Paris The Novel

Chapter Twenty-five




• 1936 •


When Roland de Cygne had first proposed to her, Marie had made a mistake. She’d refused.

“I’m very honored,” she told him, “and very touched. But you need a wife who can devote herself to you, and your estate, and your son. And with Joséphine to look after, I can’t do that. I wouldn’t be any use to you.” She had smiled. “If it weren’t for all that, I think I should say yes. But I know it wouldn’t be fair to you.”

“I did not make any conditions in making my offer.”

“I know. But that doesn’t change the circumstances.” She had put her hand affectionately on his arm. “I should like it very much if we could be friends.”

“Of course.”

“And I think you are right. May I say it? You should marry. God knows, there must be any number of charming women in Paris who would leap at the chance.”

“But it was you I was asking,” he pointed out.

“There are many better choices all the same.”

“Well then,” he said crossly, “if you are so certain about it, you’d better find me a wife.”

“You want me to find you a wife?”

“Why not? You tell me you are my friend, and that although you can’t marry me yourself, there are all these other women I should marry instead. Very well. Show them to me. I trust your judgment. You choose the wife, and I will marry her.”

She had laughed. But as she was growing fond of him, she did select one or two women, introduced them, and sent him out with them.

The first one he told her frankly was beautiful, “but there was no spark between us.”

The second he liked better. But she was “just a little too stupid.”

“Ah,” she cried, “you are difficile!”

“Perhaps, but I must ask you to try again.”

The third took her a month to find. The woman was aristocratic, amusing, elegant—perfect in every way. He took her to the opera and to dinner. To her surprise, he turned up without warning at her apartment the following evening.

“Well,” she asked, “how was this one?”

“No good.” He shook his head.

“What’s the matter with her?”

“She’s too intelligent.”

Marie burst out laughing. “You’re not difficile; you’re impossible.”

He made a face. “What can I do?”

She took his coat by the lapels, pretending to shake him. And whether she was taken by surprise when he held her and kissed her, or whether she was not, they had become lovers that evening.

“I shall be your mistress, but only until you find a wife,” she declared.

But then Claire had left for America. She hadn’t realized what an effect that would have. Life at the Joséphine store was not the same. They tried to replace her, but none of the replacements worked. Before long both she and Marc came to the same conclusion. They weren’t having any fun. The store was still doing well, yet they could both foresee that it would slide into mediocrity. They’d decided to close it.

So now she had nothing to do. And she was lonely.

She had no right to be lonely, she told herself. She had her brother and her aged parents, and even Gérard’s widow and children. She had many friends. She had a lover.

But her only child—and her grandchildren, when they came into the world—would probably remain three thousand miles away. The store which had filled her days was no more. She hadn’t enough to do.

Roland, reading her mood, had proposed again, and this time she had accepted. Cleverly, he had pretended that his affairs were in less good order than they actually were. And the château, he assured her, needed a thorough renovation. She had a project now, to keep her busy. She felt a sense of purpose again.

And indeed, there were all kinds of decisions to be made. The first was what to do with the mansion in Paris. For ample though de Cygne’s resources were, the place had become drainingly expensive to maintain. “The sensible thing would be to live in the country, and to maintain an apartment in Paris,” she told him.

“I wouldn’t know how to live in an apartment,” he complained. But she guessed that he knew very well that this was what he ought to do, and that her role, as the new wife from the upper-middle class, was to organize the business while he told his aristocratic friends that she had made him do it. Since many of those friends had long ago done the same thing, Roland could still claim that he was one of the last holdouts from the old regime. For the truth was that, apart from a few industrialists, or the great Jewish families like the Rothschilds, who had a magnificent mansion above the Champs-Élysées, and a handful of Sephardic families near the Parc Monceau, few people could maintain such houses now.

But Marie had thought of a clever compromise. For two seasons, the de Cygnes had entertained brilliantly in the mansion. This had given Roland a chance to show off his wife to all his old friends and many new figures she was able to entice to the house. With her practice at organizing and her knowledge of the fashionable world, Marie made these parties memorable. They culminated in a magnificent party for Roland’s son.

In the summer of 1929 they sold the house for a huge sum. Three months later, the Wall Street crash came. The next year, for a fraction of the proceeds from the house, they acquired a splendid apartment on the nearby rue Bonaparte. Into this went the best of the furniture from the house. The effect was breathtaking.

