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?<
br />
“It seems Hadley wanted your picture of the Gare Saint-Lazare,” Aunt Éloïse remarked.
“Perhaps we should give it to you,” said Marie.
“Oh no. You must enjoy it,” he said quickly. “But I shall be content to envy you.”
Aunt Éloïse mentioned a few of the other paintings in the apartment that Hadley had liked. Then she rose.
“I must leave you with Marie, Hadley,” she said. “I have something to attend to. But I shall be back in a moment.”
They sat in silence for a few seconds.
“Your aunt has a wonderful collection,” said Hadley, still trying to make out what had changed in Marie.
“Yes.” Marie paused. “Hadley,” she said, “I think I had better tell you, I know all about Marc.”
“Oh?”
“The letter, the woman and the baby.”
“Oh.”
“My aunt Éloïse decided it was time I grew up.” She smiled. “But don’t tell my parents that I know.”
“No.”
“I think in America, it’s different. American girls are not so sheltered.”
“It’s not that different.”
“Well, my aunt thinks it’s absurd. I’m quite old enough to be married.”
“Yes.”
“But I’m kept in a state of idiotic innocence. So that’s over. Perhaps you disapprove.”
“Oh, no.”
“It was very nice of you to take the letter from my brother, the way that you did. I think you’re a very good friend. Though I don’t think he should have done it.”
“I’d have done the same in his place,” he lied.
“Are you telling me you have a mistress who’s trying to marry you, and an illegitimate child as well?”
“No.” He laughed. “Not at all. Neither.”
“That’s good,” she said.
Aunt Éloïse reappeared.
“Shall we have some tea?” she asked.
“I must go,” said Marie. “I’d like to stay, but I’m on my way to the Rochards’. I only looked in to deliver a message, Aunt Éloïse, that you are invited to lunch on Sunday. And as I have found you, Monsieur Hadley, would you please tell my brother he should also come? You are invited too.”
“That’s very kind.”
“Until Sunday then.” She kissed her aunt, and was gone.
After tea, Hadley rose to leave. He thanked Éloïse for a delightful time.
“I’m glad you like my pictures,” she said.
“Very much.” He paused at the door. “I was rather amazed at the change in Marie.”
“Well, it’s time she married. So it’s not too soon for her to … wake up. She’s a lovely young woman. Don’t you think?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps.” She spoke very quietly, but he was sure he heard her say: “Perhaps you should wake up too.”
Aunt Éloïse was pleased. The family lunch was going well. Everyone seemed to be getting on very well. Even Gérard was being pleasant. Marie was looking radiant. And if she was not much mistaken, Éloïse thought, Frank Hadley was watching her niece with more than usual interest.
All that was needed was an opportunity for them to spend some time together. It presented itself during the dessert.
They had been discussing the statue of Charlemagne. Jules had been rather pleased with the results of his committee. “We raised all the funds we needed,” he remarked. “I’m sorry that the Vicomte de Cygne didn’t live to see it, because he’d have been pleased. We even got an excellent contribution from that lawyer, Ney, whose daughter you painted.”
“Talking of sculpture,” remarked his wife, “I hear there’s a scandal about Rodin the sculptor in the newspapers. Is this right?”
“Rodin’s Kiss and his Thinker have even become quite famous in America, you know,” Hadley remarked. “I didn’t know there was a scandal, though.”
“It’s not exactly a scandal,” said Marc. “Nearly ten years ago, he was commissioned by the author’s society to do a big statue of Balzac. As most people think he’s our greatest novelist, something monumental was called for. And Rodin’s been at it ever since. He’s had to ask for fifty extensions to complete the work. And now they’ve seen it, they’ve rejected it.”
“Why?” asked Marie.
“I heard it was a monstrosity,” said Gérard.
“Ah non, Gérard,” said Aunt Éloïse.
Marc laughed.
“Actually, he’s right. It is a monstrosity. But a magnificent one. Faced with such a heroic task, Rodin attempted to depict the soul of the writer, rather than the literal man. The result is a shape like a tree trunk wrapped in a cloak, with this great head, with a neck like a bull, bursting out of it. They were all horrified. So Rodin’s taken the plaster model back to his studio. Perhaps it will never be cast.” He smiled. “Personally, I’d have preferred it if they’d put it in Père Lachaise instead of that rather boring head that sits over his grave at present.” He turned to Hadley. “You remember the one I mean?”
