Paris: The Novel (117 page)

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 spent 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.”