Meanwhile, without disturbing the rustic charm of the château—which might have been considered an act of vulgarity—Marie was able to redecorate a salon in the eighteenth-century part of the house, create a magnificent dining room and improve several of the bedrooms with furniture left over from Paris.

Her relationship with the château was particularly happy. Before they married, she had asked Roland for his advice about how to approach the people on the estate, whose workings would be new to her.

“When you started Joséphine,” he said, “it was your own creation, so you were the boss from the start. But the estate has been there for centuries. It’s like joining an old regiment. I’d advise you to ask everyone how things are done. Let them adopt you, before you make any changes.”

It had been sound advice and she had followed it. Everyone at the château knew that she was a rich and powerful woman, and they had been bracing themselves for the new regime. So they were charmed when she came to them so modestly and showed herself so ready to learn.

And the life she encountered there was, indeed, new to her. In the château’s ancient, vaulted kitchen and larders, she found hams, sides of beef, churns of milk, as well as, naturally, the produce of the fruit and vegetable gardens, which had all come from the estate. Her husband would walk out into his woods in the early evening and return with pigeons he had shot as they returned at dusk. For the first time in her life, she was in the real, rural France, where man and nature existed side by side as they had for thousands of years. And chatelaine though she was, she was quite determined to learn how to do everything, including skinning a hare and plucking a pheasant. It was not long before her husband, passing by, heard laughter from the kitchen and guessed that his wife was with the cook in there.

Perhaps her happiest day was when Roland asked her parents to spend a long weekend with them during the summer. Her mother had become so vague in her mind that she was no longer up to it, but her father came.

Roland could not have behaved better. Dinner was becoming a little too taxing for old Jules, so Roland gave a luncheon party to which he invited a number of his neighbors, and made a most gratifying speech welcoming Jules not only as his father-in-law but as the dear friend of his own father.

“Indeed,” he added gallantly, if not quite truthfully, “had it not been for my father’s sudden and unexpected death, and my regiment’s posting to the east of France, I might have asked for your daughter’s hand many years ago. But before my battle dispositions were made, another lucky man stepped in and married her.”

Despite his age, old Jules was quite lively. He took a great interest in the estate, and she discovered that he knew more about farming than she had realized. Before he left, he told her: “I was so pleased and proud when you took on Joséphine. But now I am happy to see you here.” He’d smiled. “You did not know, in the days when you were a little girl, how much pleasure I used to take in visiting the farms with whom we used to do business. For it’s the countryside—the farms and villages as well as the estates like this one—where every Frenchman belongs. This is the true France.”

Marie also took up riding in earnest. Roland gave her instruction, and she soon made progress. Each morning she would ride out with the head groom, and in no time she was taking small fences. There was an enthusiastic hunt in the local forest: mostly stag, sometimes boar were hunted. The riding itself was not arduous, and though it was mostly men taking part, a few of the women rode. One day Roland suggested that Marie might like to ride with him at the next meet, and with some uncertainty she agreed. But when the head groom asked anxiously if she was still intending to hunt, she went to Roland and asked him if he thought the groom was trying to suggest that she should not. To her delight, Roland only chuckled.

“It’s the other way around,” he said. “He’s so proud of you that he’s been boasting about it to all his friends. He’s only terrified you won’t show up.”

“How do you know?” she asked.

“Because he told me.”

Having organized the decorating of the house, Marie had turned her attention to the library. It contained some fine old volumes from the eighteenth century, but almost nothing since. So she set to work. “You’re indefatigable,” he laughed, as she imported the classics from the nineteenth century and some of the more interesting productions of modern literature—none of which he had any intention of reading. But he didn’t stop her.

Of more interest to Roland was another, longer-term project Marie undertook.

The de Cygne family archives were not in good order. “My father meant to sort them out,” Roland told her, “but he died before he got very far.”

There were boxes of letters tied with ribbon in cabinet drawers. There were trunks of unsorted documents in the attic, and lead-lined strongboxes of parchment, going back to the sixteenth century.

“It’s probably a treasure trove,” Marie informed him, “if we can ever sort it out.”

“It will keep you occupied for years,” he replied with a grin. “And future generations will bless your name.”

