Paris: The Novel

different.”
    Today, he’d made sure to be back in his house by early evening so that he could attend a small social event. Yet as he set out to walk from his house toward the Luxembourg Gardens, he wondered if he was making a mistake.
    He’d been at a charity event the other evening when he and Marc Blanchard caught sight of each other. Though they moved in different circles, he’d been reminded of Marc from time to time when articles by him appeared in the serious newspapers. They were reviews of exhibitions or books, usually, and read more like little essays than jobbing articles—as befitted an established cultural figure with an independent fortune.
    Politeness dictated that they should greet each other, and Roland asked after Marc’s parents.
    “They are both quite well for their age. My father still takes an interest in life, though he is a little forgetful. It’s many years since he retired to Fontainebleau. And you, Monsieur de Cygne,” Marc inquired, “your father had a house near the boulevard Saint-Germain, I seem to remember?”
    “I have it still. After the war, I retired from the army to look after my estate and my son.”
    “I heard that you had married.”
    “Yes, but sadly I’m a widower now. My father adored his wife, lost her and was left with an only son. I never imagined that exactly the same thing would happen to me. But
le bon Dieu
evidently decided that, having established this pattern with our family, He would continue it.”
    Marc expressed his sorrow for de Cygne’s loss.
    “And are you married?” the aristocrat asked.
    “Not yet,” Marc confessed. “At present I’ve too much else to do. During the war my brother died, and I had to step in and run the family business.It’s not what I wanted, but someone had to preserve it for the next generation. I’m still doing it now.”
    “This does not prevent you marrying,” de Cygne gently observed.
    “My sister says I’m too self-centered.”
    “I remember your charming sister well. She married the Englishman, Fox, your father told me.”
    “She did. They were quite happy and had a daughter. Sadly Fox was one of the victims of the flu epidemic. My sister and her daughter returned to Paris for a visit three years ago, and I’m delighted to say that they stayed.”
    “Ah. I had no idea.”
    “As it happens,” Marc said after a pause, “I am having a few people over for a drink next week in my apartment. I took over my aunt Éloïse’s apartment near the Luxembourg Gardens when she died. Marie and her daughter will both be there. You are most welcome to join us, if you would care to. Wednesday evening.”
    “I shall check my appointments when I get home,” Roland said. It was always wise to leave oneself a graceful way out. “But if I am able to come, I should be delighted.”
    So Marc had given him the address, and they’d left it at that.
    And for several days he had been uncertain whether to go or not. He was quite sure that Marc’s friends would not be to his taste. On the other hand, he couldn’t help being curious to see what Marie looked like these days. He remembered how he’d imagined she would be like by now, when he had considered marrying her all those years ago.
    There was no particular reason he shouldn’t satisfy his curiosity, he told himself. He only had to be polite and friendly, and then he could leave.
    He felt in his pocket for his lighter.
    It was foolish, no doubt, but he’d always thought that the little lighter in its shell casing might have saved his life. Had it touched the heart of Le Sourd when he’d asked him to send the lighter to his son? Was that why Le Sourd had failed to shoot him that day at the front? Who knew? Perhaps, when the moment came, he wouldn’t have pulled the trigger in any case. But it seemed to Roland that the lighter had brought him luck, and he nearly always kept it with him, like a talisman.
    Not that he needed any luck this evening. There was nothing to be lucky about. He certainly wasn’t in the least excited about the prospect of seeing Marie again, he told himself, as he walked the short distance from his house to Marc’s apartment.

    Marie Fox was in a sunny mood as she and Claire went across to her brother’s. One never knew who was going to be at one of Marc’s parties. One time Marie had found herself talking to Cocteau the writer; the next time she had even found herself chatting with the American novelist Edith Wharton. Everyone came to