The Suitors - By Cecile David-Weill Page 0,1

found themselves the guardians of traditions it was their duty to uphold, even at the cost of bankruptcy. For unlike a chatelain, the master of a “good house” devoted his culture, his fortune, and his savoir vivre to the pleasure he offered his guests. His objective? To make them forget all material cares and thus freely enjoy the beauty of his house, his works of art, his bountiful table, and sprightly conversation in good company.

Plainly put, in a “good house,” chambermaids unpacked and repacked—with a great flurry of tissue paper—the suitcases of guests, who found their rooms provided with pretty sheets, mineral water, fruit, flowers, and a safe, as well as matches, pencils, and writing paper all embossed with the name of the house. But most important, the guests were not obliged to do anything—not to play sports, or go sightseeing, even though all that and more was available and easily arranged, should anyone wish it. The only compulsory ritual was mealtime, like prayers at a lay convent where one’s thoughts were otherwise free to roam at will.

And L’Agapanthe clearly fit this long and curious definition of a “good house,” so handsomely did this magical place succeed in halting the passage of time, which hung suspended in a bygone age of breathtaking yet unpretentious luxury.

During our family discussions at the dinner table about potential houseguests for the summer, if Marie or I ever dared agree with our father’s gentle criticism, our mother, like the sensitive soul she really was, would immediately go on the attack, pointing out that at L’Agapanthe, she had to be more like the manager of a luxury hotel than merely the mistress of the house.

Once again, Marie and I would be relieved to find that when it came to running her house, she spoke with her usual commanding confidence. Then we’d flatter her shamelessly, to satisfy her thirst for recognition and bring us at last to our favorite headache: Casting the Guests.

Increasingly dispirited by the lackluster impression left by our last few summers, my father would finally sound sincere when he asked us to suggest ideas for new table companions.

For if my mother was reluctant to go looking for new faces, it was probably to avoid admitting to herself that she had no idea how to go about it. She would have had to accept that even she had aged, and that it was increasingly difficult for her to “do her shopping” within her generation. Not that her peers were keeling over left and right, no, but the increasing ravages of old age were turning more and more of them into embittered cranks, self-righteous prigs, snobs obsessed with honors and distinctions, or blowhards puffed up with self-importance. Yet turning to the younger generation for fresh blood, she feared, would leave her as vulnerable and intimidated as a new kid in a schoolyard.

“But Flokie,” my father would ask impatiently, “how do others manage?”

“Others?”

“Yes, the people we know.”

This is where Marie and I would intervene, reminding our parents that they traveled so much that they no longer had the opportunity to make new acquaintances at dinner parties in town. We’d explain to them that most of their friends simply picked up their phones to invite whomever they felt like seeing: a writer in vogue, a powerful government official, an up-and-coming scientist, or a greedy financier—celebrities whose dazzling, sexy, and prestigious presence would reflect brilliantly on their hosts.

My parents would gape with astonishment to learn that people in their circle were now behaving like television personalities preparing the guest lists for their talk shows, a tactic that would never have occurred to them.

For they had no idea, either, how many people would have given anything to receive an invitation to L’Agapanthe, and if Marie and I had told them the names of people who we knew for a fact were dying to come, they would still have only half believed us. Since they themselves went no farther than identifying and avoiding the more obvious social climbers, they seldom noticed the discreet nudges and subtle maneuvers of aspirants who craved such an invitation, and as they personally had never yearned to belong to any “in crowd,” of course they couldn’t imagine why others would feel that way about them.

My parents had been brought up with the idea that they represented the pinnacle of chic. The tranquil arrogance of their modesty was proof of that. They were completely unaware, however, that their acquaintances saw them in such a light. Did other