Paris: The Novel

the lighter, rococo furniture of the gilded age. The furniture of the Blanchards’ large apartment was mostly nineteenth century—sofas and chairs with curling legs and backs, lacquered cabinets, here and there a desk in the simpler, more severe Directoire style of the Napoleonic period. And above all, a profusion of potted plants—palm trees in tubs standing in corners, flowering plants on tables. The haute bourgeoisie of France, almost as much as the entire middle and upper classes of Victorian England, had taken to indoor plants.
    He’d done his best to make small talk with Marc’s mother. But although she couldn’t have been a more kindly hostess, her English was limited, and their conversation had not been sparkling during the first couple of minutes. So he’d been relieved when an elegant lady, who explained that she was Marc’s aunt, and a pleasant, fair-haired girl, who turned out to be Marc’s sister, had entered the room. The girl spoke only a little more English than her mother, but Aunt Éloïse spoke English quite fluently, and it was quickly apparent that she was a cultivated and well-read lady. This was just the sort of person, he thought, that he should get to know.
    They’d been talking only a couple of minutes, however, when, quite unmistakably, they heard the sound of Monsieur Blanchard’s voice raised in anger. They couldn’t hear what he was saying, but Frank was almost sure he heard the word “Villain!” being shouted. And then: “Cretin!”
    He glanced inquiringly at Marie, who blushed with embarrassment. He had a sense that Marc’s mother might know what this was all about. He wondered for a moment if perhaps he ought to go.
    It was Aunt Éloïse who calmly took command of the situation.
    “Well, Monsieur Hadley, it seems that Marc must have displeased hisfather. We do not know what he has done, but I think we can say it is quite certain that he has done something.” She smiled. “Perhaps your father was sometimes angry with you.”
    “I seem to remember being taken to the woodshed, as we say, when I was a boy.”
    “Voilà.” She made an elegant motion with her hand. “Then it seems that all families in the world are the same. So. As we have guests coming at any moment, my dear Hadley, you will now immediately have to become one of the family. We shall carry on exactly as if nothing had happened at all,
n’est-ce pas
?”
    Frank grinned.
    “I can do that.”
    “Excellent.” Aunt Éloïse looked around. It did not seem that Marie or her mother were ready with any observations at this moment, so she continued in the same vein. “Very soon, Hadley, we shall ask you all about yourself, but I shan’t ask you yet, or when the others come you will have to say it all again.” She paused, but only for a moment. “In France, you will soon discover,” she continued, as if, indeed, nothing had happened at all, “we often raise our voices when we are discussing matters which are of absolutely no importance whatsoever. Philosophy, for instance. Everybody shouts and interrupts each other. It’s most agreeable. If, however, the world is coming to an end”—she raised her finger—“it is de rigueur to remain very calm, and, if possible, to look bored.” She gave him a wry look. “At least, this was the ideal in the best circles, before the Revolution. And we still remember it.”
    “We have the stiff upper lip in America,” Frank said, “but we haven’t yet mastered the art of being bored.”
    “If you stay with us long enough, my dear Hadley,” said Aunt Éloïse with a smile, “I’m sure that we can bore you. Ah.” She turned. “People are coming.”
    Everyone was arriving now. Gérard and his wife, Marc, who was looking a little pale, and moments later a pleasant Englishman named James Fox. Just after that, Monsieur Blanchard also returned to the room. He welcomed Fox, embraced Gérard and his wife, and if he did not look at Marc, gave no other sign that anything might be amiss between them.
    His sister, Éloïse, turned to him.
    “My dear Jules, while you had your passionate discussions with Marc, Ihave been having a charming conversation with Hadley here, who is now quite one of the family.” She gave her brother a stare.
    She spoke in French, but Frank got the gist of it, and he smiled to himself. The French manners might seem a little artificial, but Aunt Éloïse had just gently let her brother know that their American guest had heard him