Paris

by Edward Rutherfurd

  This was followed by a long silence.

  “I see,” said Jules Blanchard.

  Fox said nothing.

  “And you don’t know of anyone in Paris who might fit the bill?” asked Blanchard.

  James looked him straight in the eye.

  “No,” he said.

  “Liar,” said Jules quietly, and smiled. “But I am grateful for your discretion. So you are offering me a wonderful solution to two problems that I have. Will this cost me something?”

  “I don’t see why it should. A ticket on the ferry to England perhaps.”

  “You’ve gone to a lot of trouble. Why?”

  “Both families are clients of the firm.” He looked thoughtful. “Priests often arrange these things. They have the information, and the judgment. And it’s well that they do. But I like to think that lawyers can sometimes make a contribution too.”

  “If this works out,” said Jules, “I shall be in your debt, Monsieur Fox.”

  “Then you will pay me a compliment,” said James, “by knowing that I do not consider that any debt has been incurred at all.”

  It was nicely said, even if it wasn’t quite true. He just needed Marie’s father to be grateful to him.

  Roland de Cygne arrived at his father’s house early that evening. Just before leaving the barracks, he’d heard news which pleased him.

  Émile Zola, that tiresome writer who’d made such a nuisance of himself over the Dreyfus affair, was about to be arrested. The rumor was that he’d gotten wind of it and was already on his way to hide out in England.

  “Just so long as he stays out of France,” one of his brother officers had remarked. And Roland agreed with him.

  He’d written to his father soon after the visit to Versailles. Without being specific, he’d told him he’d like to ask his advice about a personal matter. The vicomte had written back at once. Knowing that Roland’s regimental duties made it difficult for him to take time off so soon after a period of leave, he’d informed his son that he intended to take the train up to Paris that day, and offered him dinner at the house. It was good of him to make the journey, Roland thought with affection. He was looking forward to their meeting.

  The train his father took normally arrived late in the afternoon. The coachman had been sent to the station to meet him. They hadn’t gotten back when he arrived at the house, but he’d been quite content to sit with his old nanny in the meantime. An hour had passed quite pleasantly, but then the old lady had looked at the little clock on her mantelpiece and remarked that either the train was very late, or that the vicomte had missed it. Dusk had already fallen, but there was another train arriving two hours later. No doubt the coachman would wait at the station for that one.

  This was quite annoying for Roland. It meant that the time he’d planned to discuss Marie with his father would be greatly curtailed. But there was nothing to be done about it. He poured himself a whisky.

  Another half hour passed. Then there was the sound of the bell being pulled at the front door. Without even waiting for a servant, Roland went into the hall and went to the door himself, ready to welcome his father.

  But it wasn’t his father. It was his friend the captain. He’d come from the barracks.

  “My dear fellow,” he said. “A telegram came for you to the barracks. I wasn’t sure how urgent it might be, but knowing you were here, I thought I’d bring it around to you myself. I think it comes from your family’s château, by the look of it.”

  “How very kind of you. Won’t you come in?”

  “No. I must get back in a moment,” the captain said. But Roland noticed that he didn’t move to go at once.

  He opened the telegram.

  It was brief. It announced that his father had suffered a seizure that morning. And that he had departed this world soon afterward.

  He bowed his head and handed the telegram to the captain, who read it in silence.

  “I am so sorry,” the captain said. “If you need to stay here, I’ll take care of everything at the barracks.”

  “I hardly know what I should do,” said Roland.

  Chapter Thirteen

  • 1898 •

  Love was not eternal. Human love, at least. Only the love of God was eternal, and ever-present. Marie knew this.

  Love might come suddenly, unsought, from a place not looked for, and stay for a while before departing into the distance, to a place where it cannot be reached.

  Or so it said in novels, plays and stories.

  But life was not like that for Marie Blanchard, or anyone she knew. She would marry someone from a family like her own. He might be a man like her father, or a banker, a lawyer, a doctor, someone from a family with money. He might be one of their neighbors on the boulevard Malesherbes, like the Prousts. Or he might be from one of the big families in Fontainebleau with their fine houses in and around the town, and their big apartments in Paris. He might come from one of the wealthy shipping families in one of France’s ports, or one of the regional insurance families. His family might own a newspaper in the provinces, or even in Paris. He would be a few years older than herself.

  They would live surrounded by a network of cousins, and have children and grandchildren. And one day, when she departed this life, Marie would have the satisfaction of knowing that, though she would be gathered into the arms of the Almighty, here on earth she would live on through the ever-broadening family she left behind, and be remembered by them.

  It was quite simple. It was what she knew, or thought she knew.

  The first thing that she noticed about him at the Sunday lunch was how handsome he was. She was careful not to stare at him. The demure manners of her strict upbringing prevented her from making a fool of herself.

  She had not met anyone quite like him before. He came from a different world. That had made her curious about him at once. So she listened, and watched.

