Paris: The Novel

Philadelphia. “I’d recommend Monsieur Jardin’s little café, where you can get an aperitif. Or of course, there’s the Hôtel Baudy. I’d say that’s the best place in the village.”
    “Thank you,” said Marc.
    A few moments later they saw a couple approaching. “Go on,” he told Hadley. “You ask this time.” And sure enough the couple responded the same way, in English.
    “Where are you from?” Marc asked.
    “New York,” they said.
    “All right,” Hadley laughed. “You’ve made your point. The place has been overrun by my countrymen.”
    “I doubt this village has more than three hundred French inhabitants,” Marc said. “And there must be another hundred American artists living here as well.”
    “A gross exaggeration.”
    But as they passed an old mill, they heard American voices within. And seeing a handsome old monastery on a slight rise, Marc asked a local French villager whether it was still a religious house and was told, no, a charming couple called MacMonnies had just moved in there.
    Yet it had to be said, the invasion of artists seemed to have brought no harm to the village. The Americans were evidently quiet, and an easel propped up at the edge of a field, or by the riverside, did nothing to disturb the natural economy.
    But if the rest of the village had absorbed the visitors without fuss, one family had seen its opportunity and seized it.
    The Baudy family owned the stout inn of geometrically patterned brick that bore their name, in the middle of the village. And their enterprise was obvious as soon as the little party reached the building.
    “Look at that!” Marc cried, as they approached.
    For there, on a grass plot just opposite the hotel entrance, were two well-maintained tennis courts.
    “Tennis courts, in the middle of rural Normandy! Those have certainly been put there for the visitors. I doubt that the villagers even knew what they were.”
    Entering the hotel, they at once found notices which announced that the hotel had stocks of all kinds of art supplies, of the best quality—paints, brushes, canvases, stretchers—everything that a resident artistmight need. In the spacious dining room they found the walls covered with paintings by its many patrons.
    Sitting down, they were offered all kinds of drinks, including whisky.
    “Whisky for the Americans, eh?” Marc commented cheerfully.
    “Perhaps, monsieur,” the waiter answered, “but Monsieur Monet always likes to drink it.”
    They enjoyed a pleasant lunch. Everyone was conscious that they were about to meet a great artist, but Marc filled in a little more background for them.
    “He may surprise you. He was poor for a long time, but he had a patron named Hoschedé, who owned a department store. When Hoschedé became bankrupt, the two families lived together, and finally after both Monet’s wife and Hoschedé had died, Monet and the widow married. Monet is an artist, but he’s determined not to be poor again, and a part of him wants to be a rich bourgeois. He’s been like a paterfamilias to both families for years.” He grinned. “You’ll find him very solid.”
    “How do you rate him as an artist?” Hadley asked.
    “You know what they say of him? He is the great eye. He may not think as much as some artists, but he sees, perhaps more than any man living.”
    And then it was time to see the master himself.

    Marie noticed his clothes first. Though it was quite a warm day, Monet was wearing a three-piece suit, the long jacket fastened by a single button over the chest, the other buttons left open, so that the jacket fell comfortably loose. He sported a folded white handkerchief in the breast pocket. But she knew enough to see at once that the coat was made of the finest cloth and had been made by a first-rate tailor.
    His hair was cut short, and brushed forward. He had a full, rich beard. His face was large-featured and strong, the eyes luminous, but powerful. Had she met him in the garden of the family house at Fontainebleau, she might have taken him for the owner of an industrial enterprise, or possibly a general.
    His wife, a stately, matronly woman, seemed to be of a similar type.
    He welcomed them to his domain, addressing himself especially to Aunt Éloïse.
    “I was so delighted, madame, to receive the letter of Durand-Ruel,which gave me and my wife the opportunity to welcome you to our house after all these years.”
    He suggested that they might like to visit the garden first, and speak