Paris: The Novel (58 page)

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.”

“What’s that?”

“The Americans have terrible difficulty with the French accent. I don’t know why, but I have noticed that it is so. Sometimes an American will learn French, and we listen hard, because we realize they are speaking our language, but we can’t understand what they’re saying.” He shrugged. “It’s a pity.” Then he’d grinned. “But don’t worry,
mon vieux
. If you do your homework with the language, I personally will take care of your pronunciation.”

Manners dictated that Madame Blanchard, who spoke little English, should put de Cygne on her right and Frank on her left. But Fox the
Englishman was on the other side of him. De Cygne spoke a little English. On the other side of de Cygne was Marie. Jules Blanchard took the other end of the table, with his sister, Éloïse, on his right and his daughter-in-law on his left.

The conversation was general, with Fox quietly supplying translations when they were needed. And since Hadley was the guest from abroad, the whole table demanded, in the most friendly way, to know all about him.

Where was he from? his hostess asked. He explained that he’d been brought up in several places because his father was a professor and had moved around several universities before retiring recently to Connecticut.

“A professor of what?” asked Aunt Éloïse.

“Of Latin.”

“Your family were always academic?” she asked hopefully.

“No, ma’am,” he replied. “My grandfather made a pretty good fortune in the dry goods business, but my father liked to study, so he followed an academic career.”

“Dry goods, you say?” Gérard Blanchard asked from down the table. “Wholesale or retail?”

“Both.”

“So, your family is like ours,” Gérard said with approval. “Solid.”

Aunt Éloïse looked faintly irritated, but Frank smiled.

“We like to think so,” he answered cheerfully.

Aunt Éloïse wanted to know what had caused him to study art, and he explained that his mother was a talented musician and artist.

“I went to a small university called Union College, pretty much in the area where the Hudson River School of painters found their inspiration,” he explained. “Scenery of amazing grandeur. That as much as anything got me started.” He suddenly turned to look up the table to Marc. “You told me Americans have difficulty pronouncing French, Marc. So let’s see how you get on in American. My university is in a little city on the Mohawk River called Schenectady. Who here can pronounce that?”