Paris: The Novel

amuse a poor little rich girl, wasn’t it?” he said.
    “History is not fair to Marie Antoinette,” Roland replied. “In fact the hamlet—it’s a model Norman village in fact—really functioned and provided food for Versailles. Plenty of people dream of a private retreat, especially if they’re trapped in a formal world like the court of Versailles. It’s got a rustic charm. But it wasn’t built until 1783. She hardly had six years in which to enjoy it before the Revolution brought her life to an end.”
    It was certainly a charming spot to walk around. Hadley and Marc had strolled to one side with James Fox, so Roland took his chance to question Marie a little further. He asked her if she had enjoyed the visit, and she said she had.
    “I could see that you’re well acquainted with the history of Versailles. I hope my commentary for our friend Hadley didn’t bore you.”
    “Not at all. I enjoy historical places and family stories. But I really don’t know so much.” She smiled. “My aunt Éloïse says I should read more.”
    “There is no need,” he said firmly. “But what do you enjoy doing?”
    “The usual things in the city. We go to the opera. I have asked Marc to take me to the Folies-Bergère, but he hasn’t yet. I think my parents may have brought me up too strictly.”
    Roland smiled. It was a charming little flirtation.
    “Your parents are quite right. I go to the Folies-Bergère myself, however.” Would he take his wife to the Folies-Bergère? He could imagine Marie persuading him to do it, and the thought was quite delightful. His bride, of course, must be pure. But from all he had seen today, he felt sure that when her husband taught her the ways of love, this demure and charming young woman would be an eager pupil.
    “You spend time in the country as well?”
    “We have a house in Fontainebleau. I go riding in the forest there.”
    “You like to ride?”
    “I enjoy it, but I only ride occasionally. I should like to ride well.”
    “It takes a little hard work.”
    “I don’t believe one can do anything well if one isn’t prepared to work at it, monsieur.”
    “This is true.”
    “But apart from this, monsieur, my relationship with the countryside is too like that of Marie Antoinette at the Hamlet. I only play at it.” She paused. “We do own a vineyard that my father bought, however, where I always go down for the harvest. I work with the women picking the grapes. It’s not very elegant, but I love to do it. I think perhaps I am happiest at the vineyard.”
    Ah, thought Roland, she was not just a rich bourgeoise, then. She had a feel for the land. An aristocrat should be elegant in Paris, but know how to run an estate. He thought he could see Marie learning these dual roles.

    The four men wanted to take a brief turn in the ornamental gardens before they left. It was only a short walk to the Grand Canal in the center of the park, and Roland led the way. As they reached the Grand Canal, he let them wander about, and for the first time since their arrival he found himself momentarily alone and able to observe them.
    The January afternoon would be closing in soon. The clouds were so high that it seemed they had scarcely moved at all since the place was built. The Grand Canal ran down the center of the lower gardens. Louis XIV and his court liked to gather there for boating parties. But the canal was empty now, gray as the sky. Only Marie and her brother, Fox and Hadley stood like shadowless statues by the stony water’s edge, and all around them the vast formal terraces, geometric gardens, the endless parterres and distant fountains—all empty, all silent.
    And it came to him with great force that if he married Marie, he would be bringing into his life a warmth and comfort that was not to be found in these huge, echoing spaces where the hand of man clipped hedges with geometric precision, and the eye of God, hidden behind the gray-ribbed clouds, saw all and judged all, against the pattern of His greater and still more fearful symmetry.
    The life of the French aristocrat was full of ghosts—of kings, and ancestors and great events all moving about like shadows in an echoing garden. Like all ghosts, they were strangely cold, and the possession of them set him apart in ways he could scarcely explain himself, and which Marie Blanchard would neither share nor probably wish to share. She would bring him the warmth he needed. But could he tolerate that warmth? And would she