The Suitors - By Cecile David-Weill Page 0,2

people even exist sufficiently in my parents’ eyes for them to notice this? Blissfully ignorant of the insecurity that drives human beings to study their reflections in the eyes of others, my parents simply weren’t observant enough to imagine that anyone might fantasize about them.

Too honest and intelligent to let themselves succumb to narcissism, my parents had decided to pay no attention to the illusion of success or the thrill of having one’s picture in the papers. And so, far from being the caricatures of art and business moguls that they had become in the press, my parents thought of themselves as timid people, courteous and ill suited to the excessive familiarity in vogue with fashionable folk.

And this was part of their charm. It was not celebrities they invited but people chosen for their conversation, their beauty, their culture, or because they were jolly, kind, inspired sympathy, or were simply owed a return invitation. Sometimes my parents just wanted to offer a week of luxury to a friend in the doldrums or a cousin in dire financial straits. Their principles, however, could affect their decisions: they would refuse to invite a minister then in office or anyone basking in the glory of a career at its zenith, while they made it a point of honor to have those same people over when they faced dark times.

In any case, to the great surprise of the rare newcomers invited to L’Agapanthe, my parents’ hospitality was genuine. Puzzled by such unselfishness, some guests wondered why they had been invited at all, but in the end, lulled by the old-fashioned and candid sense of propriety that clearly reigned in the house, they relaxed and realized that they had been chosen simply for themselves.

Well, that was the romantic version of the facts. But L’Agapanthe really did have a strange effect on a surprising number of people, changing some, while revealing the true nature of others. Impressed by the house, the quieter guests worried that they might not appear sufficiently elegant or cultured, and some would begin to talk loudly or laugh at every turn to boost their self-confidence, whereas a frivolous creature might suddenly start pontificating on politics and the economy, hoping to be taken for an intellectual. Unfortunate shortcomings came occasionally to light: I once caught a populist politician bullying the servants, and one of France’s grandest dukes stuffing his pockets with the Havana cigars set out for guests.

So it’s not surprising, really, that my parents were cautious with their invitations.

“Why don’t you invite Claude Lévi-Strauss or Martin Scorsese? That could be interesting,” Marie would quip.

She knew as well as I did that we were really there to amuse our parents, not to give them ideas, since neither of them was ready to relinquish any of their prerogatives as hosts. Quite the opposite: they needed us to witness their powers of decision so as to reinforce their own sense of authority. Not that we minded, for these sessions strengthened our family bonds in the name of certain values, which, because of our constant fear of seeming pompous or pretentious, we simply called “our kind of beauty.”

Although unspoken, the selective criteria for these values were many and precise. Good manners topped the list. The formality of life in L’Agapanthe required a comfortable command of conventions, which naturally closed the door to anyone unfamiliar with such standards. Houseguests were well advised to be accustomed to servants and possess a sure mastery of table manners and household protocol—the proper usage of finger bowls and salad plates, and the correct distribution of tips—even though this knowledge of etiquette served our guests chiefly by allowing them to flout the rules with the necessary knowledgeable flair.

To tell the truth, we were particularly amused by outdated yet still picturesque fashion precepts such as the Brits’ No yellow shoes after six, or the strict injunction No velvet after Easter, which only my mother still respected. We likened the Americans’ outrage at the wearing of light-colored pants after Labor Day to the British restriction of port drinking to months with an r (like the French and oysters, only from September to April), and the wearing of blazers to months without an r (May to August). In other words, a man in a blazer drinking port would be a lost cause.

All else paled, however, before our devotion to the most basic politeness, which demanded tactful and attentive behavior toward others. We would never have put up with a guest rudely interrupting someone, or entering