As for his wife, she gave Fox a smile that told him that he’d scored a point.

“There’s a dog exactly like that in an early painting by Manet,” Hadley remarked.

“He knows everything,” Marie cried delightedly.

“He certainly does,” said Marc with a grin. “Soon, Hadley, you’ll know more about France than we do.”

“You’re setting me up for a fall, I see,” Hadley answered amiably. “And by the way,” he added, “I know almost nothing about this place we’re going to.”

Marie was impressed. They had scarcely arrived at the gate before a balding, middle-aged man came hurrying out to meet them. After briefly greeting Fox, he turned at once to her parents.

“Monsieur and Madame Blanchard? I am the private secretary of Monsieur Iffla, and he asks me to present you a thousand apologies. He had particularly hoped to meet you. But then this morning he had word that his niece was sick, and so he was obliged to go back into Paris to see her. But he hopes you will enjoy your visit here. I am to show you anything you wish.” He bowed and smiled. “Monsieur Iffla and his nieces are great admirers of the Joséphine department store,” he continued, “and it is a great honor to welcome you to the house of the Empress Joséphine who, I understand, inspired your choice of name for your store.”

“Monsieur Iffla is very kind,” said Jules, and one could see that he was flattered.

What a good man Fox was, thought Marie. What trouble he had taken to ensure a fitting reception, and to give her parents so much pleasure.

For if Jules Blanchard was rich, Monsieur Iffla’s wealth was on a completely different scale. Born in Bordeaux, of a Moroccan Jewish family, he had taken a Christian wife, and emerged from a career in banking and investment one of the richest men in France. Not only his wealth, but his magnificent acts of philanthropy had earned him the nickname Osiris—the Egyptian god, the Lord of Life.

And if it weren’t for Osiris, this charming national treasure of Malmaison would probably be in ruins.

It was a manor house, really, whose elegant proportions earned it the title of château. Or, since it lay not four miles west of the Bois de Boulogne, one might almost call it an intimate suburban palace.