Paris: The Novel

group with Claire, she thought how nice it must be for him to have a father he could feel so proud of.

    The next ten days were busy. Marc, she and Claire took the two Hadleys for an evening in Montparnasse, starting with a drink at the expatriate Dingo Bar, and ending with a long meal at La Coupole. The Hadleys went on a long afternoon tour from the Louvre, across to Notre Dame and ending with a meal at a bistro in the Latin Quarter, but she was too tied up at the store to join them. For the same reason, she couldn’t go down to Fontainebleau with them, though she would have liked to. But she did attend the dinner for Hadley at the mansion of Roland de Cygne.
    It was an interesting evening. He had invited both the Hadleys, a French diplomat and his wife, who had recently spent some years in Washington, together with their daughter, who was young Frank’s age. There was also a rich American lady who lived in a palatial apartment on the rue de Rivoli, and the daughter of a French count, whose family had an art collection, and being only seventeen, was obviously there as company for young Charlie, who had been allowed to join the grown-up party.
    It was interesting to watch. At the drinks beforehand, Roland introduced everyone with charming grace, and they all seemed to find plenty to talk about. The diplomat and his wife were old hands at this sort of thing, but it was clear that Hadley was no stranger to smart social gatherings, and he and the rich American lady soon found people they both knew.
    They sat ten at dinner, and Roland asked Marie to act as his hostess. Since the dinner was being given for Hadley, he was on her right, and the French diplomat on her left. Conversation was easy. Halfway down the table, young Charlie de Cygne, despite his strict upbringing, was staring in open-eyed admiration at the aristocratic young girl on his right, who was exceptionally pretty. Marie noticed, and so did Roland. Their eyes met, and they silently shared their amusement.
    Only a certain number of people in Paris could give an aristocratic dinner of this kind. The setting, the family silver and china, the footmen behind every chair—hired in to be sure, but looking entirely in place in such a house—the wonderful food and wine: Was Roland, by putting her at the head of the table opposite him, showing her what he had to offer any potential wife? He might be.
    Meanwhile, however, Hadley was sitting beside her, looking impossibly handsome, and she knew she was looking her best herself. It occurred to her, with a little frisson, that if she was going to make a discreet pass at Mr. Hadley Sr., then this would be a good moment to do it. If shecould do so, that is, without it being visible to his son, or her daughter, or Roland de Cygne.
    But how? Making light conversation with him was certainly easy. During the last quarter century, Hadley had acquired a rich fund of amusing stories, which made him a delightful dinner companion. She watched his friendly eyes, to see if they were indicating that he was also finding her attractive. It was hard to tell. More promising, he was fascinated that she ran a business.
    “Since the war,” he said, “a lot of young American city women are going to work. But they never get to run anything. Is it different now, in France?”
    “I think it only happens in family businesses,” she said. “But it wasn’t forced on me, and I must say I enjoy it.”
    He asked her all sorts of questions about how she ran Joséphine, and her answers seemed to impress him.
    “I think you are remarkable,” he said, and she could see that he meant it. Good, she thought. She intrigued him. That was a start.
    She asked him one or two innocuous questions about this wife of his, who didn’t like to travel. But she received only innocuous answers. Mrs. Hadley was a good wife and mother. She liked tennis. She had a talent for flower arranging. This was all information that might have been said about any wife, but it was not accompanied by any of the slight inflections that a man sometimes uses to hint that his wife is boring him. She suspected that, even if he were dissatisfied at home, he would never show it. But that was hardly to her purpose.
    She reminded him of their visit to Giverny long ago, and he became quite enthusiastic about the subject. She caught a certain light in his eye as he remembered that summer day, but whether it was engendered by herself or by the garden she wasn’t sure.
    She also