Jules Blanchard was a well-set, vigorous man, with a solid family fortune. The century before, as the charming, rococo monarchy of Louis XV encountered the grand ideas of the Enlightenment, and the French Revolution turned the world upside down, his ancestor had been a bookseller of radical views. The bookseller’s son, Jules’s grandfather, was a doctor who came to the notice of the rising general, Napoléon Bonaparte, during the Revolution and never looked back. A fashionable physician under Napoléon’s empire and the restored Bourbon monarchy that followed it, he’d finally retired to a handsome house in Fontainebleau, which the family still possessed. His wife was from a merchant family, and in the next generation, Jules’s father had gone into business. Specializing in wholesaling grain, by the mid-nineteenth century he had built up a considerable fortune. Jules had joined the business and now, at the age of thirty-five, he was ready to take over from his father, whenever that worthy gentleman chose finally to retire.

At La Madeleine, Jules turned half-right. He liked this boulevard because it led past the city’s huge new opera house. The Paris Opéra, designed by Garnier, had been completed only at the start of this year, but already it was a landmark. Besides its many hidden wonders—which included an ingenious artificial lake in the cellars to control the swamp waters below—the Opéra was such a magnificent concoction that, with its great, round roof, it reminded Jules of an enormous, decorated gâteau. It was rich, it was flamboyant, it was the spirit of the age—at least, for lucky fellows like him.

And now he was in sight of his rendezvous. Just a short way past the Opéra, on a corner site, was the Café Anglais. Unlike the Opéra, it was rather plain outside. But inside was another matter. It was lavish enough for princes. A few years ago, the emperors of Russia and Germany had dined there together for a legendary feast that went on for eight hours.

Where else could one meet Joséphine for lunch?

They had opened the big paneled room known as Le Grand Seize for lunch today. As he entered past bowing waiters, gilt mirrors and potted plants, he saw her at once.

Joséphine Tessier was the kind of fashionable woman whom head waiters placed in the center of the room—unless the lady murmured that she wished to be discreet. Expensive and elegant, she was wearing a pale gray silk gown, a lace ruff at her throat and a jaunty little hat with a feather in it.

He was greeted by a rustle of silk, and an intoxicating scent. He lightly kissed her hand, sat down and told the waiter to bring champagne.

“A celebration?” inquired the lady. “You have good news?”

“It’s a girl.”

“Congratulations.” She smiled. “I am very happy for you, my dear Jules. It’s what you had wanted.”