Paris: The Novel

may be sure that you will hear from me afterward.”
    The interview was at an end. As soon as Petit had left, Jules sent a servant to Marc’s lodgings with a message that he should come to see him at once.
    “Not later this morning,” he reiterated. “At once.”

    Marc arrived at twenty minutes before noon. He was smiling broadly. He had his American friend already with him, and cheerfully introduced the fellow, who seemed harmless enough, to his parents before his father asked him to step into his library for a private word.
    Jules closed the door.
    “Corinne Petit is pregnant.”
    “She is?” The surprise on Marc’s face was genuine.
    “Her father was here this morning. He wants to know what you mean to do about it. Is there a chance you are not the father?”
    Marc considered.
    “I imagine I am.” He shrugged. “She was innocent.”
    “A virgin?”
    “Yes. And … I doubt she would even have had the opportunity …”
    “He thinks you should marry her.”
    “Ah, non.”
    “You know what will happen to her, don’t you? Her father is going to throw her out into the street. She is dead to him. Ruined.”
    “Mon Dieu!”
    “What do you expect? Have you no sense of responsibility?” His father’s voice was rising. “You seduce the young daughter of a man who does work for our family, who trusts us and holds us in respect. You ruin her and think there will be no consequences? How do you think I felt, watching the poor fellow’s rage and agony? How do you imagine I should feel if some scoundrel, yes, some scoundrel like you had ruined your sister? Villain!” he shouted. “Cretin!” He was almost panting with rage.
    Marc was completely silent. Then, after a pause, he answered with a single word.
    “Joséphine.”
    “What do you mean, Joséphine?”
    “You insult me and call me names, Father, but it was you who called your department store, for which you and our family are known all over Paris, by the name of your former mistress.”
    “Nonsense. It’s named after the empress Joséphine. Everyone knows that.”
    “Don’t worry. Maman has no idea.”
    “She has no idea because it is not the case,” his father answered sharply.
    Marc shrugged.
    “As you like.”
    “If,” said his father quietly, “you had a charming mistress, a woman of the world who could take care of herself, I’d have no objection whatsoever.”
    “I should need a larger allowance.”
    “But this case,” his father continued, ignoring the impertinent interruption, “is entirely different.” He paused. “We could take no notice of the girl, of course, we could say that she is just a little whore and that you may not even be the father. I know many families who would do exactly that. Do you wish me to do so?”
    “No.”
    “I am glad to hear that, at least, since I am not disposed to do any such thing. We shall have to see what arrangements can be made. She can have the child out of sight in the country. That’s not a problem. It could be adopted. If need be, I can pay for its upbringing. But I’m afraid that Petit still won’t have his daughter back in his house. I understand it, but it’s tragic.” He looked at his son bleakly. “Meanwhile, in order to help you reflect on this, I am stopping your allowance.”
    “For how long?”
    “Until further notice.” He signaled that there was nothing more to say. “You had better rejoin your American friend. Our other guests are about to arrive. Oh, and one more thing,” he added. “Your sister is to know nothing about this business. You understand? Absolutely nothing.”

    Frank Hadley was a very decent fellow. He’d come to Paris to study art, and he’d been there only a couple of weeks when he bumped into Marc Blanchard, who’d befriended him, taken him around and now invited him to meet his family.
    He was twenty-five years old, tall, well-built, with a mane of brown hair, honest brown eyes set wide apart, and whose strong, athletic frame suggested that he might be a good oarsman, and probably swing the lumberjack’s ax as well—both of which guesses would have been correct. During his education, he’d picked up enough French to make a start when he got to France, and he was studying the language hard for two hours every morning.
    He looked around the apartment with interest. It was obvious that Marc’s family had plenty of money, but it was bourgeois money. There was none of the stately Louis XIV furniture favored by the aristocracy, nor