Paris 1935: Destiny's Crossroads

by Paul A. Myers

Bastille Day

  July 14, noon, Pont de Sully, Île Saint-Louis. Dexter stood along the balustrade of the bridge at the southeast tip of Île Saint-Louis, the small island in the middle of the River Seine. The island sits just across from the working-class districts of southeast Paris on the Right Bank. The money was downriver, mused Dexter. Crowds were streaming across the bridge from the student Latin Quarter heading for the Place de la Bastille to watch the afternoon’s Popular Front parade.

  It had been quite a morning. Hundreds of thousands of people had crowded onto the Champs Élysées to see the biggest military parade in Paris since the 1919 victory parade. Infantry, cavalry, artillery, sailors, marines, zoaves, spahis, and airmen, banners flying, bands blaring, had marched around the Arc de Triomphe in perfect order. After circling the Arc, the majestic procession strode down the Champs Élysées past the reviewing stand and the cheering thousands.

  Overhead, roaring across the blue sky, came an astounding air parade of six hundred airplanes, squadron after squadron in perfect order. Dexter had watched all this with a group of American newsmen, several of whom remarked to him that France should not lack confidence in her ability to safeguard her own security with such magnificent military forces.

  Amiably, Dexter agreed with the newsmen. Privately, he wasn’t so sure. Mostly the morning had proved to him that the French knew how to put on a great parade.

  Returning to the present, Dexter searched the crowds coming towards the bridge looking for Madame Bardoux and Madame Lambert. They had agreed on a noon rendezvous. There, in the crowd, he saw them and lifted his hat high above his head and waved it. He saw Madame Bardoux point towards him, a smile breaking across her face, as she pointed him out to Madame Lambert. Madame Lambert smiled and gaily waved at him in greeting. The warmth of her wave was greatly pleasing to Dexter.

  The two women walked over. Both wore light summer skirts, colored blouses with wide collars, big wide-brimmed hats, and white espadrilles on their feet. Wool sweaters peeked out of the corners of their handbags. Madame Lambert wore a small black ribbon discreetly below her left collar.

  Dexter broke into a grin. “You both look too delightful for a political demonstration. It should be a picnic in the Bois de Boulogne.”

  The two women playfully made small curtsies in polite acknowledge of the compliment.

  Dexter then explained, pointing across the bridge, “We can walk up the boulevard to the Place de la Bastille. One of my embassy colleagues has rented the front room of a flat on rue du Faubourg Saint-Antoine. It’s on the third floor. We can watch the parade from there.”

  Madame Bardoux exclaimed, “Great. The crowds today are expected to exceed two hundred thousand.”

  The three walked up the boulevard, jostling with the crowd, the two women pointing to this and that as they went. At the Place de la Bastille they stopped and looked at the July Column rising over one hundred and seventy feet in the air. The column marked the site where the Bastille Prison stood in 1789 when it was destroyed by a Parisian mob, the cataclysmic event setting off the French Revolution if not modern history.

  Madame Lambert leaned over to Dexter and pointed towards the base of the majestic column. “There is a crypt below the column that holds many of those killed during the revolutions of 1830 and 1848. Their names are inscribed on the shaft of the column. This is a sacred place for the parties of the Left.”

  Dexter nodded. “You sympathize with the Left.”

  Madame Lambert smoothly replied, “I sympathize with liberty.”

  Dexter replied, “We have something in common.” Then he added, pointing across the square. “This way.”

  The three of them turned down rue du Faubourg Saint-Antoine.

  Reaching a door, Dexter knocked, and a concierge opened it. Dexter spoke to him and the man pointed them towards a stairwell. They ascended three flights of stairs and then walked through an open door into a flat were a bunch of Americans were standing in earnest conversation. Several nodded at Dexter, some of the wives smiled warmly at him, then looked at the two French women and smiled even more knowingly at him. This lightly amused Madame Lambert—of course their husbands’ handsome bachelor co-worker would fascinate the wives. She smiled to herself.

