showed them some work there, including one of the Japanese bridges he was working on. The second studio was larger. In here, he turned to Marc and remarked: “You were saying that the pond could become an obsession. I will confess that recently I have been haunted by a dream for a huge project. It would be a huge room, circular, with enormous panels of lilies, floating in the water, and a hint of cloud perhaps. One would be completely surrounded by this great essay in blue light. I say blue, but of course I mean a thousand colors, mixing and reacting like the plants in the garden. For when colors interact, they create new colors, that one has never seen, or known that one has seen with the eye before.”

“Such an obsession would be a life’s work, monsieur,” said Marc appreciatively.

Monet nodded. Then he glanced at Marie. By chance, she was standing beside Hadley at that moment. His eyes took them both in.

“So, this handsome American gentleman is your fiancé?” he asked.

“My …?” She was completely taken off guard. She had not been prepared. She felt the deep blush coming into her face and it was no good, there was nothing she could do to stop it. “No, monsieur,” she stuttered.

“Ah,” said Monet.

“I’ve no such luck, monsieur,” said Hadley cheerfully, and glanced at Marie in a friendly way. But she could not look at him.

Then Aunt Éloïse said something to Monet, and he answered her, and the conversation moved on, and nobody seemed to notice her anymore, for which she was grateful.

A few minutes later, it was time to leave. As they were moving toward the doorway, Hadley turned to Marie and remarked quietly, “I hope Monet didn’t embarrass you by thinking we were engaged.”

“No,” she said. “It was nothing.” And she wanted so much to say something else. Something to make him think of her. “I’m sure you’ve got prettier ladies to consider,” perhaps. Something. Anything. But she could not.



As they waited on the platform for the train at Vernon, Marc and Hadley were deep in conversation, while Aunt Éloïse and Marie quietly chatted.

“I think that was a very successful visit,” said Aunt Éloïse.

“Yes. Monsieur Monet was really glad to see you. And I think he was glad to show off his garden.”

“It’s a marvel,” said Aunt Éloïse. “A marvel.”

When the train came they all got in. Soon they were clattering back toward Paris.

“Well,” said Marc, “Hadley and I have come to a decision.”

“And what is that?” asked his aunt.

“I’d thought of spending time down in Fontainebleau during the summer, but”—he gave his aunt a look—“that may not be possible just at the moment. So Hadley and I are going to take lodgings up at Giverny for the summer. We shall paint up there.” He smiled. “We’ll see you all at summer’s end.”

“Oh,” said Marie.



There was an ancient peace at Fontainebleau. The Royal Château and its quiet park were older by far than Versailles. The place had first been used by King Philip Augustus, back in the twelfth century. But the main inspiration for the present palace came from the French Renaissance, in the time of François I and Leonardo da Vinci. And though Napoléon had used it as his personal Versailles, old Fontainebleau, with its shaded alleys, and huge forest nearby, retained a settled, quiet air that the stark magnificence of Louis XIV’s huge palace entirely lacked.

As for the town, it was quiet, and conservative, and full of cousins.

It was a pity, Marie thought wryly, that none of her cousins was the right age. Then she could just have married one of them and everyone would have been happy.

“At least when you marry a cousin,” one of them had truly remarked, “you know what you’re getting.”

So she walked the puppy, and visited her cousins, and took riding lessons because she might as well improve her skills. “In case another aristocrat comes along,” she told her mother with a smile.

But she did not find much peace.

Where was he? At Giverny. What was he doing? Painting out of doors, sketching, eating and drinking with the other artists there.

Was he still speaking French? Or was he relapsing into English with the American colony in the village? Was he with a woman? Had he met a charming American girl, an artist perhaps, from a good family like his own? Would Marc write and mention casually that his friend was engaged?

She imagined him, in this situation and that. Her imaginings did not fade away. They grew stronger, worse, as the days went past.

And she had no one to share her troubles with. She could not tell her parents. She loved her cousins, but none of them was a confidant. She was a little afraid even to tell her aunt Éloïse. And the one person she might have confided in, Marc, was Hadley’s friend, so that was impossible. As the days of July went by, apart from her physical and social activities, she read, or pretended to read, and took up desultory needlework, and tried many times, with indifferent success, to sketch the puppy playing in the garden.

Her brother Gérard came down with his family twice to stay the weekend. Her father had left the business largely in his care for the summer, and he would come down and sit with his father on the big veranda, and give him reports that were generally satisfactory. Once Gérard had taken her aside.

He knew she didn’t like him. But he was trying to be nice. She understood this. He was doing his best. But his best wasn’t very good.

“I’m sorry that things didn’t work out with de Cygne,” he remarked.

“They never really started,” she said.

“I know. All the same, that would have been something …”

“He might have turned out to be a bad character.”

He shrugged.

“We’re going to look out for someone. We have more friends than you think. God knows, you’re pretty, and you’re going to have an excellent dowry. Really excellent. It’s amazing that you’re not married already, but you’re an excellent catch.”

“That’s a comfort.”

“But you’ve got to look out for a husband, Marie. Do you know what I mean? It’s not about waiting for a knight in shining armor. It’s about seeing what’s out there, and making some choices. One’s just got to be practical.”

“And that’s it?”

“It is.” He smiled encouragingly. “That’s the wonderful thing. It’s all quite simple. Well, it is if you’ve got money.”

“Is that what your wife did?”

“Absolutely.”

“And you’re both happy?”

“Yes. We’re very happy.” He gave her a look that was surprisingly full of affection. “Totally happy.”

And she realized that he was.

“Thank you,” she said.



She was relieved when her father invited Fox down for a weekend. At least he didn’t talk to her about marriage. As always, he was easy company. And he liked the family house.

The Blanchard house at Fontainebleau was typical of its kind. In structure, it was a smaller and provincial version of an aristocratic mansion. One entered from the quiet street through a pair of high iron gates into a cobbled courtyard with a pavilion wing on each side and the main house in the center. The main entrance was up a broad flight of steps, the house being raised over extensive cellars. Above this was a floor of bedrooms, with attics above that. The salon, on the left of the front door, was large and extended all the way through, giving onto a broad veranda which ran the length of the central house and overlooked the gardens.

Seen from the garden, when the family gathered on the veranda, it looked exactly like a picture by Manet.

If the big salon, with its classical, First Empire furniture, had a Roman simplicity and repose, the garden had a character of which both Marie’s parents were proud.

“Why,” Fox exclaimed when he saw it, “you have an English garden.”

