Paris: The Novel (7 page)

“This is true,” laughed Thomas.

“But people don’t fight each other in America,” said Luc, with feeling.

“What do you mean?” his father cried. “They’re always fighting in America. First they fought the English. Then the Indians. Then they fought each other. They’re worse than us.”

“You stay here and be grateful,” said his mother affectionately.

“As long as Thomas protects me,” said Luc.

“Ah,” said Monsieur Gascon, looking proudly at his elder son, “let us all drink to that.” And they did.

The next morning when Thomas got up, he went to his little brother.

“You know,” he said, “you’re very funny. You should stick to that. Make people laugh. Then even the Dalou boys will like you.”

When he got to work, the foreman was looking out for him.

“You found your brother?”

“Oui, monsieur.”

The foreman stared at his eye for a moment.

“Can you see to work?”

“Oui, monsieur.”

The foreman nodded. One didn’t ask questions when people came from the Maquis.

So Thomas worked quietly all day. Monsieur Eiffel didn’t come by.

On the following Saturday morning, Aunt Éloïse stood in the big open space known as the parvis of Notre Dame Cathedral, looked at the three Blanchard children standing in a row in front of her, and thought that her brother Jules and his wife had not done badly.

Gérard, at sixteen the eldest, was a solid, determined fellow, with a square, hard face, who would undoubtedly become his father’s partner one day. She had to confess, she preferred his younger brother, Marc. He was going to be tall and handsome like his father, though of a more slender build, and being an intellectual and imaginative boy, he was closer to her in spirit. True, his schoolwork was a little erratic, and he was inclined to daydream. “But you shouldn’t worry about him,” she’d told Jules when he’d been concerned. “Thirteen-year-old boys are often a little dreamy. And who knows, perhaps he will do something in the arts or literature one day that will make our name famous.”

And then there was little Marie. At eight years old, thought Aunt Éloïse, one could only say a little about her character. But she was sweet and kind—that was certain. And how was it possible not to love those blue eyes, and that mass of golden curls, and the charming plumpness that might easily turn, one day, into an excellent figure?

Yet in one of the three children, it seemed to Aunt Éloïse that she had detected a character flaw. Not too serious, but concerning. She kept her own counsel about this, however. Even if she was right, it might be corrected. And besides, she reminded herself, nobody was perfect.

Meanwhile, her own task in the family, as she saw it, was to bring them whatever gifts of the spirit she could. That was why this morning, on their visit to the Île de la Cité, she had first taken them to the exquisite Sainte-Chapelle.

Marc liked his aunt’s tall elegance, and the fact that she knew so many things. They had stood in the high, painted chapel, bathed in the warm light from its great windows, gazed up at the tall Gothic vaults of blue and gold and he had felt moved by the beauty of the place.

“It’s like a jeweled casket, isn’t it?” said Aunt Éloïse quietly. “That’s because when King Louis IX, whom we call Saint Louis, went on crusade six hundred years ago, the emperor in Byzantium—who you can be sure needed the money—sold him some of the most important relics in Christendom, including a piece of the Cross, and the Crown of Thorns itself. Then Saint Louis built this chapel, like a great reliquary, to house these sacred treasures. Cathedrals like Notre Dame, as you know, often took centuries to build, but the Sainte-Chapelle was finished in just five years, all in one style. That’s why it is so perfect.”

“What were the other relics?” Marc had asked.

“A nail from the Cross, a miraculous robe worn by the infant Jesus, the spear that pierced His side, some drops of His blood, some milk from the Blessed Virgin Mary. And also the rod of Moses.”

“You think they were genuine?”

“I couldn’t say. But the chapel was the most beautiful in the world.” She had paused for a moment. “However,” she continued, “I am sorry to say that at the Revolution this wonderful place was completely destroyed. The revolutionaries—who were not at all religious—stripped it bare … The Sainte-Chapelle was absolutely ruined. There are many things about the Revolution that were fine, but the destruction of this chapel was not one of them.” She had turned to Marc and held up her finger. “This is why, Marc, it is important that—especially at times of war and upheaval—there should be people of culture and humanity to protect our heritage.”

Why did she always address these remarks to him, and not to his brother? He’d seen Gérard turn his eyes up to the sky in boredom. But his brother wasn’t really bored, Marc thought. He was jealous that Aunt Éloïse so clearly had a higher opinion of Marc than she did of him.

Aunt Éloïse was in full flood.

“Fortunately, things of beauty are not so easily destroyed—at least, not in France. And Viollet-le-Duc, the architect, completely restored the Sainte-Chapelle to its former glory, as we see it now. It’s wonderful, almost a miracle.” She looked approvingly at Marc again. “So you see, my dear Marc, no matter how bad things seem, we must never give up. As long as there are artists and architects, and patrons—you might be any of these—even miracles can be accomplished.”

And now they were standing in front of the mighty towers of Notre Dame. Beside them was a huge equestrian statue of the emperor Charlemagne. Aunt Éloïse, feeling she hadn’t paid enough attention to Gérard in the Sainte-Chapelle, remarked that it was only just before his own birth that the medieval buildings of old Paris had been swept away from the place. “Until then, Gérard, Notre Dame was surrounded with gabled houses and dark alleys—just like in
The Hunchback of Notre-Dame
,” she added pleasantly.

“I’m glad they were destroyed,” he said in a surly voice.

Aunt Éloïse considered. Was there something challenging in his tone? Did he imagine she must be in love with every picturesque reminder of the Middle Ages? Was he letting her know that he’d be happy to smash down her own sensibilities, like Baron Haussmann with his demolition gangs?

“I quite agree with you, Gérard,” she said, with a charming smile. “First of all, there was only a tiny space in front of the cathedral, and that was filled with disreputable stalls. And second, by the time they were demolished, the old houses were rotting where they stood, and the people in them lived like rats. Whereas now”—she gestured around the parvis—“we have this magnificent space to enjoy.”

That seemed to shut him up. It was time to pay attention to little Marie. But as she turned her gaze toward the little girl, Aunt Éloïse noticed she was looking unhappy. “Is something wrong,
chérie
?” she asked.

“No, Aunt Éloïse,” said Marie.

It had been just after breakfast that the terrible thing had happened. Marie supposed that it had been her own fault, for stupidly leaving her diary on the table in her bedroom. Normally she kept it locked in a drawer. But all the same, did Gérard have to come into her room when she wasn’t there and read it?

Even that wouldn’t have been so bad if she hadn’t just confided to it a secret that she wouldn’t for all the world want anyone to know. She was in love. With a school friend of Marc’s.

“So, little sister,” he’d said cruelly, “I see that you have secrets in your life.”

“That’s none of your business,” she’d cried, going scarlet with embarrassment.

“We all have secrets,” he said, handing her the book contemptuously. “But yours aren’t very interesting. Perhaps there’ll be something better to read when you are older.”

“You’re not to tell,” she wailed.

“Who would I tell?” he’d asked coolly. “Who would care?”

“Get out! I hate you!” She’d only just stopped weeping with mortification and rage an hour later, when Aunt Éloïse had come to collect them.

Aunt Éloïse cast about in her mind for something that might interest Marie. One story occurred to her, not quite appropriate for a nicely brought-up girl of eight, but with a slight alteration …