Marc turned to Gérard’s son, young Jules.
“To be precise,” Jules told him, “soon after the Revolution the inner parts of Paris were divided into twelve arrondissements—and people sometimes still refer to them as the old arrondissements. But in 1860, the whole of Paris was divided into a new set of twenty arrondissements. They start with the Louvre area and the western part of the Île de la Cité: that’s the First Arrondissement. Then they continue in a clockwise spiral, the first four on the Right Bank. The Third contains the Temple, the Marais is mainly in the Fourth. Then you cross the river to the Fifth, which is the Latin Quarter, the Sixth, which is the Luxembourg Gardens area, and the Seventh, which is maybe a little cold, but rich, and includes Les Invalides and the Eiffel Tower. Back across the river, you’re in the huge area that runs south to north from the river right up to the Parc Monceau, and west to east from the Arc de Triomphe, right down the Champs-Élysées to the Madeleine and the Opéra. That’s the Eighth. It’s socially grand.
“Then you go around the city again. The Ninth to the Twelfth Arrondissements are on the Right Bank—the Twelfth runs out from the Bastille, along the rue du Faubourg-Saint-Antoine to the old Vincennes gateway. Then to the Left Bank: the Thirteenth, the Fourteenth, which is Montparnasse, and the Fifteenth.
“Across the river again for the last five. The Sixteenth is long and runs right up the west side of the city to the Arc de Triomphe and the avenue de la Grande-Armée. The Bois de Boulogne lies beyond it. There are old villages like Passy, where Ben Franklin lived, in the Sixteenth, and the avenue Victor Hugo. It has a reputation of being smart and international. Above that, on the northwest edge of the city, is the Seventeenth, with the old village of Neuilly to the west of it. Neuilly is chic. The Seventeenth is respectable but dull.”
“The Seventeenth is not so bad,” said his mother.
“But it’s boring,” Claire whispered to Frank.
“The Eighteenth,” continued young Jules, “you might say is the top of the city. It contains Clichy and Montmartre. Then on the outer northeastern edges of the city are the Nineteenth, which contains the Buttes-Chaumont park, and the Twentieth, which is the working-class district of Belleville, but also has the Cemetery of Père Lachaise.”
“Normally,” said Claire, “though old people don’t use the arrondissements so much, if someone asks you where you live, you’ll say ‘in the Fifth’ or ‘in the Sixteenth,’ unless it’s a special quarter or place of interest. If you lived on the hill by Sacré Coeur, you might say you lived in the Eighteenth, but you’d probably say you lived in Montmartre. Same with Montparnasse. Or the Île de la Cité, or the Marais.”
“But if you lived in Pigalle,” added Marc with a smile, “which contains the Moulin Rouge and some far less savory places, you might say ‘in the Ninth,’ which could mean you lived more respectably near the boulevard Haussmann.”
“I get it now,” said Frank. “I’d better study a map.”
“By all means study a map,” said Marc genially, “but personally, I recommend that you live in Paris.”
The afternoons passed easily. Everyone would sit out on the long veranda, and old Jules would read his newspaper, and Marie would walk about in the garden or rest, and Frank was left to write in his notebook without anyone inquiring what he was doing or asking to see it.
On Sunday, of course, the women went to church in the morning, and the whole family, except for Claire’s grandparents, would go for their traditional walk in the Forest of Fontainebleau.
But despite their being often together, and despite the fact that he was slightly flirtatious with her mother, Frank never made the slightest move toward Claire. He was friendly, like a brother, but nothing more. Nothing at all.
Sometimes she observed him while he was working in the afternoons. As long as he could be observed he would sit there looking quite contented, and making a note or two, apparently just as casually as if he were reading a newspaper. But sometimes the veranda would be empty, or the people there would be dozing; and if she looked out through a window, or watched him from the small arbor at the side of the garden where the roses grew, and where he could not see her, his face would become concentrated, and intense, and she would know that he was on some quest that he kept hidden from the world, and that there was a force driving him, and that behind the handsome young man with the sometimes flirtatious manner there lay a man who was very fine, and serious. And she wished that she could share his private world.
She wasn’t going to throw herself at him. Sometimes she would say something to make him laugh. At other times she would engage him in a conversation that would show him she could be serious, and that she thought about the world. But it didn’t seem to do her any good.
They were all going back to Paris in two days. The August afternoon was hot, the long garden filled with sun, dappled here and there by shade from the trees along its edges. There was scarcely a breath of wind and, apart from the occasional creak of a cart easing its way along the street, the only sound was the quiet hum of the bees visiting the roses and the warm, dry lavender bushes beside the lawn.
Uncle Marc had put a record on the gramophone in the salon, leaving the French doors open so that the sound of Debussy’s “String Quartet” wafted out onto the veranda where he was sitting with a book.
He was pleased with the record. “It’s played by the Capet Quartet. They’re just starting a whole series of recordings. I got it from a friend,” he added with some pride. “It’s not even on sale yet.”
Apart from her grandfather, who was dozing, Marc was the only one on the veranda when Claire came out.