It was very long and divided into two parts. Close to the house, it was laid out with gravel paths, a small ornamental pond and fountain, flower beds of lavender, roses and other plantings, and a lawn. After fifty yards, a high, neatly clipped hedge formed a screen, with a wicket gate in the middle, through which one passed into an orchard. At the far end of the orchard, behind other screens, was a garden shed and compost heaps.

“My wife is in charge of the plants, and I am in charge of the lawn and the orchard,” Jules explained. “Do you approve?”

“I certainly do,” said Fox. “I could almost be in England.”

“Almost?” Jules nodded. “My lawn isn’t quite right. It’s mown, but I have had difficulty in obtaining a roller. An English lawn would be rolled. How long does it take then, to get a truly English lawn?”

Fox looked at the two Blanchards, then at Marie, and gave a broad smile.

“Centuries,” he said.

They took him around the old château and walked in the forest and had a delightful weekend. And perhaps because he was not a threat to her emotional life, and because he was so clearly a nice man, Marie felt more contented during his stay than she had for some time, and was sorry to see him depart.



Later in July, Aunt Éloïse came down for a few days. She enjoyed that. While she was there, a letter came from Marc. He and Hadley were getting along famously. They were both very productive, he reported. And the company was excellent.

What did he mean by that? Who was Hadley seeing? She could only wonder.

“Do you think we should pay them a visit?” she asked Aunt Éloïse.

“It means going to Paris first and then up to Normandy.”

“That’s not so far.”

“I’ll think about it. Perhaps I can arrange for you to see Marc without going to Normandy,” she said. But this was not quite what Marie wanted to hear.



In the month of August, all the inhabitants of Paris who were able to do so deserted the city. Jules announced that he would spend the entire month at Fontainebleau.

It was a week into August when he informed them that Fox was coming by.

“He wanted to stop on his way down to Burgundy. Naturally I said he’s welcome.”

They were all glad to see him, but the manner of his arrival took them by surprise. For instead of a cab from the station, it was a cart that trundled through the iron gates into the courtyard. While the driver and his assistant went to the back of the cart, Fox got down looking pleased with himself.

“Are your bags so heavy?” Jules inquired.

“Not exactly. I have something for you.”

And then, down a ramp from the back of the cart, manhandled with some difficulty by the driver and his mate, there came a garden roller.

“Mon Dieu!” cried Jules. “I can’t believe it. Look at this,” he cried to Marie and her mother. “Mon cher ami, where the devil did you get it?”

“From England of course. I had it shipped.”

Marie laughed out loud. One had to love him.

And he insisted on giving them a demonstration of how to use it.

“If you do it right,” he explained, “it’s wonderful for strengthening all your muscles and stretching the back.”

It was half an hour later, entering the empty salon while Fox and her father were on the veranda, that Marie heard a few words of conversation that she did not understand.

“Everything is fine. Our young friend will soon be installed in London. As for the banker and his wife, they are delighted. Their daughter is a lucky girl.”

“Should I meet them? I feel I should like to.”

“I strongly advise against it.”

“You’re right. I am very grateful to you.”

“Our firm is there to provide service to all our clients. But I think the business has gone well.” He paused. “I must catch a train shortly. May I have the pleasure of calling in on you on my return? I shall want to inspect the lawn.”

“We look forward to it.”

After he had gone, Marie asked her father if Fox had also come to transact business.

“Yes. A piece of English business I had, as it happens. He’s a good man.” He didn’t elaborate further, and she didn’t ask.

She did not hear a murmured conversation between her parents in their bedroom that night, however.

“I like Fox,” said Jules. “It’s a pity he’s a Protestant.”

“So do I,” agreed his wife. “But he’s Protestant, all the same.”

“Yes. It’s a pity, though.”



Nor did she hear a conversation a few days later when her aunt arrived to see her father.

“My dear Jules, it’s time to forgive your son.”

“Why?”

“The Petit girl is installed in England. Her daughter is safely born and she has been adopted by a charming family like our own. Our troubles in this matter are over. The Petit family have disowned their daughter, which I consider an abomination, but sadly it’s what many others would have done. The conventions of society are cruel. But Marc has been punished enough. God knows he has done nothing worse than many other young men of his age.”

“He hasn’t been punished at all.”

“Of course he has.”

“He seems to live quite well, after I stopped his allowance.”

“He gets commissions.”

Jules looked at his sister affectionately.

“How much are you giving him, Éloïse?”

“If I were, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“He’s not suffering at all.”

“He is suffering by being deprived of his father and mother.”

“It must be killing him.”

“More than you know. He loves you.”

“I’ll think about it.”



Marc and Hadley arrived at Fontainebleau for the last ten days of August. For Marie, it was a magical time. Sometimes they would go into the forest to sketch, and she would go with them, taking a book and a sketch pad herself, to keep them company. She and her mother conducted Hadley around the château, which he preferred to Versailles. In particular he liked the old tapestries that showed the courtly hunting scenes in their deep, rich colors.

In the evenings everyone would sit out on the veranda. Her father would often read the paper then, and Marc and Hadley would chat, while she quietly listened. At Marc’s prompting, Hadley would talk easily about his childhood, of tobogganing in the snow, of his rowing days at university, or his year of ranching. Sometimes he would mention little things. “When I was eighteen, my father gave me a pair of wooden hairbrushes. Dark hickory, with my initials carved on the back. I always take them with me. Some people have fancy ivory brushes, but I wouldn’t change the hickory brushes my father gave me for anything in the world.”

He talked of his parents also.

“If I like to travel, I dare say I get it from them,” he remarked once. “My father usually had spare time in the summer. Before I was born, they went to Japan, to England, to Egypt. And they’d take us children to all kinds of places too. When I marry,” he added easily, “I hope my wife will want to travel with me. It’s a wonderful thing to share.”

She listened to these and other things until, she thought, she knew everything about him.

One evening on the veranda, after they had spent the afternoon walking through the forest to nearby Barbizon where Corot had painted, Hadley threw back his head and closed his eyes.

“You know, I feel as if I’ve entered a beautiful, unchanging world,” he confessed to them. “There’s a softness in the light, a sort of echo everywhere in the landscape. I can’t really put it into words.”

“Everyone is seduced by the French countryside,” said Marc. “But you should also understand that we French are so conscious of our history—it’s everywhere around us—that we all feel as if we have lived many times before.” He smiled. “This may be a delusion, but it’s a rich one, and it gives us comfort.”