  Dexter introduced the two women to some people standing before tall windows, a light air wafting through from outside. Just then strains of the marching song, L’Internationale, came into the room. Everyone crowded around the windows looking up towards Place de la Bastille. Two taxicabs slowly entered the square, one flying a large French Tricolor, the other flying an enormous red banner.

  One of the Americans pointed to a man standing atop the taxicab flying the Tricolor and said, “That’s Pierre Cot, the former minister of air. He was a minister in the last Radical Socialist government.”

  Dexter said to his two companions, “That really shows that the bourgeoisie is joining with the working classes for a new coalition. A Radical Socialist out front.”

  Three men marching behind the two taxicabs came into view. Madame Bardoux said, “Look. I never thought I would see those three men marching together on Bastille Day. The Nazis have unified the Left as never before.”

  One of the Americans shouted at Dexter, “You know the French. Tells us who they are?”

  Dexter said so that all could hear, “The one on the left is Maurice Thorenz, the Communist party chief, the man in the middle is Léon Blum of the Socialists, and the third man is former premier Édouard Daladier of the Radical Socialists.”

  As the three men marched past the July Column, they raised their right arms in the clenched fist anti-Fascist salute. The crowds roared their approval.

  Madame Lambert said to Dexter, “The salute is really to the memory of their ancestors who stormed the Bastille to start the French Revolution a hundred and fifty years ago.”

  Dexter nodded in agreement.

  The Americans watched as columns of workers marched in good order behind broad banners—railway men, engineers, civil servants, laborers, clerks, schoolmasters, and lawyers. As each group passed the July Column, rights arms shot up in the clenched fist salute, often accompanied by their war cry of “Down with de La Rocque,” expressing their hatred for the leader of the largest of France’s right-wing leagues, the Fascist-leaning Croix-de-Feu. A retired colonel, de La Rocque was scheduled to lead the right-wing demonstration later in the afternoon on the Champs Élysées.

  The mighty procession passed below the open windows and the gazes of the fascinated Americans. One American commented, “What an impressive display. A real statement that the French don’t want to go Fascist like the Germans.”

  Another American said, “Almost all the French right-wing leagues look to Mussolini and Italian fascism for inspiration. The ancestral hatred of the Germans runs too deep for any but the most deluded to believe in Hitler.”

  Dexter whispered to Madame Lambert, “He hasn’t met the aristocracy,” and chuckled.

  Madame Lambert smiled in agreement. Dexter was pleased.

  The crowds kept marching; Madame Lambert leaned out the window and looked down the boulevard watching the marching thousands head for Place de la Nation and the Cours de Vincennes beyond. She murmured to Madame Bardoux, “The support for the Republic is everything we could hope for.”

  Madame Bardoux nodded and said, “Such solidarity must be made into a foundation for peace.”

  Madame Lambert agreed. “Today, thousands of Popular Front supporters are taking an oath ‘to give bread to the workers, work to young people, and peace to the world.’”

  Dexter looked at her, affection in his eyes, and thought what a lovely sentiment. For the second time he sensed that Madame Lambert harbored sympathies for those on the revolutionary side, the anti-colonialists in their rising move for independence.

  Madame Bardoux shifted her feet and sighed. “Yes, such a noble sentiment. But the national election is not until next May. I wonder if it will come too late?”

  Startled
by the comment, Dexter turned his gaze to Madame Bardoux and said, “You have got right at my deepest concern. It will be a long winter in Europe this year.”

  Both women looked at Dexter with amazement, somewhat surprised by this frank statement coming from such a discreet diplomat.

  Dexter smiled at the two women and then turned and looked out the window. He was stirred by the massiveness of the march; it had to be more than a mile-and-a half long, he thought. Yes, it was an historic point.

  The two women watched him and then exchanged glances between themselves. As the last of the marchers came into view, Madame Bardoux turned to Dexter. “We were wondering if you could join us for a late lunch over on Île Saint-Louis; I am to meet a friend.”

  With smooth assurance, Dexter replied, “Delighted.”

  Madame Lambert added, “We have greatly appreciated watching the parade from this vantage point.” Her eyes turned and she looked up the avenue at the last of the marchers, “It is French history marching today.”

