Paris: The Novel

That had been centuries ago, hardly worth thinking about. But it was conceivable that his family could be distantly linked to that of the English lawyer. Did he wish to investigate further? No, he didn’t want to be related to Fox.
    “It’s true,” he agreed, “there are many Renards.” And he let the matterdrop. “But now,” he announced, “the carriage will take us down to the end of the park where we can look at the charming little ensemble of the Trianons.”

    Anyone who knew James Fox would have said that, when he decided to marry, his choice of wife would be wise, and that he’d make an excellent husband. He’d already been a little in love with several women, and recently he’d wondered if it might be time to settle down.
    But he’d never experienced the thunderclap of a grand passion, the
coup de foudre
. Until last Sunday.
    And now he was in love. And his love was impossible.
    He’d always assumed he’d need a wife who spoke French. The family firm had begun in London, but the Paris office was an important part of the business. He and his father were liked and trusted by the British embassy, and he expected that he’d be moving between the London and Paris offices for the rest of his professional life.
    Finding an English wife who spoke French should not be too difficult. Ever since the might and prestige of the Sun King had made French the language of diplomacy, it had been de rigueur for ladies of the upper and upper-middle classes to speak French—at least in theory. Indeed, most middle-class girls would learn a smattering of French at school.
    But what about a French wife? The idea was quite appealing. In France, it could only help. And in London, so long as she could speak passable English, it would be thought rather elegant.
    Either way, James Fox might hope to marry well. True, from the point of view of an English bride, his position as a solicitor lacked the social cachet of the barrister who appeared in court. But the Paris connection, the fact that James and his father were invited to embassy receptions and had dealings with the aristocratic world of diplomacy, added to his status. A young woman who hoped to marry a diplomat might settle for a life in glamorous Paris with a professional man of solid family fortune. With the French, his position was even better. The British Empire was at its zenith; it had a monarchy, which many French secretly craved; and the British pound sterling bought a great many French francs. Less aware of minor English social distinctions, the French saw only a prosperous English gentleman. Even a rich family like the Blanchards might have considered him.
    Except, of course, that he was Protestant.
    Every week he attended St. George’s Anglican Church near the Arc de Triomphe, or sometimes the nearby American church of the Holy Trinity, just south of the Champs-Élysées, where the cousin of J. P. Morgan the banker had been rector for decades. Some of the Foxes’ French friends were Protestant, but the majority, naturally, were Catholic. As his father had told him since his early childhood: “Many of our dearest friends are Catholic, James. But although there’s no need to talk about it, always remember that you are a Protestant.”
    So on Sunday, when James had found himself staring at the fair curls and blue eyes of Marie Blanchard, and known, instantly and irrevocably, that this was the woman he wanted to marry, he had also realized that it was madness.
    Monsieur Blanchard would almost certainly forbid it. His own father would not take kindly to the idea at all. There would be the inevitable wrangle about the children’s religion. As a lawyer he knew only too well how even the nicest families could be broken apart, wills altered and worse, the moment one crossed the religious divide.
    And besides even that, it was very clear that there might be an offer from de Cygne, a rich aristocrat of impeccable religion.
    He was wasting his time even thinking about Marie.
    But James Fox was a patient man. He didn’t give up easily.

    The Trianon where the Sun King would retreat with Madame de Maintenon from the formality of his court was a charming country house built of stone and pink marble. The nearby Petit Trianon of his successor Louis XV was a doll’s house by comparison.
    “This is where we are reminded that the Bourbons were humans after all, and not gods,” Roland remarked. “And also that they were vulnerable. For this tiny palace of the Petit