ON THE TRAIN, free of the strains, we all relaxed a little, like actors on a set between takes.
“A very nice lunch,” said Margeeve noncommittally. She appeared abstracted. “They really don’t seem mercenary in the ordinary sense.”
“I would never suggest to a client they have lunch with the adversary,” Roger observed. “The danger is not so much that fighting will break out, it’s that harmony will break out. People never like to believe the worst.”
Is that true? I had a lot to think about.
Roxy, for her part, seemed relieved and even ebullient to have the afternoon over with. Harmony, as she deeply desired, had broken out. But her happiness was short-lived, because Margeeve had not finished.
“Roxeanne, I think you should come back to California immediately,” she said.
“We’ve been over that,” Roxy protested.
“As soon as you can travel. I know the airlines would never take you now. It’s just ridiculous to think of staying, this is not your culture, these are not your relatives, I don’t think you can count on them. Of course they love Gennie, they’ll love the baby, but how are you going to support your children? What kind of life would you have here, the divorced wife hanging around like a kind of fifth thumb?”
“I’ve thought about it and thought about it. I’m not coming home,” Roxy said. And so on. I am abridging the conversation. This quarrel about Roxy’s future took up the forty-five-minute journey from Chartres to the Gare Montparnasse. Of course, we were none of us saying what was in our hearts except Roxy, who kept repeating her objections to going home, saying, “What would I do there?” and “My children are French.”
Then, virtually as the train moved into the station, Margeeve turned to me and said directly, “Iz, I understand you’ve gotten mixed up with an old uncle of the Persand family?” Here she seemed to strive for a glare of maternal concern and disapproval, but something behind her expression did not seem that outraged. Of course, they no longer wrung their hands over my morals, so perhaps it hadn’t shocked them.
But I was shocked. I hadn’t thought they knew.
“Who told you that?” I looked over at Roxy, who also had a shocked look on her face.
“Suzanne talked to me. Mother to mother. I just throw this into the hopper of our French experience,” said Margeeve. “Iz, she was very apologetic for mentioning it. On the terrace, just as we were leaving.”
Margeeve recounted the scene. She and Suzanne were sitting in the little glass room that adjoins the terrace, filled with ferns and aspidistra, lined with photographs and little drawings by various Persands, Suzanne busying herself pouring them another coffee and passing the sugar (in cubes). “There is something a little delicate I would like to mention,” she had said to Margeeve. “With the others not here.” She sighed. “We are so fond of both Roxeanne and now of Isabel too, it has been lovely to have her here these months and so wonderful for Roxeanne, especially—how do you say—pendant the pregnancy and the problems. She is a lovely girl.”
“Thank you, we think so,” said Margeeve. “Of course.”
“Yes, so willing and so cheerful. She is amazing with all the little children, she is delightful, on Sundays, she takes them for walks and is so good with them.”
“Really? I mean, I’m happy to hear it.”
“How to explain. I feel you and I can talk. The two grand-mères. You have not met my brother, I believe, Monsieur Cosset, but he is a person quite well known in France for his political comments, a personnage. He is actually quite eminent. I am afraid, though, that he has something of a reputation as a tombeur.”
Margeeve did not immediately follow this apparent non sequitur, but sensed Suzanne’s confidential mood, and there was something she herself had wanted to bring up—the picture. Listening for an opening interfered with her ability to pick up on Suzanne’s hints.
“We have a situation in our family, which I hope you’ll understand. It concerns the painting, it isn’t really Roxeanne’s,” said Margeeve.
“Oh?” Suzanne in her turn disconcerted by what appeared to be a change of subject.
“That’s why my son has started the lawsuit, it’s really a matter that concerns our family, did Roxy have a right to bring it to France? You see?”
Suzanne did not. “I know the French have a reputation for understanding these things, but let me assure you my brother’s philandering over the years has far exceeded the normal, and has caused much pain to poor Amélie, though I think she is perfectly resigned to it by now.” Here she must have perceived that Margeeve had not understood.
