Paris: The Novel (54 page)

“With what sort of person was this?”

“A courtesan.”

“When you say a courtesan, my son, you mean a prostitute?”

There was a momentary pause.

“She was not what you’d call a prostitute. She is known as La Belle Hélène.”

“La Belle Hélène?” Father Xavier shifted on his seat. This was getting interesting. Could the Vicomte de Cygne really be giving Roland such a huge allowance? “Very well. You paid for her services, in any case.”

Another hesitation.

“Well, yes and no.”

“My son, either you paid her or you didn’t. The sins of fornication and prostitution are slightly different.”

So then Roland explained.

For a few moments after he had finished, no clear sound came from the priest on the other side of the screen. Then, in a slightly strangulated voice, Father Xavier spoke: “The sin of prostitution is greater than that of ordinary fornication, because each person treats the other heartlessly, as an object rather than a child of God. In this case, given the circumstances, I think we may say that the sin does not quite—I say quite—constitute prostitution, and your penance may therefore be somewhat less. Have you other sins to confess?”

Roland listed a few minor transgressions.

“And do you repent of your sins?” asked the priest.

Again a hesitation. The young man was really too honest for his own good.

“I am trying to, Father,” he said.

“That will do, as a start.” Father Xavier pronounced a penance that would take Roland a couple of hours and gave him absolution, before dismissing him.

After Roland had departed, and no other penitent had come, Father Xavier sat quietly contemplating the tale he’d heard, and practically hugging himself with amusement and with pleasure.

Of course he knew, theologically, that it could not be so; yet it was hard for Father Xavier not to believe, loving the aristocracy as he did, that La Belle Hélène’s rebate was a divine dispensation for the family of de Cygne, which had served Him so faithfully and for so long.

It was a month later that the three men met for lunch at the Café de la Paix. They met for a purpose, and the purpose was a worthy one. But each of them, also, had a secret agenda of his own.

Jules Blanchard had chosen the Café de la Paix for two reasons. It was large and fashionable. Being almost opposite the Opéra, it was convenient for him, in that he could walk over from his office in the department store on boulevard Haussmann. Convenient also for the Vicomte de Cygne, whose coachman only had to cross the river to reach it, and then take
the vicomte to certain shops he liked to visit afterward. As for the lawyer they were going to meet, no doubt he’d be pleased to be there anyway, convenient or not.

He wondered what this legal fellow was going to be like. Neither he nor the vicomte had ever heard of him.

Whatever the man was like, it was a noble object that brought them together. It concerned the honor of Paris, and indeed of France.

The magnificent statue of the mounted emperor Charlemagne on the parvis of Notre Dame was a national treasure. It might not be ancient, but it was heroic, a latter-day Gothic masterpiece. It was also falling apart—or, to be precise, it needed a new and suitably handsome plinth to stand upon. The old one had been small and temporary and unless something was done soon, the emperor of the Franks would have to be carted away.

Yet was the city of Paris prepared to spend a sou on it? No it wasn’t. An informal committee of citizens had got together to raise money. He’d joined it because he admired the statue, and as the owner of the Joséphine department store, it was the sort of thing he ought to be seen supporting. The Vicomte de Cygne had joined because he descended from the emperor’s legendary companion Roland.

But although Jules and the aristocrat came from rather different social worlds, they had soon discovered that they liked the same operas, smoked the same cigars and even occasionally frequented the same salons. In short, they had found each other rather congenial.

The members of the group could have found the money for the plinth between themselves. But everyone agreed that Parisians ought to express their appreciation for such an ornament to the city with a public subscription of some kind. So when the committee received a note from a city lawyer who thought he could help them do so, it was agreed that Blanchard and de Cygne should meet him and find out what he had to offer.

Jules got there a few minutes early. Almost immediately afterward, the Vicomte de Cygne arrived. That summer he had grown a fashionable pointed beard and mustache—gray and close cropped—which suited him rather well. He greeted Jules and they sat down to wait.

Exactly at the appointed hour, they saw a waiter leading a man across the grand spaces of the Café de la Paix to their table. A somewhat small, thin man, very neatly dressed, with a long, pale face.

Monsieur Ney bowed to them both and took the proffered chair. Drinks were ordered. Ney was polite. He apologized that he might be
called to the front desk to sign a document—only for a moment—toward the end of the meal: a piece of information which did not endear him to the vicomte. But he had certainly taken the trouble to inform himself thoroughly about the business at hand. He knew that the artist had sadly died before the plinth could be installed, and that the artist’s brother had almost bankrupted himself providing a stone plinth that he couldn’t pay for.

“I am appalled that the city has not played its part,” he announced. “The site in front of Notre Dame seems well chosen, and the statue is a marvel.”

“And what brought our project to your attention?” asked Blanchard.

“To tell you the truth, monsieur, it was my daughter, Hortense, who learned of it, and told me I should be doing something. She interests herself in everything in the city. And as she is not yet married and has no children to worry about, she finds good causes every day. Her generosity will probably ruin me,” he added with a smile, which gently indicated that he was far from being ruined.

So, thought Jules, the true object of the lawyer was revealed. It was to promote his daughter. He thought of how his sister had taken him to task on the subject of Marie, and felt a pang of guilt. He couldn’t blame the lawyer for doing what he ought to be doing himself. It remained to be seen what the fellow had to offer in return.

“What we really want,” he explained to the lawyer, “is not only to raise money—which of course we wish to do—but to enlarge the network of people involved in the project. I wonder if you have any suggestions.”

“As far as funds are concerned, naturally Hortense and I would wish to contribute. I also know an old lady of large fortune who is good enough to take my advice on matters like this. But to enlist public interest, I wondered if it would be a good idea to ask Monsieur Eiffel to give the project his blessing. We happen to know him.” He paused. “And if only to please Hortense, I think he might take an interest.”

