“Thanks to this fellow here”—Hadley indicated Marc—“and the kindness of his family, I’ve been more fortunate than I could have dared to hope. Many people come to France and see it from outside, but by getting to know a family, I’ve already learned far more about France than most people do.”
“This is probably true in any country,” said Aunt Éloïse, “but it is especially true in France. And tell me—honestly, I beg you—how you like it here.”
“Oh, I’m in love with it,” Hadley said simply.
“You are?” said Marie.
“I don’t mean that France has no faults. I find people a little too obsessed by their history. But the culture has so much charm, that’s understandable. And nobody can call France old-fashioned. A little slow to adopt mechanical inventions, maybe. But all the new artistic and philosophical ideas are happening here. That’s why all the young American artists come piling in.”
“And what of your own painting?” asked Aunt Éloïse. “Are you making progress?”
“Some.” He hesitated, then smiled a little ruefully. “Not enough.”
“You have talent,” Marc assured him.
“A little, Marc. But not enough. That’s what I’ve learned. I shall study painting all my life, but I’m not going to be a painter. That’s what I needed to find out, and I’ve seen so much already that I know my limitations. I’m not disappointed. I just needed to know.”
“Too soon to give up,” said Marc. “Tell him so, Marie.”
“I watched Hadley working in Fontainebleau and I was very impressed,” said Marie. “But I’d rather know what he thinks.”
“I’ve decided that I want to live a life more like my father’s. I don’t want to go into business, as I’d thought I might. I want to live in the same world that you and your aunt do, Marc. If I apply myself, there will be positions I could take in art schools or universities in America. That would allow me free time to do my own work and travel in the summer. I mightn’t get rich, but I’m fortunate. I’ll have enough private income to get by.”
“You could have a house in France and spend your summers here,” said Marie.
“I could certainly do that,” said Hadley. He smiled. “Sounds a pretty good idea.”
They had reached the gates of the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont.
“Marc, wait here for Gérard and his friend,” said Aunt Éloïse. “Then take them up to the little temple at the top of the park, where we shall meet you.” And with that she swept Hadley and Marie away.
It was warm and it was quiet. There was scarcely a soul about as they wandered along the winding path that led down to the small lake. In the middle of the lake, the island rose up steeply to the tiny temple far above.
“This way,” said Aunt Éloïse. And she led them around the edge of the lake until they heard the sound of a waterfall. “It’s one of the wonders of the place,” she explained to Hadley. “This was the entrance to an old gypsum quarry, but they turned it into a grotto with an artificial waterfall and stalactites.”
They entered the grotto together. It was empty.
“I’ll just see where the others are,” said Aunt Éloïse, and left them.
The water cascaded down delightfully. The stalactites that hung in huge spikes from the roof of the cave gave it a magical air. Standing together, they looked up the waterfall to a patch of blue sky in the roof, far above. Marie stepped back into the cave, under the festoons of stalactites, and stood watching Hadley as he inspected the area around the waterfall.
She had never been entirely alone with him before. She felt her heart beating, but she kept still. He walked back to her.
She was looking up at him. She was almost trembling, but still she held herself under control, forced herself to be calm.
“It seems my chaperone has deserted me,” she said softly.
He gazed at her, uncertain.
“Obviously,” he said with half a smile, “she trusts me not to behave like Marc.”
She gave a hint of a shrug, and smiled, still looking up at him.
“Why?”
As he looked down at Marie, with her face upturned and her lips slightly parted, Frank Hadley felt a great wave of desire. And perhaps, even then, he might have held back; but the fact that she knew about her brother, and had told him so, had somehow removed the awesome barrier of her innocence. In his mind, she was a woman now. He bent his head down, and kissed her.
And suddenly Marie found herself receiving his kiss, with her head thrown back, and she felt his arm around her waist drawing her up, and her hands reached out, clasping his neck, his body, needing to hold him, and she thought that she would swoon.
Until a voice interrupted, and brought the sky crashing down.
“In the name of God,” cried Gérard, “what are you doing?” And as they sprang apart: “Marie, are you insane?”
Gérard took charge. For once, they all had to do what he said. Not a word, he ordered. Not a word to anyone, not even to Marc.
At least, thank God, Rémy Monnier had no idea what had happened. Not only would it have ruined Marie’s chances with him, but a few words from Monnier and the news would have been all over Paris.
Even Aunt Éloïse, who had so shamefully left them alone, had to keep quiet. It only confirmed Gérard’s opinion that his aunt was an irresponsible fool. If he hadn’t decided to come down to see where they were, and taken a different path from the one where she was standing guard, she might have gotten away with this nonsense. And where would that have left everybody?
As it was, they all trooped up calmly to the little temple, Marie walking with her aunt and he with Hadley, and they all admired the little temple and the view. And Monnier declared it was a delightful afternoon.
When they got back to the entrance to the park, Gérard suggested in the most natural way that the others should take the family carriage and drop Rémy Monnier at his house, which was almost on their way home, up near the Parc Monceau, while he conveyed Hadley back. “Because I never get a chance to talk to him.”