“We also find comfort in the Church,” his mother added.

“Same wine, same cheeses,” said Jules pleasantly. “Once a Frenchman, always a Frenchman.”

“French life has so much charm,” said Hadley with a contented sigh. “I could imagine living here.”

Could Hadley really live in France? Marie wondered. She tried to imagine him living in the house in Fontainebleau. She thought of his sketches on the wall of the passage that led to the kitchen; the picture of the Gare Saint-Lazare she would give him, in the salon perhaps; and his hairbrushes, on the table in her father’s dressing room.

Or would he live in America, and travel like his parents? He could have a house in France, she thought, and spend every summer here. Why not? His children could be bilingual.

One afternoon, Hadley and Marc were painting in the garden, and she came out to look at what they were doing. Hadley was painting a flower bed which contained some magnificent peonies in full bloom. So far, his painting looked like a glowing, almost formless sea of color.

“I see what it is, but I’d never have thought of it like that,” she said.

“The difficulty isn’t putting the paint on the canvas,” he answered quietly. “It’s seeing what you’re painting. I mean, looking at it without any preconceptions about what it’s supposed to look like. If you think you know what a peony looks like, then you’ll never be able to paint it. You have to look at everything with fresh eyes, which is difficult.”

“I can understand that in painting and drawing, I think. I don’t think it works for other arts, does it?”

“There are some writers who are trying to do something similar. Especially in France. The symbolists like the poet Mallarmé. And there are political revolutionaries too, who say we should start all over again and decide what the rules of society should be. After all, they were doing that when they destroyed the monarchy and attacked religion back in the days of the French Revolution.” He smiled. “I dare say people have always been changing the rules ever since the Greeks invented democracy or man invented the wheel.”

“So do you want to change the world?”

“No. Because the world’s been pretty good to me. But I like to try to discover the truth about how things look.”

She left him to his work and went back to the shade of the veranda. Then she took out her sketch pad. She started a drawing of the puppy. It wasn’t any good, but if anyone asked what she was drawing, she’d have that to show them. Meanwhile, as her father buried himself in his newspaper, she turned to a fresh sheet underneath the drawing of the puppy, and she started to draw Hadley.

She tried to do exactly as he said, and just look at exactly what she saw. At first it didn’t seem right, but gradually she realized that by concentrating her eye, she had produced exactly the line of his jaw, and his powerful neck, and the way his hair tumbled down in its strong, unruly way. And she found herself smiling as she realized how perfectly she knew him.

Later she and her mother went into the kitchen, and she helped the cook prepare the evening meal. And she insisted that the strawberry flan, which she knew Hadley loved, should be made entirely by her own hand.



Just before the end of August, James Fox called in on his return from Burgundy. One could see he’d been out in the open air. He looked fit and well.

Since the whole family was planning to return to Paris the following day, they suggested he should stay the night so that they could all go back together.

They had a large lunch that lasted until three in the afternoon. Then, rather than doze on the veranda, the whole family went for a walk to the old château—the two Blanchard parents, Marc and Marie, Fox, Hadley, and the puppy too. They walked about in the park for a while. It was hot. The little puppy was running about excitedly, but in the end even he got tired and sank contentedly into the slow lethargy of the August afternoon.

As they returned, the dusty streets of Fontainebleau seemed half asleep. The roadway glared in the sun while the houses, some stone gray, some brick, were shuttered against the brightness, getting what coolness they could from the sharp shadows falling from the eaves. As they reached the road that led to the house, they were the only people in the street, apart from a coachman dozing in a trap, drawn by a single horse, that was waiting outside one of the houses for someone to come out.

“The puppy’s on his last legs,” Marie remarked to Fox. “I’d carry him if we weren’t so close to home.”

The little spaniel had been dragging his feet for some time. But curiosity had given him the energy to inspect a small bundle lying in the roadway. Marie glanced back and shrugged. The road was quiet.

It was a second later that they heard the loud bang of a shutter that someone had opened carelessly. Obviously they had opened the window as well, for there was a sudden flash as the glass caught the sun.

It was nothing. But it was enough to spook the horse in the waiting trap. Throwing its head up, it plunged forward, and before the dozing coachman could gather his wits and fumble for the reins, the trap was surging down the street.

The puppy did not see the trap coming up behind him. If he heard it, he took no notice. He was interested in the bundle, and its curious smells.

Marie screamed. Everyone turned to look.

She would never have believed that Fox, who was a tall man, could move so fast. Racing toward the puppy, he dived, scooped up the tiny dog in one hand, went into a roll and as the trap missed him by inches, emerged lying on the roadway with the puppy held above his head.

“Mon Dieu,” gasped Marc. A half second’s error and the Englishman could have been seriously injured.

“Nice move,” called Hadley admiringly.

Fox stood up. He was dusty and one of his sleeves was torn.

“Cricket,” he said. “Fielding practice.”

“Ah, Monsieur Fox,” cried Marie’s mother gratefully.

But Marie was ahead of her. She ran up to Fox and kissed him on the cheek.

For just a moment Jules frowned. Not that he was shocked, but Marie wasn’t supposed to do that.

Fox saw it.

“Well,” he said to them all, with great good humor, “if I’d known I was going to get a kiss …” He strode across to Jules and handed him the puppy. “Would you be so kind, monsieur, as to place this puppy in the road, so that I can do it again!”

Jules laughed, and relaxed. But his wife was looking at Fox’s arm.

“You are bleeding, my dear Fox,” she said.

“It’s nothing. I’ll get cleaned up as soon as we’re back.”



The letter was waiting for him in Paris on his arrival back at his studio. The next day, when Hadley came around, Marc showed it to him.

Mon Chéri,

Welcome back. I long for you. Every time we make love, I only want you more, and I believe it’s the same for you.

But now, chéri, the time has come to make a decision. Is it going to be better than this with someone else, for you, or for me? I don’t believe so.

I want to have your babies. There is still time. You know that I am a woman of fortune. Why not make your life more easy? Why not have babies with a wife who loves you, instead of these mistresses who have children you have to hide?

But if you decide that this is not what you want, if you don’t want to marry me, then although I love you, chéri, I am leaving you to find someone who will give me what I want, and what I deserve.

Think about it. Je t’aime,

H

As he passed the letter to Hadley, Marc shrugged.

“She wants to marry me.”

“Evidently.”

“What do you think?”

“You could do worse. How do you feel about her?”

“She never bores me. There is always something new. She has …”—he searched for words—“a ruthless intelligence.”

