Paris: The Novel

not fade away. They grew stronger, worse, as the days went past.
    And she had no one to share her troubles with. She could not tell her parents. She loved her cousins, but none of them was a confidant. She was a little afraid even to tell her aunt Éloïse. And the one person she might have confided in, Marc, was Hadley’s friend, so that was impossible. As the days of July went by, apart from her physical and social activities, she read, or pretended to read, and took up desultory needlework, and tried many times, with indifferent success, to sketch the puppy playing in the garden.
    Her brother Gérard came down with his family twice to stay the weekend. Her father had left the business largely in his care for the summer, and he would come down and sit with his father on the big veranda, and give him reports that were generally satisfactory. Once Gérard had taken her aside.
    He knew she didn’t like him. But he was trying to be nice. She understood this. He was doing his best. But his best wasn’t very good.
    “I’m sorry that things didn’t work out with de Cygne,” he remarked.
    “They never really started,” she said.
    “I know. All the same, that would have been something …”
    “He might have turned out to be a bad character.”
    He shrugged.
    “We’re going to look out for someone. We have more friends than you think. God knows, you’re pretty, and you’re going to have an excellent dowry. Really excellent. It’s amazing that you’re not married already, but you’re an excellent catch.”
    “That’s a comfort.”
    “But you’ve got to look out for a husband, Marie. Do you know what I mean? It’s not about waiting for a knight in shining armor. It’s about seeing what’s out there, and making some choices. One’s just got to be practical.”
    “And that’s it?”
    “It is.” He smiled encouragingly. “That’s the wonderful thing. It’s all quite simple. Well, it is if you’ve got money.”
    “Is that what your wife did?”
    “Absolutely.”
    “And you’re both happy?”
    “Yes. We’re very happy.” He gave her a look that was surprisingly full of affection. “Totally happy.”
    And she realized that he was.
    “Thank you,” she said.

    She was relieved when her father invited Fox down for a weekend. At least he didn’t talk to her about marriage. As always, he was easy company. And he liked the family house.
    The Blanchard house at Fontainebleau was typical of its kind. In structure, it was a smaller and provincial version of an aristocratic mansion. One entered from the quiet street through a pair of high iron gates into a cobbled courtyard with a pavilion wing on each side and the main house in the center. The main entrance was up a broad flight of steps, the house being raised over extensive cellars. Above this was a floor of bedrooms, with attics above that. The salon, on the left of the front door, was large and extended all the way through, giving onto a broad veranda which ran the length of the central house and overlooked the gardens.
    Seen from the garden, when the family gathered on the veranda, it looked exactly like a picture by Manet.
    If the big salon, with its classical, First Empire furniture, had a Roman simplicity and repose, the garden had a character of which both Marie’s parents were proud.
    “Why,” Fox exclaimed when he saw it, “you have an English garden.”
    It was very long and divided into two parts. Close to the house, it was laid out with gravel paths, a small ornamental pond and fountain, flower beds of lavender, roses and other plantings, and a lawn. After fifty yards, a high, neatly clipped hedge formed a screen, with a wicket gate in the middle, through which one passed into an orchard. At the far end of the orchard, behind other screens, was a garden shed and compost heaps.
    “My wife is in charge of the plants, and I am in charge of the lawn and the orchard,” Jules explained. “Do you approve?”
    “I certainly do,” said Fox. “I could almost be in England.”
    “Almost?” Jules nodded. “My lawn isn’t quite right. It’s mown, but I have had difficulty in obtaining a roller. An English lawn would be rolled. How long does it take then, to get a truly English lawn?”
    Fox looked at the two Blanchards, then at Marie, and gave a broad smile.
    “Centuries,” he said.
    They took him around the old château and walked in the forest and had a delightful weekend. And perhaps because he was not a threat to her