  Dexter pointed his arm towards the door showing the way to the two women.

  The three walked up the narrow street running through the center of the little island of Île Saint-Louis, which sits in the middle of the Seine River. Tall apartment buildings along the street shaded passersby from the hot afternoon sun. They came out on a small square on the approaches to Pont Saint Louis, the small bridge leading over to the larger island of Île de Cité. The massive Cathédrale Notre Dame sat large on the other island. Dexter always preferred this view with the graceful flying arches elegantly holding up the high walls; the view from the other direction was simply of the massive bell towers, stolid and lacking in sweeping elegance, or so Dexter thought.

  Dexter saw a man waving at them from under the shade of an awning at an outdoor café that looked out over the square.

  Madame Bardoux said, “Oh, there is Étienne. He has a table.”

  They walked over, Dexter grabbed an extra chair, and held it for Madame Lambert. Madame Bardoux kissed Étienne familiarly on the cheek and whispered some little nothings into his ear. He nodded and smiled. They all sat down.

  Madame Bardoux said, “Étienne, I want you to meet Dexter Jones, the man I told you about. He is an attaché at the American embassy.”

  Étienne stood up and reached his hand across the table; Dexter stood up and shook the outstretched hand. “Nice to meet you.” Dexter noticed that where Madame Bardoux was about thirty, Étienne appeared to be in his early forties. Possibly some sort of mentor, he thought.

  Étienne turned to Madame Lambert, smiled, and took her hand in a familiar clasp. “Marcelle, how nice to see you.”

  With cool charm, Madame Lambert replied, “Étienne.”

  Madame Bardoux continued the introductions, turning to Dexter. “Étienne is a lecturer at Sciences Po. He was an adviser to me there, and then…” and she let the words trail away in a small laugh and winked at Madame Lambert.

  Dexter quickly understood; Sciences Po was the nickname for the Institut d’Études Politiques de Paris, the famed Grand Établissement that trained France’s diplomatic and government elite. Madame Bardoux was a graduate, somewhat rare for a woman, Dexter knew. But more exceptionally Madame Bardoux had been the first graduate accepted into the foreign ministry at the Quai d’Orsay. And he laughed to himself as he realized that she had made a friendship along the way.

  Dexter replied, “Yes, I know it well. It is right up the street, so to speak, from where I live. I live on rue du Bac.”

  Étienne explained, “I am a lecturer in European politics and diplomacy.”

  Dexter, tilting his head back and looking down his nose, interrupted, “And a former member of the diplomatic corps.”

  Étienne laughed. “Yes, of course.”

  He continued, “I was an aide to Alexis Léger,” referring to the secretary-general of the Quai d’Orsay, the head of the permanent staff reporting to the foreign minister.

  Étienne continued, “I knew him when he was a poet, before he became a diplomat.”

  Dexter understood; Léger, writing under the pen name Saint-Jean Perse, was one of France’s greatest contemporary poets. And a good friend of Adrienne Monnier and Sylvia Beach, he remembered.

  Étienne asked Dexter, “Suzanne tells me you are quite interested in Left Bank intellectual life,” and he paused and smiled, “somewhat unusual for an American diplomat.”

  Madame Lambert laughed and looked with amused interest at Dexter for his answer.

  Dexter responded, “Yes. But it has a practical side. We feel that if the intellectuals embrace Moscow, it makes an alliance with Russia easier to accomplish.”

  Étienne asked, “And do you favor an alliance with Russia?”

  Dexter replied, “We support France’s security needs.”

  Étienne nodded, now thoughtful. “Quite right.”

  Dexter continued, “It would offset the pro-Fascist beliefs of the Action Française,” he said referring to the largest of the Far Right leagues.

  Étienne replied, a slight trace of skepticism in his words, “That may not be such a bad thing. Prime Minister Laval is deeply committed to alliance with Mussolini and Italy as a check on Hitler and Germany.”

  Madame Bardoux now spoke, “Mussolini moved a hundred thousand Italian troops to the Brenner Pass last summer to save Austria from Hitler’s putsch.”

