“But are there many Frenchmen who really want a communist revolution,” asked Charlie, “like in Russia?”
“Certainly,” said his father. “You and I would both be killed, my son. And Madame Fox too, I’m afraid.”
“You know such men, Father?”
Roland picked up the little lighter and looked at it thoughtfully.
“Oh yes. I have known such men. And there are many of them.”
“People at school say that the Jews are behind the revolutionary movements,” said Charlie. “Do you think it’s true?”
“No less a person than the great Lord Curzon, who’s the British foreign secretary, has just made a speech about the Zinoviev letter,” said Marie, “where he reminds us that most of the inner ruling circle of the Bolsheviks are Jews. So he seems to think there’s a connection.” She shrugged. “He would know more than we do. I have a few Jewish friends who I’m quite certain are not revolutionaries.”
Slightly to her surprise, the aristocrat wasn’t content to let it go at that.
“Lenin himself, of course, was not Jewish in the least. In fact, he was technically a Russian noble, you know. To the surprise of his audiences, his revolutionary speeches were made in a highly aristocratic accent.” He smiled at the irony of this truth. “But you must be very careful, my son,” he continued. “Your school friends are partly thinking of the famous Protocols of the Elders of Zion, a document which outlined a Jewish plan to take over the world. It was a complete forgery. We know this for certain now.”
“Lots of people still believe in it, however. Especially in America,” Marie pointed out.
“Oui, madame. But that is partly because Henry Ford, the motor manufacturer, is obsessed with it and tells all the world it’s true. But it’s still a forgery.” He paused a moment. “I am sensitive to this because, as you will remember, I myself was entirely persuaded of the guilt of Dreyfus when I was a young man. I thought he was a traitor because he was Jewish.”
“So did half of France.”
“That in no way excuses me. It is now absolutely established that he was innocent.”
“So you do not think the Jews are behind the revolution, Father?” His son wanted clarity.
“There are many Jews who are in the revolutionary movement, especially in Germany and Eastern Europe. It may also be true that, because Jewish families have historically been more mobile, that there is a Jewish network that will operate, along with other networks, in spreading international revolution. Many people think it, but I do not know if it is so or not. For there are plenty of revolutionaries who are not Jewish. There are also many Jews who are not revolutionaries. You must be guided by the evidence, my son, not by rumor or prejudice.”
“But you do think that there is a danger of international revolution spreading from Russia around the world.”
“I am quite certain that is true.”
“So what should we do, Father?”
“It remains to be seen. The revolutionaries are ruthless. Perhaps the democracies of the free world are strong enough to defend themselves against them. I hope so. But it may be that the free world will have to adopt some of the tactics of the revolutionaries to counteract them. Beat them at their own game.”
“What sort of organization are you thinking of?” Marie asked.
“I’m not sure. Perhaps some kind of order, like the crusading orders of long ago. Perhaps military governments. We shall need strong leaders, certainly, and we don’t have them now.”
“It sounds a little frightening.”
He smiled.
“Not as long as we have good people like you, madame, and I hope myself too, to keep us all sane.”
“And what do you think, Charlie?” she asked the boy.
“I’m ready to fight,” he said. “Father tells me I may have to.”
“And who will you fight?”
“The communists, I suppose, madame.”
So the conversation ended. The two de Cygnes returned home. She went across the river to Joséphine. But she never forgot it. They had said nothing out of the ordinary. Any conservative, and even some liberals, in both France and Britain would have expressed the same sort of views. She, too, had thought them natural, at the time.
The arrival of Mr. Frank Hadley Sr. at the end of October was marked by a gathering at Marc’s apartment. All the Blanchard family were there, except for Marc’s parents. But Marc was going to take the Hadleys down to Fontainebleau for lunch the following week.
He’d asked Roland de Cygne, who had said that he’d be delighted to see the American again after so many years, and asked if he might bring his son. There were also a couple of art historians and one or two dealers, including young Jacob—all people whom Hadley might enjoy meeting.
He was standing beside his son, talking to young Jacob, when Marie entered the room. And he recognized her at once and smiled, and she went toward him to greet him.
But she was ready for him now. She was prepared. She’d seen a recent photograph that young Frank had shown her, so she knew that there were some strong lines creasing his cheeks nowadays, and crow’s-feet from a quarter century of smiling pleasantly at his students. And she knew that he was still just as tall and athletic as before, because regular exercise had toned his body and preserved his figure. And she knew that there was a little graying at the temples. But the photograph, being black and white, could not convey the healthy youthfulness of his complexion, and the rich color of his hair; and so although she was well prepared and totally in control of herself, and greeted him as an old family friend, she was all too aware of the little gasp, the intake of breath that caught her unawares, despite all her preparation, as she crossed the room toward him.
They chatted easily. Roland de Cygne came and joined them.
“I am sorry that your wife could not come with you,” Marie said.
“So am I. But her sister lost her husband recently, so she wanted to spend a little time with her. And she doesn’t really like to travel.”
“Hates the sea,” said his son. “She won’t come sailing with us.”