These researches were not only significant because anything relating to one’s ancestors was important to an aristocrat. One day Marie even discovered that the family owned some quite valuable fields a few miles away that, during the confusion at the time of the Revolution, they had forgotten that they possessed. Roland was both proud of the fact that his noble family could forget such a detail, but equally delighted when Marie managed to recover the fields for him.

And then there had been the evening when she had come into the old hall carrying a small box of letters and asked him: “Did you know that your family went to Canada?”

“No.” He frowned. “In fact, I’m sure they did not.”

“Well, there are a whole collection of letters here, written with great affection, from the brother of a former owner of this house. They date from the early seventeenth century. He’d gone out to Canada and settled there. It’s clear that the two brothers were in quite regular correspondence. I wonder if there were descendants.”

Roland was silent. For some reason she didn’t understand, he looked awkward.

“I seem to remember hearing from a Canadian once,” he said. “But I don’t know that he had anything to do with this seventeenth-century fellow.” He shrugged. “I may have written him a rather unfriendly letter.”

“You could always write again.”

“It’s all a long time ago,” he muttered. And since the business seemed to embarrass him, she didn’t bring it up again.

Meanwhile, she continued to archive the material, and see if she could find any more hidden treasure for her husband.

She was enjoying being chatelaine of the estate, and she believed that she might be getting quite good at it.

In fact, she only had one regret. She wished, now, that she had married Roland a few years earlier. Not because of Roland himself, but because of his son. She would have liked to be more of a mother to Charlie.



Everyone called him Charlie. The serious boy she’d first met at the Gobelins factory had still been at school when she’d married his father. He was already a tall, good-looking young fellow by then, though still a little gangly. He looked quite like his father, except that his hair was dark where his father’s had been fair, and Marie suspected that before he was thirty, his hairline would be receding. Like many boys, he’d been a little unsure of himself, and occasionally withdrawn, but she had been very straightforward and friendly with him, and he seemed to like that. She’d never pressed him to confide in her, but she’d ask him what he thought about all sorts of things, and freely shared her own thoughts about everything from politics to marriage. She hoped she’d made his home a warm and comfortable place for him.

But they’d only really gotten to know each other for about a year before it was time for him to do his military service.

The liberal French governments of the twenties had no great wish to build up the military, which had always been their enemy. So Charlie’s military service had lasted only one year. But that had been long enough to transform him from a gangling boy to a strong, athletic young man. The experience hadn’t awakened any desire to follow a military career, however, nor did his father encourage it. Charlie had begun to study law at the Sorbonne, though he didn’t study very hard. But that didn’t mean that he had no ambition. Indeed, his ambition soon became absolutely clear.

He wanted to be a hero.

It was only natural, Marie supposed. He was a young aristocrat, heir to a fine estate. He’d fallen in with a crowd of young men who obviously expected him to play a certain part. And he’d found he could do it.

He already rode well, and hunted. The first winter after his return, he took up skiing. And his father let him buy an open-top Hispano-Suiza in which he drove about in great style.

He and Marie continued to get along famously. They’d hunt together with his father. He’d drive her at breakneck speeds through the countryside, on condition that she never tell his father how fast they went. In 1934 he had replaced the open-top with something rarer—one of the latest, aerodynamic Voisin C-25 coupés, whose powerful, American-designed engine and elegant Art Deco body was a wonder to behold.

In Paris, she had shown him the things a man might need to know about women’s fashion, and dropped gentle hints—about what made a man attractive to women, and what they liked—that might be useful to him in life. He learned these lessons quickly. He was seen with beautiful women on his arm at the fashionable race meetings at Longchamp and Deauville. He went to shoot on the estates of rich men and nobles. He was everything a young aristocrat should be. His father was proud of him, and it gave Marie pleasure to see her husband so happy.

She was also there to observe him acquire a new passion.

His father had always been partial to musical entertainment. From the Folies-Bergère of his youth to the Casino de Paris in the years after the war, he’d always gone to revues. “I wish I could take you to see Maurice Chevalier and Mistinguett performing together,” he told Charlie, “but Chevalier’s gone to Hollywood now, and I doubt that he’ll come back.”

But Charlie had discovered jazz.

They called it rag at first. The earliest performers had started to trickle across the Atlantic when Charlie was still a boy, but during the twenties, a stream of black performers had come to Paris. To their amazement they found that the French made little distinction over race. The segregation they were used to in New York, even in places like the Cotton Club, was unknown in Paris. Soon Montmartre became known as a second Harlem. Charlie became an habitué of the area. Since the jazz scene would go on into the early hours, there were cafés up there which served breakfast twenty-four hours a day, and Charlie would often be out until dawn.

