In the last few weeks however, Marie’s parents had made a huge effort. There had been some delightful little parties. They had gone out a lot. She had met perhaps a dozen suitable men, and it seemed reasonable to assume that soon a good candidate would appear.

Even today’s lunch had been a possible occasion to invite a suitable man to join them. Given that it was a family affair, Jules had tried to think of neighbors or friends they knew.

Éloïse had always liked Pierre Jourdain, that boy Marie had taken such a fancy to when she was a little girl, but he’d recently gotten engaged. Then there were the sons of their close neighbor Dr. Proust, a most distinguished man. True, his wife was Jewish, but his sons were brought up Catholic, which Jules supposed was all right, and the family was well-off. The trouble was that the elder son was a dilettante with no proper career, while his younger brother, Robert, who looked far more promising, was still a bit too young.

Then, out of the blue, had come a note from the Vicomte de Cygne regretting that he was unable to get into Paris, but hoping that his friend would forgive him if his son, Roland, came in his place.

Could it be that the aristocrat had decided that his son should meet Marie? If so, it was cleverly done. This apparently chance arrangement gave no embarrassment to anyone. And God knows, Jules thought, the vicomte knows exactly who and what sort of fellow I am. He shook his head in amusement. Anything would depend of course on the character of Roland de Cygne and whether Marie liked him, but he couldn’t deny that a marriage with such an aristocratic family would be as gratifying as it was unexpected.

Who else was coming? His sister, Éloïse, Gérard and his wife. Marc was bringing a young American—respectable, Marc said, but whose French wasn’t too strong. And bearing that in mind, Jules had done something rather clever. He occasionally needed to transact business with English companies, where legal work was required, and had found an excellent English legal firm in Paris, a Mr. Fox and his son, the latter being about Marc’s age. Not a prospect for Marie of course, since he was undoubtedly Protestant. But since he spoke both French and English fluently, Fox would help with the American.

All in all, the day was looking very satisfactory.

Monsieur Petit stood and stared at his daughter Corinne. His fists were clenched. He was shaking with rage.

“I am going to see Monsieur Blanchard now,” he said.

“What for?” she cried. “What good will that do?”

“He is a man of honor. Perhaps he will make his son marry you.”

“He will not do it. He cannot do it.”

“That may be so.” He spoke quietly now, and that was even more frightening. “But if there is no marriage, then you will leave this house, and I shall never see you again.”