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He came in a modest dark car that looked old but clean. He wore a simple suit, well pressed but plain. He paused at the gates of the Delacroix estate as though measuring the distance between his world and hers.
Marie met him halfway down the front steps.
“You don’t have to do this,” she whispered.
Jean gave a faint smile. “Neither do you.”
She took his hand. “I want to.”
Together they entered the mansion.
The main hall had marble floors, portraits in gilded frames, and ceilings so high they made voices echo. Jean’s gaze moved slowly over everything, but he said nothing.
Marie’s parents were waiting in the salon.
Her mother sat upright on a cream sofa, dressed in pearl gray, every inch the society matriarch. Her father stood beside the fireplace like a judge prepared to hand down sentence.
Marie stopped beside Jean. “Mother. Father. This is Jean.”
For one brief second, nobody moved.
Then her father stepped forward and looked Jean up and down with naked contempt.
“So,” he said, “you are the man who believes himself worthy of my daughter.”
Jean held his gaze. “I never said that.”
The answer caught everyone off guard.
Her father frowned. “What?”
Jean spoke calmly. “I said I loved her.”
Marie’s mother made a sharp sound of disbelief. “Love?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a house?” she demanded.
Jean looked at her. “Yes.”
“A proper one?”
“Yes.”
“A family name anyone here would recognize?”
“No idea.”
Her father crossed his arms. “What exactly do you do, Jean?”
“I work.”