“Where’s everybody?” she asked her uncle.
“Frank wandered down the garden. I think your mother’s somewhere in the house. Don’t know about the others,” he replied.
She was going to sit down, but then she thought she’d take a turn round the garden herself, so she started to walk along the lawn.
The music followed after her. The quartet had just reached its slow movement. How soft and sensuous it was, like the faint hum of the bees in the sun. She felt a bar of shade steal across her face, and then the sun touched her hair again.
The music was just rising to its first small climax, like a sudden, urgent whisper in that lazy afternoon, as she came to the hedge at the end of the lawn where one passed through an arch of privet into the green space beyond where there was a small tree, and roses, and red poppies, and blue cornflowers grew in a bed beside the grass.
And there she saw her mother standing with Frank. They were standing close. Her mother’s face was turned up to his, and he was looking down, and there could be no doubt, she was sure there was no doubt, that Frank was about to kiss her mother, and that her mother wanted him to, the way she was smiling, with her face turned up.
And then they saw her, and they did not spring apart, but Frank half turned toward her to make it look as if they had just paused for a moment while they were talking, and he said something to her but she did not seem to hear what it was he said.
“I just wondered where everybody was,” she said, and looked at the flowers for a moment as though nothing had happened. “Don’t you love Uncle Marc’s record?” she said, and then she went back through the privet hedge and made her way down the lawn. Uncle Marc glanced up at her, then down at his book. And when she was getting closer she saw him glance behind her and guessed that her mother and Frank were walking down the lawn too, talking as though nothing had happened. She didn’t stop on the veranda, but went into the house. She would have gone to her room, but it was Frank’s room at the moment, so she went into the courtyard instead, and out through the iron gateway into the street, and walked in the street for ten minutes before returning.
When Marc suggested to Frank that they go for a stroll the following morning, Frank was quite agreeable. They walked along to the château, talking of this and that, and Marc remarked that despite all the long royal history of the place, it was always the image of Napoléon, biddi
ng farewell to his guards in the courtyard, before he left for exile, that came into his imagination each time he approached it.
“Tell me,” he suddenly said as they reached the gates, “did your father give you any warnings before you came to France?”
“He gave me all sorts of advice. Things to do, things not to do.”
“What did he tell you to do when you met respectable young Frenchwomen?”
Frank looked a little taken aback.
“Well,” he answered cautiously, “he told me to be careful to treat them with the same respect I would an American girl from a family like ours. We’re pretty conservative, you know. But he said the French were even more so.”
“A girl like Claire, for instance.”
“Yes. Well, she’s quite English, but it’s the same.”
“You wouldn’t want to make an enemy of her family.”
“No, I wouldn’t. You don’t think I’ve behaved improperly toward her, do you?”
“Not at all. I shouldn’t have let you wander off into the night with her, but I’m sure no harm was done.”
“Absolutely none. I promise you.”
“I believe you. You realize she’s in love with you?”
Frank looked astonished.
“Claire?”
“She watches you when you’re not looking. You fascinate her.”
“Oh.”
“You like her?”
“Very much.”
“But you are being careful.”
“Very.”
“Whereas my sister’s different.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.” Frank looked awkward.
“You couldn’t shock me if you tried, my friend. Most young men think it would be fascinating to have an affair with an older woman, and my sister’s very attractive. She’s widowed. She can look after herself. No difficulties with her family, no complications. I think she quite likes you. You remind her of your father, obviously. You’re very young, of course. She wouldn’t want to make a fool of herself. But … who knows?”
Frank said nothing.
“But if by any chance you decide that you wanted to court Claire—in a respectable way, of course—then you cannot sleep with her mother. It would be a very bad idea, and I will not allow it. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Frank looked a bit shaken. “I hadn’t been thinking of … courting. I mean, I had no idea she was interested.”
“And you were afraid to flirt with her. Which left her mother.”
“I wouldn’t put it like that. Her mother is remarkable …”
“I didn’t say you shouldn’t have fallen in love with an older woman. It’s quite usual, you know.” Marc nodded to himself. “France is a sensuous place, especially in summer. The warmth of the Mediterranean travels north, where it is diffused and softened. It’s all in the music of Debussy, I should say.”
“I think I understand.”
“Well,” Marc ended cheerfully, “choose one woman or the other, but not both. Let’s get back for lunch.”
It was the end of the first week of September that Luc asked Louise if she’d like another client. She had three so far. One man she saw once a week, the others every two weeks. All three were middle-aged, respectable and rich. The first, the diplomat, lived in a handsome apartment in the broad avenue that led down from the Arc de Triomphe to the Bois de Boulogne. The second lived in the somewhat austere, fashionable quarter between the Eiffel Tower and Les Invalides. The third in an elegant apartment on the rue de Rivoli that interspersed modern, chic comfort with pieces that might have come from Versailles.
By spending two or three nights a week with interesting men in impressive surroundings, she now had all the spending money she needed, and was saving more than a thousand francs a week. It wasn’t a fortune, but it was more than she could have made in any full-time employment. And Luc, who was getting the same, must be saving even more from her activities.
