And she had been glad that they were to meet again so soon.

The day after the lunch party, her father called her into his little library and told her to sit down.

“Tell me, Marie, you and your brother are going to Versailles with Monsieur de Cygne this coming Saturday, are you not?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“And why is that, do you think?”

“Monsieur de Cygne was kind to offer a tour so that we could show the palace to Marc’s American friend.”

“That is true. But it is also an excuse. I think de Cygne is taking you all to Versailles so that he can discreetly get to see more of you.”

“Do you know this?”

“No. But I think it is likely, and so does your mother. I think, quite simply, that he wishes to get to know you better. Have you any objection?”

“No, Papa.”

“Do you like him?”

“He was rather severe about Captain Dreyfus.”

“A lot of people are getting far more angry about this Dreyfus affair than he was. Do you find him agreeable in other ways?”

“It is too early to say, Papa.”

“That is fair. You and he may find you have nothing in common. But if you do come to know each other better, and if one day he were to make a proposal, you would have to consider carefully. It would be a marriage which, socially, many people would envy. But I do not wish you to consider that at all. There should be no question of your marrying a man for whom you do not feel affection. You would also have to consider that his way of life and his attitudes are different from ours. I know and like his father, who is a charming man. But he is an aristocrat. In a sense, he is apart from even a rich family like ours. He does not consider himself the same kind of human being as a Blanchard. Under the charm and good manners of almost all the aristocrats I know, there is a certain snobbishness, even a coldness toward the rest of humanity. Not always, but often. Keep these thoughts in your mind and use your judgment. No one can do this for you.”

“Yes, Papa,” she said.

Versailles had been a success. She felt that she’d done herself credit, and she was fairly sure that de Cygne had been impressed with her. And the little walk in the Galerie des Glaces had been a triumph.

She only did it because of him. He must find me very straitlaced, she thought. They say the women in America are much more free in their manners than well-brought-up women are in France. I’m sure he thinks me dull.

So she’d seized the opportunity to do something a little unusual. De Cygne and Fox had certainly admired her performance. He hadn’t said anything. She’d hoped he would, but he hadn’t, which was vexing.