Paris: The Novel

huge new opera house. The Paris Opéra, designed by Garnier, had been completed only at the start of this year, but already it was a landmark. Besides its many hidden wonders—which included an ingenious artificial lake in the cellars to control the swamp waters below—the Opéra was such a magnificent concoction that, with its great, round roof, it reminded Jules of an enormous, decorated gâteau. It was rich, it was flamboyant, it was the spirit of the age—at least, for lucky fellows like him.
    And now he was in sight of his rendezvous. Just a short way past the Opéra, on a corner site, was the Café Anglais. Unlike the Opéra, it was rather plain outside. But inside was another matter. It was lavish enough for princes. A few years ago, the emperors of Russia and Germany had dined there together for a legendary feast that went on for eight hours.
    Where else could one meet Joséphine for lunch?
    They had opened the big paneled room known as Le Grand Seize for lunch today. As he entered past bowing waiters, gilt mirrors and potted plants, he saw her at once.
    Joséphine Tessier was the kind of fashionable woman whom head waiters placed in the center of the room—unless the lady murmured that she wished to be discreet. Expensive and elegant, she was wearing a pale gray silk gown, a lace ruff at her throat and a jaunty little hat with a feather in it.
    He was greeted by a rustle of silk, and an intoxicating scent. He lightly kissed her hand, sat down and told the waiter to bring champagne.
    “A celebration?” inquired the lady. “You have good news?”
    “It’s a girl.”
    “Congratulations.” She smiled. “I am very happy for you, my dear Jules. It’s what you had wanted.”
    He had been wonderfully fortunate, Jules considered, to have been Joséphine’s lover when they were both young. For all his wealth, hethought, he probably couldn’t afford her now. A very rich banker indeed kept her these days. Nonetheless, he counted their relationship as one of the best that a man can have. She was his former mistress, his confidante and his friend.
    The champagne arrived. They toasted the baby. Then they ordered, and chatted of this and that. Only with the appearance of a light, clear soup did he broach the subject on his mind.
    “There is a problem,” he said. Joséphine waited. His face became gloomy. “My wife wants to call her Marie,” he said at last.
    “Marie.” His friend considered. “It’s not a bad name.”
    “I always promised you if I had a daughter, I should call her after you.”
    She looked up at him, surprised.
    “That was a long time ago,
chéri
. It doesn’t matter.”
    “But it does matter. I wish to call her Joséphine.”
    “And what if your wife associates the name with me?”
    “She doesn’t know about us. I am certain of it. I mean to insist.” He sipped his champagne moodily. “You really think there is a danger?”
    “I shall not tell her, you may be sure,” Joséphine answered. “But others might …” She shook her head. “You are playing with fire.”
    “I thought I’d say,” he persisted, “that I want to name her after the empress Joséphine.”
    The beautiful wife of Napoléon, the love of the emperor’s life. A romantic legend—up to a point.
    “But she was notoriously unfaithful to the emperor,” Joséphine pointed out. “Perhaps not a good example for your daughter.”
    “I was hoping you’d come up with something.”
    “No.” Joséphine shook her head. “My friend, this is a very bad idea. Call your daughter Marie, and make your wife happy. That is all I have to say.”
    The next course was another specialty of the house: lobster, sliced in aspic. They spoke of old friends, and the opera. It was not until the dessert, a salad of fruits, that Joséphine, after looking at him reflectively for a few moments, took up the subject of his marriage again.
    “Do you want to make your wife unhappy,
chéri
? Has she done something bad to you?”
    “Not at all.”
    “Are you unfaithful?”
    “No.”
    “Does she satisfy you?”
    He shrugged.
    “It’s fine.”
    “You must learn to be happy, Jules,” she said with a sigh. “You have everything you want, including your wife.”
    It had not been a shock, nor even a surprise to Joséphine when Jules Blanchard had married. His wife was a cousin on his mother’s side, and brought a large dowry. As Jules had put it at the time: “Two parts of a family fortune have found each other again.”
    But