“Of course I should not allow it!” her father had shouted.
“So I made up the story. I thought it would be just for a few afternoons, and then it would be over.”
“So you went and sat in a chair and he made drawings of you … How did this lead to what has happened now? Did he force himself on you?”
“No, Papa. It wasn’t quite like that. Artists’ models … they are not dressed, you know.”
“You were undressed?”
“And then, the third week … one thing led to another …” She trailed off.
“You became his mistress.”
“I suppose.”
“You suppose?” And only his wife throwing herself between them had prevented him from striking her. “You bring shame upon your family,” he cried. “Shame upon your parents, upon your poor brothers and sisters. And ruin upon yourself. But do not think that I will allow you to ruin this family,” he told her furiously. “For when a branch is rotten, it must be cut off.”
The rue du Faubourg Saint-Antoine was a very long street. It began out in what had formerly been a faubourg, a suburb, on the eastern side of the old city. Long before the Revolution, it had been an artisans’ quarter, where most of the carpenters, furniture makers and cabinetmakers were to be found. Most were republicans, some radicals, but like Petit, many of these skilled workers, craftsmen and small shopkeepers were sound family men of conservative instincts. But as monarchs had found in the past, once stirred, they were implacable.
Petit began his walk at a furious pace. The recent snows had melted away, and the streets were dry. After a short while, he came to where the old Bastille fortress had stood. There was nothing to be seen of it now, just a big open space above which the dull gray sky gave no hint of comfort upon his quest.
This marked the beginning of the old city, so that from now on the street lost the name of faubourg, and became simply the rue Saint-Antoine. After a few hundred yards, however, it changed its name again; for now it became the rue de Rivoli. And it was under that fashionable name that it led past the old Grève marketplace on the riverside, where the city hall, the Hôtel de Ville, had been rebuilt to look like a huge, ornate château; and then the old Châtelet, where the medieval provost had held his court. By now Petit had slowed his pace to a fast walk, and despite the cold air, he was sweating a little.
Finally, he unconsciously brushed the sleeves of his coat as he entered the rue de Rivoli’s grandest section—the long, arcaded thoroughfare that ran the entire length of the solemn Louvre Palace and the Tuileries Gardens beyond, until at last he came out into the vast open space of the Place de la Concorde.
He’d been walking almost an hour by now. His anger was no less, but it had slowly changed into a sullen rage bitterly flavored with despair.
He turned up toward the lovely classical temple of La Madeleine.
Just to the west of La Madeleine, another of Baron Haussmann’s huge residential boulevards began. The boulevard Malesherbes strode up from La Madeleine on a grand diagonal that took it past the edge of the Parc Monceau and on to one of the city’s northwestern gates. If the boulevard was solidly respectable, the sections nearest La Madeleine were distinctly fashionable. And it was here, in a large Belle Époque building, that he came to Jules Blanchard’s apartment.
Jules was most surprised, at half past ten that morning, when a servant announced that Monsieur Petit the furniture maker was there to see him, but he told the servant to bring Petit to the library at once.
As Petit told his tale, his hands clenching his hat in a mixture of embarrassment and determination, Blanchard understood him completely. He kept his own face grave and immobile throughout, giving nothing away, but inwardly he did not doubt a word that the craftsman was saying, and his heart went out to him. He understood his embarrassment, his shame and his rage.
When Petit was done, however, Jules remained calm and noncommittal.
“You must understand, Monsieur Petit, that I know nothing of what you have just told me.”
“I understand this, monsieur.”
“First of all, therefore, I must speak to my son. But since you and I are together, let us for a moment consider the matter as far as we ourselves know it. You are sure that your daughter is pregnant?”
“My wife says so.”
“I would advise you to seek a doctor first. It might turn out that she is not. And there is always the chance, even if she is, that nature will bring the matter to an end. This can often happen, after all.”
“Perhaps, monsieur.” Petit looked doubtful.
“Even if—I say ‘if’ for the time being—it should be that my son is the cause of your daughter’s condition, I think we must put out of our minds the idea that my son would wish to marry your daughter. I say this simply because we must not deceive ourselves. I should be surprised if Marc wishes such a thing, and I should not be in favor of it myself.”
Petit said nothing. What could he say? He already knew it was true.
“If that were the case,” Jules continued, “what would you do?”
“She will leave my house. I will never see her again.”
“You would not forgive her?”
“I cannot, monsieur. I have my family to think of. But your family has a responsibility, monsieur.”
He was probably losing a customer by saying it, but then he was sure he’d lost Blanchard as a customer anyway.
Jules wondered if the girl would consider an abortion. Such things could be arranged. This was not the moment to raise the matter, however.
“I make no comment until I have spoken to my son. But you may be sure that you will hear from me afterward.”
The interview was at an end. As soon as Petit had left, Jules sent a servant to Marc’s lodgings with a message that he should come to see him at once.
“Not later this morning,” he reiterated. “At once.”
Marc arrived at twenty minutes before noon. He was smiling broadly. He had his American friend already with him, and cheerfully introduced the fellow, who seemed harmless enough, to his parents before his father asked him to step into his library for a private word.
