Paris: The Novel

were to marry this girl.
    Was it breaking the code? Would it be letting the family down if he married into the bourgeoisie? Certainly he’d never imagined himself doing such a thing. What would his friends say? Perhaps not so much, if she were rich. What would his father say? He suspected that his father might have maneuvered him into attending this lunch for precisely this purpose. I must ask him, he thought.
    Just then, Marie asked whether Hadley intended to travel in France, and what places he meant to visit.
    Everyone had a piece of advice to offer. Hadley explained that he was hoping that by the early summer his French might have improved a good deal, but that the weather hardly invited going anywhere outside Paris just yet.
    “You could go to Versailles,” de Cygne suggested. “Much of what one sees is indoors. And it’s only a short journey by train.”
    “Is it open this time of year?” asked Jules.
    “I could arrange a private visit,” de Cygne offered, which impressed everybody.
    “You should accept at once, Hadley,” Jules told him.
    “If you and Marc would like it, I could conduct you myself,” de Cygne continued. “My family has some connection with the place. Perhaps Mademoiselle Marie would like to accompany us.”
    Marie glanced at her mother, who nodded and looked at her husband.
    “Certainly,” said Jules. With her brother there, the outing was entirely respectable. Indeed, it was a charming way for de Cygne to reciprocate for the lunch. And if the aristocrat liked to see more of his daughter … well and good.
    “Have you room for a translator?” Fox inquired.
    “Certainly,” answered de Cygne. He didn’t want to take too obvious an interest in the girl just yet. The polite Englishman would be excellent additional cover.
    So it was all agreed, and a date set for the following Saturday.
    It was a pity therefore that a minute or two later, in all innocence, Frank Hadley should have chosen to ask de Cygne: “What exactly is the business with this army officer that the newspapers seem to be so excited about?”

    Roland de Cygne began very carefully. He assumed that this solid Catholic family would feel as he did, but it was wise to be cautious.
    He explained briefly how Dreyfus had been tried for treason and found guilty. How another officer, Esterhazy, had subsequently been investigated, but had been cleared. Not everyone, he explained, was convinced, but there the matter had rested until, this week, a well-known novelist named Zola had written an open letter to the president of France that made serious allegations of a conspiracy to cover up the truth.
    “As far as I know,” he concluded, “Zola has no special knowledge or standing in the matter, whatever he may say. And it may be that the government will prosecute him. But we shall see.”
    “And you may be sure, Hadley,” Marc added, “that the army is not happy either. Would that be fair?” he asked de Cygne.
    “Certainly,” de Cygne answered straightforwardly. “Most, I think all, of my fellow officers feel that the army has been insulted by Zola. I do not suppose,” he continued, turning to Hadley, “that the army of the United States would be happy if they were publicly accused of injustice and dishonesty.”
    From down the table, Jules Blanchard moved quickly to avert any trouble.
    “You understand, Hadley, that cases like this arise from time to time in every country. What is unfortunate is that Zola chose such an inflammatory way to approach the subject. But I have no doubt”—he looked around the table firmly to make his message quite clear—“that calmness and wisdom will soon prevail.”
    And now his wife showed that she, too, could command the situation when she chose.
    “I am very disappointed that no one has tried the fruit flan.” She nodded to the servant who was holding it to move forward. “Monsieur de Cygne, you will not insult my flan I hope.”
    “It looks delicious, madame.” Roland took his cue at once, and accepted a slice.
    “I know you have been at your château on the Loire,” she continued firmly. “Do tell us about it. Is it of great age?”
    Fox, also ready to help, immediately asked Gérard a question about his business.
    But it wasn’t enough.
    “All that you say is true, Monsieur de Cygne.” Aunt Éloïse was speaking. “But you have not mentioned the matter that is central to Zola’s accusation. Namely, that Dreyfus is a Jew.” Hadley saw Jules Blanchard put