And supreme above all the black entertainers was Josephine Baker. She danced almost nude. She sang—so well that with training she could even triumph in light opera. In America she was a black performer, who could be refused entry to a hotel or restaurant. In Paris she was a diva, welcomed as a star wherever she went. Charlie went to see her perform in nightclubs. Marie was taken by Roland to her more sedate performances. Charlie had even gotten to meet her, given her flowers and received a photograph.

There was only one thing missing from Charlie’s life. Something that would be even more glamorous than his car: he wanted to fly an airplane.

And his father refused to buy him one.

“I have to refuse Charlie something,” he told Marie, “or he’ll end up spoiled.”

Marie stared at her husband. Surely he must be joking. His son was already spoiled—charmingly, but massively.

Yet Roland wasn’t joking at all. And this reminded Marie of a very great difference between her and her husband.

She hadn’t realized it at first. Roland had all sorts of quirks about the way he did things: small prejudices—things one didn’t say, or wear, or do—which belonged to his class. As a man of the world, her father had shared some of these, but Roland had others that she had not encountered. She found these amusing, and he had no objection if she teased him about them, since they were all signs that he was an aristocrat.

But behind them lay something more fundamental. And this she found harder to understand.

Despite his heroic social life, there were still times when Charlie was moody. And during those periods, he could still seem a little lost, and vulnerable, like an adolescent boy. Marie assumed that it was partly just his character to be this way. But she could not help thinking that if he had more to do, Charlie might be happier.

It used to astonish her how little he accomplished in a day. If he spent the morning being fitted for suits by his tailor, Charlie thought he’d had a fruitful day. When she considered how much she had crammed into a day when she was running Joséphine, she found the pace of his life almost comical. Not that he was inherently lazy. If, for instance, there was some new agricultural method that might be useful for improving the estate, he would throw himself into it wholeheartedly. When he and his father decided they might grow mushrooms, Charlie turned himself into an expert on the buildings for the mushroom beds, and on the entire process, and the ensuing business was a big success. But when that was all set up and running, he immediately returned to his social life again.

“I suppose, being a bourgeois, that deep down I feel that a man should go out to work each day,” she remarked to Roland one evening. “He should have a job, an office, an occupation.”

“The noble tradition—at least in France,” he replied, “is that we are there to lead in battle. To fight and die for our king, or our country. And when we aren’t doing that, we manage our estates, and dress up to look elegant. This last is very important.”

“It’s not the way most people see things.”

“We are not most people.”

“You’re not ashamed of not working at a regular occupation. A job.”

“On the contrary. I’d be ashamed if I had a job.”

“Ordinary work is beneath you.”

“I suppose so.”

“And by cutting a handsome figure in the world, of course, Charlie is bringing honor to the family name.” She nodded. “This is what it means to be an aristocrat.”

“Not only an aristocrat, I think. It’s the same with a matador, a great opera star, or a sporting hero. It’s a human instinct.”

“That is true,” she acknowledged.

But aristocrats were more imbued with the idea than other classes, all the same. She remembered a conversation at the dinner table with a visiting aristocrat who was descended from La Fayette, and whose family still had the sword that George Washington had given him. “La Fayette certainly found a way to make a name for himself,” the aristocrat said proudly.

“But he was driven by a passion for freedom and democracy, wasn’t he?” Marie asked.

Her guest looked doubtful.

“It’s true that he came to believe that a constitutional monarchy, like the English one, would be best for France,” he answered. “But he wasn’t searching for freedom in America. He was searching for glory.”

Of course, she thought. Nothing had changed since the Middle Ages. Heroes went in search of honor and renown. War, crusade, America: it made no difference.

So what could a young French aristocrat do in the decade after the horrors of the Great War? Become an explorer? Perhaps. Charlie could do that. In the meantime, however, even the fastest motor car did not look daring enough. No wonder Charlie wanted an airplane.



The first time Louise set eyes on Charlie was in 1937. Some friends had brought him to L’Invitation au Voyage. He was standing in the hall. He was a little taller than his companions, both of whom had been there before. He was very handsome, she thought.