Jules closed the door.
“Corinne Petit is pregnant.”
“She is?” The surprise on Marc’s face was genuine.
“Her father was here this morning. He wants to know what you mean to do about it. Is there a chance you are not the father?”
Marc considered.
“I imagine I am.” He shrugged. “She was innocent.”
“A virgin?”
“Yes. And … I doubt she would even have had the opportunity …”
“He thinks you should marry her.”
“Ah, non.”
“You know what will happen to her, don’t you? Her father is going to throw her out into the street. She is dead to him. Ruined.”
“Mon Dieu!”
“What do you expect? Have you no sense of responsibility?” His father’s voice was rising. “You seduce the young daughter of a man who does work for our family, who trusts us and holds us in respect. You ruin her and think there will be no consequences? How do you think I felt, watching the poor fellow’s rage and agony? How do you imagine I should feel if some scoundrel, yes, some scoundrel like you had ruined your sister? Villain!” he shouted. “Cretin!” He was almost panting with rage.
Marc was completely silent. Then, after a pause, he answered with a single word.
“Joséphine.”
“What do you mean, Joséphine?”
“You insult me and call me names, Father, but it was you who called your department store, for which you and our family are known all over Paris, by the name of your former mistress.”
“Nonsense. It’s named after the empress Joséphine. Everyone knows that.”
“Don’t worry. Maman has no idea.”
“She has no idea because it is not the case,” his father answered sharply.
Marc shrugged.
“As y
ou like.”
“If,” said his father quietly, “you had a charming mistress, a woman of the world who could take care of herself, I’d have no objection whatsoever.”
“I should need a larger allowance.”
“But this case,” his father continued, ignoring the impertinent interruption, “is entirely different.” He paused. “We could take no notice of the girl, of course, we could say that she is just a little whore and that you may not even be the father. I know many families who would do exactly that. Do you wish me to do so?”
“No.”
“I am glad to hear that, at least, since I am not disposed to do any such thing. We shall have to see what arrangements can be made. She can have the child out of sight in the country. That’s not a problem. It could be adopted. If need be, I can pay for its upbringing. But I’m afraid that Petit still won’t have his daughter back in his house. I understand it, but it’s tragic.” He looked at his son bleakly. “Meanwhile, in order to help you reflect on this, I am stopping your allowance.”
“For how long?”
“Until further notice.” He signaled that there was nothing more to say. “You had better rejoin your American friend. Our other guests are about to arrive. Oh, and one more thing,” he added. “Your sister is to know nothing about this business. You understand? Absolutely nothing.”
Frank Hadley was a very decent fellow. He’d come to Paris to study art, and he’d been there only a couple of weeks when he bumped into Marc Blanchard, who’d befriended him, taken him around and now invited him to meet his family.
He was twenty-five years old, tall, well-built, with a mane of brown hair, honest brown eyes set wide apart, and whose strong, athletic frame suggested that he might be a good oarsman, and probably swing the lumberjack’s ax as well—both of which guesses would have been correct. During his education, he’d picked up enough French to make a start when he got to France, and he was studying the language hard for two hours every morning.
He looked around the apartment with interest. It was obvious that Marc’s family had plenty of money, but it was bourgeois money. There was none of the stately Louis XIV furniture favored by the aristocracy, nor the lighter, rococo furniture of the gilded age. The furniture of the Blanchards’ large apartment was mostly nineteenth century—sofas and chairs with curling legs and backs, lacquered cabinets, here and there a desk in the simpler, more severe Directoire style of the Napoleonic period. And above all, a profusion of potted plants—palm trees in tubs standing in corners, flowering plants on tables. The haute bourgeoisie of France, almost as much as the entire middle and upper classes of Victorian England, had taken to indoor plants.
He’d done his best to make small talk with Marc’s mother. But although she couldn’t have been a more kindly hostess, her English was limited, and their conversation had not been sparkling during the first couple of minutes. So he’d been relieved when an elegant lady, who explained that she was Marc’s aunt, and a pleasant, fair-haired girl, who turned out to be Marc’s sister, had entered the room. The girl spoke only a little more English than her mother, but Aunt Éloïse spoke English quite fluently, and it was quickly apparent that she was a cultivated and well-read lady. This was just the sort of person, he thought, that he should get to know.
They’d been talking only a couple of minutes, however, when, quite unmistakably, they heard the sound of Monsieur Blanchard’s voice raised in anger. They couldn’t hear what he was saying, but Frank was almost sure he heard the word “Villain!” being shouted. And then: “Cretin!”
He glanced inquiringly at Marie, who blushed with embarrassment. He had a sense that Marc’s mother might know what this was all about. He wondered for a moment if perhaps he ought to go.
It was Aunt Éloïse who calmly took command of the situation.
“Well, Monsieur Hadley, it seems that Marc must have displeased his father. We do not know what he has done, but I think we can say it is quite certain that he has done something.” She smiled. “Perhaps your father was sometimes angry with you.”