“Ruthless?”

“It fascinates me. And I also get a lot of work done when she’s around.”

“Marry her.”

“She’s older than me.”

“That’s not everything. She looks as if she’ll age well.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what my parents would think.”

“If you marry a woman with a small fortune and stay out of trouble, Marc, I suspect they can live with it.” Hadley shook his head. “You’ll have to make a commitment, that’s all.”

“But I’ve never made a commitment in my life,” Marc objected.

“You could start.”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ll lose her. I don’t think it’s an idle threat. She’ll go.” He stared at Marc. “I guess the question is, can you live without her?”

“I can live without everybody.”

Hadley sighed.

“Spoken like a true artist.”

Marc looked at him in surprise.

“You think so?”

“They say that most artists are monsters. Not all. But most.”

“I meant, do you think I’m a true artist?”

“Oh, I see.” Hadley smiled. “Well, at least you’re a monster. Be grateful for that.”

He handed the letter back to Marc, who put it on the table.

“By the way,” said Marc, “I promised Marie that we’d meet her at rue Laffitte. We’d better get going. I’ll think about Hortense on the way.”



The Vollard gallery was just up the street from the older Durand-Ruel gallery. Its owner was a gruff fellow. Unlike Durand-Ruel, he did not support artists. “He churns work, buys a lot cheap and sells it quickly. But he has the most interesting shows, all the same,” Marc had told Hadley. “In ’95, he had a big show of Cézanne, who most people had never heard of, and made quite a name for himself.”

They waited awhile for Marie to arrive, but as she didn’t, they made themselves known to the owner.

Vollard was a large, sharp-eyed, bearded man. Marc asked to see a Cézanne. “He’ll deliberately ignore what I asked for and bring something else,” he whispered to Hadley, and sure enough Vollard returned a few moments later with a painting by Gauguin, a scene from Tahiti.

They gazed at the strange, exotic colors.

“It’s powerful. Astonishing,” said Hadley.

“Come back in two months,” Vollard told them. “I’m having a big Gauguin show.”

“What else would you like to show us?” asked Marc.

“What about this?” Vollard produced a small painting of the French countryside, the Midi somewhere, by the look of it. In some ways there were hints of similarity with the Gauguin painting. But there was a strange nervousness, a sort of cosmic urgency and fear in the work that was hard to define.

“Who’s this?” Hadley asked.

“He died nearly a decade ago. His brother was a dealer. Small time, but good.” Vollard shrugged. “I bought some. Still got a few. They’re not expensive.” He didn’t sound very enthusiastic. “Van Gogh is the artist’s name.”

“I haven’t heard of him,” Hadley confessed.

“Not many people have,” said Marc. “Buy one if you like it.” He smiled. “Just don’t expect to make any money from it.”

They looked at some more work, hoping that Marie might still appear, but she didn’t. After half an hour, they left. On the way back to Marc’s studio, they stopped for a drink.



Marie was so annoyed with herself. She’d been shopping with her mother and mistaken the time. When she reached Vollard’s gallery, he told her she’d missed her brother by ten minutes.

It was hardly a fifteen-minute walk from the gallery to her brother’s studio, so she thought she’d go over there to apologize.

When she got to the street door, she found it open, so she mounted the stairs. At the door of the studio, she knocked and listened, but heard no sound. She tried the door. It opened.

“Marc?” she called.

Silence. Obviously he hadn’t gotten back yet. She wondered whether to leave again, but thought she might as well wait a little while. Then, if he didn’t appear, she could always leave him a note.

She moved around in the studio, looked out the window, glanced at the stacks of paintings. She was quite tempted to look at them, but thought that he wouldn’t like it if she disturbed them.

She sat down to wait. Twenty minutes passed. Perhaps he’d gone somewhere else, and it would make more sense to leave him a note. She looked around for some paper and something to write with. There was a letter already lying on the table. Idly, she picked it up. Mon Chéri, it began. A private letter, obviously. She shouldn’t read it. She left it alone. She glanced at it again. She read it.

Then she heard steps coming up the stairs. Marc’s voice. Hadley’s too.

She quickly sat down again and tried to look unconcerned. But she was very pale.



Marc was surprised to see Marie sitting in his studio, but he smiled.

“We missed you at Vollard’s,” he cried. “Did you think we were meeting here?”

“No. It’s my fault. I was shopping with Maman. I got there just after you left. I came round to apologize.”

Something wasn’t right. She looked pale. Her voice sounded unnatural. He glanced at the table and saw the letter from Hortense.

He thought quickly. Personally he didn’t care what Marie knew, but his parents did. Whereas if his American friend had been a naughty fellow, it wouldn’t matter to anyone. Casually he picked up the letter, and handed it to Hadley.

“You shouldn’t leave things lying around, mon ami,” he murmured.

Thank God Hadley had a quick brain. He read the situation at once.

“Ah,” he said quietly, folded the letter, and put it in his pocket.

They chatted for a few moments. It was hard to tell whether Marie had read the letter or not, and Marc certainly wasn’t going to ask her. Then, after apologizing again for missing them at the gallery, Marie said that she had to get back home.

After she’d gone, Marc turned to Hadley.

“Thanks for getting me out of that one,” he said. “Have I ruined your reputation forever?”

Hadley handed him back the letter.

“Your sister’s well brought up,” he said. “I don’t suppose she even read it.”



Half an hour later, Aunt Éloïse was most astonished when Marie arrived unexpectedly at her apartment. She was looking distraught.

“Whatever’s the matter?” Éloïse asked.

Marie sat down on the sofa. For a moment she couldn’t speak.

“Something terrible,” she cried. “About Hadley. He has a mistress.”

Her aunt smiled.

“My dear little Marie,” she said gently. “Hadley is a handsome young man. If he has a mistress, it wouldn’t be so surprising, you know.”

“She wants to marry him.”

“This also is not unknown.”

“And he’s already the father of a child. Quite recently.”

Éloïse frowned.

“How do you know this?”

“There was a letter. He left it on a table at Marc’s. I read it.” She shook her head. “It was terrible.” She started to cry.

Éloïse gazed at her.

“Do you mind so much what Hadley does?”

Marie did not reply. And now her aunt understood.

“My poor Marie. What a fool I am. I didn’t think of it. You’re in love with Hadley.”

“No. No.”

“Yes you are. Why shouldn’t you be?”

“You must not tell,” cried Marie. “Promise me you will not tell.” And then she wept as though her heart would break.