  And she had been glad that they were to meet again so soon.

  The day after the lunch party, her father called her into his little library and told her to sit down.

  “Tell me, Marie, you and your brother are going to Versailles with Monsieur de Cygne this coming Saturday, are you not?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “And why is that, do you think?”

  “Monsieur de Cygne was kind to offer a tour so that we could show the palace to Marc’s American friend.”

  “That is true. But it is also an excuse. I think de Cygne is taking you all to Versailles so that he can discreetly get to see more of you.”

  “Do you know this?”

  “No. But I think it is likely, and so does your mother. I think, quite simply, that he wishes to get to know you better. Have you any objection?”

  “No, Papa.”

  “Do you like him?”

  “He was rather severe about Captain Dreyfus.”

  “A lot of people are getting far more angry about this Dreyfus affair than he was. Do you find him agreeable in other ways?”

  “It is too early to say, Papa.”

  “That is fair. You and he may find you have nothing in common. But if you do come to know each other better, and if one day he were to make a proposal, you would have to consider carefully. It would be a marriage which, socially, many people would envy. But I do not wish you to consider that at all. There should be no question of your marrying a man for whom you do not feel affection. You would also have to consider that his way of life and his attitudes are different from ours. I know and like his father, who is a charming man. But he is an aristocrat. In a sense, he is apart from even a rich family like ours. He does not consider himself the same kind of human being as a Blanchard. Under the charm and good manners of almost all the aristocrats I know, there is a certain snobbishness, even a coldness toward the rest of humanity. Not always, but often. Keep these thoughts in your mind and use your judgment. No one can do this for you.”

  “Yes, Papa,” she said.

  Versailles had been a success. She
felt that she’d done herself credit, and she was fairly sure that de Cygne had been impressed with her. And the little walk in the Galerie des Glaces had been a triumph.

  She only did it because of him. He must find me very straitlaced, she thought. They say the women in America are much more free in their manners than well-brought-up women are in France. I’m sure he thinks me dull.

  So she’d seized the opportunity to do something a little unusual. De Cygne and Fox had certainly admired her performance. He hadn’t said anything. She’d hoped he would, but he hadn’t, which was vexing.

  So she’d have to try something else to get his attention, next time they met. But when would that be? She wondered if she could suggest some expedition to Marc, without letting him guess her purpose of course. That would be too embarrassing. But she hadn’t seen Marc for over a week. There seemed to be a coldness between Marc and her father, though she had no idea why.

  She found a book on America in her father’s library, and read that. It was all about great spaces, and railways across the plains, and the huge opportunities for the continent’s future trade. She read it all, and she made notes of questions she could ask the American when they did meet. Questions that would show that she wasn’t just a pretty rich girl without a thought in her head.

  Once her father came upon her reading the book and asked her with surprise what she was doing.

  “When I met that American friend of Marc’s,” she said, “he seemed quite nice, but I couldn’t think of anything to say to him, because I know almost nothing about America. I found the book in your library.”

  “Well, it’s a good book, but hardly women’s reading,” he remarked with a smile. “If we go to the bookshop, I’m sure we can find you something more amusing.”

  “You could buy me a book and surprise me,” she suggested. “But there’s no hurry.”

  After all, it wasn’t as if she was going to marry Hadley. That was quite impossible.

  It wasn’t often that Éloïse Blanchard received a message from her brother asking for her advice. Naturally, she came at once.

  “What do you think of Roland de Cygne?” he asked, as they sat alone in the salon.

  “He’s all right in his way. I haven’t much in common with him, myself.”

  “And if he married Marie and made her happy?”

  “I should try to like him—if he made her happy. Why? Is he going to?”

  “Not at present, it seems. I have just had a letter from him, with the sad news that his father suddenly died. There will be something in the newspapers tomorrow, he thinks.” Jules paused a moment. “Given my friendship with his father, I might have expected to receive a faire-part announcement in due course, but he was under no obligation to write to me like this.”

  “Perhaps, with Marie in mind …”

  “The thought occurred to me. Including her in a party to visit Versailles hardly constitutes a declaration of interest, but the letter suggests that he wishes me to know his situation. He writes that for the moment, he will be in mourning—which might go on for some time in an aristocratic family like that. He also has to decide whether to resign his commission and take over the running of the family estate—to settle down in the country, as he puts it—or to continue his military career.”

  “If he settles down, he’ll want a wife. If not, he may stay single.”

  “Ah. You think so. That’s how I read it as well.”

  “Jules, he has committed himself to nothing. He merely indicates that Marie should wait and see what, if anything, he decides to do. I think it’s arrogant.”

  “You’re a little harsh. He is risking that Marie could marry someone else in the meantime. I think he is quite honest. The poor fellow’s not sure what to do.”

  “You would say that. You’re a man.”

  “Well, we shall have to wait and see. I am writing to him at once to express my condolences. His father was a good fellow. But this brings me back to Marie. I have a small problem, and I need your help.”

