Paris: The Novel

so annoyed with herself. She’d been shopping with her mother and mistaken the time. When she reached Vollard’s gallery, he told her she’d missed her brother by ten minutes.
    It was hardly a fifteen-minute walk from the gallery to her brother’s studio, so she thought she’d go over there to apologize.
    When she got to the street door, she found it open, so she mounted the stairs. At the door of the studio, she knocked and listened, but heard no sound. She tried the door. It opened.
    “Marc?” she called.
    Silence. Obviously he hadn’t gotten back yet. She wondered whether toleave again, but thought she might as well wait a little while. Then, if he didn’t appear, she could always leave him a note.
    She moved around in the studio, looked out the window, glanced at the stacks of paintings. She was quite tempted to look at them, but thought that he wouldn’t like it if she disturbed them.
    She sat down to wait. Twenty minutes passed. Perhaps he’d gone somewhere else, and it would make more sense to leave him a note. She looked around for some paper and something to write with. There was a letter already lying on the table. Idly, she picked it up.
Mon Chéri
, it began. A private letter, obviously. She shouldn’t read it. She left it alone. She glanced at it again. She read it.
    Then she heard steps coming up the stairs. Marc’s voice. Hadley’s too.
    She quickly sat down again and tried to look unconcerned. But she was very pale.

    Marc was surprised to see Marie sitting in his studio, but he smiled.
    “We missed you at Vollard’s,” he cried. “Did you think we were meeting here?”
    “No. It’s my fault. I was shopping with Maman. I got there just after you left. I came round to apologize.”
    Something wasn’t right. She looked pale. Her voice sounded unnatural. He glanced at the table and saw the letter from Hortense.
    He thought quickly. Personally he didn’t care what Marie knew, but his parents did. Whereas if his American friend had been a naughty fellow, it wouldn’t matter to anyone. Casually he picked up the letter, and handed it to Hadley.
    “You shouldn’t leave things lying around,
mon ami
,” he murmured.
    Thank God Hadley had a quick brain. He read the situation at once.
    “Ah,” he said quietly, folded the letter, and put it in his pocket.
    They chatted for a few moments. It was hard to tell whether Marie had read the letter or not, and Marc certainly wasn’t going to ask her. Then, after apologizing again for missing them at the gallery, Marie said that she had to get back home.
    After she’d gone, Marc turned to Hadley.
    “Thanks for getting me out of that one,” he said. “Have I ruined your reputation forever?”
    Hadley handed him back the letter.
    “Your sister’s well brought up,” he said. “I don’t suppose she even read it.”

    Half an hour later, Aunt Éloïse was most astonished when Marie arrived unexpectedly at her apartment. She was looking distraught.
    “Whatever’s the matter?” Éloïse asked.
    Marie sat down on the sofa. For a moment she couldn’t speak.
    “Something terrible,” she cried. “About Hadley. He has a mistress.”
    Her aunt smiled.
    “My dear little Marie,” she said gently. “Hadley is a handsome young man. If he has a mistress, it wouldn’t be so surprising, you know.”
    “She wants to marry him.”
    “This also is not unknown.”
    “And he’s already the father of a child. Quite recently.”
    Éloïse frowned.
    “How do you know this?”
    “There was a letter. He left it on a table at Marc’s. I read it.” She shook her head. “It was terrible.” She started to cry.
    Éloïse gazed at her.
    “Do you mind so much what Hadley does?”
    Marie did not reply. And now her aunt understood.
    “My poor Marie. What a fool I am. I didn’t think of it. You’re in love with Hadley.”
    “No. No.”
    “Yes you are. Why shouldn’t you be?”
    “You must not tell,” cried Marie. “Promise me you will not tell.” And then she wept as though her heart would break.

    The note Aunt Éloïse wrote was very short. It was an order. She gave it to her housekeeper with precise instructions. Then she went back to looking after Marie.
    She made her drink a little tea. She sat with her and talked quietly about the loves of women for talented men. She spoke of Chopin and George Sand, the woman writer who had loved him. And of Wagner, and how his last wife, Cosima, had left her husband to marry him instead. Intruth, there