The three men were ushered into the salon. They sat down. Champagne appeared, and she sent three girls in to chat with them. From the doorway, she noticed that although he observed the girls and quickly noted their good points, there was an air of detachment about him.

Curious, she stepped into the salon herself and went over.

“You have never been here before, monsieur.”

“Non, madame.” The faint surprise in his voice told her that he had noticed her elegant manner and accent. “But I had heard of it by reputation, and my friends here were kind enough to bring me here to see for myself.”

“Louise,” one of his companions now cried out, “I haven’t introduced my friend to you. This is Charlie de Cygne.”

She bowed her head politely. If this was the case, she thought, then he must be the stepson of Marie. But her face betrayed nothing.

“Allow me to welcome you then, monsieur. I am Madame Louise, the owner. Most of the girls are quite amusing to talk to. You are free to enjoy their company in the salon.”

Then she left him.

Even in an exclusive establishment like L’Invitation au Voyage, people would appear without any introduction to spend an hour or two; but the majority of the men who came there were regulars, or soon became so. And before any new patron of her establishment sampled the goods, it was Louise’s custom to invite him to her office for a discreet conversation. This would not only ensure that all financial matters were taken care of, but she would also do her best to ensure that her girls wouldn’t pick up any infections. “I run my house rather like an English gentleman’s club,” she would explain. “The other members are your friends. And of course, if you break the rules, your membership will be revoked, permanently.”

She waited twenty minutes before she sent a servant to ask him to come upstairs.

She observed him carefully as he entered. She liked the way he moved. He was elegant, but strong. As he reached the chair, he had to turn slightly, so that she could see his body in profile. She noted everything about that too. Perfectly formed, she thought. As he sat down, he smiled. Good smile. He seemed quite relaxed. Confident in himself. His eyes looked slightly amused.

She stared at him for a moment or two.

“You haven’t come here for the girls at all, have you?” she remarked pleasantly.

“Why do you say that, madame?”

“I don’t mean that you won’t sample the goods. But I think you came out of curiosity. Because of the rooms.”

“It’s the total experience, perhaps.”

“You don’t want it said, when history is written, that in the Paris of his day, Monsieur Charles de Cygne missed out on L’Invitation au Voyage.”

He laughed.

“I confess.”

“Well, monsieur, I am very flattered that my house should qualify as such an attraction.”

“It is becoming a legend, madame.”

She inclined her head. Then she stood up.

“One moment, monsieur.” She walked past him to a small filing cabinet, opened a drawer, closed it and returned past him to her seat. As she passed him, her keen sense of smell picked out the faint lemony smell of the pomade he used for his hair, receding a little, and the lavender balm he applied after shaving. Behind that, she could just discern the natural smell of his body with which these scents interacted, flesh and follicle, in a way that was pleasing.

She made up her mind.

“Very well.” She smiled apologetically. “The truth is, monsieur, that your arriving without an appointment this evening has placed me in a small difficulty. I don’t think I have a girl for you. But I should like to offer you something in recompense. On Sundays we are closed. That is my rule. If you care to come by on Sunday afternoon, I will show you all the rooms. Then,” she smiled, “you will be able to say that you have seen something that very few men have ever seen.”

He stared at her in amazement.

“You would really do that?”

“I would.”

“Then I accept, madame, with pleasure.”

“You are to come alone, monsieur. I am not turning my house into a public gallery.”

“Of course, madame,” he said. “I understand.”

She wondered if he really did.



He arrived promptly at four o’clock the following Sunday afternoon. Apart from herself and a couple of servants still cleaning the house, the place was empty.

It took her some time to show him all the rooms. He was quite curious. Two of the rooms were Belle Époque and very plush. Another might have come from the eighteenth century, shortly before the Revolution. She had a Napoleonic room. “At least three of our regulars,” she told him, “I am certain, imagine they were the emperor Napoléon in another life.”

The English Tudor room with its heavy oak four-poster bed also contained two Elizabethan portraits that caught his attention at once.

“They look genuine,” he remarked.

“They’re seventeenth-century copies, and heavily restored,” she told him. “But I got them through an English dealer I trust. They look well, don’t they?”

This caused him to ask if she had English connections, and she smiled.

“My parents were English, in fact. Highly respectable. My father was a banker. Fortunately they can’t see me now.”

“So that’s why your French is so pure. You learned it.”

“I did. In the valley of the Loire.”

Were her parents still alive? he asked.