  Madame Lambert nodded slightly in understanding and in seeming agreement, or so it seemed to Dexter. The French had been quite taken by Mussolini’s daring challenge to Hitler. It was a well-remembered event which showed the powerful potential of maintaining an alliance with Italy. The French general staff was particularly enthusiastic.

  Madame Bardoux continued, “Mussolini acted. No one else did.”

  Étienne nodded slowly in agreement and then added, “But Suzanne, that was a year ago. It may be growing stale now. It’s hard to trust dictators.”

  Madame Bardoux said with sweet sarcasm, “It’s hard to trust the British,” in reference to Britain’s having signed behind France’s back the Naval Agreement with Berlin the previous month.

  Étienne sighed, looked at Dexter, and shrugged his shoulders. “What can I say?”

  Dexter laughed and then asked Étienne, “And what of the British?”

  Étienne said, “I think the thinking is…”

  Madame Bardoux interrupted and said to Dexter, “Alexis Léger believes.”

  Étienne nodded at Suzanne and continued, “Britain has to be France’s principal ally, the foundation upon which our security rests is the Entente Cordiale,” referring to the relationship binding Britain and France together and dating from before the First World War.

  Dexter nodded and thought to himself that the missing piece was the Americans across the ocean. But he also knew that the Americans would stay missing for a long time to come.

  Étienne continued, “France, in firm union with Britain, then supports collective security through the League of Nations.”

  Madame Bardoux added, “Foreign Minister Barthou, in one of his last acts before being killed,” she said the words with great sadness, “then brought Russia into the League of Nations.” She added, quite businesslike, “And Foreign Minister Laval just returned two months ago from Moscow with a signed agreement for alliance. If France can contain Germany from both the West and the East, peace can be maintained.”

  Dexter cut the ground out from her argument, “Then Great Britain signed the Naval Treaty with the Germans.”

  Madame Bardoux sighed, a trace of disgust in her voice. “Yes, that tremendously strains Anglo-French solidarity. Almost puts an end to having a common policy. What was Stresa for?”

  Étienne moved to answer the question. “Laval wants to keep Italy in alliance with the western democracies against Hitler. That was what Stresa was all about.”

  Dexter asked, “But isn’t Laval going about this wrong?”

  He took a sip from his beer and then outlined his points, “He is separ
ating France from Britain when he says that France will stand by her Latin sister in her so-called ‘work of civilization’ in planning aggression against Ethiopia. The entire idea behind the League of Nations is undermined. Supporting the League is Britain’s number one foreign policy goal.”

  Madame Lambert looked at Dexter, calmly and professionally, and thought to herself that yes, the American had got straight to the heart of the issue.

  Madame Bardoux spoke, in obvious sympathy to Dexter’s point, “Yes,” and she paused and quickly reworded her point to disguise her source, “As you yourself pointed out, the British foreign minister made that exact point to the cabinet last month. He called it ‘an inconvenient dilemma.’”

  Dexter remembered and said with a laugh, “Possibly we have the same source in London.”

  All of them laughed.

  Étienne sighed. “Yes, Premier Laval may be too clever for his own good. Italy simply does not have the standing that Great Britain has.”

  Dexter nodded and thought to himself that once again the phrase “too clever” was used to describe Laval.

  Dexter decided to shift the conversation and move to a new subject. “It was just four months ago when Hitler all but tore up the Versailles Treaty by almost quintupling the size of the German army. France failed to act.”

  Étienne saw the shift, shrugged, and looked at Dexter and agreed, “Yes.”

  Dexter moved to his conclusion. “The next step might be the remilitarization of the Rhineland by Hitler?”

  Étienne again sighed. “Perhaps.”

  Dexter asked, “Would Britain support France in expelling German forces from the west bank of the Rhine?”

  Étienne, straining to put an even tone to his voice, replied, “One would hope so.”

  Madame Lambert leaned back in her chair and stared evenly at Dexter. She could see the shape of Dexter’s overall argument: on the diplomatic chessboard, Laval moves toward Italy, Britain moves away from France, and then Hitler pounces, using a knight to jump three spaces on the chessboard and take the Rhineland.

