Paris The Novel

Chapter Fourteen




• 1903 •


It was some years since Adeline had suggested to Ney, soon after Édith’s mother had died, that Édith and her husband, Thomas Gascon, should move into the big house with their children.

“The arthritis in my hand is slowing me down a little, monsieur,” Adeline had explained, “so I really need more help from Édith. If she could be on call at all times, it would be much better.”

“And where would they live?”

“There are three or four unused rooms on the attic floor. Thomas is good with his hands. He would renovate them at no charge to you.”

The arrangement worked well for everyone. Édith continued to work for the same wages, but lived rent-free. Thomas had his own work, but gladly undertook small tasks as a handyman when needed. “If they do not disturb the residents, the children will bring a family spirit into the house,” Monsieur Ney had declared.



It seemed to Édith that Monsieur Ney had mellowed as he grew older. She had four children now: Robert, the oldest; Anaïs; a second boy, Pierre, now five years old; and little Monique, the baby of the family. And since he had no grandchildren of his own, the stiff old lawyer had unbent into a grandfatherly figure to her children, bringing them chocolates, and treats, and little presents from time to time.

For Hortense had still not married. Around the turn of the century, she had told her father that her doctor had prescribed that she should spend her winters in a warmer climate, and she had been in Monte Carlo most of the time since then.

The portrait of Hortense by Marc Blanchard, however, was in the place of honor in the hall. Though Ney had originally intended that it should grace his own house, he was so proud of the picture that only the splendid architecture of the hall with its noble staircase seemed worthy of it.

As the years had gone by, Thomas Gascon and his family had come to think of the curious old mansion as their natural home.



It was a cold March day when Monsieur Ney arrived looking rather pleased with himself. Having distributed some bonbons to the children, he summoned Édith and Aunt Adeline, and made a surprising announcement.

“In going through some old papers, I have made a surprising discovery. Do you know the age of Mademoiselle Bac?”

“She might be over ninety, I think,” Aunt Adeline suggested.

“She will be a hundred this summer. I have the papers to prove it.”

“It is a tribute, monsieur, to the care you have always lavished upon her,” said Adeline.

“Indeed. And we shall have a party to celebrate. Mademoiselle Bac shall participate, even if she is not aware of the circumstances.”

“You are kind, monsieur.”

“But more than that. Have you considered the favorable publicity this will generate? Few places indeed can boast of a resident of such an age. We shall be in the newspapers. The finest establishment of its kind in Paris.”

Édith had never seen him so excited.

“Will you tell Mademoiselle Bac?” she asked.

“I think I shall. I shall do it this very moment—even if she does not understand.” And he hurried out.

They did not see him again for half an hour.



It was Édith who found him. He was lying in the hall, in front of the painting of Hortense. Whether he had been suddenly overcome on his way up to see Mademoiselle Bac, or whether he had already performed that mission when he was struck, she could not tell. But it was clear that he had suffered a massive stroke, and he was already quite dead.



When Hortense arrived from Monte Carlo, she made the necessary arrangements. She was quiet and efficient. At the funeral, she ensured that there were two dozen clients, and various people who had been involved with his charitable works, including even Jules Blanchard. It was a dignified gathering that would have gratified her father very much. In the funeral address, which was given by the priest who attended the home, the facts of Ney’s ancestry were rehearsed—including even a hint that he might have been related to Voltaire—as well as his indefatigable efforts to secure the comfort and happiness of all those in his care.

Not the least of Ney’s achievements, it was now discovered, was to have secured a grave in the cemetery of Père Lachaise. Not quite in the avenue where his distinguished relation’s grave had been placed—among other great Napoleonic military men—but within sight of it.

Soon after the interment, Hortense departed for the south again, having instructed Adeline and Édith to run everything exactly as usual until her return in May.



It was not until the second week of May that Hortense came back from Monte Carlo. To their surprise, she arrived in the company of a very handsome olive-skinned gentleman named Monsieur Ivanov who, she explained, was her financial advisor.

“Ivanov: That’s a Russian name, isn’t it?” Aunt Adeline asked him.

“It is Russian,” he replied, “but my mother was Tunisian.”

Monsieur Ivanov had sleek black hair, brushed back, and his clothes were perfectly tailored. He said little, but he was always at Hortense’s side.

Hortense stayed in her father’s house for a month. She looked in at the home most days. Aunt Adeline told her that her father had desired to have a celebration when Mademoiselle Bac was a hundred, but Hortense said she was very busy and that it would have to wait.

One day she came by with a middle-aged couple and spent two hours looking over the building, inspecting every room.

It was the middle of June when Hortense called in one fine evening. Thomas and Édith were sitting with Aunt Adeline in her room, after putting their children to bed.

“I have news for you,” Hortense said. “I am returning to Monte Carlo immediately. The home has been sold. The new owners have no need of any help, however, so you will all have to leave. The new owners will take over tomorrow, but you can stay another two weeks.”

“But we have nowhere to go,” Thomas protested.

“You have two entire weeks.” She shrugged. “That should be plenty of time to find something. At least temporary.” She turned to Monsieur Ivanov. “There is a picture of me in the hall. Take that. It belongs to me. I have to go and say good-bye to one of the residents now.”

While Aunt Adeline, Thomas and Édith sat in stunned silence, and Monsieur Ivanov went to take the portrait down from the wall, Hortense made her way upstairs. Édith went with her. She wasn’t going to accept this without a protest.

“Surely, Mademoiselle Hortense, you can give us more time, at least. I have four children.”

“You will have to think of something. I will give you a reference.”

“My aunt and I have served your father many years. Did he not remember us in any way?”

“No.”

Hortense did not pause on the main floor, but continued up to the attic. While Édith stood in the doorway, she entered the room of Mademoiselle Bac. It was silent.

“Mademoiselle Bac,” she said clearly, “can you hear me?” No sound came from the iron bed. “Monsieur Ney is dead.” Hortense paused. “The place has been sold, and everyone has gone. You are all alone.” She paused again, to let this sink in. “It is time to die now,” she said. Then she left.

They went down the main stairs. Down in the hall, Monsieur Ivanov was holding the painting.

“What did you tell the old lady?” he asked.

Hortense shrugged.

“The truth.” She opened the big front door. “Let’s go.”

And Édith was left alone in the hall, wondering what to do next.