Paris: The Novel (151 page)

“It’s all de Gaulle’s doing. Eisenhower didn’t want to go near Paris at all. But once the Rising began, de Gaulle badgered him, told him that if the Germans massacred us, it would be worse than the tragedy of the Warsaw uprising. In the end Eisenhower gave permission for Leclerc’s division, together with the U.S. Army Fourth Division, to divert up here. Leclerc actually disobeyed orders to wait and just drove straight through to Paris. He’ll enter with his entire force, and the American division as well, in the morning.”

“Then we’re screwed,” said Le Sourd bitterly. “We can’t organize the Commune overnight.”

With an entire division of well-armed and well-trained Frenchmen marching in to liberate Paris, not to mention another division of honest American soldiers to whom the very idea of socialism was anathema, the conservative patriot de Gaulle had not only the moral authority, but the naked power, to take the city over and impose his will.

The obstinate, lone officer who’d refused to give in, and gone to England to raise the Cross of Lorraine, had just shown himself to be a ruthless politician as well.

And so it came about. The following day, Lerclerc and the Americans swept into the city. The German general, probably secretly relieved, surrendered. And the following day, the twenty-sixth of August, a huge parade of troops, Resistance fighters and public men marched down the Champs-Élysées.

But it was one figure upon whom all eyes were fixed. Dressed in his general’s uniform, towering over his companions, the tall, unyielding figure of Charles de Gaulle moved with a stately stride down the center of the great avenue, knowing, as all who saw him knew, that he was the man of destiny that France would follow now.

Paris was liberated. The agony was over.

Max Le Sourd also marched, for old Thomas Gascon, and the Dalou boys, and his other comrades in the march would have been disappointed if he had not.

But his father remained at the side of the Champs-Élysées and grimly
watched. And as the tall and lonely statesman strode past, Le Sourd could only shake his head.

“Salaud,”
he muttered sadly. “You son of a bitch.”

It was the next morning that Thomas Gascon decided to gather all his family together for a celebration at the restaurant. “At least,” he pointed out, “we have some extra food stored here.”

During the morning, Édith sent him down on an errand into the Second Arrondissement, and at noon he was already returning up the rue de Clichy.

He was less than a mile from home when he saw the small crowd coming toward him. There were about fifty of them, and they were goading a young woman. Her shirt had been ripped, and they were chanting and taunting her for sleeping with Germans.

Thomas frowned. He’d heard that these attacks were starting to happen. They were absurd, of course. If every Frenchwoman who’d slept with a German in the last four years was going to be hounded like this, there would be no end to it. God knew how many thousands of children had been fathered by lonely German troops in Paris alone.

But the ritual rage of a crowd that feels guilty has a special viciousness.

The wretched girl was the same age as one of his own granddaughters.

They had just drawn level when one of the girls in the crowd ran up to the young woman, pointed at her and screamed: “German whore. Shave her head!” And she spat in her face.

“Fuck off!” the woman cried back. But the crowd was encircling them.

“Scissors!” someone cried. “Razors!”

Thomas wasn’t afraid to fight, even at his age, but half of them were women, and he wasn’t used to fighting women. There were too many people anyway. So he did the only thing he could.

“Mes camerades,”
he cried, “I am Thomas Gascon from the Maquis of Montmartre, member of the FTP, Resistance fighter. It was I who cut the cables in the Eiffel Tower. Come with me to Montmartre, if you don’t believe me, and I will show you witnesses. Whatever her faults, I ask you to let me take this young woman home, on this day of celebration.”

They looked at him. Could this old man be telling the truth? They decided he was.

“Vivent les FTP!”
somebody cried. “Bravo, old man!” And they started to laugh and clap him on the back.

For such is the strange and sudden sense of chivalry of the French mob.

“She’s free. She’s free,” they cried.

So Thomas Gascon took the girl home, before he went to his family celebration.

For Max Le Sourd, however, there was one duty still to be performed. When he explained to his father what it was, his father agreed to help.

Their first trip was to the cemetery. They needed to break some rules. After a little talk to the guardian, the matter was arranged.

So it was the corpse of Charlie de Cygne that was now placed in a simple casket and taken by Max Le Sourd, Thomas and the Dalou boys in a van to the cemetery of Père Lachaise. There the coffin was lowered into a small plot, pleasantly situated near the grave of Chopin.

Over the grave they placed a wooden cross inscribed with Charlie’s name, the description “Patriot,” and the fact that he had died for France.

There were no religious obsequies. “His family can do that,” Max said. But there was something else to be done. “You’re the writer,” Max said to his father. “I’ll give you the information, but you write it.”

The letter was a good one. It made no mention of the betrayal, but stated that Charlie had been wounded in an operation and died without pain. He had shown great bravery and dignity. His compatriots loved and respected him. Before dying he had spoken of his son.

It was simple and respectful.

“Shall we send it in the mail?” asked Max. But his father shook his head.

In early September, Roland de Cygne was surprised to receive a visit from Jacques Le Sourd at the château. Asking to speak with him alone, Le Sourd bowed his head, and told him: “I have the great sorrow, Monsieur le Vicomte, to bring you the news of the death of your son. But he died bravely.” And he handed him the letter.

Roland read the letter slowly.

“When he disappeared, we feared something might have happened. But one always hopes, you know.”

“I trust it meets with your approval, monsieur, but to honor him as best they could, his comrades buried him in Père Lachaise.”

“Père Lachaise? There are some great names there.”

“His grave is close to that of Chopin. For the moment, it is marked with a wooden cross, very simple, with his name. You may wish a priest …”

“Of course.” Roland paused and thought for a moment. “Was he carrying anything?”

“No papers, monsieur. They preferred not to carry identification, on a mission.”

“I understand. There wasn’t perhaps a little lighter, made of a bullet casing?”

“Not that we found, monsieur.”

The letter from Richard Bennett did not arrive until the summer of 1945.

It explained the great difficulties he had encountered in tracing the benefactor he had known only as Monsieur Bon Ami.

It was a graceful and charming letter.

“You know what’s worst of all,” Roland said. “If Charlie had kept that lighter, it might have brought him luck instead of the Canadian. He might be alive today.”