  Madame Lambert leaned forward, putting her elbows on the table, looking directly at Dexter, and said very evenly, “The game moves on many levels.”

  Dexter said, “Yes, France moves towards Italy, opening up a gap with Britain, and Hitler marches into that sliver of daylight.”

  Madame Lambert stroked her chin in appreciation and looked evenly at Dexter; she said nothing.

  Étienne moved to change the direction of the conversation. He nodded in the direction of Madame Lambert and said to Dexter, “Monsieur le Premier is completely absorbed in implementing the austerity program that was the basis of his election as premier last month.” He looked at Madame Lambert for confirmation.

  Madame Lambert replied, “Yes. The government is going to announce the details of the austerity program in two days. Only the final details remain to be worked out tomorrow.”

  Dexter looked at Madame Lambert with interest; she spoke with crisp assurance and authority about the new financial program.

  Madame Bardoux shifted in her chair; Dexter sensed she was about to bring something bothersome up. She looked at Madame Lambert and said, “Étienne and I have to leave. We have another event to attend.” She reached out and held one of Madame Lambert’s hands in hers by way of reassurance and said, “Marcelle, I am sure Dexter will be good company.”

  Startled, Madame Lambert was put off balance, a look of indecision and consternation coming over her face. She was being left with this man. She looked blankly at Madame Bardoux.

  Dexter, somewhat surprised, said in a low tone, “It will be all right. I also have an event to attend that I am sure you will find both fascinating and interesting up on the Champs Élysées.”

  Madame Lambert, regaining her composure, smiled at Dexter and said, “That will be fine.” She turned and smiled at Madame Bardoux—rather thinly, thought Dexter.

  Dexter and Madame Lambert walked up the wide sidewalk of the Champs Élysées, the Arc de Triomphe de l’Étoile in the distance sitting majestically at the top of the slope. In high good humor, Dexter said to Madame Lambert, “Let me introduce myself. My name is Dexter, and you?”

  She turned and looked up at him, her eyes suddenly brightening, a sardonic smile lightly on her face, and laughed. “Yes, of course. Marcelle.”

  He smiled at her. “See, that wasn’t so bad.”

  She laughed again.

  Dexter continued, “I gather you are not a graduate of Sciences Po?”

  Marcelle laughed again and then replied, “Hardly. I am a graduate from a lycée in Lyon. Before that convent school.”

  Dexter asked, “What carried you to the Hôtel Matignon?”

  Marcelle, thinking back for a moment, replied, “I am very good at languages. Writing and literature have been my great interest. The French bureaucracy greatly values precise use of language.”

  Dexter asked, “Where did you meet Madame Bardoux?”

  Marcelle replied, “Working on international labor issues. My permanent position is as a redactrice at the ministry of labor. I am a sous-chef there. I am on temporary appointment to the premier’s office at the Matignon.”

  Dexter said, “Did you know Laval at the ministry of labor?”

  “Yes,” she said with a touch of finality, cutting off further inquiry.

  “We,” and Dexter looked at Marcelle to bring her into the embrace of this new state of togetherness, “have been invited by a journalist friend to watch the Croix-de-Feu march up the Champs Élysées. Colonel de La Rocque is to revive the flame over the Unknown Soldier at the Arc de Triomphe. We get to watch from her brother-in-law’s apartment, a wealthy industrialist.”

  At the mention of the word “her,” Marcelle’s eyes lit up. “Ah, that must be Madame Tabouis,” and she looked up at Dexter, her face framing the question.

  “Yes.” Dexter nodded.

  “Ah, Madame Tata,” continued Marcelle, referring to Madame Tabouis by the nickname bestowed on her by a leading Far Right journalist. She savored the sound of the name. Impishly she asked, “Does she ‘Tata’ to you, or do you ‘Tata’ to her?”

  “Some of both.” Dexter laughed.

  Coming to the entrance of a luxurious apartment building, Dexter guided Marcelle into the foyer and spoke to the concierge. The concierge pointed towards a small ascenseur. Dexter and Marcelle walked over, got in, and rode the little elevator to the fourth floor, Dexter savoring the faint traces of Marcelle’s perfume. Exiting, they saw the open door to an apartment and walked over. Dexter handed his hat, and Marcelle her handbag, to a maid.

