Paris: The Novel (81 page)

“If we come, my dear Hadley, you’ll be the first to know,” said Jules.

His interview with Marie was not so easy.

“It’s my fault you’re going, isn’t it?” she said.

“No it isn’t. Not at all.”

“What did Gérard say to you?”

“Not much. He was quite friendly, in fact. But he wants to protect your reputation. Rightly so.”

“Your father is really sick?”

“I’m afraid he is.”

“Will you come back when he is well?”

“I haven’t even thought of anything, except getting to him as quickly as I can.”

She nodded, and held out her hand.

“Good-bye Hadley,” she said.

After he had gone, she told her parents that she was going to take a little rest. Then she closed the door and quietly locked it, and pushed her face into her pillow to muffle the sound and, knowing that she had lost him, wept for over an hour.

Two days later, she departed for the family vineyard, to take part in the
vendange
.

It was a week after her return to Paris that James Fox came to see Jules Blanchard.

“I have come on a personal matter,” he explained.

“My dear Fox, what can I do for you?” Jules replied.

“I have to tell you something which you may not like. I am entirely in love with Marie, and I wish to ask your permission to let her know that this is the case.”

“Has she any idea of it?”

“To the best of my knowledge, none. I came to see you first.”

“You certainly behave well. But that is no surprise. How long have you loved her?”

“Since the first day I met her. It was a
coup de foudre
. But since then I have come to know her and to love her for all her qualities of character and mind. Otherwise I should not be here to ask for her hand.”

Jules considered.

“Fox, we like you, and it is my opinion that you would make a very good husband. I do not know what Marie’s feelings might be about your proposal, and that will be for her to decide.”

“I have not the least wish to marry a woman who doesn’t want to marry me.”

“Of course. But I must tell you that there is the problem of religion.”

“It is a problem for me as well. I have had a long discussion with my father, whose wish is that I should marry a Protestant.”

“Ah. That’s the thing.”

“However, my father is a realist, and because he understands the strength of my desire, he has made a concession which may shock you, but which is the only way that I can hope to marry, without causing deep distress to my own family.”

“I’m listening.”

“I should myself remain a Protestant, while my wife remains a Catholic.”

“That might be acceptable. But what of the children? That’s the question.”

“In France, society is mainly Catholic. In England, naturally, people normally belong to the Church of England, and if the truth is told, there is still in many quarters a certain suspicion of Catholics. Therefore my father proposes that if we live in France—as we surely would for the time being—the children should be Catholic. However, if in later years the
family business should require my presence in London, then the whole family would worship at a Church of England church. The nearest church to our London house, as it happens, is so High Church, as we Anglicans put it, that visiting Catholics often mistake it for one of their own.”

“There is a degree of subterfuge, even dishonesty in this.”

“Precisely.”

“I wonder what Marie would think of it. She would have to be told.”

“Yes.”

“My wife would not like it.”

“That would be up to you to tell her.” Fox paused. “It wouldn’t be obvious.”

“No. In France there would be no problem at all. Not, of course, that I have ever had secrets from my wife.”

“Indeed.”

“Come back in a week. Let me speak to Marie, and my wife … Then I shall give you my answer.”

“That is all I ask.”

Jules Blanchard smiled.

“Whatever my answer turns out to be, my dear Fox, I am honored by your proposal.”

Two days later, Jules told Marie the entire conversation.

“Fox is a very nice man,” he said to her, “and it seems he is truly in love with you. So I want to be careful that we respond clearly.”

“I should not be unhappy. I am sure of that, at least,” Marie said. And that is far better, she thought, than what I have now. “But I only considered him as a friend before.”

“Friendship may be the best way to start,” her father suggested.

“Yes. Can you give him permission to court me?” she asked, quite cheerfully. “Aunt Éloïse can always be my chaperone. Then I can see how he does.”

•  1903  •

It was some years since Adeline had suggested to Ney, soon after Édith’s mother had died, that Édith and her husband, Thomas Gascon, should move into the big house with their children.

“The arthritis in my hand is slowing me down a little, monsieur,” Adeline had explained, “so I really need more help from Édith. If she could be on call at all times, it would be much better.”

“And where would they live?”

“There are three or four unused rooms on the attic floor. Thomas is good with his hands. He would renovate them at no charge to you.”

The arrangement worked well for everyone. Édith continued to work for the same wages, but lived rent-free. Thomas had his own work, but gladly undertook small tasks as a handyman when needed. “If they do not disturb the residents, the children will bring a family spirit into the house,” Monsieur Ney had declared.

It seemed to Édith that Monsieur Ney had mellowed as he grew older. She had four children now: Robert, the oldest; Anaïs; a second boy, Pierre, now five years old; and little Monique, the baby of the family. And since he had no grandchildren of his own, the stiff old lawyer had unbent into a grandfatherly figure to her children, bringing them chocolates, and treats, and little presents from time to time.

For Hortense had still not married. Around the turn of the century, she
had told her father that her doctor had prescribed that she should spend her winters in a warmer climate, and she had been in Monte Carlo most of the time since then.

The portrait of Hortense by Marc Blanchard, however, was in the place of honor in the hall. Though Ney had originally intended that it should grace his own house, he was so proud of the picture that only the splendid architecture of the hall with its noble staircase seemed worthy of it.

As the years had gone by, Thomas Gascon and his family had come to think of the curious old mansion as their natural home.

It was a cold March day when Monsieur Ney arrived looking rather pleased with himself. Having distributed some bonbons to the children, he summoned Édith and Aunt Adeline, and made a surprising announcement.

“In going through some old papers, I have made a surprising discovery. Do you know the age of Mademoiselle Bac?”

“She might be over ninety, I think,” Aunt Adeline suggested.

“She will be a hundred this summer. I have the papers to prove it.”

“It is a tribute, monsieur, to the care you have always lavished upon her,” said Adeline.

“Indeed. And we shall have a party to celebrate. Mademoiselle Bac shall participate, even if she is not aware of the circumstances.”

“You are kind, monsieur.”

“But more than that. Have you considered the favorable publicity this will generate? Few places indeed can boast of a resident of such an age. We shall be in the newspapers. The finest establishment of its kind in Paris.”

Édith had never seen him so excited.

“Will you tell Mademoiselle Bac?” she asked.

“I think I shall. I shall do it this very moment—even if she does not understand.” And he hurried out.

They did not see him again for half an hour.

It was Édith who found him. He was lying in the hall, in front of the painting of Hortense. Whether he had been suddenly overcome on his
way up to see Mademoiselle Bac, or whether he had already performed that mission when he was struck, she could not tell. But it was clear that he had suffered a massive stroke, and he was already quite dead.