Paris: The Novel (57 page)

He remembered the start of it so well. She’d taken a message from him to a customer near the Parc Monceau and taken a long time to return. But when she’d explained her long absence, he’d been rather pleased.

“Father, I met Monsieur Blanchard in the street, and he made me return with him to see his wife. She needs extra help in the house two afternoons a week, and wondered if you could spare me.”

The Blanchards were highly respectable, as well as valued customers. If Corinne could earn a little extra money in this way, her parents had no objection at all.

The arrangement had lasted three weeks when Corinne told them that Gérard, their recently married son, and his wife could use her for a third afternoon. Weeks had passed, Corinne had brought home some modest wages from this work, and it had never occurred to her parents to question the business.

Once, just once, he might have detected something, when he remarked that he wondered if there were any store fittings that Monsieur Blanchard might need at Joséphine, and whether he might call upon him. He’d
noticed Corinne suddenly go a little pale. But his wife had promptly remarked: “I’m sure he has you in mind, Paul, with his kindness to Corinne, and her being in his house every week. I don’t think you should go calling on him for other favors. He might feel it was too much.”

“You’re right, my dear,” he’d agreed at once, and put the idea out of his mind. “Keep your ears open, though,” he’d said to Corinne.

So when, this morning, his wife had told him that Corinne was pregnant by Marc Blanchard, that she’d been modeling for him in his studio, and that she’d never been near the house of Monsieur Blanchard or his son Gérard, Paul Petit had found it quite difficult to believe that it was true.

“And when did this start?” he had demanded. “How could such an idea enter your head?”

“I used to speak to him a little when he came here. I knew he painted people in his studio,” Corinne had confessed. “But then I met him in the street that day I went to the Parc Monceau. He was going to see his parents. He suggested that I come and model for him. It sounded …” She wanted to say interesting, or exciting, but didn’t dare. “I didn’t think you would allow it …”

“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 you 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.”