“And where are you staying?” asked Roland.
“I thought I’d stay a month, revisit old haunts, that kind of thing. So instead of a hotel, I took an apartment in the Eighth, overlooking the Parc Monceau. There’s a housekeeper who comes in each day. It suits me very well.”
“I should like to give a dinner for you,” said Roland de Cygne.
“That would be very kind.”
“Have you retired from teaching, to be away for so long?” Marie asked.
“I’m not ready to retire for a long time yet,” Hadley answered. “But I took a sabbatical. With my son in France, it seemed a good time. I’m doing a little monograph on the Impressionists in London.” He smiled. “Did you know that when he did all those paintings of the Thames, and the London fog, Monet was staying at the Savoy Hotel? Painted looking out of the window. He stayed at the Savoy for weeks. So much for the struggling artist!”
“I hope a stay at the Savoy formed part of your own research,” said de Cygne.
“As a matter of fact,” Hadley answered cheerfully, “it did.”
He still spoke excellent French. As she looked at young Frank, watching the little group with Claire, she thought how nice it must be for him to have a father he could feel so proud of.
The next ten days were busy. Marc, she and Claire took the two Hadleys for an evening in Montparnasse, starting with a drink at the expatriate Dingo Bar, and ending with a long meal at La Coupole. The Hadleys went on a long afternoon tour from the Louvre, across to Notre Dame and ending with a meal at a bistro in the Latin Quarter, but she was too tied up at the store to join them. For the same reason, she couldn’t go down to Fontainebleau with them, though she would have liked to. But she did attend the dinner for Hadley at the mansion of Roland de Cygne.
It was an interesting evening. He had invited both the Hadleys, a French diplomat and his wife, who had recently s
pent some years in Washington, together with their daughter, who was young Frank’s age. There was also a rich American lady who lived in a palatial apartment on the rue de Rivoli, and the daughter of a French count, whose family had an art collection, and being only seventeen, was obviously there as company for young Charlie, who had been allowed to join the grown-up party.
It was interesting to watch. At the drinks beforehand, Roland introduced everyone with charming grace, and they all seemed to find plenty to talk about. The diplomat and his wife were old hands at this sort of thing, but it was clear that Hadley was no stranger to smart social gatherings, and he and the rich American lady soon found people they both knew.
They sat ten at dinner, and Roland asked Marie to act as his hostess. Since the dinner was being given for Hadley, he was on her right, and the French diplomat on her left. Conversation was easy. Halfway down the table, young Charlie de Cygne, despite his strict upbringing, was staring in open-eyed admiration at the aristocratic young girl on his right, who was exceptionally pretty. Marie noticed, and so did Roland. Their eyes met, and they silently shared their amusement.
Only a certain number of people in Paris could give an aristocratic dinner of this kind. The setting, the family silver and china, the footmen behind every chair—hired in to be sure, but looking entirely in place in such a house—the wonderful food and wine: Was Roland, by putting her at the head of the table opposite him, showing her what he had to offer any potential wife? He might be.
Meanwhile, however, Hadley was sitting beside her, looking impossibly handsome, and she knew she was looking her best herself. It occurred to her, with a little frisson, that if she was going to make a discreet pass at Mr. Hadley Sr., then this would be a good moment to do it. If she could do so, that is, without it being visible to his son, or her daughter, or Roland de Cygne.
But how? Making light conversation with him was certainly easy. During the last quarter century, Hadley had acquired a rich fund of amusing stories, which made him a delightful dinner companion. She watched his friendly eyes, to see if they were indicating that he was also finding her attractive. It was hard to tell. More promising, he was fascinated that she ran a business.
“Since the war,” he said, “a lot of young American city women are going to work. But they never get to run anything. Is it different now, in France?”
“I think it only happens in family businesses,” she said. “But it wasn’t forced on me, and I must say I enjoy it.”
He asked her all sorts of questions about how she ran Joséphine, and her answers seemed to impress him.
“I think you are remarkable,” he said, and she could see that he meant it. Good, she thought. She intrigued him. That was a start.
She asked him one or two innocuous questions about this wife of his, who didn’t like to travel. But she received only innocuous answers. Mrs. Hadley was a good wife and mother. She liked tennis. She had a talent for flower arranging. This was all information that might have been said about any wife, but it was not accompanied by any of the slight inflections that a man sometimes uses to hint that his wife is boring him. She suspected that, even if he were dissatisfied at home, he would never show it. But that was hardly to her purpose.
She reminded him of their visit to Giverny long ago, and he became quite enthusiastic about the subject. She caught a certain light in his eye as he remembered that summer day, but whether it was engendered by herself or by the garden she wasn’t sure.
She also learned that he would be remaining in Paris for another three weeks before taking the liner back to America. So if she was going to spend time with Mr. Hadley while he was in Paris, she had better do it soon.
“Would you like to look over the store?” she suddenly suggested. If he was intrigued by the idea of her business, that seemed a promising venue. Taking him around the offices and the storerooms opened up all sorts of possibilities for moments of private intimacy.