  “Ask it.”

  “James Fox, the lawyer. He’s being very helpful about this trouble with Marc. He may have found a position for the girl, and a couple to adopt the baby. Both in England. Well out of the way.”

  “Excellent. He seems discreet.”

  “Entirely. He’s a good man. He’s proposing to include Marie and Marc in a little cultural expedition, like the one de Cygne organized to Versailles.”

  “Do you object?”

  “Not in the least. Whether de Cygne will want to join them now seems unlikely. But I need a chaperone for Marie.”

  “Isn’t Marc going? He was her chaperone at Versailles.”

  “That was different. At that time, neither de Cygne nor Fox had any idea about the scandal. But now Fox does, and I expect the American may know too. It will lower our entire family in their eyes to think I’d send Marie out with such an unfit person as chaperone.”

  “Has Marie herself any idea about Marc’s little problem?”

  “Of course not. Even Marc would not tell her, I am certain.”

  “Of course not. As you say.” Éloïse sighed. “Why is it, my dear brother, that people of our class bring up their young women in such complete ignorance until they are married? Don’t you find it absurd?”

  “Perhaps. But you know the rules. If I don’t bring her up that way, she won’t find a husband. At least, not one we’d want. She must be pure.”

  “One can be pure without being ignorant.”

  “That has never been proved,” her brother answered, wryly.

  “So you want me to be her chaperone?”

  “You wouldn’t mind?”

  “When?”

  “The second Saturday in March.”

  “Ah. Then I can’t. You know I will do anything for Marie, but I have promised to spend that weekend with friends at Chantilly.”

  “In that case, either her mother or I will have to go.”

  “Is that so bad? It might be a pleasant outing.”

  “No doubt. But I do not wish to spend an afternoon with Marc.”

  “My poor Jules,” said Éloïse. “You’ll have to forgive him one day.”

  Her brother did not answer.

  Frank Hadley was enjoying Paris. Every morning, as soon as there was enough natural light, he would start work—sometimes drawing, painting or studying. By mid-morning he was usually working with one of several artists in their ateliers. Three days a week, after a light lunch, he spent a couple of hours with a student who gave him French lessons. In the evenings he went out to meet his growing circle of friends. No matter how difficult it was at first, he spoke nothing but French, and tried to read as much as possible in French too. As a result, his French was improving rapidly. His greatest friend remained Marc Blanchard.

  There had been one awkward moment.

  “Did you tell Fox about my problem with Corinne Petit?” Marc suddenly asked him one day.

  “I did. When we were at Versailles. I apologize, Marc. I don’t know why I did it. I’m an idiot.”

  “Just don’t do it again.”

  “I certainly won’t.”

  “As it happened, you did me a favor.” And he told Hadley what Fox had done.

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Simple enough, I should think. He’s helping three of his family’s clients in one transaction. I dare say he reckons that the more he shows my father he can trust him, the more of my father’s business may come their way.” He smiled. “As for our family’s little secret, I’m sure it’s nothing compared to some of the stuff he knows about his clients.”

  Hadley nodded.

  “By the way,” Marc continued, “you won’t ever mention this business to Marie, will you?”

  “Of course not. Never. But you don’t think she might hear?”

  Marc shook his head.

  “Not a chance. In the same circumstances, would an American girl know?”

  “Girls from respectable families are broug
ht up with very strict morals. But they’re not shrinking violets. They usually have some idea of what’s going on.”

  “If my parents have anything to do with it, not a word of this will ever be spoken in front of her. She will be totally innocent.” He grinned. “But don’t worry, Hadley, I can introduce you to plenty of girls who aren’t so respectable.”

  Frank Hadley considered.

  “So tell me,” he said quietly, “where does Mademoiselle Ney fit into all this respectability?”

  Sometimes, Marc had to admit, his private life was getting too complicated. Women found him attractive, he told himself. That was the trouble. Apart from two models and the banker’s wife who’d sat for him, and Corinne Petit, of course, there had been numerous casual encounters.

  Hortense Ney, however, was a very different matter.

  At first, he had hardly known what to make of her. Though she was not yet married, it was clear that she had long ago reached the age of independence. She spoke little, yet was very much in control of herself. When he asked her to sit down across from the window and look across to the wall on his left, so that he might study her for a while and see how the light fell across her face, she sat very still, her expression unsmiling and quite immobile. She was slim, her face pale. She wore a long skirt, and an elegant jacket closed tightly up to her neck, the sleeves with a small, fashionable puff at the shoulders. The ensemble was topped off by a little hat with a feather. Everything was neat, controlled, buttoned up.

  So that it was hardly surprising that Marc experienced a growing curiosity to discover what lay underneath this cool, closed perfection.

  “Were you expecting to be painted sitting down?” he asked after a while.

  She did not turn her face toward him, but her shoulders moved just enough to suggest a shrug.