Paris: The Novel

wife?”
    “No.”
    “A mistress?”
    “Let us say, an occasional mistress.”
    “Luc, are you asking me to be a prostitute?”
    “He would not be interested in most prostitutes. He is very fastidious, as I have told you. You would see if you liked each other over dinner. If not, there is no obligation whatever. But if you liked each other, then perhaps …”
    “He would pay me?”
    “Certainly. He would pay fifteen hundred francs each time. You would give me half. If you had any difficulties, I would take care of them. But I am quite certain that you would not. This is a very civilized man. You are the only person I have ever known who I should dream of recommending to him, and he is the only person I should think of recommending to you. But as well as the money, he might be a good friend for you to have.”
    “I can’t believe you would treat me in this way.”
    “One must be practical.”
    “This makes me a prostitute and you a pimp.”
    “The situation is more specialized. As for the money … Why don’t you think about it for a little while? Remember, he has offered you dinner without any obligation at all. You might like him.”
    She was silent for a little while.
    “What you are really thinking,” she said quietly, “is that I might like the money.”

    When Marie had a problem, she often liked to walk in the Luxembourg Gardens to work it out. The gardens were classical in their outlines, but they were simple, and friendly, and sensible. By ten o’clock on the Saturday morning after her brother Marc’s party, she was walking there.
    It was still quiet. A few children were already sailing their model ships in the big basin. Some elderly men had begun a game of boules on the gravel beside one of the statues. Marie walked to the bottom of the park and back, thinking hard. For today she had a very big problem indeed.
    What was she going to do about Frank Hadley Jr.? They were going to meet later that morning.
    Marc had started the business by inviting them all to join him at the Ballets Russes that evening. Young Frank Hadley and Claire had wanted to go. She couldn’t herself, she’d explained, because she’d agreed to go to the opera.
    Then Frank had asked if anyone would like to accompany him to the Olympics. “I’m going to watch the boxing with an American friend and his wife on Saturday afternoon,” he’d explained. Claire had wanted to go, Marc could not.
    Was Claire attracted to the young American? It had looked as if she was, and it would hardly be surprising. In any case, Marie had told herself that she couldn’t possibly leave her daughter alone with a young man who had such a glint in his eye, so she’d declared firmly that she and Claire would both accompany him.
    And now she considered the day ahead. It was one thing for the young American to flirt with her, seriously or otherwise. She was a widow, after all, who could certainly take care of herself. Claire, however, was another matter. Her daughter might be grown up, and the world might not be the same as it was before the war. But the rules of society hadn’t changed somuch; and the human heart, not at all. Claire still had to be protected. She didn’t want her daughter being compromised, and she didn’t want her being hurt.
    So she was going to be practical. Very practical. If necessary, she supposed, she might have to send Frank Hadley Jr. away with a flea in his ear. Unless, of course, she decided to take the young man in hand herself.

    The bookshop where they were to meet Frank’s friends was only a short walk from their apartment. They arrived there punctually at noon.
    If the area from the Seine into the Quartier Latin had been the home of the bookstall for centuries, it was the recent arrival of two eccentric bookshops on the rue de l’Odéon, both run by women, that had turned that little area into the literary capital of the world. The first was the French literary bookshop of the warmhearted Adrienne Monnier. The second, almost across the street, had been named Shakespeare and Company by its owner, Sylvia Beach.
    Claire was better acquainted with the bookstores than her mother.
    “The French writers go to Monnier and walk across the street to Sylvia Beach, and the English and Americans start with Sylvia and then explore Monnier as well. They’re both such nice women. Best of all, they fell in love with each other. They actually live together now.”
    “Oh. Is anyone shocked?”
    “I don’t think