Paris: The Novel

a thaw began, it was discovered that the cellars were flooding quite seriously.
    Roland’s leave was ending in any case, and he had to return to Paris. So the day before he was due to depart, the vicomte called him into his estate office.
    “My dear son, I have two small favors to ask of you. The first is that I have just found this letter in my desk, which I received six weeks ago and entirely forgot. It’s from a man in Canada who thinks he is related to us. I don’t believe he is. As far as I know, no member of the family has ever gone to Canada. But I don’t think that he is trying to insinuate himself. He writes very charmingly. Anyway, as I have so much to do here, and I’m embarrassed to have taken so long to reply, would you do me the kindness to reply to him. Write something nice. One never knows when one might need a friend in Canada.”
    Somewhat unwillingly, Roland agreed to do so.
    “And what is the second thing?” he asked.
    “Ah. I had planned to go to Paris with you, but with all this water trouble, I think I should stay at the château. Would you go in my place to a luncheon I had promised to go to? In fact, to tell you the truth, I practically invited myself.”
    “When, Father?”
    “On the third Sunday of this month. That’s the sixteenth, I think.”
    “I suppose so. Who’s giving the lunch?”
    “A friend of mine named Jules Blanchard. He owns the Joséphine department store, you know. I met him through the business over the Charlemagne statue.”
    “But Father, I don’t know any people like that. I wouldn’t know what to say.”
    “My dear son, you don’t have to say anything. Just go there as myrepresentative. I don’t want to offend him by not turning up. In any case, you’ll find him excellent company. He knows how to behave. Quite a man about town, in fact. And it certainly won’t do you any harm to meet some people like that. They’re important, you know.”
    “I shall be a fish out of water.”
    “Just turn up as a kindness to me.”
    “As you wish.”
    The following morning Roland left for Paris. It never crossed the mind of either father or son that they would never meet again.

    Jules Blanchard lived in an apartment. Ten years ago, he and his wife had considered buying a handsome house near the Parc Monceau. But in the end they’d both decided against it. “The house at Fontainebleau is enough work to keep up,” Jules had remarked. And the apartment they had, which was already large, was so close to his beloved department store, and so convenient for the Opéra and the other amusements they both liked, that they decided to stay where they were. They had never regretted the decision.
    On the morning of the third Sunday in January in the year 1898, while his wife and Marie were still at Mass, Jules Blanchard rose from the breakfast room, and made his way to his small library, where he meant to read the newspaper in peace for a couple of hours. God knows there was a lot to read about that week. After that, he’d prepare for the family gathering at lunchtime.
    He was feeling quite pleased with himself.
    In the last few weeks, he had taken his sister’s words to heart. Though Jules had always had a large circle of friends, in recent years he’d been so involved with the department store, which truly fascinated him, that he had often been content to stay at home in the evenings with his wife when they might have gone out. They entertained a little, especially now that they had the new dining room to show off. Both Jules and his wife liked small dinner parties for just six or ten, and sometimes these included guests who might be of interest to Marie. But too often they had been middle-aged people that were of interest to Jules—businessmen, professional people, sometimes a politician.
    Not that Marie had been without friends. Far from it. She and hermother went out to galleries and to visit family friends. Her aunt Éloïse went out with her to something interesting at least once a week, and had introduced Marie to quite a few people in the circles that she herself enjoyed. But these tended to be intellectual people—charming to add to the right sort of dinner party, but not quite as financially solid as he’d want for his daughter’s husband.
    Marie’s brothers might have done more for her, but there was a problem. Gérard and his new wife had friends. But though Marie was on perfectly friendly terms with Gérard, she wasn’t close to him. Never had