Madame de Treymes

John Durham stood in the doorway of a Paris hotel, waiting while Madame de Malrive slowly buttoned her long white gloves.Beyond her, the afternoon light spread gold across the gardens of the Tuileries.Durham had visited Europe many times before, but today Paris felt different — for the first time, its beauty seemed tied to one particular woman.

When her carriage was delayed, Fanny de Malrive turned to him suddenly. “I shall walk home instead. Will you come with me through the gardens?”Durham agreed at once, though her easy, natural manner surprised him — such an invitation was not usual among the people of her world.They crossed the wide avenue together in silence, and climbed the steps to a quiet terrace above the gardens.

“I don’t know when I have been so happy,” Fanny said, sitting down at last.“It was only tea with your mother and sisters,” she explained, “but it felt wonderful to be with plain, honest Americans again.”Durham smiled, a little disappointed that her happiness had nothing to do with him.

“You don’t know what that word means to me,” Fanny went on. “With your family, I feel as safe as money in a bank.”She spoke fondly of old New York names, and even of a sister who spent her summers at a plain country house by a lake.“It is fifteen years since I was in America,” she said finally, with a long, quiet sigh.

“Then why did you never go back?” Durham asked.Her face changed at once. “It was impossible. My husband would not go, and since our separation, there have been family reasons.”“I must live in France,” she explained, “so that I may keep my son with me.”

Durham’s heart beat faster, for the conversation had finally reached the very question he had been waiting to ask.He chose his next words carefully, sensing that everything between them now depended on how gently he asked them.