“Indeed.” The lawyer might not be quite the company he’d choose, but Jules was impressed. “That might be very helpful,” he said.

The meal passed pleasantly enough. De Cygne let Blanchard do most of the talking, but inevitably the aristocrat asked Ney if he was related to the great marshal of the same name.

“I am, Monsieur de Cygne, and I am very proud of it. I know the marshal’s loyalties might not be your own, but I honor him as a brave soldier.”

De Cygne greeted this with a nod.

The lawyer then gently turned the conversation to his daughter, Hortense. Ney did not say more than a fond father should, but it was clear that the young lady was as good as she was beautiful.

Now it was time for Jules to pursue his agenda too.

“You’ve had her portrait painted, no doubt,” he remarked easily.

“In fact, I have not,” the lawyer confessed.

“Oh,” said Blanchard, as if this was rather strange. “I always think these things add to the reputation of a young woman. People see them, you know.”

“Have you an artist you’d recommend?” Ney innocently inquired.

“It would depend what sort of portrait you wanted, I suppose,” Jules answered. “My son Marc is a painter. Rather in the style of Manet, you might say. He did Madame Du Bois the banker’s wife, the other day. They seemed pleased.” He smiled. “You’d better move fast if you want him, though, before his prices shoot up.”

“I should be most interested,” Ney responded, “if you’d care to put us in touch.”

He’d understood, of course. A commission for Marc. A place on the committee perhaps, for himself and visibility for his daughter. So far so good.

Just as the meal was about to end, a waiter came and whispered in Ney’s ear, and with profuse apologies, he left them for a moment to go to meet his clerk at the entrance. While he was gone, de Cygne turned to Blanchard.

“His game is the daughter, then. He wants to infiltrate her into society.”

“Undoubtedly,” Jules agreed. “But one can’t blame the fellow. He’s only doing what a father should.” He shrugged. “Who knows, she may be pretty. And I’m sure there will be a fine dowry.”

De Cygne grunted in a manner that indicated he couldn’t care less.

“I enjoyed listening to you get your son a commission, though,” the vicomte added with a wry smile.

“When lawyers take so much in fees, one must claw back what one can,” Blanchard replied cheerfully. “But if the fellow can deliver Eiffel, as he claims,” he continued more seriously, “that would be a great draw to the public. And I think we ought to encourage him.”

“You’re right, of course,” said the vicomte. He glanced toward the distant figure of Ney with distaste. “But Eiffel is a great man. I am not going
to be introduced to him by a back-streets attorney.” He gave an apologetic shrug. “I’m a snob.” He reached across and touched Blanchard’s arm. “You could introduce me to Eiffel. That would give me great pleasure.”

Jules laughed.

“Perhaps the solution will be for Ney to introduce me to Eiffel. And then I can introduce Eiffel to you!”

“In that case,
mon ami
,” de Cygne said, “I shall be in your debt forever.”

Ney rejoined them. They finished the meal.

And it was then that the Vicomte de Cygne, feeling that he ought to make an effort with this potential contributor, asked him pleasantly: “Tell us, Monsieur Ney, as we know you are related to a military hero, have you other interesting figures in your ancestry?”

Ney hesitated.

“As it happens, Monsieur de Cygne, I have never been able to discover the connection, if it even exists, but my mother’s maiden name was Arouet.”

“Arouet?” cried Jules Blanchard. “But that’s the family name of Voltaire.”

“As you say, monsieur,” answered Ney, “before the great philosopher decided to call himself Voltaire, he was plain Monsieur Arouet.” He smiled. “And his father was a notary, too.”

Blanchard gazed at Ney. Though the notary didn’t exactly look like the great hero of the eighteenth-century Enlightenment, there was some resemblance, at least in their small, thin physiques.

“I’m surprised you don’t claim it,” remarked de Cygne drily.

“I am a lawyer, Monsieur de Cygne. Others might demand proof, and I do not possess it.”

But the aristocrat wasn’t going to let the matter drop just yet. He was going to punish the lawyer, just a little, for intruding upon him. He considered.

“What was that story about Voltaire? When he was quite young, he ran a national lottery, collected all the money and then awarded the prize to himself. Wasn’t that how he made his first fortune? Something like that.”

If this was intended to embarrass Ney, it failed. He smiled.

“In fact, monsieur, he and several others realized that in a certain national lottery, the government had made a mathematical mistake in calculating the odds. They put together a syndicate, bought blocks of tickets, and made a great fortune. But it was perfectly legal.”

“Oh,” said de Cygne, and shrugged. “Well, I prefer my story.”

“So do I,” said the lawyer with a laugh. “So do I.” And then, just for once, Monsieur Ney inadvertently let down his guard. “Think of it,” he cried: “Oh what a fraud! How delicious! If a man could get away with that, and not get caught …”

And, quite forgetting himself, he let out a loud, gleeful cackle that was almost fiendish, while the businessman and the aristocrat stared at him in fascinated horror.

There was a silence. The lawyer dabbed at his face with a silk handkerchief.

“Well, Monsieur Ney,” said Jules Blanchard, “it has been most interesting to meet you.” And he politely escorted him to the entrance. “I shall be in contact very soon. Did you really want me to put you in touch with my son Marc?”

“Assuredly, monsieur,” said Monsieur Ney. “As soon as possible.”

“Then in that case,” he wrote on the back of his card, “all you need do is write to him at this address. It’s his studio.”

When Jules got back to the vicomte, that gentleman declared that they both needed a brandy.

But he didn’t want to discuss Ney anymore. It seemed that the lawyer had already been expunged from his mind. It had not occurred to Jules that the aristocrat might also have a hidden agenda, but as the vicomte looked at him reflectively, it seemed that he might.