Paris: The Novel (17 page)

It took them over an hour to walk to the Eiffel company workshops in the northwestern suburb of Levallois-Perret. When they got there, they found a hive of activity. The framework of the huge tower was being assembled in fifteen-foot sections that were placed in huge stacks prior to shipment from the factory to the building site. Over a hundred ironworkers were busily engaged in this assembly and riveting work. But when Thomas politely asked if Monsieur Eiffel was there, he was told that the engineer was to be found at the Champ de Mars that day.

Once again therefore the brothers set off, to the south this time, passed by the Arc de Triomphe and finally, toward eleven in the morning, crossed the Pont d’Iéna and entered the huge building site.

The foundations were all but finished now. They looked like four gigantic gun emplacements, ready to fire across each other to the four horizons. In the middle of this great platform a group of engineers and
other gentlemen clustered around a single figure, like a general with his staff.

“That’s him,” said Thomas. “That’s Monsieur Eiffel.” He took a deep breath. “Come on.”

Since Monsieur Eiffel was deep in conversation, they stood a little way apart. They had to wait half an hour before the group finally broke up, and Eiffel began to walk off the site with just a couple of companions, toward the river.

“Monsieur Eiffel,” Thomas called out, just loud enough for the engineer to hear, as he moved to intercept him. Eiffel turned and looked at the two young people inquiringly. “Monsieur Eiffel, I am Thomas Gascon. I worked for you on the Statue of Liberty,” Thomas said, as he came up with him.

“Ah.” Eiffel paused, clearly trying to remember him. Then he smiled. “Young Monsieur Gascon from Aquitaine, who went to search for his brother,
n’est-ce pas
?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

Eiffel indicated to his companions that they should move on and that he would join them shortly.

“And I forget—did you find your brother?”

“This is him.” Thomas indicated Luc.

“And what can I do for you, Monsieur Gascon?”

“I should like to work for you on the tower, Monsieur Eiffel. Just like I did on the Statue.”

“But my friend, we have a full complement. It would have given me pleasure to employ you on two such notable projects. Why did you not apply at the start, when we were hiring?”

Thomas hesitated only a second.

“My brother here was sick, monsieur, and my family needed me at home.” He glanced at Luc, who managed to cover his astonishment, and continued: “He is well now, as you see.” And Luc solemnly nodded.

Eiffel looked at him thoughtfully.

“I know you are a good worker,” said Eiffel. “And as it happens, we are short one man at present. But this is not in the factory. We are short a ‘flyer,’ the fellows who go up the tower.”

“That is what I should like best of all, monsieur,” cried Thomas. “Perhaps this is fate,” he added hopefully.

“Hmm. Have you ever worked on a high bridge? Do you have a head for heights? It would be very dangerous for you if you hadn’t.”

“I have a wonderful head for heights, monsieur, I promise you.”

“Very well. Report here on the last Monday of this month. Ask for Monsieur Compagnon. I shall tell him to expect you. The wages aren’t huge, but they’re fair.” He nodded, to indicate that the interview was over, and set off toward the river.

“Thank you, monsieur,” Thomas called after him.

As Thomas and his brother crossed over the Pont d’Iéna a short time later, Luc turned to him.

“Why did you lie? Why did you tell him I was sick?”

“It was necessary,” Thomas confessed. “If he’d thought I was sick, he wouldn’t have hired me.”

“But you are sick. At least, a bit. Are you strong enough to do this?”

“I’ll be fine by the end of the month.”

“Everyone’s going to be furious,” Luc reminded him. “The doctor, our mother, Madame Michel … and especially Berthe.”

“I know. We needn’t tell them yet.”

“Well, if you don’t marry Berthe, maybe you’d better find that mystery girl of yours.”

Thomas laughed.

“To tell you the truth, I can’t even remember what she looks like. Do you know, it’s two years, to the day, since I saw her at Victor Hugo’s funeral.”

They continued a little farther in silence. Then Luc spoke.

“Are you sure you have a head for heights?”

•  1887  •

Jacques Le Sourd watched the entrance of the school. It was the last full day before the lycée closed for the summer.

Nobody took any notice of him. Why would they? As far as any of the people in the rue de Grenelle were concerned, he was just a young man of twenty or so, probably a student, or an artisan.

And nobody knew what he was thinking. That was the wonderful thing. It made him free, and powerful. Thanks to his anonymity, he could wait, undisturbed, for the boy he was going to destroy.

Not that he was going to kill him today. He probably could, but he didn’t want to. Not yet. When the right moment came he would do it. That was quite certain. But he was patient and, in his own mind, his patience also gave him power. Power to choose the time. Power because no one would suspect him.

It was amazing, really, he considered, how simple it all was. Discovering where Roland de Cygne lived and where he went to school was easy, of course. And given the school’s regular hours, he could come by and watch the boy arrive or leave the school any day he wished. He’d gotten to know the other places young Roland went. He observed him like this every month or so.

This small matter had made him realize how most people lived their lives by following very predictable patterns. One knew where they were. With a little further study, one could probably guess what they were thinking. Disrupt their routine and they would panic. Offer them a new routine, and they would take it because it made them feel safe. A skillful
planner, he suspected, could make people do almost anything he liked. And that is what he meant to do one day, when he changed the world.

