Paris: The Novel (78 page)

Marc was surprised to see Marie sitting in his studio, but he smiled.

“We missed you at Vollard’s,” he cried. “Did you think we were meeting here?”

“No. It’s my fault. I was shopping with Maman. I got there just after you left. I came round to apologize.”

Something wasn’t right. She looked pale. Her voice sounded unnatural. He glanced at the table and saw the letter from Hortense.

He thought quickly. Personally he didn’t care what Marie knew, but his parents did. Whereas if his American friend had been a naughty fellow, it wouldn’t matter to anyone. Casually he picked up the letter, and handed it to Hadley.

“You shouldn’t leave things lying around,
mon ami
,” he murmured.

Thank God Hadley had a quick brain. He read the situation at once.

“Ah,” he said quietly, folded the letter, and put it in his pocket.

They chatted for a few moments. It was hard to tell whether Marie had read the letter or not, and Marc certainly wasn’t going to ask her. Then, after apologizing again for missing them at the gallery, Marie said that she had to get back home.

After she’d gone, Marc turned to Hadley.

“Thanks for getting me out of that one,” he said. “Have I ruined your reputation forever?”

Hadley handed him back the letter.

“Your sister’s well brought up,” he said. “I don’t suppose she even read it.”

Half an hour later, Aunt Éloïse was most astonished when Marie arrived unexpectedly at her apartment. She was looking distraught.

“Whatever’s the matter?” Éloïse asked.

Marie sat down on the sofa. For a moment she couldn’t speak.

“Something terrible,” she cried. “About Hadley. He has a mistress.”

Her aunt smiled.

“My dear little Marie,” she said gently. “Hadley is a handsome young man. If he has a mistress, it wouldn’t be so surprising, you know.”

“She wants to marry him.”

“This also is not unknown.”

“And he’s already the father of a child. Quite recently.”

Éloïse frowned.

“How do you know this?”

“There was a letter. He left it on a table at Marc’s. I read it.” She shook her head. “It was terrible.” She started to cry.

Éloïse gazed at her.

“Do you mind so much what Hadley does?”

Marie did not reply. And now her aunt understood.

“My poor Marie. What a fool I am. I didn’t think of it. You’re in love with Hadley.”

“No. No.”

“Yes you are. Why shouldn’t you be?”

“You must not tell,” cried Marie. “Promise me you will not tell.” And then she wept as though her heart would break.

The note Aunt Éloïse wrote was very short. It was an order. She gave it to her housekeeper with precise instructions. Then she went back to looking after Marie.

She made her drink a little tea. She sat with her and talked quietly about the loves of women for talented men. She spoke of Chopin and George Sand, the woman writer who had loved him. And of Wagner, and how his last wife, Cosima, had left her husband to marry him instead. In
truth, there was no particular plan in Aunt Éloïse’s conversation, other than to suggest how the noblest and best women might fall in love with men who had great gifts. Her main purpose was just to keep Marie’s mind occupied until the housekeeper got back. At last, after nearly an hour, she did, and gave Aunt Éloïse a meaningful nod.

“Have a little more tea, my dear, and I shall rejoin you in five minutes,” her aunt told her as she left the room.

Down in the street, she found Marc waiting, as instructed.

“You are to tell me the truth at once,” she commanded. “Marie read a letter. Was it addressed to you or to Hadley?”

“We thought it best to let her think it was addressed to Hadley. You know what Papa and Maman feel. Marie’s not supposed to know anything like that …”

“I know. It’s what I suspected. She thinks badly of Hadley, that’s all.”

“Does it matter?”

“No,” his aunt lied. “It doesn’t matter in the least. Except that I am sorry Hadley should have to assume responsibility for things he hasn’t done. It’s not a nice way to treat a friend, who’s a guest in our country.”

“That’s true. I feel ashamed. What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’ll deal with Marie.” She paused. “I’m bored with all these lies, Marc. I’m just bored, that’s all. Now go home.”

She gave Marie a glass of brandy first.

“If I tell you the truth, are you prepared to keep a secret? You must not tell your parents that you know. Will you promise me that?”

