Paris: The Novel

Manet,” Hadley remarked.
    “He knows everything,” Marie cried delightedly.
    “He certainly does,” said Marc with a grin. “Soon, Hadley, you’ll know more about France than we do.”
    “You’re setting me up for a fall, I see,” Hadley answered amiably. “And by the way,” he added, “I know almost nothing about this place we’re going to.”

    Marie was impressed. They had scarcely arrived at the gate before a balding, middle-aged man came hurrying out to meet them. After briefly greeting Fox, he turned at once to her parents.
    “Monsieur and Madame Blanchard? I am the private secretary of Monsieur Iffla, and he asks me to present you a thousand apologies. He had particularly hoped to meet you. But then this morning he had word that his niece was sick, and so he was obliged to go back into Paris to see her. But he hopes you will enjoy your visit here. I am to show you anything you wish.” He bowed and smiled. “Monsieur Iffla and his nieces are great admirers of the Joséphine department store,” he continued, “and it is a great honor to welcome you to the house of the Empress Joséphine who, I understand, inspired your choice of name for your store.”
    “Monsieur Iffla is very kind,” said Jules, and one could see that he was flattered.
    What a good man Fox was, thought Marie. What trouble he had taken to ensure a fitting reception, and to give her parents so much pleasure.
    For if Jules Blanchard was rich, Monsieur Iffla’s wealth was on a completely different scale. Born in Bordeaux, of a Moroccan Jewish family, he had taken a Christian wife, and emerged from a career in banking and investment one of the richest men in France. Not only his wealth, but his magnificent acts of philanthropy had earned him the nickname Osiris—the Egyptian god, the Lord of Life.
    And if it weren’t for Osiris, this charming national treasure of Malmaison would probably be in ruins.
    It was a manor house, really, whose elegant proportions earned it the title of château. Or, since it lay not four miles west of the Bois de Boulogne, one might almost call it an intimate suburban palace.
    It was a few years after the French Revolution when Joséphine de Beauharnais had bought the little estate after marrying the rising young general Napoléon. By the time he returned from his campaign in Italy, the young conqueror found that Joséphine had already spent far more than he could afford on improvements to the place. But in the end Joséphine’s extravagance had produced a delightful retreat, where she’d lived herself until her death. Since the days of Napoléon, the house had had several owners until it had been occupied and stripped by the military in the war of 1870, from which it had not recovered.
    But now Osiris was taking the place in hand.
    “It will still be years before we have entirely restored the place,” the secretary explained, “but Monsieur Iffla has a fine collection of Napoleonic objects which will find a natural home here. He is a great admirer of the emperor.”
    “What does he admire in particular?” Marc inquired.
    “Many things. But especially that Napoléon gave the Jews religious freedom.”
    As they walked through the house, their guide pointed out the music room; the fine dining room in the Pompeian style; the council chamber, which had been decorated to look like the inside of a lavish military tent; and the library, which might have belonged to a Roman emperor. These were full of Napoleonic character. But Marie and her mother preferred the rich but charming room of Joséphine with its canopied bed.
    “One must always remember,” their guide remarked to her, “that Joséphine became elegant, but she was also a little exotic. She was brought up amid plantation life in the Caribbean. That was perhaps what fascinated Napoléon: that she was different.”
    “I have never traveled anywhere,” Marie remarked.
    “You have plenty of time, mademoiselle,” he said kindly. “Plenty of time.”
    One of the last rooms they visited was the Salon Doré—a salon that had once been beautifully gilded, but was now in a state of terrible disrepair.
    “This was horribly damaged in the war,” the secretary remarked. The curtains had been torn to shreds, he explained, the furniture had had to be thrown out, even the gilt paneling had been smashed.
    At one side of the room, on a table, were various items that had been salvaged. These included a rather nondescript chess set, which caught