Paris: The Novel (83 page)

Yet despite the probably dangerous business that lay ahead, Roland was in a cheerful mood. It was a bright October day. He was happy to be back in Paris, and eager to investigate the changes that had taken place there since he had been away.

He’d already been struck by the motor cars in the street—there were not many among the horse-drawn vehicles, but certainly more than one saw in the provinces. More surprising was the presence of the Métro. For if Paris had been slow to adopt underground trains, when it finally happened, the network grew fast. Above all, he’d been struck by the elegance of the serpentine, Art Nouveau entrances to the Métro that appeared down all the boulevards. They were really very pleasing.

He soon found a cab, and told the driver to continue a little way along the Seine, until they were level with Les Invalides. For there were three more additions to the city he could look at as they passed. The first was a bridge.

The Pont Alexandre III had also been completed while he was away. Named for the recent Russian tsar who’d become France’s ally against German aggression, it was a flamboyant affair, a pair of golden winged horsemen supported on pillars at each end, and other emblems linking Paris with St. Petersburg. It might be a little gaudy, Roland thought, but on the whole it was magnificent.

Immediately across the bridge he encountered the other two. On his left, the Grand Palais, and on his right, the Petit Palais.

If the great fair of 1889 had bequeathed Paris the Eiffel Tower, the next fair at the turn of the century had left these two magnificent pavilions. A facing pair of exhibition halls that started as handsome stone museums and, as they rose, turned into soaring Art Nouveau glass houses.
They were like opera houses made of glass, he thought, and flanking the short avenue to the new bridge, with the trees of the Champs-Élysées just behind them, their setting couldn’t have been more delightful.

The cab turned into the Champs-Élysées. Moments later they were at the Place de la Concorde, turning up to La Madeleine, and there was Maxim’s on the left.

Maxim’s: It had been a struggling new bistro the only time that Roland had been there before, back in the nineties. But now it was a palace.

The location, of course, had helped. Set in the broad street between the Place de la Concorde and La Madeleine, it lay at the very epicenter of the city for the rich Parisian or visitor alike. Its facade was discreet. But it had been the transformation of the interior that had raised Maxim’s to the height of fashion. And as he entered, Roland was astonished.

White tablecloths, deep red carpet and banquettes along the walls: rich, discreet—all the plush comfort he might have expected for the enjoyment of haute cuisine. The genius however came from the decoration. Carved woodwork, painted panels, lamps, even the great painted glass ceiling—all Art Nouveau. It was softly lit, yet stunning; it was the latest thing, yet from the moment of its creation it seemed as if it had always been there. Like all great hotels and restaurants, Maxim’s was not just a place to eat, it was a theater. And a work of art.

He had only a light lunch of a fillet of sole with a single glass of Chablis. He allowed himself a small chocolate pastry and a sharp coffee. He wanted to keep his wits about him.

He hadn’t seen anyone he knew, which perhaps was a sign that he had been away too long. And he was about to leave when a passing gentleman stopped, and then addressed him.

“Monsieur de Cygne?”

It was Jules Blanchard, a little more portly than when they’d last met, but quite unmistakable. Roland rose at once and greeted him.

They had a pleasant chat. Roland learned that Marie and Fox had married and gone to London, where James was to take over from his father. Marie’s English, her father proudly informed him, was already perfect.

But all the same, her parents hoped her absence would not be too long—especially since she now had a daughter, Claire. “My granddaughter will speak English perfectly,” her grandfather predicted. “But she’ll always be French, of course.”

“I missed my opportunity to marry her myself,” said Roland politely. “Alas, it was the time of my father’s death …”

Meanwhile, he made Jules promise that he and his wife would come to his house to dine with him.

“I shall open up the house for that, at least,” he said.

Assuming, of course, that he was alive.

Apart from one or two visits to Père Lachaise, Roland had never been anywhere near Belleville. The printer’s was in a small industrial space between a builder’s yard and a dingy office building.

He put his hand in his coat pocket as soon as he had stepped down from the cab, and kept it there resting gently on the pistol.

Entering the printer’s, he found an outer office with piles of recently printed materials—posters, broadsheets and business advertisements—on the floor, and a stained wooden counter manned by a small, bald-headed man in shirtsleeves. The smell of paper and printer’s ink was so sharp it almost made his eyes water.

“I am here to see Monsieur Le Sourd.”

The bald man looked surprised.

“He’s working. Is he expecting you?”

“Kindly tell him that an old friend from the past has arrived in Paris and is anxious to see him again.”

Rather unwillingly, the man went through a door behind him, and returned a minute later with a message that Le Sourd was not expecting anyone.

“Tell him I will wait,” replied Roland. But there was no need: for a moment later, drawn by curiosity, Jacques Le Sourd appeared in the doorway.

At the sight of de Cygne, he froze. So, thought Roland, he knows me. But after a brief hesitation, Le Sourd regained his composure.

“Do I know you, monsieur?”

“Captain Roland de Cygne.” Roland gazed at him evenly.

“I have nothing to say to you, monsieur.”

“There I must disagree. You can help me solve a mystery. It will only take ten minutes of your time. After that we may each of us return to our business. Or I can wait here until you are free at the end of the day.”

Jacques Le Sourd looked at the bald man, who shrugged. Then he signaled Roland to follow him into the street.