“They were killed in a car accident, I’m afraid. Driving in the mist.” She shrugged sadly. “A long time ago.”

She could see he was intrigued by her creative efforts. She showed him the Wild West room next. Then a room draped as if it were a tent, with a low bed and many cushions.

“It’s like something from the Valentino movie: The Sheik,” he cried.

“Of course. It’s quite popular. We have one man—he comes once a week, always the same girl, always this room. He’s tall and handsome. They’re both into role-playing. They really get into it.”

Charlie admired the Oriental room, and the Spanish room. Recently, Louise had created a German room, modeled after the romantic castle of Neuschwanstein. “I wanted music for this room,” she said. “You know: Wagner. It’s difficult to arrange it short of having a full orchestra in the house. I tried a gramophone playing Carmen in the Spanish room, but it didn’t really sound right.”

By the time she had shown him all the rooms, almost half an hour had passed.

“That’s everything?” Charlie asked.

“There was a girl who wanted to make a dungeon in the cellars. You know, chains … everything. But I said no.” Louise shrugged. “Perhaps I’ll change my mind, one day.”

Did she ever take on any of the customers herself? he ventured to ask.

“Absolutely not,” she answered firmly. “In fact, I haven’t had a lover for quite a while. It would have to be someone who interests me.”

“And may I ask what your next design is going to be?”

“I’ve got a girl—very beautiful—from Senegal. I want to make an African room for her. But I haven’t yet decided how to do it.”

He accepted her offer to take a little tea, in the English manner, in her apartment. She asked a few questions about his life. He was intrigued to know how she came to make such a transition from upper-middle-class England to being a madam in Paris.

“The transition was not as great as you might think,” she said. “I was sent to France. I liked it. I modeled for Chanel. I became the mistress of a rich man, then another. I inherited a little money.” She shrugged. “But I didn’t marry. And I wanted a business.”

“But you hadn’t lived the life of the streets.”

“No. I had a friend—he’s not a friend anymore now—but he knew everything there is to know about Paris, from the richest houses to the low life of the streets. He was very helpful to me. But as you know very well, a business like this is as far removed from the poor prostitutes in the rue Saint-Denis as your own house is from a slum.”

“I’ve often seen them. Can’t say I ever felt any attraction.”

“Don’t go near them. But most of those girls are just trying to survive. Put food on the table. They can’t charge much, so to make any money at all they have to do maybe ten tricks a day. To do that you have to turn yourself into a machine, just to survive. And it’s physically dangerous too.” She shrugged. “Paris is the romantic capital of the world. But there’s nothing romantic about the underside of any great city.”

He nodded.

“Funnily enough, you remind me of my stepmother,” he remarked.

“Why?”

“She ran a business, with a lot of imagination. She’s very capable.”

“Stepmothers have an evil reputation.”

“Not this one. I love her. And she makes my father happy.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“I have another question. I noticed a picture when I came in. It looked a bit like you.”

“It does, doesn’t it? That’s just a coincidence, though. I bought it from a dealer because it came with two preparatory sketches, which you don’t often find.”

Louise stood up and went to the window. It was an October afternoon. The sky was clear; the sun was still shining over Paris. She loved the autumn season, yet she often felt a strange melancholy on Sunday afternoons.

“Would you like to go for a walk?” she suddenly said.



They walked down the old rue du Renard, crossed the big open space in front of the Hôtel de Ville and then crossed the Seine to the Île de la Cité. The sun was in the west, the light on the Seine was golden, but there was a certain coldness in the air over the water that made her shiver. They paused in front of Notre Dame.

“It’s too early to eat, but I’m hungry,” she said.

They found a bistro nearby. There were only a few tourists there, and the place was quiet. They ate a light meal and talked of all sorts of things. She could see that he was becoming even more intrigued by her than he had been before. Then she said that she wanted to go home, and he insisted on walking her back, as she knew he would.



Their affair began that evening. It was conducted, usually, on a Sunday. Sometimes he would drive her somewhere in the Voisin. Sometimes they would stay in and she would cook for him. They always found things to talk about.

By the end of the year, they had made love in every room in the house.

They were not seen together socially. She suspected that he had not told his father and stepmother about her existence. She didn’t mind in the least. She had her own plan for the relationship.

And the plan worked very well. Before Easter 1938, she told him she was pregnant.

“It must have been the Wild West room,” she said.