  Across the room, Madame Tabouis, holding a glass of champagne, was engaged in earnest conversation with several deputies. She caught sight of Dexter and her eyes brightened and she turned to the deputies. “I must go welcome Dexter. We must cultivate the Americans, you know.”

  She turned and walked towards Dexter and, seeing Marcelle for the first time, let her expression change from well-practiced welcome to an understanding smirk over rapidly brightening eyes. “Oh, Dexter, you have brought a friend,” her voice lingering on “friend.” She reached out her hand towards Marcelle.

  Marcelle, highly bemused by Madame Tabouis’s change in expression, shook the outstretched hand and said in her most professionally groomed manner, “Enchantée. Marcelle Lambert.”

  Dexter, always charmed by these little feminine greeting rituals, added, “Marcelle works at the ministry of labor.”

  Madame Tabouis glanced doubtfully at Dexter. “Your interest in labor relations must have been recently acquired?”

  A look of mock chagrin came over Dexter’s face. “Geneviève, I am interested in all things French.”

  Madame Tabouis waved to the maid to bring champagne, took a half step back, tilted back her head and looked at Marcelle, her mind searching for the missing acquaintanceship, and asked thoughtfully, “Where might we have seen you? Surely not at the ministry of labor. Haven’t been there in years.�
��

  Marcelle, taking a glass of champagne from the maid, easily responded with great self-assurance, “Possibly with Madame Bardoux?”

  “Yes, that is it,” responded Madame Tabouis. “She is the bright new assistant to my great friend Alexis.”

  “You are well informed, Madame,” replied Marcelle.

  “Well, I am supposed to be,” Madame Tabouis said, acknowledging her job as diplomatic correspondent for the Parisian daily L’Oeuvre. “Alexis Léger is both the conscience and competence of French foreign policy.” Madame Tabouis expected no challenge to her estimation of the secretary-general of the foreign ministry.

  Marcelle smiled in agreement.

  Madame Tabouis glanced at Dexter and said directly to Marcelle, “I can see that Dexter is circulating in a very smart circle,” and she paused, “not with his regular Right Bank sophisticates,” the last word said with a sarcastic twist.

  Dexter smiled at the backhanded compliment.

  “Here they come,” called out one of the men standing by one of the tall windows. Madame Tabouis walked over, followed by Marcelle and Dexter.

  Looking out the window, they saw well-ordered ranks of veterans marching up the avenue. Out front was a large Tricolor draped with battle streamers, behind marched Colonel de La Rocque. Each veteran wore the red, white, and blue brassard of the Croix-de-Feu at his shoulder. Brass decorations hanging from colorful ribbons marched in rows across the chests of the veterans.

  One of the men looking out the window sneered, “Their swan song.”

  Marcelle gave Dexter a questioning look; Madame Tabouis looked with interest at what Dexter might say.

  “The press has been reporting that Colonel de La Rocque’s bite grows steadily milder than his bark. Which is true since the public has grown tired of factionalism. Colonel de La Rocque has called for ‘calm and union’ in the face of the unsettled state of Europe and the grave difficulties facing the country. But the Croix-de-Feu will continue to be influential.”

  Madame Tabouis easily agreed with the assessment; Marcelle felt enlightened by the explanation.

  Another man, watching the marching ranks stride up the avenue towards the Arc de Triomphe, remarked, “You have to admit that this is an amazing time we are living in. What miracle induces thirty thousand middle-class Frenchmen to let themselves be rounded up at the same hour and persuades them to goose-step to the Arc de Triomphe?”

  Another man contradicted, “They’re not goose-stepping. That’s a Republican march. Let’s keep our perspective. The goose-stepping is going on in Berlin, not Paris.”

  Dexter nodded to Marcelle. She smiled warmly at Dexter in agreement.

  Another voice said, “There are at most thirty thousand marchers here. There were ten times that number marching for Popular Front today. The people of France do not want to go Fascist.”