“I suppose so. Yes.”

“Good. Well then, I think it’s time for you to be treated as an adult.”

“Oh,” said Marie when she’d finished. “Marc has been very wicked, then.”

“My dear child, by the time you reach the end of your life, you will know so many men—and women—who have done the same or worse, that you will be forgiving.”

“And Hadley …”

“Was not the person to whom that letter was addressed. And so far as
I know, he has not had an illegitimate child with anyone either—which your brother certainly has.”

“Then Hadley assumed the guilt for my brother. He’s a saint.”

“No, he is not a saint!” cried her aunt with momentary irritation. “And a good-looking boy like that has probably had a mistress or two by now.” She paused. “So Marie, you love Hadley. Does he have any idea of this?”

“Oh no. I don’t think so.”

“And if he wanted to marry you …?”

“I don’t think Papa would allow it …”

“He comes from a very respectable family, as far as I know. Is he Catholic?”

Marie shook her head.

“I have heard him say to Marc that his family are Protestant.”

“And he will probably live in America. Can you imagine yourself living in America, far from your family? You’d have to speak English. It would be very different, Marie. Did you ever consider this?”

“In my dreams, I have,” Marie admitted.

“And?”

“When I am in his company, I am so happy. I just want to be with him. That’s all I know.” She shrugged. “I want to be with him, all the time.”

“I cannot advise you. Your parents will not wish to lose you, I am certain. But if you and Hadley truly wish to marry, and they believe you could be happy, then it’s possible they would agree. I can’t say.”

“What should I do?”

“In the first place, I think you should let Hadley know that you like him. It might turn out that he likes you more than you think. If he does not return your feelings, it will be very hurtful for you, but at least you will know not to waste your time.”

“How will I do that?”

Her aunt stared at her.

“I see,” she said, “that I had better take you in hand.”

Hadley was rather surprised, a week later, to receive a message from Aunt Éloïse that she wished him to call upon her, but naturally he did so. When he got there, she welcomed him warmly.

“You’ve never really seen my little collection, have you?” she said. “Would you like to?”

“I certainly should.”

It was quite remarkable what she had. Corots, a little sketch by Millet and country scenes by others of the Barbizon school. She had more than twenty Impressionists, a pretty little scene in a ballet school by Degas, even a small van Gogh that she’d gotten for almost nothing from Vollard.

Then, suddenly, he stopped in astonishment.

“I wanted to buy this painting,” he cried.

“The Goeneutte of the Gare Saint-Lazare?”

“Yes. But I couldn’t. So you bought it.”

“Not exactly. Marie asked me to buy it for her. She’s going to buy it from me when she can. I didn’t know you liked it too.”

“She has good taste,” he remarked. “Well, I guess if I can’t have it, I’m glad it’s gone to one of your family.”

“Marc has talent, of course. How much remains to be seen. But Marie has a very good eye. She’ll have her own collection one day, I’m quite sure.”

“That’s interesting.”

Aunt Éloïse smiled.

“Marie has been brought up to be quiet. But there’s more to her than you think.”

They talked of his time at Giverny and the work he was planning for that autumn. It was all very pleasant. She didn’t seem to have any other object in inviting him to visit her, but he was certainly glad that he had come.

He heard a sound at the outer door. Then the maid announced that Marie had arrived.

“Ah,” said Aunt Éloïse as Marie came into the room. “My dear, you couldn’t have arrived at a better moment. Look who I have here. Our friend Hadley.”

“So you do,” said Marie, and gave him a delightful smile.

“Come and sit down,” said her aunt.

Hadley gazed. Something had changed about Marie. He wasn’t sure what, but she was different. She was looking wonderfully well, but there was a little glow of confidence in her manner. In some undefinable way, the girl with the blue eyes and the golden curls had suddenly become a confident young woman.

She hadn’t gotten married in the last week. And he was quite sure she
hadn’t been having an affair. But whatever it was, he suddenly realized that Marie was intensely desirable. Had she changed her scent?

“It seems Hadley wanted your picture of the Gare Saint-Lazare,” Aunt Éloïse remarked.