“I seem to remember being taken to the woodshed, as we say, when I was a boy.”
“Voilà.” She made an elegant motion with her hand. “Then it seems that all families in the world are the same. So. As we have guests coming at any moment, my dear Hadley, you will now immediately have to become one of the family. We shall carry on exactly as if nothing had happened at all, n’est-ce pas?”
Frank grinned.
“I can do that.”
“Excellent.” Aunt Éloïse looked around. It did not seem that Marie or her mother were ready with any observations at this moment, so she continued in the same vein. “Very soon, Hadley, we shall ask you all about yourself, but I shan’t ask you yet, or when the others come you will have to say it all again.” She paused, but only for a moment. “In France, you will soon discover,” she continued, as if, indeed, nothing had happened at all, “we often raise our voices when we are discussing matters which are of absolutely no importance whatsoever. Philosophy, for instance. Everybody shouts and interrupts each other. It’s most agreeable. If, however, the world is coming to an end”—she raised her finger—“it is de rigueur to remain very calm, and, if possible, to look bored.” She gave him a wry look. “At least, this was the ideal in the best circles, before the Revolution. And we still remember it.”
“We have the stiff upper lip in America,” Frank said, “but we haven’t yet mastered the art of being bored.”
“If you stay with us long enough, my dear Hadley,” said Aunt Éloïse with a smile, “I’m sure that we can bore you. Ah.” She turned. “People are coming.”
Everyone was arriving now. Gérard and his wife, Marc, who was looking a little pale, and moments later a pleasant Englishman named James Fox. Just after that, Monsieur Blanchard also returned to the room. He welcomed Fox, embraced Gérard and his wife, and if he did not look at Marc, gave no other sign that anything might be amiss between them.
His sister, Éloïse, turned to him.
“My dear Jules, while you had your passionate discussions with Marc, I have been having a charming conversation with Hadley here, who is now quite one of the family.” She gave her brother a stare.
She spoke in French, but Frank got the gist of it, and he smiled to himself. The French manners might seem a little artificial, but Aunt Éloïse had just gently let her brother know that their American guest had heard him shouting.
“Ah.” Jules Blanchard glanced at him. “Well,” he announced to the gathering, “everyone is here except Monsieur de Cygne.” And seeing some surprise on their faces: “I had better explain who he is.”
As Roland walked into the boulevard Malesherbes from La Madeleine, he wasn’t very happy. He didn’t want to go to this lunch. He’d do his best, because his father had asked him to; but he wasn’t looking forward to it.
He’d had an irritating morning as well. He’d put off answering the letter from the Canadian that his father had given him, and decided that he really must deal with it today. So he’d read it.
The letter was perfectly polite. It informed him that although the writer’s family name was spelled “Dessigne” these days, they had always understood that they were a branch of the noble de Cygne and that since the writer was making a visit to France that summer, and had the idea of visiting some of the châteaus of the Loire, he wondered if he might be allowed to see the old family château one afternoon.
Whatever the man’s intentions, it was quite clear that he was mistaken, and Roland had no intention of letting him through the door. But how to get rid of him politely? He had tried to compose a suitable letter for two hours, and each time he tried, he had felt more and more irritated, so that in the end he had been forced to leave for lunch with the letter unfinished.
Part of the trouble was that he had been in a bad temper from the moment he woke up. In fact, he’d been in a foul mood since Thursday. And for this he could not be blamed.
The cataclysm that had
taken place in France on the Thursday of that week, and was to echo down French history for generations to come, consisted of a single letter. It wasn’t even written by anyone important—just by a popular novelist named Émile Zola. And it concerned that obscure Jewish officer, Dreyfus.
“J’accuse …” the letter said. “I accuse …” Who did Zola accuse? The French establishment, the justice system and, worst of all, the army itself.
They knew that Dreyfus was innocent, he said. The army and the government were involved in a disgraceful conspiracy to keep an innocent man in the tropical penal colony of Devil’s Island, rather than admit the evidence that another officer, who had been identified, was the real traitor. And why were they all prepared to pervert the course of justice? Because Dreyfus was a Jew.
Before the spring was out, all France would have taken sides. For the moment, the government was furious, and as for the army, there was not the faintest question among Roland’s fellow officers.
“Zola ought to be shot.”
Frank sat at the dining room table. Marc’s family were certainly making things very easy for him.
He’d heard that in France, as in Spain, it wasn’t always easy to get into people’s houses, and that one would never really understand the country until one did. He’d also heard that the French could be difficult. Here Marc had already given him excellent advice.
“All you have to do, Frank, is to show respect. You must remember that the English defeated Napoléon in the end, and that they have the biggest empire in the world, so they are inclined to be arrogant. French is the language of diplomacy, of course, so we have no problem with the English diplomats. The rest of their countrymen, however, come over here and try to order us about in English. Naturally, we don’t always like it. However, if you show respect, and make an effort to speak French, everyone will help you.” He’d paused. “I have to tell you, all the same, that there is one small problem.”
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