The note Aunt Éloïse wrote was very short. It was an order. She gave it to her housekeeper with precise instructions. Then she went back to looking after Marie.

She made her drink a little tea. She sat with her and talked quietly about the loves of women for talented men. She spoke of Chopin and George Sand, the woman writer who had loved him. And of Wagner, and how his last wife, Cosima, had left her husband to marry him instead. In truth, there was no particular plan in Aunt Éloïse’s conversation, other than to suggest how the noblest and best women might fall in love with men who had great gifts. Her main purpose was just to keep Marie’s mind occupied until the housekeeper got back. At last, after nearly an hour, she did, and gave Aunt Éloïse a meaningful nod.

“Have a little more tea, my dear, and I shall rejoin you in five minutes,” her aunt told her as she left the room.

Down in the street, she found Marc waiting, as instructed.

“You are to tell me the truth at once,” she commanded. “Marie read a letter. Was it addressed to you or to Hadley?”

“We thought it best to let her think it was addressed to Hadley. You know what Papa and Maman feel. Marie’s not supposed to know anything like that …”

“I know. It’s what I suspected. She thinks badly of Hadley, that’s all.”

“Does it matter?”

“No,” his aunt lied. “It doesn’t matter in the least. Except that I am sorry Hadley should have to assume responsibility for things he hasn’t done. It’s not a nice way to treat a friend, who’s a guest in our country.”

“That’s true. I feel ashamed. What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’ll deal with Marie.” She paused. “I’m bored with all these lies, Marc. I’m just bored, that’s all. Now go home.”



She gave Marie a glass of brandy first.

“If I tell you the truth, are you prepared to keep a secret? You must not tell your parents that you know. Will you promise me that?”

“I suppose so. Yes.”

“Good. Well then, I think it’s time for you to be treated as an adult.”



“Oh,” said Marie when she’d finished. “Marc has been very wicked, then.”

“My dear child, by the time you reach the end of your life, you will know so many men—and women—who have done the same or worse, that you will be forgiving.”

“And Hadley …”

“Was not the person to whom that letter was addressed. And so far as I know, he has not had an illegitimate child with anyone either—which your brother certainly has.”

“Then Hadley assumed the guilt for my brother. He’s a saint.”

“No, he is not a saint!” cried her aunt with momentary irritation. “And a good-looking boy like that has probably had a mistress or two by now.” She paused. “So Marie, you love Hadley. Does he have any idea of this?”

“Oh no. I don’t think so.”

“And if he wanted to marry you …?”

“I don’t think Papa would allow it …”

“He comes from a very respectable family, as far as I know. Is he Catholic?”

Marie shook her head.

“I have heard him say to Marc that his family are Protestant.”

“And he will probably live in America. Can you imagine yourself living in America, far from your family? You’d have to speak English. It would be very different, Marie. Did you ever consider this?”

“In my dreams, I have,” Marie admitted.

“And?”

“When I am in his company, I am so happy. I just want to be with him. That’s all I know.” She shrugged. “I want to be with him, all the time.”

“I cannot advise you. Your parents will not wish to lose you, I am certain. But if you and Hadley truly wish to marry, and they believe you could be happy, then it’s possible they would agree. I can’t say.”

“What should I do?”

“In the first place, I think you should let Hadley know that you like him. It might turn out that he likes you more than you think. If he does not return your feelings, it will be very hurtful for you, but at least you will know not to waste your time.”

“How will I do that?”

Her aunt stared at her.

“I see,” she said, “that I had better take you in hand.”



Hadley was rather surprised, a week later, to receive a message from Aunt Éloïse that she wished him to call upon her, but naturally he did so. When he got there, she welcomed him warmly.

“You’ve never really seen my little collection, have you?” she said. “Would you like to?”

“I certainly should.”

It was quite remarkable what she had. Corots, a little sketch by Millet and country scenes by others of the Barbizon school. She had more than twenty Impressionists, a pretty little scene in a ballet school by Degas, even a small van Gogh that she’d gotten for almost nothing from Vollard.

Then, suddenly, he stopped in astonishment.

“I wanted to buy this painting,” he cried.

“The Goeneutte of the Gare Saint-Lazare?”

“Yes. But I couldn’t. So you bought it.”

“Not exactly. Marie asked me to buy it for her. She’s going to buy it from me when she can. I didn’t know you liked it too.”

“She has good taste,” he remarked. “Well, I guess if I can’t have it, I’m glad it’s gone to one of your family.”

“Marc has talent, of course. How much remains to be seen. But Marie has a very good eye. She’ll have her own collection one day, I’m quite sure.”

“That’s interesting.”

Aunt Éloïse smiled.

“Marie has been brought up to be quiet. But there’s more to her than you think.”

They talked of his time at Giverny and the work he was planning for that autumn. It was all very pleasant. She didn’t seem to have any other object in inviting him to visit her, but he was certainly glad that he had come.

He heard a sound at the outer door. Then the maid announced that Marie had arrived.

“Ah,” said Aunt Éloïse as Marie came into the room. “My dear, you couldn’t have arrived at a better moment. Look who I have here. Our friend Hadley.”

“So you do,” said Marie, and gave him a delightful smile.

“Come and sit down,” said her aunt.

Hadley gazed. Something had changed about Marie. He wasn’t sure what, but she was different. She was looking wonderfully well, but there was a little glow of confidence in her manner. In some undefinable way, the girl with the blue eyes and the golden curls had suddenly become a confident young woman.

She hadn’t gotten married in the last week. And he was quite sure she hadn’t been having an affair. But whatever it was, he suddenly realized that Marie was intensely desirable. Had she changed her scent?

“It seems Hadley wanted your picture of the Gare Saint-Lazare,” Aunt Éloïse remarked.

“Perhaps we should give it to you,” said Marie.

“Oh no. You must enjoy it,” he said quickly. “But I shall be content to envy you.”

Aunt Éloïse mentioned a few of the other paintings in the apartment that Hadley had liked. Then she rose.

“I must leave you with Marie, Hadley,” she said. “I have something to attend to. But I shall be back in a moment.”

They sat in silence for a few seconds.

“Your aunt has a wonderful collection,” said Hadley, still trying to make out what had changed in Marie.

“Yes.” Marie paused. “Hadley,” she said, “I think I had better tell you, I know all about Marc.”

“Oh?”

“The letter, the woman and the baby.”

“Oh.”

“My aunt Éloïse decided it was time I grew up.” She smiled. “But don’t tell my parents that I know.”

