Paris: The Novel

revolution spreading from Russia around the world.”
    “I am quite certain that is true.”
    “So what should we do, Father?”
    “It remains to be seen. The revolutionaries are ruthless. Perhaps the democracies of the free world are strong enough to defend themselves against them. I hope so. But it may be that the free world will have to adopt some of the tactics of the revolutionaries to counteract them. Beat them at their own game.”
    “What sort of organization are you thinking of?” Marie asked.
    “I’m not sure. Perhaps some kind of order, like the crusading orders of long ago. Perhaps military governments. We shall need strong leaders, certainly, and we don’t have them now.”
    “It sounds a little frightening.”
    He smiled.
    “Not as long as we have good people like you, madame, and I hope myself too, to keep us all sane.”
    “And what do you think, Charlie?” she asked the boy.
    “I’m ready to fight,” he said. “Father tells me I may have to.”
    “And who will you fight?”
    “The communists, I suppose, madame.”
    So the conversation ended. The two de Cygnes returned home. She went across the river to Joséphine. But she never forgot it. They had said nothing out of the ordinary. Any conservative, and even some liberals, in both France and Britain would have expressed the same sort of views. She, too, had thought them natural, at the time.

    The arrival of Mr. Frank Hadley Sr. at the end of October was marked by a gathering at Marc’s apartment. All the Blanchard family were there, except for Marc’s parents. But Marc was going to take the Hadleys down to Fontainebleau for lunch the following week.
    He’d asked Roland de Cygne, who had said that he’d be delighted to see the American again after so many years, and asked if he might bring his son. There were also a couple of art historians and one or two dealers, including young Jacob—all people whom Hadley might enjoy meeting.
    He was standing beside his son, talking to young Jacob, when Marie entered the room. And he recognized her at once and smiled, and she went toward him to greet him.
    But she was ready for him now. She was prepared. She’d seen a recent photograph that young Frank had shown her, so she knew that there weresome strong lines creasing his cheeks nowadays, and crow’s-feet from a quarter century of smiling pleasantly at his students. And she knew that he was still just as tall and athletic as before, because regular exercise had toned his body and preserved his figure. And she knew that there was a little graying at the temples. But the photograph, being black and white, could not convey the healthy youthfulness of his complexion, and the rich color of his hair; and so although she was well prepared and totally in control of herself, and greeted him as an old family friend, she was all too aware of the little gasp, the intake of breath that caught her unawares, despite all her preparation, as she crossed the room toward him.
    They chatted easily. Roland de Cygne came and joined them.
    “I am sorry that your wife could not come with you,” Marie said.
    “So am I. But her sister lost her husband recently, so she wanted to spend a little time with her. And she doesn’t really like to travel.”
    “Hates the sea,” said his son. “She won’t come sailing with us.”
    “And where are you staying?” asked Roland.
    “I thought I’d stay a month, revisit old haunts, that kind of thing. So instead of a hotel, I took an apartment in the Eighth, overlooking the Parc Monceau. There’s a housekeeper who comes in each day. It suits me very well.”
    “I should like to give a dinner for you,” said Roland de Cygne.
    “That would be very kind.”
    “Have you retired from teaching, to be away for so long?” Marie asked.
    “I’m not ready to retire for a long time yet,” Hadley answered. “But I took a sabbatical. With my son in France, it seemed a good time. I’m doing a little monograph on the Impressionists in London.” He smiled. “Did you know that when he did all those paintings of the Thames, and the London fog, Monet was staying at the Savoy Hotel? Painted looking out of the window. He stayed at the Savoy for weeks. So much for the struggling artist!”
    “I hope a stay at the Savoy formed part of your own research,” said de Cygne.
    “As a matter of fact,” Hadley answered cheerfully, “it did.”
    He still spoke excellent French. As she looked at young Frank, watching the little