“Do you know,” said Hadley, “I’ve never been to the cemetery of Père Lachaise.”
“You haven’t?” Aunt Éloïse was astounded. “My dear Hadley, you must go there.”
“You should,” agreed Jules. “Certainly worth a visit.”
“I propose,” said Aunt Éloïse, seeing a beautiful chance, “to take you there myself. Marc and Marie, you must come too. I insist. We shall go this very week, while the weather is still so mild.” She looked at them all.
“Why not?” said Marc.
And Aunt Éloïse was feeling quite pleased with her cleverness when Gérard intervened.
“I think that’s a wonderful idea. We should love to come too.”
“We should?” said his wife, looking puzzled and not especially pleased.
“My dear Gérard,” said Aunt Éloïse, “I think you might be rather bored.”
“Not at all,” said Gérard. “We’re coming.”
It seemed to Hadley that Marc was looking a little pale when he came by to collect him.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“Hortense,” said Marc.
“You spoke?”
“You could call it that.”
“You broke up with her?”
“I did.”
Hadley gazed thoughtfully at his friend.
“I guess you know what you want,” he said.
“She wasn’t too pleased.”
“I don’t suppose she was.”
“She called me a lot of names.” Marc sighed, then shrugged. “However, I’m used to that.”
“I’d imagine you are.”
“Let’s go to Père Lachaise,” said Marc.
It was such a perfect afternoon. The weather was still pleasantly warm. The leaves were on the trees. But there were hints of gold in some of them, and now and then, as a light gust of wind made them tremble, a few leaves floated down to the ground.
The two men, Aunt Éloïse and Marie shared the Blanchard carriage. Gérard and his wife were meeting them at the cemetery.
But it wasn’t Gérard and his wife they found waiting for them.
“She couldn’t come,” Gérard explained. “The children needed her. So I have brought a friend of mine instead. May I present Rémy Monnier.”
He was a well-dressed man of about thirty. Medium height. Alert hazel eyes. Hair cropped very short, rapidly balding. But there was a brisk, almost dynamic energy about him that was quite impressive. He seemed like a man who shaved close and knew all the markets.
He bowed in a friendly way to them all, and immediately paid his addresses to Aunt Éloïse, as good manners demanded.
Meanwhile, Gérard was murmuring to Marie.
“Rémy is a very good man. The family’s rich, but he has several brothers. So he’s determined to make a fortune of his own. And he will. He’s in banking, has a huge talent for finance. And he’s not Jewish.” He nodded. “I think you’ll like him.”
&nb
sp; Marie said nothing.
“Oh,” Gérard continued, “and he knows his wines. Collects pictures, too. Old Masters mostly. Loves the opera. Very cultivated. God knows what he’s read.”
“Poetry?” she asked, not that she cared.
“Probably. All sorts of stuff.”
Marie gazed at the banker. Not that she knew about such things, but she imagined that Rémy Monnier was also an accomplished lover. He would have seen to that.
It was pleasant enough visiting the famous cemetery. They showed Hadley the monument to Abelard and Héloïse. They found the grave of Chopin, and of Balzac, with its impressive if rather conventional bust. They saw graves of Napoléon’s marshals and they went to the Mur des Fédérés, where Aunt Éloïse explained the tragedy of the last days of the Commune to Hadley.
The banker came and made himself agreeable to her as they walked along. He asked her about how she had passed her summer, spoke interestingly about the château of Fontainebleau, which he knew well. They talked about the grape harvest.
“I usually go down for the vendange on our little property,” she told him, “which will be quite soon. But I haven’t decided whether I’ll go this year.”
“Not to be missed,” he said. “I shall have to be in Paris, but I’d much rather join you and pick grapes.”
She also noticed that when she told him where the family vineyard was, he guessed at once exactly which grapes they harvested, and how they made the wine. He knew his subject thoroughly.
And although she wished he were not there, and that she could talk to Frank Hadley instead, she could see that the supremely competent Rémy Monnier would be very interesting indeed to many women.
When they had seen all they wanted of Père Lachaise, Aunt Éloïse announced that she and Marie were going to the charming Parc des Buttes-Chaumont nearby.
“You and Marc will come with us, of course,” she said to Hadley.
“We’ll follow in a cab,” said Gérard.
“So, Hadley,” said Aunt Éloïse with a smile, as the carriage rolled away, “you have been working hard at your painting in France for many months now, and I have never asked you: Are you satisfied with your visit so far? Are you finding what you hoped for?”