“No.”

“I think in America, it’s different. American girls are not so sheltered.”

“It’s not that different.”

“Well, my aunt thinks it’s absurd. I’m quite old enough to be married.”

“Yes.”

“But I’m kept in a state of idiotic innocence. So that’s over. Perhaps you disapprove.”

“Oh, no.”

“It was very nice of you to take the letter from my brother, the way that you did. I think you’re a very good friend. Though I don’t think he should have done it.”

“I’d have done the same in his place,” he lied.

“Are you telling me you have a mistress who’s trying to marry you, and an illegitimate child as well?”

“No.” He laughed. “Not at all. Neither.”

“That’s good,” she said.

Aunt Éloïse reappeared.

“Shall we have some tea?” she asked.

“I must go,” said Marie. “I’d like to stay, but I’m on my way to the Rochards’. I only looked in to deliver a message, Aunt Éloïse, that you are invited to lunch on Sunday. And as I have found you, Monsieur Hadley, would you please tell my brother he should also come? You are invited too.”

“That’s very kind.”

“Until Sunday then.” She kissed her aunt, and was gone.

After tea, Hadley rose to leave. He thanked Éloïse for a delightful time.

“I’m glad you like my pictures,” she said.

“Very much.” He paused at the door. “I was rather amazed at the change in Marie.”

“Well, it’s time she married. So it’s not too soon for her to … wake up. She’s a lovely young woman. Don’t you think?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps.” She spoke very quietly, but he was sure he heard her say: “Perhaps you should wake up too.”



Aunt Éloïse was pleased. The family lunch was going well. Everyone seemed to be getting on very well. Even Gérard was being pleasant. Marie was looking radiant. And if she was not much mistaken, Éloïse thought, Frank Hadley was watching her niece with more than usual interest.

All that was needed was an opportunity for them to spend some time together. It presented itself during the dessert.

They had been discussing the statue of Charlemagne. Jules had been rather pleased with the results of his committee. “We raised all the funds we needed,” he remarked. “I’m sorry that the Vicomte de Cygne didn’t live to see it, because he’d have been pleased. We even got an excellent contribution from that lawyer, Ney, whose daughter you painted.”

“Talking of sculpture,” remarked his wife, “I hear there’s a scandal about Rodin the sculptor in the newspapers. Is this right?”

“Rodin’s Kiss and his Thinker have even become quite famous in America, you know,” Hadley remarked. “I didn’t know there was a scandal, though.”

“It’s not exactly a scandal,” said Marc. “Nearly ten years ago, he was commissioned by the author’s society to do a big statue of Balzac. As most people think he’s our greatest novelist, something monumental was called for. And Rodin’s been at it ever since. He’s had to ask for fifty extensions to complete the work. And now they’ve seen it, they’ve rejected it.”

“Why?” asked Marie.

“I heard it was a monstrosity,” said Gérard.

“Ah non, Gérard,” said Aunt Éloïse.

Marc laughed.

“Actually, he’s right. It is a monstrosity. But a magnificent one. Faced with such a heroic task, Rodin attempted to depict the soul of the writer, rather than the literal man. The result is a shape like a tree trunk wrapped in a cloak, with this great head, with a neck like a bull, bursting out of it. They were all horrified. So Rodin’s taken the plaster model back to his studio. Perhaps it will never be cast.” He smiled. “Personally, I’d have preferred it if they’d put it in Père Lachaise instead of that rather boring head that sits over his grave at present.” He turned to Hadley. “You remember the one I mean?”

“Do you know,” said Hadley, “I’ve never been to the cemetery of Père Lachaise.”

“You haven’t?” Aunt Éloïse was astounded. “My dear Hadley, you must go there.”

“You should,” agreed Jules. “Certainly worth a visit.”

“I propose,” said Aunt Éloïse, seeing a beautiful chance, “to take you there myself. Marc and Marie, you must come too. I insist. We shall go this very week, while the weather is still so mild.” She looked at them all.

“Why not?” said Marc.

And Aunt Éloïse was feeling quite pleased with her cleverness when Gérard intervened.

“I think that’s a wonderful idea. We should love to come too.”

“We should?” said his wife, looking puzzled and not especially pleased.

“My dear Gérard,” said Aunt Éloïse, “I think you might be rather bored.”

“Not at all,” said Gérard. “We’re coming.”



It seemed to Hadley that Marc was looking a little pale when he came by to collect him.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“Hortense,” said Marc.

“You spoke?”

“You could call it that.”

“You broke up with her?”

“I did.”

Hadley gazed thoughtfully at his friend.

“I guess you know what you want,” he said.

“She wasn’t too pleased.”

“I don’t suppose she was.”

“She called me a lot of names.” Marc sighed, then shrugged. “However, I’m used to that.”

“I’d imagine you are.”

“Let’s go to Père Lachaise,” said Marc.



It was such a perfect afternoon. The weather was still pleasantly warm. The leaves were on the trees. But there were hints of gold in some of them, and now and then, as a light gust of wind made them tremble, a few leaves floated down to the ground.

The two men, Aunt Éloïse and Marie shared the Blanchard carriage. Gérard and his wife were meeting them at the cemetery.

But it wasn’t Gérard and his wife they found waiting for them.

“She couldn’t come,” Gérard explained. “The children needed her. So I have brought a friend of mine instead. May I present Rémy Monnier.”

He was a well-dressed man of about thirty. Medium height. Alert hazel eyes. Hair cropped very short, rapidly balding. But there was a brisk, almost dynamic energy about him that was quite impressive. He seemed like a man who shaved close and knew all the markets.

He bowed in a friendly way to them all, and immediately paid his addresses to Aunt Éloïse, as good manners demanded.

Meanwhile, Gérard was murmuring to Marie.

“Rémy is a very good man. The family’s rich, but he has several brothers. So he’s determined to make a fortune of his own. And he will. He’s in banking, has a huge talent for finance. And he’s not Jewish.” He nodded. “I think you’ll like him.”

Marie said nothing.

“Oh,” Gérard continued, “and he knows his wines. Collects pictures, too. Old Masters mostly. Loves the opera. Very cultivated. God knows what he’s read.”

“Poetry?” she asked, not that she cared.

“Probably. All sorts of stuff.”

Marie gazed at the banker. Not that she knew about such things, but she imagined that Rémy Monnier was also an accomplished lover. He would have seen to that.