“We are afraid my brother has taken advantage of Isabel. I would be so sorry if Isabel might be hurt by someone much older, and more experienced, and I’m afraid a little unscrupulous where young women are concerned.”
Margeeve was bound to attend to the idea of Isabel being hurt. Suzanne continued.
“Of course when she goes back home it will seem less painful,” continued Suzanne, “assuming it is painful at all, but Isabel has such an open, helpful nature, we all love her and would not want her to be wounded by someone who, in all candor, has not always been very nice to women.”
“Oh, dear,” said Margeeve vaguely.
“I would think if she were to return to America . . . after Roxeanne’s delivery, of course. We will see that Roxeanne gets the help she will need. . . . If Isabel went back to California, I have no doubt the whole thing would fade from her mind, she is bound to have many admirers in California. . . . Perhaps in time she will understand. . . .”
Now, in the train, my humiliation was total. I had a vision of Suzanne saying to Antoine or Charlotte, “Did you see Isabel’s sac? Mon Dieu, is it possible, Edgar up to his old tricks?” And I understood Margeeve’s expression, which was disapproval mixed with amusement. My father, who had looked up from reading the Pariscope, had a more ambiguous scowl of attention. Roger and Jane were politely silent. Roger I suppose was wondering how this new news would help our case. “Well, are you asking me to explain it, or what?” I said, crossly. I was imagining their dismay.
But Margeeve was laughing! “Madame de Persand apologizing that her horrible roué of a brother had seduced our young flower Isabel. They are very consternated and concerned,” Margeeve went on. Roxy too began to laugh. Chester’s face darkened slightly. I found it irritating that my virtue or lack of it should be a matter of family levity, and said so.
“ ‘We would so hate it if poor Isabel as well as Roxy should be made unhappy by someone in our family.’ She wanted us to speak to you, of course. To save you, I guess.” Her smile, her light tone—I quickly understood that Margeeve was happy for me to be the instrument of discomfiting the Persands. She seemed to have no curiosity about Edgar himself, or what I might be feeling. She was treating the whole thing as a joke because the Persands were treating it seriously, thinking I was the victim of their most disreputable relative. I found it a bit disquieting, in truth, to think that he was disreputable, because Edgar, though he had never concealed his past, had not stressed, either, that it was anything but the normal past of a Frenchman, eyes on duty, church and government, family, and dinner. Perhaps it was not.
What I minded more, though, I have to admit, was this laugh my family was now having, about me as an instrument of their revenge. There was something coarse about it. I had never seen them before in that light, and perhaps it was unfair to see them that way now, indulging in a little laugh at the people who were after all taking them for a lot of money, for thinking that their Isabel could not take care of herself. A small triumph, after all, but I did not like it to be at my expense. I knew what I felt and knew, and could not explain any of it to them, about Edgar, about my heart. I knew what they would say if I told them I was in love and meant to have my way. They would say I had said all that before.
“He’s seventy at least!” Roxy was exclaiming to Margeeve and Chester. “I had no idea! How could I? She”—meaning me, as if I weren’t there—“has never said a word. He sends expensive presents, of course. I’ve seen those.” Roxy looked distressed and defensive, as if she had been caught lying down on the job, the job of looking after the unreliable Isabel. I could tell them something about her.
“Well, it’s true,” I snapped, “but it’s none of their business, or yours, for that matter.” Then their eyes changed. I could see that they were saying something to themselves to the effect that it had never been any good trying to reason with Isabel.
“You’ve been trying to make it hard for me the whole time you’ve been here,” cried Roxy, turning savagely to me. “How could you do something like that? No wonder the Persands are being so difficult.” And she went on, much raving of this kind, about the effect of my affair on her; and she was comforted by Margeeve and even Chester for this shock to her delicate poet’s system.
“You girls are both coming home,” Chester said.