Paris: The Novel

heavyweight champion. If he could make the extra weight and fight as a heavyweight, I think he could beat Jack Dempsey.”
    “I thought no one could do that.”
    “Tunney might. That’s a man I’d like to meet.”
    Frank grinned.
    “What would you say to Tunney if you met him, Hemingway?”
    “I’d ask him to fight me.”
    Marie laughed, but Hemingway’s wife, Hadley, shook her head.
    “You don’t understand,” she said. “He really would.”
    Frank laughed.
    “Tell them the Pamplona story, Hadley,” he said, with a sideways glance at his mentor.
    “Last year,” said Hadley, “when I’m pregnant with Jack, I am told that I must watch a bullfight in Pamplona because the sensation of it will be good for my unborn child. You know. Toughen him up before he’s even born.” She looked at Hemingway fondly. “I am married to a crazy man.”
    Soon after four o’clock, Marie and Claire left their new friends and returned to their apartment. Frank was going to join Claire at her uncle’s in the evening. On their way back, Marie asked Claire what she thought of the day so far.
    “I love Shakespeare and Company.”
    “And the Hemingways?”
    “They seem very much in love. He means to be a figure in the world.”
    “I agree. A showman,” said Marie.
    “They say his short stories are really fine, though.”
    “And Frank Hadley?” She made it sound casual.
    “Were you interested in his father?”
    Marie laughed.
    “He was Marc’s friend, rather than mine. Your father and I were already courting at that time. I think the son’s a bit of a flirt. Not to be trusted.”
    “He seems serious about his writing. He denies it, but I think he is.”
    “That may be. Avoid him if he has any talent.”
    “Why?”
    “Because all artists are monsters.”
    “Tell me about Monsieur de Cygne. Is he an old flame?”
    “No. His father and your grandfather were friends. He was always away with his regiment. But he was nice, the few times we did see him.”
    “You’re both free now. You could be a vicomtesse.”
    “Better than that,
chérie
. I can be seen at the opera with him. It’s quite respectable, and chic.”
    “Is that so good for you?”
    “You’re missing the point, my child. It’s good for the store.”

    She enjoyed the evening. It was the very end of the ballet season, after which the Opéra would close until September. The opulence of Garnier’s opera house, the magnificent, gold Corinthian columns, the sumptuous decoration, the gilded balconies and tiers, and the rich, velvety red seats recalled the Belle Époque of her youth so strongly that she gave a light laugh as they sat down.
    Roland gave her a quizzical look.
    “It’s so preposterous,” she said happily.
    “You find it vulgar?”
    “Can an overstuffed cushion be vulgar? It’s a kind of heaven, like a huge gâteau.”
    He chuckled.
    “I can imagine my dear father looking down from the balcony with the same ironic pleasure you feel.”
    “And my father too. They smoked the same cigars, you know.”
    “We share similar memories.”
    “Mine are more bourgeois, Monsieur de Cygne.” She smiled. “Complementary, perhaps.”
    “That’s it exactly,” he said with a nod.
    During the interval, they sat and talked. She asked him about his son.
    “He’s at the same lycée that I went to,” he told her, “and I don’t know if I did the right thing or not. It was always very conservative, and it still is. I wonder if I should have sent him to a place where their ideas are more modern. On the other hand, I feel I can help him better because I understand the school.”
    “Is he happy?”
    “He says he is.”
    “I think you did right. If you felt out of sympathy with the school, uncomfortable with the teachers, then you’d feel off-balance yourself. Children don’t have to agree with their parents, but they like it when their parents are comfortable with themselves, if you know what I mean.”
    “I’m so glad you say that.”
    She could see that he said it with some emotion. Yes, she thought, you’re a good man.
    She wanted to go straight home after the performance, but when he asked if she might care to go to the opera when the new season began, she smiled and told him: “After such a delightful evening at the ballet, monsieur, I cannot imagine why I should not want to go to the opera with you.”
    “I go down to my estate in a couple of days,” he said, “but you may be sure, madame, that I shall look forward to