She understood now why girls became whores. If you could get the right clientele, the money was good, very good, and it was nice to have it.
“If you add this man, who’s a charming fellow,” Luc pointed out, “you’ll almost double your savings.”
“Where do you find them?” she asked him, not for the first time.
“I’ve built up so many contacts over the years,” he answered with a shrug. “And you’re a great success. You have class, which is hard to find. People are talking about you.”
“One more is all I want, Luc.”
“Understood. The arrangement will be as usual. No names. At least, not at first. You’ll meet for dinner. After that, it will be up to you.”
“And him. He may not like me.”
“He will. By the way, this man knows about a lot of things. You could learn from him.”
They met at the Café Procope, just off the boulevard Saint-Germain. He looked in his fifties, but well preserved. Graying temples. Above medium height. Quite slim. An intelligent face. He looked artistic, but she suspected he might be lacking the pugnacity of a creative artist. An intellectual of some kind. But one with money, clearly.
“I hear you’re English,” he said pleasantly.
“Half English, half French,” she answered.
“Well, I don’t know about your English, but your French is very good. And you model for Chanel?”
“Yes. It’s quite interesting. And she is remarkable.”
“Indeed.”
She had a feeling he probably knew Chanel, but she wasn’t going to ask. He’d tell her if he wanted her to know. The art was to be discreet.
They made light conversation. The Café Procope, with its gilt mirrors and pictures, was like stepping into the eighteenth century. She said she liked it.
“It was founded back in the seventeenth century. It’s funny to think that Voltaire himself ate here, and it probably looked much the same. What other restaurants do you like?”
She wondered if he was expecting her to name some expensive places.
“Places with character.” She smiled. “I’m just as happy in a bistro if it’s interesting.”
“Really?” He looked at her thoughtfully. “There are plenty of interesting places to eat if one knows where to look. By the way, do you know the origin of the word ‘bistro’?”
“I don’t think so.”
“After Napoléon fell, and the Russians briefly entered Paris, the Cossacks were camped up on Montmartre and went into the little restaurants, and when the service was slow they kept shouting ‘bistro,’ which is Russian for ‘quick.’ So the French started calling these informal restaurants bistros.” He shrugged. “Well, that’s the story anyway. It probably isn’t true.”
They talked of many things. He was clever and amusing. By the time they’d finished the main course she was sure that she liked him. So much so that, for once, she even ventured to ask him a question or two.
“Luc is very discreet, monsieur, and so am I. But he told me that you were not married. And I am surprised that someone as charming as you doesn’t keep a mistress.” She smiled. “Unless you already do.”
He laughed.
“No, mademoiselle, I don’t. Though I have done so in the past. But in my life at present, if I can find a suitable person—I mean someone like yourself, which is hard to find—then it’s better for me to have an evening a week, let us say, to look forward to, than to have a constant companion.”
“Less personal commitment?”
“Not only that. I do so many things. I have a family business that occupies some of my time. I have many other activities. Often I go out on social engagements in the evening and then return home to work at night, or to read. I haven’t room for a companion, to whom I should otherwise feel bound to give my attention. You may think this selfish, but it is the only way I can get things done.”
“Are you an artist, or a writer? I do not mean to pry.”
“I was an artist at one time. I prefer to write about these things now.”
br /> “I have one other question, monsieur. Might I ask how it is that you know Luc?” She shook her head and smiled. “I’ve never been able to work out how he knows so many people.”
He looked at her cautiously.
“You do not know?”
“No. I have always been curious.”
“Are you going to repeat what I tell you?”
“Absolutely not.”
“It is cocaine, mademoiselle. Luc has supplied cocaine to people for God knows how many years. Everyone. It is always pure. Everyone trusts him. He supplies … all sorts of people. And sometimes they ask him for other things.”
She stared at him. Of course. Everything made sense now. How could she have been so naive, and so stupid, not to have guessed? Was that how he knew Chanel? God knows. It was none of her business.
“He always has money,” she remarked, “but I don’t think he’s rich.”
“The people like him are not the ones who get rich in that business. Often they become addicts themselves.”
“I don’t think Luc uses the drug.”
“He doesn’t. He’s rare. I seldom use it myself. Sometimes, if I have too many things to accomplish, it helps me work through the night. That sort of thing.” He smiled. “So, mademoiselle, I have answered all your questions. May I ask now if you’d be interested in seeing where I live?”
“I should be delighted, monsieur.” She meant it, and he could see that she did.
As they left the restaurant, she linked her arm in his. It was only a short walk to his place near the Luxembourg Gardens. On entering, they took the small elevator up to the third floor and entered his apartment. It seemed to be empty.
“I have only two servants that live in,” he explained. “And they are up in the attic quarters for the evening. So we have the place to ourselves. Would you like a drink? I’m having a little whisky.”
“The same. Thank you.”
The apartment was impressive. She’d never seen so many paintings in a house in her life. She saw Manet, Monet, van Gogh …
“Turn on any lights you want,” he said, as he handed her a tumbler of whisky. “I’ll be back in a moment.”