It was pleasant enough visiting the famous cemetery. They showed Hadley the monument to Abelard and Héloïse. They found the grave of Chopin, and of Balzac, with its impressive if rather conventional bust. They saw graves of Napoléon’s marshals and they went to the Mur des Fédérés, where Aunt Éloïse explained the tragedy of the last days of the Commune to Hadley.

The banker came and made himself agreeable to her as they walked along. He asked her about how she had passed her summer, spoke interestingly about the château of Fontainebleau, which he knew well. They talked about the grape harvest.

“I usually go down for the vendange on our little property,” she told him, “which will be quite soon. But I haven’t decided whether I’ll go this year.”

“Not to be missed,” he said. “I shall have to be in Paris, but I’d much rather join you and pick grapes.”

She also noticed that when she told him where the family vineyard was, he guessed at once exactly which grapes they harvested, and how they made the wine. He knew his subject thoroughly.

And although she wished he were not there, and that she could talk to Frank Hadley instead, she could see that the supremely competent Rémy Monnier would be very interesting indeed to many women.

When they had seen all they wanted of Père Lachaise, Aunt Éloïse announced that she and Marie were going to the charming Parc des Buttes-Chaumont nearby.

“You and Marc will come with us, of course,” she said to Hadley.

“We’ll follow in a cab,” said Gérard.



“So, Hadley,” said Aunt Éloïse with a smile, as the carriage rolled away, “you have been working hard at your painting in France for many months now, and I have never asked you: Are you satisfied with your visit so far? Are you finding what you hoped for?”

“Thanks to this fellow here”—Hadley indicated Marc—“and the kindness of his family, I’ve been more fortunate than I could have dared to hope. Many people come to France and see it from outside, but by getting to know a family, I’ve already learned far more about France than most people do.”

“This is probably true in any country,” said Aunt Éloïse, “but it is especially true in France. And tell me—honestly, I beg you—how you like it here.”

“Oh, I’m in love with it,” Hadley said simply.

“You are?” said Marie.

“I don’t mean that France has no faults. I find people a little too obsessed by their history. But the culture has so much charm, that’s understandable. And nobody can call France old-fashioned. A little slow to adopt mechanical inventions, maybe. But all the new artistic and philosophical ideas are happening here. That’s why all the young American artists come piling in.”

“And what of your own painting?” asked Aunt Éloïse. “Are you making progress?”

“Some.” He hesitated, then smiled a little ruefully. “Not enough.”

“You have talent,” Marc assured him.

“A little, Marc. But not enough. That’s what I’ve learned. I shall study painting all my life, but I’m not going to be a painter. That’s what I needed to find out, and I’ve seen so much already that I know my limitations. I’m not disappointed. I just needed to know.”

“Too soon to give up,” said Marc. “Tell him so, Marie.”

“I watched Hadley working in Fontainebleau and I was very impressed,” said Marie. “But I’d rather know what he thinks.”

“I’ve decided that I want to live a life more like my father’s. I don’t want to go into business, as I’d thought I might. I want to live in the same world that you and your aunt do, Marc. If I apply myself, there will be positions I could take in art schools or universities in America. That would allow me free time to do my own work and travel in the summer. I mightn’t get rich, but I’m fortunate. I’ll have enough private income to get by.”

“You could have a house in France and spend your summers here,” said Marie.

“I could certainly do that,” said Hadley. He smiled. “Sounds a pretty good idea.”

They had reached the gates of the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont.

“Marc, wait here for Gérard and his friend,” said Aunt Éloïse. “Then take them up to the little temple at the top of the park, where we shall meet you.” And with that she swept Hadley and Marie away.



It was warm and it was quiet. There was scarcely a soul about as they wandered along the winding path that led down to the small lake. In the middle of the lake, the island rose up steeply to the tiny temple far above.

“This way,” said Aunt Éloïse. And she led them around the edge of the lake until they heard the sound of a waterfall. “It’s one of the wonders of the place,” she explained to Hadley. “This was the entrance to an old gypsum quarry, but they turned it into a grotto with an artificial waterfall and stalactites.”

They entered the grotto together. It was empty.

“I’ll just see where the others are,” said Aunt Éloïse, and left them.

The water cascaded down delightfully. The stalactites that hung in huge spikes from the roof of the cave gave it a magical air. Standing together, they looked up the waterfall to a patch of blue sky in the roof, far above. Marie stepped back into the cave, under the festoons of stalactites, and stood watching Hadley as he inspected the area around the waterfall.

She had never been entirely alone with him before. She felt her heart beating, but she kept still. He walked back to her.

She was looking up at him. She was almost trembling, but still she held herself under control, forced herself to be calm.

“It seems my chaperone has deserted me,” she said softly.

He gazed at her, uncertain.

“Obviously,” he said with half a smile, “she trusts me not to behave like Marc.”

She gave a hint of a shrug, and smiled, still looking up at him.

“Why?”

As he looked down at Marie, with her face upturned and her lips slightly parted, Frank Hadley felt a great wave of desire. And perhaps, even then, he might have held back; but the fact that she knew about her brother, and had told him so, had somehow removed the awesome barrier of her innocence. In his mind, she was a woman now. He bent his head down, and kissed her.

And suddenly Marie found herself receiving his kiss, with her head thrown back, and she felt his arm around her waist drawing her up, and her hands reached out, clasping his neck, his body, needing to hold him, and she thought that she would swoon.

Until a voice interrupted, and brought the sky crashing down.

“In the name of God,” cried Gérard, “what are you doing?” And as they sprang apart: “Marie, are you insane?”



Gérard took charge. For once, they all had to do what he said. Not a word, he ordered. Not a word to anyone, not even to Marc.

At least, thank God, Rémy Monnier had no idea what had happened. Not only would it have ruined Marie’s chances with him, but a few words from Monnier and the news would have been all over Paris.

Even Aunt Éloïse, who had so shamefully left them alone, had to keep quiet. It only confirmed Gérard’s opinion that his aunt was an irresponsible fool. If he hadn’t decided to come down to see where they were, and taken a different path from the one where she was standing guard, she might have gotten away with this nonsense. And where would that have left everybody?

As it was, they all trooped up calmly to the little temple, Marie walking with her aunt and he with Hadley, and they all admired the little temple and the view. And Monnier declared it was a delightful afternoon.

When they got back to the entrance to the park, Gérard suggested in the most natural way that the others should take the family carriage and drop Rémy Monnier at his house, which was almost on their way home, up near the Parc Monceau, while he conveyed Hadley back. “Because I never get a chance to talk to him.”

