Paris: The Novel

was no particular plan in Aunt Éloïse’s conversation, other than to suggest how the noblest and best women might fall in love with men who had great gifts. Her main purpose was just to keep Marie’s mind occupied until the housekeeper got back. At last, after nearly an hour, she did, and gave Aunt Éloïse a meaningful nod.
    “Have a little more tea, my dear, and I shall rejoin you in five minutes,” her aunt told her as she left the room.
    Down in the street, she found Marc waiting, as instructed.
    “You are to tell me the truth at once,” she commanded. “Marie read a letter. Was it addressed to you or to Hadley?”
    “We thought it best to let her think it was addressed to Hadley. You know what Papa and Maman feel. Marie’s not supposed to know anything like that …”
    “I know. It’s what I suspected. She thinks badly of Hadley, that’s all.”
    “Does it matter?”
    “No,” his aunt lied. “It doesn’t matter in the least. Except that I am sorry Hadley should have to assume responsibility for things he hasn’t done. It’s not a nice way to treat a friend, who’s a guest in our country.”
    “That’s true. I feel ashamed. What do you want me to do?”
    “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’ll deal with Marie.” She paused. “I’m bored with all these lies, Marc. I’m just bored, that’s all. Now go home.”

    She gave Marie a glass of brandy first.
    “If I tell you the truth, are you prepared to keep a secret? You must not tell your parents that you know. Will you promise me that?”
    “I suppose so. Yes.”
    “Good. Well then, I think it’s time for you to be treated as an adult.”

    “Oh,” said Marie when she’d finished. “Marc has been very wicked, then.”
    “My dear child, by the time you reach the end of your life, you will know so many men—and women—who have done the same or worse, that you will be forgiving.”
    “And Hadley …”
    “Was not the person to whom that letter was addressed. And so far asI know, he has not had an illegitimate child with anyone either—which your brother certainly has.”
    “Then Hadley assumed the guilt for my brother. He’s a saint.”
    “No, he is not a saint!” cried her aunt with momentary irritation. “And a good-looking boy like that has probably had a mistress or two by now.” She paused. “So Marie, you love Hadley. Does he have any idea of this?”
    “Oh no. I don’t think so.”
    “And if he wanted to marry you …?”
    “I don’t think Papa would allow it …”
    “He comes from a very respectable family, as far as I know. Is he Catholic?”
    Marie shook her head.
    “I have heard him say to Marc that his family are Protestant.”
    “And he will probably live in America. Can you imagine yourself living in America, far from your family? You’d have to speak English. It would be very different, Marie. Did you ever consider this?”
    “In my dreams, I have,” Marie admitted.
    “And?”
    “When I am in his company, I am so happy. I just want to be with him. That’s all I know.” She shrugged. “I want to be with him, all the time.”
    “I cannot advise you. Your parents will not wish to lose you, I am certain. But if you and Hadley truly wish to marry, and they believe you could be happy, then it’s possible they would agree. I can’t say.”
    “What should I do?”
    “In the first place, I think you should let Hadley know that you like him. It might turn out that he likes you more than you think. If he does not return your feelings, it will be very hurtful for you, but at least you will know not to waste your time.”
    “How will I do that?”
    Her aunt stared at her.
    “I see,” she said, “that I had better take you in hand.”

    Hadley was rather surprised, a week later, to receive a message from Aunt Éloïse that she wished him to call upon her, but naturally he did so. When he got there, she welcomed him warmly.
    “You’ve never really seen my little collection, have you?” she said. “Would you like to?”
    “I certainly should.”
    It was quite remarkable what she had. Corots, a little sketch by Millet and country scenes by others of the Barbizon school. She had more than twenty Impressionists, a pretty little scene in a ballet school by Degas, even a small van Gogh that she’d gotten for almost nothing from Vollard.
    Then, suddenly, he stopped in astonishment.
    “I wanted to buy this painting,” he cried.
    “The Goeneutte of the Gare Saint-Lazare?”
    “Yes. But I