Young de Cygne had to be destroyed, then killed. The punishment was due. The death of Jean Le Sourd had to be avenged. How else could he show his love for the father he’d lost?

But Jacques wasn’t just checking on the boy’s whereabouts. His purpose was deeper than that. He wanted to get to know him. The things he did, the company he kept. If possible, he would have liked to know young de Cygne’s mind, even see into his soul. He wanted to understand exactly the unworthy place that Roland de Cygne occupied in the universe, so that his death should be justified as part of a larger pattern of righteousness.

And how laughably predictable the boy’s life had been so far. Where did his family live? In the aristocratic Saint-Germain quarter, of course. Where else? Where did he go to school? In the private, Catholic Lycée Saint-Thomas-d’Aquin, in that same, aristocratic quarter. Naturally. Everything was mapped out for him. He would be a perfect little representative of his detestable class.

And here he came, out of the door of the lycée, with a dozen others of his kind. Jacques Le Sourd watched. Young Roland would be walking eastward along the street, toward his home.

But no. He was walking the other way. Very well. Jacques Le Sourd continued to observe. Some of Roland’s friends peeled off at the boulevard Raspail, but de Cygne crossed it. A few minutes later, he was alone and still walking westward.

Curious, Jacques followed.

Roland de Cygne missed his mother. He’d been seven when she died. Some boys were sent away to boarding school; but on the advice of Father Xavier, his father had sent him to the Catholic lycée near the family house, and he’d been happy there. For Roland delighted in his home.

The house itself was undeniably grand. Its spirit was that of Louis XIV, the Sun King—large, baroque, powerful. One entered through handsome iron gates into a courtyard with wings, known as
pavillons
, on each side. The hall and broad staircase were of pale, polished stone. In the high, handsome rooms, on parquet floors and Aubusson carpets, Louis XIV formal chairs, lacquered cabinets and heavy boulle desks, their brass inlay softly gleaming, lay like stately ships at anchor. Marble tabletops dimly
reflected the sunlight, which entered respectfully into the aristocratic quiet of the house. Ancestral portraits—sad, baroque generals, bland rococo courtiers—reminded today’s de Cygnes that not only the deity, but their ancestors, also saw all that they did and expected—whether or not they could be good—that they should at least uphold the family honor.

The grandest family mansions of the aristocracy were known as
hôtels
. And had his title been just a little higher up the ladder of nobility, the vicomte might almost have called his house the Hôtel de Cygne.

And yet, despite the severe, masculine grandeur of the house, Roland was very happy there. From his earliest childhood, the big, silent rooms had the familiar peace of holy places. The stately armchairs with their ornate wooden arms and tapestry seats were like so many ancient aunts and uncles. And the sometimes daunting portraits were his grandparents, his friends, for whom he felt a deep and primitive urge to protect and defend.

Above all, although it was only sparsely populated, his home was full of affection.

His father, who hadn’t remarried so far, was always kind. His old nanny had also remained with them, providing an endless fund of warmth, and effectively running the house for his father. There were only a small staff of six required to keep the place going, but most of them had been with the vicomte all their lives, and Roland thought of them as practically his family, too. And there was Father Xavier, like a favorite uncle, who never failed to look in every week or so.

But he often thought of his mother, and kept a little photograph of her on the table by his bed, and kissed it every night after he had said his prayers.

Only one thing worried Roland. He was fifteen now. It was time to be thinking of a career. And he still didn’t know what he wanted to do.

“I shan’t force you into anything,” his father told him, “but your position is rather like that of your ancestor Roland, back in the days of Saint Louis. He began life as a younger son, and went to Paris as a student. By all accounts, he was very devout, and lived a life of great purity. Almost a monk. But then his brother died and he had to return home to run the estate, because it was his duty. Since you’re the only son, and there’s no one else to carry on the line, that’s rather your position, too. As you’ll be running the estate, it wouldn’t be a bad thing for you to study law.”

Yet the law didn’t seem a very exciting profession. As the descendant of
crusading knights, and even the hero Roland, the boy couldn’t help feeling that fate must have some nobler destiny in store for him.

“What about the army?” he’d several times asked his father. But for some reason his father had seemed reluctant to encourage that ambition.

“I was in the army, of course,” he’d say, “until I resigned my commission. But I don’t want it for you.” He never explained why.

Nor was Father Xavier explicit.

“Do you wish to serve God?” he gently inquired.

“Yes, Father.” He truly did. Indeed, if ambition was not a sin of pride, he hoped he might do some great thing for the world, in the Lord’s service.

“Then you have nothing to worry about,” the priest assured him. “If you commit yourself to God, then He will show you the way.” He smiled. “I know that you desire to do good in the world, Roland, and it does you credit. How pleased your mother would be.”

“Sometimes I dream of her,” the boy confessed. “Perhaps she will show me the way.”

“Perhaps. But be careful,” Father Xavier counseled. “It is not for you to choose how God conveys His wishes. He will decide the means, and it may be something quite unexpected.”