Paris: The Novel (69 page)

“Not yet.”

Fox was thoughtful. It might be that Hadley had just told him something rather useful.

And now they had come to the one little corner, among all the huge palaces and formal spaces of Versailles, that was completely eccentric.

“Voilà!” cried de Cygne. “The Hamlet.”

Marc had heard of the artificial village where Queen Marie Antoinette liked to dress up in a simple muslin dress and a straw hat and play at being a peasant woman. With its mill, and dairy and dovecote, the little hamlet was her private domain where no one could enter without permission.

“It was just a toy village to amuse a poor little rich girl, wasn’t it?” he said.

“History is not fair to Marie Antoinette,” Roland replied. “In fact the hamlet—it’s a model Norman village in fact—really functioned and provided food for Versailles. Plenty of people dream of a private retreat, especially if they’re trapped in a formal world like the court of Versailles. It’s got a rustic charm. But it wasn’t built until 1783. She hardly had six years in which to enjoy it before the Revolution brought her life to an end.”

It was certainly a charming spot to walk around. Hadley and Marc had strolled to one side with James Fox, so Roland took his chance to question Marie a little further. He asked her if she had enjoyed the visit, and she said she had.

“I could see that you’re well acquainted with the history of Versailles. I hope my commentary for our friend Hadley didn’t bore you.”

“Not at all. I enjoy historical places and family stories. But I really don’t know so much.” She smiled. “My aunt Éloïse says I should read more.”

“There is no need,” he said firmly. “But what do you enjoy doing?”

“The usual things in the city. We go to the opera. I have asked Marc to take me to the Folies-Bergère, but he hasn’t yet. I think my parents may have brought me up too strictly.”

Roland smiled. It was a charming little flirtation.

“Your parents are quite right. I go to the Folies-Bergère myself, however.” Would he take his wife to the Folies-Bergère? He could imagine Marie persuading him to do it, and the thought was quite delightful. His bride, of course, must be pure. But from all he had seen today, he felt sure that when her husband taught her the ways of love, this demure and charming young woman would be an eager pupil.

“You spend time in the country as well?”

“We have a house in Fontainebleau. I go riding in the forest there.”

“You like to ride?”

“I enjoy it, but I only ride occasionally. I should like to ride well.”

“It takes a little hard work.”

“I don’t believe one can do anything well if one isn’t prepared to work at it, monsieur.”

“This is true.”

“But apart from this, monsieur, my relationship with the countryside is too like that of Marie Antoinette at the Hamlet. I only play at it.” She paused. “We do own a vineyard that my father bought, however, where I always go down for the harvest. I work with the women picking the grapes. It’s not very elegant, but I love to do it. I think perhaps I am happiest at the vineyard.”

Ah, thought Roland, she was not just a rich bourgeoise, then. She had a feel for the land. An aristocrat should be elegant in Paris, but know how to run an estate. He thought he could see Marie learning these dual roles.

The four men wanted to take a brief turn in the ornamental gardens before they left. It was only a short walk to the Grand Canal in the center of the park, and Roland led the way. As they reached the Grand Canal, he let them wander about, and for the first time since their arrival he found himself momentarily alone and able to observe them.

The January afternoon would be closing in soon. The clouds were so high that it seemed they had scarcely moved at all since the place was built. The Grand Canal ran down the center of the lower gardens. Louis XIV and his court liked to gather there for boating parties. But the canal was empty now, gray as the sky. Only Marie and her brother, Fox and Hadley stood like shadowless statues by the stony water’s edge, and all around them the vast formal terraces, geometric gardens, the endless parterres and distant fountains—all empty, all silent.

And it came to him with great force that if he married Marie, he would be bringing into his life a warmth and comfort that was not to be found in these huge, echoing spaces where the hand of man clipped hedges with geometric precision, and the eye of God, hidden behind the gray-ribbed clouds, saw all and judged all, against the pattern of His greater and still more fearful symmetry.

The life of the French aristocrat was full of ghosts—of kings, and ancestors and great events all moving about like shadows in an echoing garden. Like all ghosts, they were strangely cold, and the possession of them set him apart in ways he could scarcely explain himself, and which Marie Blanchard would neither share nor probably wish to share. She would bring him the warmth he needed. But could he tolerate that warmth? And would she tolerate the cold ghosts that he must also live with? He did not know.

To his surprise, he suddenly had a great desire to ask his father what he thought. He’d talk to him as soon as possible.

It was ten days later that Jules Blanchard was surprised to receive a visit from James Fox, who asked if he might speak to him alone.

Sitting down in his little library, the polite Englishman opened the conversation carefully.

“In our work between London and Paris, monsieur,” he began, “we often find ourselves asked for advice on family matters of all kinds. And we are always glad to be helpful whenever we can. Some of these are
private matters requiring discretion. Others are relatively simple.” He paused only briefly. “At the moment,” he continued, “I have two clients in England who have asked for help. One is a very straightforward matter. There is a nice, respectable family in London who would like to find a nanny for their children. They want the children to grow up speaking French and so they are looking for a Frenchwoman to act as nanny and governess until the children go to school. You have such a huge acquaintance that I thought I would ask if you might know of anyone.”

“I’m not sure,” said Blanchard. “I can ask my wife. What’s the other matter?”

“The second is much more private, and requires discretion. But having had dealings with you, and having the pleasure of meeting your family, monsieur, I feel I may confide in you—with your permission.”

“Certainly.”

“This concerns a family who live outside London, clients of our firm for two generations now. Sadly, after some years, this couple have been unable to have children, and they want to adopt a child. They do not mind whether it is a boy or a girl. It’s easy enough, of course, to obtain a child from one of the many orphanages, but they would like to find a baby whose parentage is known, and one who is likely to be able to benefit from what they have to offer. And that is a great deal. The father is a banker, and the mother, whose own father was a professor, is a lady of considerable artistic talent. Our London office has no suggestions at present, but asked me if I could help. Unfortunately, I don’t myself know of anybody who might have an appropriate baby needing parents. But given your huge acquaintance, I thought I’d ask if you might discreetly let this be known on the grapevine.” He spread his hands. “Whoever their adopted child finally is, he or she will be fortunate. They live in the most pleasant circumstances.”

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.