“Yes,” he said. “If it’s not too much trouble, I should.”
“Then telephone me at my office tomorrow,” she said. “I need to check my appointments, but we can arrange a time.”
She felt decidedly pleased with herself. Whether he had understood her design and was complicit she wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter. She just needed to get him to herself.
A new course was being served. With a charming smile, she turned to talk to the diplomat on her left.
The next day she casually asked Claire if she had any plans for seeing young Frank that week, and learned that she was taking him to a fashion show at Chanel the following day.
“It’s a small afternoon show for some of her customers, but he’s never been to such a thing.”
Perfect. With Claire and Hadley Junior otherwise engaged, she would have his father entirely to herself. She smiled at her daughter kindly.
“Enjoy yourselves.”
So she was more than a little surprised and vexed, an hour later, when instead of a call from Mr. Hadley, she received a visit from her brother.
“Hadley just called me. He’s asking if he can see us. Just you and me. Privately. He wonders if we could meet at his apartment. It’s not far.”
“I suppose so. When?”
“Tomorrow afternoon.”
The apartment was on the third floor, in a big, ornate mansion block. It had a handsome double salon whose windows looked over the leafy, well-tended walks of the Parc Monceau. It was furnished in the rich style—heavy carpets and hangings, gilded ornaments, Louis XV furniture—so favored by the great banking families of the late nineteenth century. Not quite Hadley’s style perhaps, but he seemed to be enjoying it as a place to stay.
As soon as they’d sat down, he came straight to the point.
“We know each other well enough to be completely honest with each other,” he said, “so I want to ask you both. What are we to do about my son and Claire?”
Marie sat up sharply. She looked at Marc, who seemed quite unfazed.
“Are you suggesting they’ve …”
“No. My son assures me not, and I believe him. But he’s falling in love with her.”
“Have they really had time to be so much in love?” Marc asked.
“I don’t know. But the first thing Frank told me when I arrived was that he’s glad I’ve come, because he thinks he’s found the girl he wants to marry.”
“I’m against it,” said Marie.
“Why?” asked Marc.
“Because I don’t see young Frank in France for the rest of his life, and I don’t see Claire in America.”
“You’ve never been to America,” Marc pointed out. “By the way,” he asked his sister, “has Claire talked to you about this?”
“No. She hasn’t.”
“I’m surprised,” said Hadley.
“The young are strange,” said Marie crossly. “I don’t understand them.”
“What surprises me,” Hadley remarked, “is that neither of you have mentioned the question of religion. My son is not a Catholic.”
Marc shrugged. He didn’t care.
“Claire’s life has been a little unusual. One could say that she has been brought up to be both,” Marie said. And she explained the bargain that James Fox had originally struck with her father.
“I had no idea,” said Hadley.
“We must also remember that Claire has been brought up in England rather than France,” Marc added. “The cultures are closer than France and America.” He turned to Hadley. “You haven’t expressed your own view.”
“I haven’t got one,” said Hadley. “I know your family.”
“All too well,” said Marc drily.
“I’ve also had a chance to get to know Claire a little, and I like her very much.”
“Your son’s a good boy too,” said Marc. “None of us has anything against him.”
“Your son does you credit,” Marie agreed.
“The point is this,” said Hadley. “If my son wants to propose, and if Claire wants to accep
t him—which it seems none of us knows—what are we all going to do? Are we going to forbid it?”
Marc indicated that he wasn’t worried personally. Marie was silent.
“You know,” Hadley added quietly, “I can stop it. I could put my son on a boat to America tomorrow if it’s necessary.”
“You realize, don’t you, that if they marry, your son will probably take my only child three thousand miles away across the ocean, where I shall never see her, or my grandchildren. Quite apart from the fact that I need her at the store.”
“Then perhaps I should act,” said Hadley.
Marie shrugged.
“Let her decide for herself,” she said miserably.
The next few days were not easy for Marie. It was as though a spell had been cast over the last three months. The shock of the first encounter with Frank Hadley Jr., then the excitement of his father’s arrival, had blinded her to the cold, grim reality that if her daughter fell in love with young Frank, he would take her away forever and she would be alone for the rest of her life. And when she thought of that, she cursed the young man’s coming.
She asked Claire what she thought of young Frank the next evening, when Claire was reading a magazine, and Claire looked up and said he was nice enough, which was clearly an evasion.
“Well, don’t go falling in love with him, unless you want to find yourself cut off from everything you love, in America—which all the Americans seem to be trying to get away from,” she said, as though she were joking, but they both knew she wasn’t.
“I’d like to see New York,” said Claire, casually, turning back to her magazine. And Marie wanted to continue the conversation, but realized that it was no good, and silently cursed the fact that the little scene in the garden at Fontainebleau had left her, forever, in a false position with her daughter.
She wished there was someone to comfort her, but Marc was no real support, and she didn’t want to share her thoughts with de Cygne. And Hadley didn’t call.
It was three days after the meeting that she went to Hadley’s apartment. She really hadn’t meant to. She hadn’t planned it at all.
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