So Rémy Monnier found himself in the carriage with Marie, and Gérard went off with Hadley.
Gérard wasted no time. But to Hadley’s surprise, he could not have been more friendly.
“My dear Hadley, please forgive me, but I have to protect my sister’s reputation—which my aunt entirely failed to do. In my place, you’d be obliged to do the same.”
“The fault’s mine, not hers …,” Hadley began, but Gérard wouldn’t hear of it.
“That grotto’s a romantic place, and my sister’s … well, in my opinion, she’s everything a man could want.”
“I wouldn’t disagree with that.”
“You kissed her. Any of us might have done the same. That’s what chaperones are for.”
“There was no disrespect, I assure you.”
“Of course there wasn’t. We know you’re a good fellow. My brother, Marc, whom we all love, is not a good fellow. His family know it, and I’m sure you know too. In fact, my parents thought you were a good influence on him. But tell me, Hadley, what are your intentions? Are you wanting to marry my sister?”
“It hadn’t quite come to that,” answered Hadley truthfully. “It was all a bit sudden. But I reserve the right.”
“Hadley, we like you very much,” declared Gérard. “But you can’t marry Marie. It’s out of the question. Think about it. You’ll go back to America. Would you take her away from all her family? Would she be happy there? My parents wouldn’t consent to the marriage, and I’d oppose it strongly, for those reasons. Besides, you’re a Protestant. Marie’s a Catholic. Are you planning to convert? Because she isn’t going to.”
He didn’t belabor the point. But when he dropped Hadley off, he added one thing.
“Do you think Marie has fallen in love with you, Hadley?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“Well, nor could I. But if she has, then the best thing is to leave her alone. Don’t raise hopes which can’t be
fulfilled. That would be unkind.”
And the trouble was, Hadley thought, as he mounted the stairs to his lodgings, that although he didn’t like Gérard, what he said might be true.
The next day, he made his decision. His reasons were straightforward.
Professionally, he’d achieved his purpose in France. He was ready to return to America and start his career.
If the circumstances had been different, he thought, he might have spent more time in Marie’s company, and he might have offered to marry her. The idea of living in Europe and spending summers in France was delightful.
But if there was going to be implacable opposition from her family, what was the good of that, for either of them? There was only one sensible and decent thing to do.
The next day he sent a cable to his father. Having done so, he went to see Marc.
“My father’s sick. I have to return to America at once.”
“My dear Hadley. Just when we were getting used to you. I’m heartbroken.”
“I’m sorry to go, but there’s nothing to be done.”
Then he called on Marie and her parents.
Jules and his wife had no reason not to accept his explanation at face value, and urged him warmly to come straight to their house whenever he returned. “And if you ever come to America,” he said in return, “my parents and I will be so delighted if you will stay with us.”
“If we come, my dear Hadley, you’ll be the first to know,” said Jules.
His interview with Marie was not so easy.
“It’s my fault you’re going, isn’t it?” she said.
“No it isn’t. Not at all.”
“What did Gérard say to you?”
“Not much. He was quite friendly, in fact. But he wants to protect your reputation. Rightly so.”
“Your father is really sick?”
“I’m afraid he is.”
“Will you come back when he is well?”
“I haven’t even thought of anything, except getting to him as quickly as I can.”
She nodded, and held out her hand.
“Good-bye Hadley,” she said.
After he had gone, she told her parents that she was going to take a little rest. Then she closed the door and quietly locked it, and pushed her face into her pillow to muffle the sound and, knowing that she had lost him, wept for over an hour.
Two days later, she departed for the family vineyard, to take part in the vendange.
It was a week after her return to Paris that James Fox came to see Jules Blanchard.
“I have come on a personal matter,” he explained.
“My dear Fox, what can I do for you?” Jules replied.
“I have to tell you something which you may not like. I am entirely in love with Marie, and I wish to ask your permission to let her know that this is the case.”
“Has she any idea of it?”
“To the best of my knowledge, none. I came to see you first.”
“You certainly behave well. But that is no surprise. How long have you loved her?”
“Since the first day I met her. It was a coup de foudre. But since then I have come to know her and to love her for all her qualities of character and mind. Otherwise I should not be here to ask for her hand.”
Jules considered.
“Fox, we like you, and it is my opinion that you would make a very good husband. I do not know what Marie’s feelings might be about your proposal, and that will be for her to decide.”
“I have not the least wish to marry a woman who doesn’t want to marry me.”
“Of course. But I must tell you that there is the problem of religion.”
“It is a problem for me as well. I have had a long discussion with my father, whose wish is that I should marry a Protestant.”
“Ah. That’s the thing.”
“However, my father is a realist, and because he understands the strength of my desire, he has made a concession which may shock you, but which is the only way that I can hope to marry, without causing deep distress to my own family.”
“I’m listening.”
“I should myself remain a Protestant, while my wife remains a Catholic.”
“That might be acceptable. But what of the children? That’s the question.”
