“You insult me and call me names, Father, but it was you who called your department store, for which you and our family are known all over Paris, by the name of your former mistress.”

“Nonsense. It’s named after the empress Joséphine. Everyone knows that.”

“Don’t worry. Maman has no idea.”

“She has no idea because it is not the case,” his father answered sharply.

Marc shrugged.

“As you like.”

“If,” said his father quietly, “you had a charming mistress, a woman of the world who could take care of herself, I’d have no objection whatsoever.”

“I should need a larger allowance.”

“But this case,” his father continued, ignoring the impertinent interruption, “is entirely different.” He paused. “We could take no notice of the girl, of course, we could say that she is just a little whore and that you may not even be the father. I know many families who would do exactly that. Do you wish me to do so?”

“No.”

“I am glad to hear that, at least, since I am not disposed to do any such thing. We shall have to see what arrangements can be made. She can have the child out of sight in the country. That’s not a problem. It could be adopted. If need be, I can pay for its upbringing. But I’m afraid that Petit still won’t have his daughter back in his house. I understand it, but it’s tragic.” He looked at his son bleakly. “Meanwhile, in order to help you reflect on this, I am stopping your allowance.”

“For how long?”

“Until further notice.” He signaled that there was nothing more to say. “You had better rejoin your American friend. Our other guests are about to arrive. Oh, and one more thing,” he added. “Your sister is to know nothing about this business. You understand? Absolutely nothing.”

Frank Hadley was a very decent fellow. He’d come to Paris to study art, and he’d been there only a couple of weeks when he bumped into Marc Blanchard, who’d befriended him, taken him around and now invited him to meet his family.

He was twenty-five years old, tall, well-built, with a mane of brown hair, honest brown eyes set wide apart, and whose strong, athletic frame suggested that he might be a good oarsman, and probably swing the lumberjack’s ax as well—both of which guesses would have been correct. During his education, he’d picked up enough French to make a start when he got to France, and he was studying the language hard for two hours every morning.

He looked around the apartment with interest. It was obvious that Marc’s family had plenty of money, but it was bourgeois money. There was none of the stately Louis XIV furniture favored by the aristocracy, nor the lighter, rococo furniture of the gilded age. The furniture of the Blanchards’ large apartment was mostly nineteenth century—sofas and chairs with curling legs and backs, lacquered cabinets, here and there a desk in the simpler, more severe Directoire style of the Napoleonic period. And above all, a profusion of potted plants—palm trees in tubs standing in corners, flowering plants on tables. The haute bourgeoisie of France, almost as much as the entire middle and upper classes of Victorian England, had taken to indoor plants.