  Madame Tabouis said with resignation, “I wished I could agree with that statement. But the truth is that three fourths of the French press has been gagged by the financial oligarchy—the Two Hundred Families.”

  Dexter said lightly, “The ratio’s going up, Geneviève. It only used to be half.”

  Madame Tabouis quickly replied, “The Italians have come in.”

  Dexter laughed.

  Marcelle asked, “How do the Two Hundred Families support Hitler?”

  Madame Tabouis answered, “Simple. Their line is that France should not aim for a victorious peace, but at a just peace. Then they say we might be able to arrive at an amiable understanding with Hitler. Sweet reason becomes the Hemlock for the Republic,” referring to the famous poison that Socrates took for his execution.

  Marcelle asked, “Then might not Italy be a logical counterbalance?”

  Madame Tabouis replied, “I am afraid not. Russia is the most powerful choice.”

  Dexter interjected, “But Laval has just returned from Moscow with an agreement with the Soviets.”

  Madame Tabouis countered, “They don’t mean it. The Two Hundred Families scream that Bolshevism is enemy Number One.”

  Marcelle murmured, “Yes, that is so.”

  Madame Tabouis looked at the two of them rather sadly and pronounced her benediction, “And the sons shall perish because their fathers have lied.”

  Marcelle looked at Dexter. He looked back at her dark eyes, and, somewhat to his surprise saw that rather than being dismayed, Marcelle’s gaze took on a distant, steely determination. His fascination with Marcelle deepened.

  Dexter turned back to Madame Tabouis, and with feeling, said, “If there is one person in France who speaks truth to illusion, it is you, Geneviève.”

  Madame Tabouis smiled weakly by way of thanks.

  Marcelle caught Dexter’s eyes with hers, pointing towards the center of the room. The two of them stepped away from the group. Marcelle said, “Thank you very much, Dexter, but I have a big day tomorrow. Let me take my leave. I can find my own way.”

  Dexter put himself forward with gentlemanly decisiveness. “Of course, but I insist on escorting you home.”

  Marcelle took a breath. “It’s hardly necessary.”

  “I insist.”

  “I live across the river, in the outer Seventh.”

  “I live in the Seventh also,” and he looked at her. “It will be my pleasure.”

  Marcelle sighed, and then responded with an edge of determination in her voice, “All right. But only to the door.”

  “Of course,” replied Dexter.

  They turned and, together, took their leave of Madame Tabouis.

  In the gathering dusk of the warm summer day, Dexter and Marcelle walked across the Pont de L’Alma, from the Right Bank to the Left Bank, the silvery water of the River Seine lazily meandering down its channel.

  Dexter asked, “And where do you live?”

  Marcelle answered, “Oh, I live at 7 rue Monsieur. Just past the Invalides.”

  “Yes, I know where it is. Very nice neighborhood.”

  “Yes. I have an arrangement with the family that owns the flat.”

  “I see.”

  “Friends of my family.”

  They continued walking through the quiet Sunday evening, chatting agreeably about this and that.

  Presently they turned off rue de Babylone on to rue Monsieur. They came up to two large wooden doors, brass knockers on the front, and stopped.

  Marcelle said, “Here we are. Number seven,” saying the street number as if it were an old friend. She reached into her handbag and pulled out a key. She put the key into the lock and turned it, the door opening slightly. She turned and faced Dexter, “It has been an informative day. Thank you.”

  Dexter smiled gallantly and asked with complete self-assurance, “Might we do this again?”

  Marcelle took a quick breath, hesitated, and looked at Dexter with some perplexity. Then her face relaxed, her eyes softened, and she smiled. “I will be quite busy with my work. We must have the decree laws ready before the end of the month,” she said summing up her busy life. Then she said, businesslike, “But I should be free at the end of the month.” She smiled, her reassurance returning. “Yes, please call.”

  “I will.”

  She stepped towards him and presented her right cheek for a kiss, then the left. She stood back, smiled, and said, “Until then.” She turned and went through the open door.

  Dexter turned and walked down the sidewalk, a warm feeling of romantic expectation pleasantly enveloping his now very relaxed mind, a perfect end to a nice summer day.