“In France, society is mainly Catholic. In England, naturally, people normally belong to the Church of England, and if the truth is told, there is still in many quarters a certain suspicion of Catholics. Therefore my father proposes that if we live in France—as we surely would for the time being—the children should be Catholic. However, if in later years the family business should require my presence in London, then the whole family would worship at a Church of England church. The nearest church to our London house, as it happens, is so High Church, as we Anglicans put it, that visiting Catholics often mistake it for one of their own.”
“There is a degree of subterfuge, even dishonesty in this.”
“Precisely.”
“I wonder what Marie would think of it. She would have to be told.”
“Yes.”
“My wife would not like it.”
“That would be up to you to tell her.” Fox paused. “It wouldn’t be obvious.”
“No. In France there would be no problem at all. Not, of course, that I have ever had secrets from my wife.”
“Indeed.”
“Come back in a week. Let me speak to Marie, and my wife … Then I shall give you my answer.”
“That is all I ask.”
Jules Blanchard smiled.
“Whatever my answer turns out to be, my dear Fox, I am honored by your proposal.”
Two days later, Jules told Marie the entire conversation.
“Fox is a very nice man,” he said to her, “and it seems he is truly in love with you. So I want to be careful that we respond clearly.”
“I should not be unhappy. I am sure of that, at least,” Marie said. And that is far better, she thought, than what I have now. “But I only considered him as a friend before.”
“Friendship may be the best way to start,” her father suggested.
“Yes. Can you give him permission to court me?” she asked, quite cheerfully. “Aunt Éloïse can always be my chaperone. Then I can see how he does.”
Chapter Fourteen
• 1903 •
It was some years since Adeline had suggested to Ney, soon after Édith’s mother had died, that Édith and her husband, Thomas Gascon, should move into the big house with their children.
“The arthritis in my hand is slowing me down a little, monsieur,” Adeline had explained, “so I really need more help from Édith. If she could be on call at all times, it would be much better.”
“And where would they live?”
“There are three or four unused rooms on the attic floor. Thomas is good with his hands. He would renovate them at no charge to you.”
The arrangement worked well for everyone. Édith continued to work for the same wages, but lived rent-free. Thomas had his own work, but gladly undertook small tasks as a handyman when needed. “If they do not disturb the residents, the children will bring a family spirit into the house,” Monsieur Ney had declared.
It seemed to Édith that Monsieur Ney had mellowed as he grew older. She had four children now: Robert, the oldest; Anaïs; a second boy, Pierre, now five years old; and little Monique, the baby of the family. And since he had no grandchildren of his own, the stiff old lawyer had unbent into a grandfatherly figure to her children, bringing them chocolates, and treats, and little presents from time to time.
For Hortense had still not married. Around the turn of the century, she had told her father that her doctor had prescribed that she should spend her winters in a warmer climate, and she had been in Monte Carlo most of the time since then.
The portrait of Hortense by Marc Blanchard, however, was in the place of honor in the hall. Though Ney had originally intended that it should grace his own house, he was so proud of the p
icture that only the splendid architecture of the hall with its noble staircase seemed worthy of it.
As the years had gone by, Thomas Gascon and his family had come to think of the curious old mansion as their natural home.
It was a cold March day when Monsieur Ney arrived looking rather pleased with himself. Having distributed some bonbons to the children, he summoned Édith and Aunt Adeline, and made a surprising announcement.
“In going through some old papers, I have made a surprising discovery. Do you know the age of Mademoiselle Bac?”
“She might be over ninety, I think,” Aunt Adeline suggested.
“She will be a hundred this summer. I have the papers to prove it.”
“It is a tribute, monsieur, to the care you have always lavished upon her,” said Adeline.
“Indeed. And we shall have a party to celebrate. Mademoiselle Bac shall participate, even if she is not aware of the circumstances.”
“You are kind, monsieur.”
“But more than that. Have you considered the favorable publicity this will generate? Few places indeed can boast of a resident of such an age. We shall be in the newspapers. The finest establishment of its kind in Paris.”
Édith had never seen him so excited.
“Will you tell Mademoiselle Bac?” she asked.
“I think I shall. I shall do it this very moment—even if she does not understand.” And he hurried out.
They did not see him again for half an hour.
It was Édith who found him. He was lying in the hall, in front of the painting of Hortense. Whether he had been suddenly overcome on his way up to see Mademoiselle Bac, or whether he had already performed that mission when he was struck, she could not tell. But it was clear that he had suffered a massive stroke, and he was already quite dead.
When Hortense arrived from Monte Carlo, she made the necessary arrangements. She was quiet and efficient. At the funeral, she ensured that there were two dozen clients, and various people who had been involved with his charitable works, including even Jules Blanchard. It was a dignified gathering that would have gratified her father very much. In the funeral address, which was given by the priest who attended the home, the facts of Ney’s ancestry were rehearsed—including even a hint that he might have been related to Voltaire—as well as his indefatigable efforts to secure the comfort and happiness of all those in his care.
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