A hundred yards to the left there was a small bar. Apart from the owner, it was empty. They moved to a table and Roland ordered two cognacs. As they waited for the cognacs to arrive, Roland kept his right hand in his coat pocket. Le Sourd noticed it.

“You carry a gun,” he remarked.

“Merely a precaution, in case I am attacked,” Roland answered calmly. “I have a dinner engagement this evening, and it would be impolite not to appear.”

The cognacs arrived. Roland raised the small glass with his left hand, took a sip and put it down.

“And now, Monsieur Le Sourd—of whom, until recently, I had never heard in my life—be so good as to tell me: Why do you wish to kill me?”

Le Sourd’s face was impassive.

“Why do you think that I do?”

“Because some ten years ago you waited for me with a pistol in the rue des Belles-Feuilles. I have no idea why, but you can hardly blame me for being curious.”

Jacques Le Sourd was silent. For a moment it looked as if he in turn might ask a question. Then he seemed to think better of it.

“We are not far from the cemetery of Père Lachaise,” he said finally. “There is a wall there called the Mur des Fédérés, where a number of Communards were shot.”

“So I have heard. What of it?”

“They were shot out of hand, without trial. Murdered.”

“They say that the last week of the Commune saw many terrible deeds, by both sides.”

“My father was one of the men shot against that wall.”

“I am sorry to hear it.”

“Do you know the name of the officer who directed that firing squad?”

“I have no idea.”

“De Cygne. Your father.” Le Sourd was watching him carefully.

“My father? You are sure of this?”

“I am certain.”

Roland gazed at Le Sourd. There was no reason for him to invent such a thing. He stared away, into the middle distance.

Was it possible that this was the reason his father had always been unwilling to discuss that period in his life? Had the memory of the execution haunted him? Might it even have caused him, ultimately, to resign his commission? If so, his father had taken that secret to the grave.

But even if such thoughts entered his mind, Roland was far too proud to share them with Le Sourd.

“And this would give you the right to murder me?”

“Tell me, Monsieur de Cygne, do you believe in God?”

“Of course.”

“Well, I do not,” said Le Sourd. “So I have not the luxury of imagining that there is an afterlife. When your father murdered mine, he took away everything he had. Everything.”

“Then I am glad I believe in God, monsieur. And I assume, not being a Christian, that you believe in revenge.”

“Isn’t it true that many Christian officers, men of honor, believe their duty is to avenge the loss of Alsace-Lorraine?”

“Some.”

“What’s the difference? Call my wish to kill you a debt of honor.”

“But you have not come out into the open and done it, as a man of honor would.”

“I will not put more important matters at risk just to secure your death. You are not significant enough.”

“How fortunate,” said Roland drily. “I assume that the important matters you speak of are political in nature.”

“Of course.”

“Yet in the last thirty years,” Roland remarked, “the radical parties have achieved so many of their aims.” He ticked some of them off. “There is little chance of either a monarchy or a Bonapartist military government. Every man has the vote. There is free public education for every boy and girl—I may not see the necessity, but it is so. And education is in the hands of the state, not of the Church. Even the traditional independence of the ancient regions of France, it seems to me, is being eroded by your bureaucrats in Paris. As one who loves France, this also saddens me. But all these changes are not enough for you?”

“They are a beginning. That is all.”

“Then perhaps you are part of the Workers’ International.” It was two years now since the left wing of France’s conventional radicals had formally
split away to form the French Section of the Workers’ International. “You will only be content with a socialist revolution, whatever that may mean.”

“You are correct.”

Roland looked at him thoughtfully. Le Sourd was dedicated to everything he despised. He would oppose him and his kind in every way he could. Yet to his surprise he did not hate him. Perhaps the very fact that the fellow wished to avenge his father’s death made him seem human.

“If you believe that your presence is essential to world revolution, monsieur,” Roland said, “then I advise you not to try to kill me again. For your desire to murder me is now well recorded, and if something happens to me, you will be immediately arrested.”

Le Sourd gazed at him. His eyes, set so wide apart, were certainly intelligent. They conveyed no emotion.

“I am glad that we have had this meeting,” Le Sourd said calmly. “For centuries your class and all you represent have been an evil force. But I see that we are making progress. For you are almost an irrelevance, and soon I think you will be an absurdity.”

“You are too kind.”

“When the opportunity comes to kill you, I shall take it.” He stood up. “Until then, Monsieur de Cygne.” He bowed and left.

Before returning home, however, Roland had another idea. There was one other person he needed to see.

“Take me across the river,” he ordered the taxi driver. “You can put me down at the church of Saint-Germain-des-Prés.”

The church wasn’t far from the family mansion in that aristocratic quarter, but his object, first, was an old presbytery near the church that housed half a dozen elderly priests. In particular, it was now the home of Father Xavier Parle-Doux.

Father Xavier was there, and delighted to see him.

“Your last letter said that you would be back in Paris. But with all the things you must have to do, I did not expect to see you so soon.”

They had always written to each other every month or two, and so it did not take them long to exchange their recent news. Roland told Father Xavier how delighted he was with Paris, which he found more elegant
than when he had left it. “But I thought you would be interested to hear that I have just met a man who is trying to kill me,” he announced.