Paris: The Novel

to Marie.
    “Rémy is a very good man. The family’s rich, but he has several brothers. So he’s determined to make a fortune of his own. And he will. He’s in banking, has a huge talent for finance. And he’s not Jewish.” He nodded. “I think you’ll like him.”
    Marie said nothing.
    “Oh,” Gérard continued, “and he knows his wines. Collects pictures, too. Old Masters mostly. Loves the opera. Very cultivated. God knows what he’s read.”
    “Poetry?” she asked, not that she cared.
    “Probably. All sorts of stuff.”
    Marie gazed at the banker. Not that she knew about such things, but she imagined that Rémy Monnier was also an accomplished lover. He would have seen to that.

    It was pleasant enough visiting the famous cemetery. They showed Hadley the monument to Abelard and Héloïse. They found the grave of Chopin, and of Balzac, with its impressive if rather conventional bust. They saw graves of Napoléon’s marshals and they went to the Mur des Fédérés, where Aunt Éloïse explained the tragedy of the last days of the Commune to Hadley.
    The banker came and made himself agreeable to her as they walked along. He asked her about how she had passed her summer, spoke interestingly about the château of Fontainebleau, which he knew well. They talked about the grape harvest.
    “I usually go down for the
vendange
on our little property,” she told him, “which will be quite soon. But I haven’t decided whether I’ll go this year.”
    “Not to be missed,” he said. “I shall have to be in Paris, but I’d much rather join you and pick grapes.”
    She also noticed that when she told him where the family vineyard was, he guessed at once exactly which grapes they harvested, and how they made the wine. He knew his subject thoroughly.
    And although she wished he were not there, and that she could talk to Frank Hadley instead, she could see that the supremely competent Rémy Monnier would be very interesting indeed to many women.
    When they had seen all they wanted of Père Lachaise, Aunt Éloïse announced that she and Marie were going to the charming Parc des Buttes-Chaumont nearby.
    “You and Marc will come with us, of course,” she said to Hadley.
    “We’ll follow in a cab,” said Gérard.

    “So, Hadley,” said Aunt Éloïse with a smile, as the carriage rolled away, “you have been working hard at your painting in France for many months now, and I have never asked you: Are you satisfied with your visit so far? Are you finding what you hoped for?”
    “Thanks to this fellow here”—Hadley indicated Marc—“and the kindness of his family, I’ve been more fortunate than I could have dared to hope. Many people come to France and see it from outside, but by getting to know a family, I’ve already learned far more about France than most people do.”
    “This is probably true in any country,” said Aunt Éloïse, “but it is especially true in France. And tell me—honestly, I beg you—how you like it here.”
    “Oh, I’m in love with it,” Hadley said simply.
    “You are?” said Marie.
    “I don’t mean that France has no faults. I find people a little too obsessed by their history. But the culture has so much charm, that’s understandable. And nobody can call France old-fashioned. A little slow to adopt mechanical inventions, maybe. But all the new artistic and philosophical ideas are happening here. That’s why all the young American artists come piling in.”
    “And what of your own painting?” asked Aunt Éloïse. “Are you making progress?”
    “Some.” He hesitated, then smiled a little ruefully. “Not enough.”
    “You have talent,” Marc assured him.
    “A little, Marc. But not enough. That’s what I’ve learned. I shall study painting all my life, but I’m not going to be a painter. That’s what I needed to find out, and I’ve seen so much already that I know my limitations. I’m not disappointed. I just needed to know.”
    “Too soon to give up,” said Marc. “Tell him so, Marie.”
    “I watched Hadley working in Fontainebleau and I was very impressed,” said Marie. “But I’d rather know what he thinks.”
    “I’ve decided that I want to live a life more like my father’s. I don’t want to go into business, as I’d thought I might. I want to live in the same world that you and your aunt do, Marc. If I apply myself, there will be positions I could take in art schools or universities in America. That would allow me free time to do my