Paris: The Novel

some of these, but Roland had others that she had not encountered. She found these amusing, and he had no objection if she teased him about them, since they were all signs that he was an aristocrat.
    But behind them lay something more fundamental. And this she found harder to understand.
    Despite his heroic social life, there were still times when Charlie was moody. And during those periods, he could still seem a little lost, and vulnerable, like an adolescent boy. Marie assumed that it was partly just his character to be this way. But she could not help thinking that if he had more to do, Charlie might be happier.
    It used to astonish her how little he accomplished in a day. If he spent the morning being fitted for suits by his tailor, Charlie thought he’d had a fruitful day. When she considered how much she had crammed into a day when she was running Joséphine, she found the pace of his life almost comical. Not that he was inherently lazy. If, for instance, there was some new agricultural method that might be useful for improving the estate, he would throw himself into it wholeheartedly. When he and his father decided they might grow mushrooms, Charlie turned himself into an expert on the buildings for the mushroom beds, and on the entire process, and the ensuing business was a big success. But when that was all set up and running, he immediately returned to his social life again.
    “I suppose, being a bourgeois, that deep down I feel that a man should go out to work each day,” she remarked to Roland one evening. “He should have a job, an office, an occupation.”
    “The noble tradition—at least in France,” he replied, “is that we are there to lead in battle. To fight and die for our king, or our country. And when we aren’t doing that, we manage our estates, and dress up to look elegant. This last is very important.”
    “It’s not the way most people see things.”
    “We are not most people.”
    “You’re not ashamed of not working at a regular occupation. A job.”
    “On the contrary. I’d be ashamed if I had a job.”
    “Ordinary work is beneath you.”
    “I suppose so.”
    “And by cutting a handsome figure in the world, of course, Charlie is bringing honor to the family name.” She nodded. “This is what it means to be an aristocrat.”
    “Not only an aristocrat, I think. It’s the same with a matador, a great opera star, or a sporting hero. It’s a human instinct.”
    “That is true,” she acknowledged.
    But aristocrats were more imbued with the idea than other classes,all the same. She remembered a conversation at the dinner table with a visiting aristocrat who was descended from La Fayette, and whose family still had the sword that George Washington had given him. “La Fayette certainly found a way to make a name for himself,” the aristocrat said proudly.
    “But he was driven by a passion for freedom and democracy, wasn’t he?” Marie asked.
    Her guest looked doubtful.
    “It’s true that he came to believe that a constitutional monarchy, like the English one, would be best for France,” he answered. “But he wasn’t searching for freedom in America. He was searching for glory.”
    Of course, she thought. Nothing had changed since the Middle Ages. Heroes went in search of honor and renown. War, crusade, America: it made no difference.
    So what could a young French aristocrat do in the decade after the horrors of the Great War? Become an explorer? Perhaps. Charlie could do that. In the meantime, however, even the fastest motor car did not look daring enough. No wonder Charlie wanted an airplane.

    The first time Louise set eyes on Charlie was in 1937. Some friends had brought him to L’Invitation au Voyage. He was standing in the hall. He was a little taller than his companions, both of whom had been there before. He was very handsome, she thought.
    The three men were ushered into the salon. They sat down. Champagne appeared, and she sent three girls in to chat with them. From the doorway, she noticed that although he observed the girls and quickly noted their good points, there was an air of detachment about him.
    Curious, she stepped into the salon herself and went over.
    “You have never been here before, monsieur.”
    “Non, madame.”
The faint surprise in his voice told her that he had noticed her elegant manner and accent. “But I had heard of it by reputation, and my friends here were kind enough to bring me here to see for myself.”
    “Louise,” one