So Rémy Monnier found himself in the carriage with Marie, and Gérard went off with Hadley.



Gérard wasted no time. But to Hadley’s surprise, he could not have been more friendly.

“My dear Hadley, please forgive me, but I have to protect my sister’s reputation—which my aunt entirely failed to do. In my place, you’d be obliged to do the same.”

“The fault’s mine, not hers …,” Hadley began, but Gérard wouldn’t hear of it.

“That grotto’s a romantic place, and my sister’s … well, in my opinion, she’s everything a man could want.”

“I wouldn’t disagree with that.”

“You kissed her. Any of us might have done the same. That’s what chaperones are for.”

“There was no disrespect, I assure you.”

“Of course there wasn’t. We know you’re a good fellow. My brother, Marc, whom we all love, is not a good fellow. His family know it, and I’m sure you know too. In fact, my parents thought you were a good influence on him. But tell me, Hadley, what are your intentions? Are you wanting to marry my sister?”

“It hadn’t quite come to that,” answered Hadley truthfully. “It was all a bit sudden. But I reserve the right.”

“Hadley, we like you very much,” declared Gérard. “But you can’t marry Marie. It’s out of the question. Think about it. You’ll go back to America. Would you take her away from all her family? Would she be happy there? My parents wouldn’t consent to the marriage, and I’d oppose it strongly, for those reasons. Besides, you’re a Protestant. Marie’s a Catholic. Are you planning to convert? Because she isn’t going to.”

He didn’t belabor the point. But when he dropped Hadley off, he added one thing.

“Do you think Marie has fallen in love with you, Hadley?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“Well, nor could I. But if she has, then the best thing is to leave her alone. Don’t raise hopes which can’t be fulfilled. That would be unkind.”

And the trouble was, Hadley thought, as he mounted the stairs to his lodgings, that although he didn’t like Gérard, what he said might be true.



The next day, he made his decision. His reasons were straightforward.

Professionally, he’d achieved his purpose in France. He was ready to return to America and start his career.

If the circumstances had been different, he thought, he might have spent more time in Marie’s company, and he might have offered to marry her. The idea of living in Europe and spending summers in France was delightful.

But if there was going to be implacable opposition from her family, what was the good of that, for either of them? There was only one sensible and decent thing to do.



The next day he sent a cable to his father. Having done so, he went to see Marc.

“My father’s sick. I have to return to America at once.”

“My dear Hadley. Just when we were getting used to you. I’m heartbroken.”

“I’m sorry to go, but there’s nothing to be done.”

Then he called on Marie and her parents.

Jules and his wife had no reason not to accept his explanation at face value, and urged him warmly to come straight to their house whenever he returned. “And if you ever come to America,” he said in return, “my parents and I will be so delighted if you will stay with us.”

“If we come, my dear Hadley, you’ll be the first to know,” said Jules.

His interview with Marie was not so easy.

“It’s my fault you’re going, isn’t it?” she said.

“No it isn’t. Not at all.”

“What did Gérard say to you?”

“Not much. He was quite friendly, in fact. But he wants to protect your reputation. Rightly so.”

“Your father is really sick?”

“I’m afraid he is.”

“Will you come back when he is well?”

“I haven’t even thought of anything, except getting to him as quickly as I can.”

She nodded, and held out her hand.

“Good-bye Hadley,” she said.

After he had gone, she told her parents that she was going to take a little rest. Then she closed the door and quietly locked it, and pushed her face into her pillow to muffle the sound and, knowing that she had lost him, wept for over an hour.

Two days later, she departed for the family vineyard, to take part in the vendange.



It was a week after her return to Paris that James Fox came to see Jules Blanchard.

“I have come on a personal matter,” he explained.

“My dear Fox, what can I do for you?” Jules replied.

“I have to tell you something which you may not like. I am entirely in love with Marie, and I wish to ask your permission to let her know that this is the case.”

“Has she any idea of it?”

“To the best of my knowledge, none. I came to see you first.”

“You certainly behave well. But that is no surprise. How long have you loved her?”

“Since the first day I met her. It was a coup de foudre. But since then I have come to know her and to love her for all her qualities of character and mind. Otherwise I should not be here to ask for her hand.”

Jules considered.

“Fox, we like you, and it is my opinion that you would make a very good husband. I do not know what Marie’s feelings might be about your proposal, and that will be for her to decide.”

“I have not the least wish to marry a woman who doesn’t want to marry me.”

“Of course. But I must tell you that there is the problem of religion.”

“It is a problem for me as well. I have had a long discussion with my father, whose wish is that I should marry a Protestant.”

“Ah. That’s the thing.”

“However, my father is a realist, and because he understands the strength of my desire, he has made a concession which may shock you, but which is the only way that I can hope to marry, without causing deep distress to my own family.”

“I’m listening.”

“I should myself remain a Protestant, while my wife remains a Catholic.”

“That might be acceptable. But what of the children? That’s the question.”

“In France, society is mainly Catholic. In England, naturally, people normally belong to the Church of England, and if the truth is told, there is still in many quarters a certain suspicion of Catholics. Therefore my father proposes that if we live in France—as we surely would for the time being—the children should be Catholic. However, if in later years the family business should require my presence in London, then the whole family would worship at a Church of England church. The nearest church to our London house, as it happens, is so High Church, as we Anglicans put it, that visiting Catholics often mistake it for one of their own.”

“There is a degree of subterfuge, even dishonesty in this.”

“Precisely.”

“I wonder what Marie would think of it. She would have to be told.”

“Yes.”

“My wife would not like it.”

“That would be up to you to tell her.” Fox paused. “It wouldn’t be obvious.”

“No. In France there would be no problem at all. Not, of course, that I have ever had secrets from my wife.”

“Indeed.”

“Come back in a week. Let me speak to Marie, and my wife … Then I shall give you my answer.”

“That is all I ask.”

Jules Blanchard smiled.

“Whatever my answer turns out to be, my dear Fox, I am honored by your proposal.”



Two days later, Jules told Marie the entire conversation.

“Fox is a very nice man,” he said to her, “and it seems he is truly in love with you. So I want to be careful that we respond clearly.”

“I should not be unhappy. I am sure of that, at least,” Marie said. And that is far better, she thought, than what I have now. “But I only considered him as a friend before.”

“Friendship may be the best way to start,” her father suggested.

“Yes. Can you give him permission to court me?” she asked, quite cheerfully. “Aunt Éloïse can always be my chaperone. Then I can see how he does.”