Paris: The Novel (96 page)

“You think so?”

“I do. So I’ve made a decision. I’ll wait a little while, but if we hold the Germans, I’m going to volunteer.”

“Why?”

“You probably get better treatment, have a better chance of finding yourself a good billet, if you’re a volunteer. People who wait to be conscripted, and forced into the army, don’t do so well. That’s usually how these things work.” He gave his brother a thoughtful look. “If that happens, Thomas, I want you and Édith to take over the bar and restaurant.”

“But that’s not what I do.”

“Thomas, if the war drags on, life might get very hard. I don’t think people will be building much. And anyway, you’re not getting any younger. There could be food shortages. Think of the siege of Paris back in 1870. People were starving. With the bar, you stand a better chance of getting by than most people. And then after the war, whoever wins, you’ll still have it.”

Thomas looked doubtful.

“I don’t know, Luc. It’s not my style. And Édith …”

There was no need for Thomas to finish the sentence. But it wasn’t only that Édith had never liked Luc. Ever since the terrible secret of the murder had come between them, there had been a distance between the two brothers as well. Nothing was ever said, but they both knew it. Even in Luc’s absence, Thomas was reluctant to become involved in his brother’s business. And he certainly didn’t want to join him as any kind of partner.

“Don’t worry,” said Luc, wryly, “I’ll probably be killed. I wouldn’t be the first,” he added quietly.

But to Thomas’s surprise, when he spoke to Édith about the subject that night, she was enthusiastic. “As long as Luc’s not there,” she stipulated.

“I thought you would not want it,” he said.

“Why? It’s better than what we have.”

“Luc thinks he might be killed.”

“Make sure he leaves the business to you. Make sure there’s a proper will.”

This wasn’t Thomas’s way of doing things. But the next day when, with embarrassment, he mentioned what Édith had said to his brother, Luc smiled and remarked that she was quite right. “Give this to your
wife,” he said, and handed Thomas a copy of his will, together with the name of his lawyer.

It was not long before news started arriving about the great battle on the River Marne. It had been the small band of gallant aviators in their flimsy biplanes who had brought the French command news that the German forces outside Paris were split. French and British troops, reinforced by the Parisian troops who’d come in by taxi, were poured into the gap.

The fighting was desperate, the casualties huge. But in less than a week, the Germans had pulled back northeastward to the line of the River Aisne in Picardy and Champagne. There they started a massive line of trenches, and dug in. Paris was saved.

But the news of the casualties was terrible. In that one week of battle, France alone had a quarter of a million casualties, of whom eighty thousand were dead. In such extreme circumstances, it was not always possible to make precise tallies, nor, at first, to inform all the families of the dead.

A week after the battle was over, when there was still no news of Robert, Luc Gascon went to volunteer. He’d taken his decision carefully.

It was clear that Germany would not be able to overrun France as planned. Not only that: the kaiser would now be forced to fight a war on two fronts—on the plains of France and Flanders to his west, and in Russia to the east. The war might be brief, but Luc suspected it would not. More recruits would certainly be needed, and soon.

The recruiting station was a collection of quickly erected wooden huts near the Gare de l’Est railway station. There he found a small crowd of men, waiting in groups and chatting together before they joined the short line filing in at the doorway. As he certainly wasn’t in a hurry, he paused and surveyed the scene.

There were all sorts of men. Most seemed to be in their thirties. The younger men, he surmised, had been more recently conscripted and were probably already in the reserve. A few were laborers and factory hands, but more of them looked like clerks or shop assistants, mostly in suits, some sporting straw hats or trilbies. And he’d been watching for a couple of minutes when he saw a face he thought he knew.

Who the devil was it? A face from long ago. He was sure of that. And
Luc prided himself on never forgetting a face. But it still took him a little time before he realized who it was.

The strange fellow who’d lain in wait that night, long ago, on the rue des Belles-Feuilles. The man who’d wanted to kill that army officer, Roland de Cygne. The man he’d shaken down so successfully in the Bois de Boulogne. Now he remembered the fellow’s name: Le Sourd. That was it.

Luc was wondering whether to hide himself when he remembered that the fellow might not even have known for sure what part he’d played in that little drama. And he never even saw me, Luc thought, except in the Moulin Rouge. It was Luc’s nature to be curious, and he wondered what sort of man Le Sourd had become these days, and why he’d come to the recruiting station. So, cautiously, he drew closer so that Le Sourd could see his face.

It was just as he thought. No reaction. Not a glimmer of recognition.

He went up to him and nodded.

“Taking the plunge?”

“Yes.”

“The rumor I heard,” said Luc amiably, “is that when they start the general call-up, it’ll be everyone up to age forty-five.”

Le Sourd nodded.

“I heard that too.”

“And what age might you be, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Forty. And you?”

Luc did a quick sum in his head. Whatever Le Sourd’s real age, it had to be nearer fifty than forty. Evidently his desire to fight was strong enough to make him lie about his age. That was probably why he’d decided to volunteer rather than wait for the call-up. For when the general call-up came, they’d be checking everyone’s papers carefully, and they might reject a man who was over the age limit. Whereas at present, Luc guessed, they’d take anyone who offered, as long as they were fit enough, with no other questions asked.

“I’m thirty-nine. Tell me,” he continued, “since I had to think about it myself, I’m curious to know what made you decide to volunteer?”

Le Sourd shrugged.

“I’m a socialist. If the German kaiser wins the war, that won’t be good for us.”

This was certainly logical. The conservative German emperor had far
more authoritarian instincts than the left-leaning French government. Most of the French trade unions and socialist organizations had come to the same conclusion and backed the government at once. As an expression of national solidarity, several socialists had immediately been given important government positions.

“You’re like me, then. I’m a patriot, but a socialist too,” said Luc. It wasn’t true, but years behind the bar had taught him two things: if he agreed with a man, that man would believe him, because he wanted to; he’d also be far more talkative. And he could have defended his socialism with ease. Men had confided every political position to him, so many times that he could reproduce those views exactly as he’d heard them. “I was a Jean Jaurès man myself.”

Jean Jaurès, the workingmen’s leader. A figure of towering decency, beloved by every socialist and even many conservatives too. Murdered by a right-wing fanatic that summer, and generally mourned. A safe choice that carried immediate conviction.

Jacques Le Sourd nodded, and continued.

“I’ve seen so many of my young comrades—good union men, socialists, even anarchists—going to the front, that … I felt embarrassed to remain behind, to tell you the truth.”

Luc glanced at him. He’d heard so many stories down the years that he could usually tell if a man was lying. If he was any judge, Le Sourd was telling the truth.

“Any family?” he asked.

“A wife. I married late. But I have a little boy.”

“Did that hold you back?”

“Yes. I lost my own father. He was a Communard. It’s not good, to lose a father. But then I thought, what if my son has to live under the kaiser because I refused to fight?”

“That’s it. I’ve nephews and nieces. I feel the same way.”

Was it possible this married man was still pursuing his strange vendetta against de Cygne? It seemed improbable. Nor could Luc see how the war would make it any easier to accomplish. Even if, by some fluke, Le Sourd appeared in the same company or regiment as the aristocrat, de Cygne would soon come to know of it. He discarded the idea.

“Shall we enlist, comrade?” said Le Sourd.

“Why not?”

When they got to the desk, a young officer was taking down their
details. He looked like a child. Le Sourd gave his age as forty, and though the officer gave him a quick look, he either didn’t care, or he was so young that anyone over thirty-five seemed equally old to him.

With Luc, for some reason, the officer took more care. Searching through a huge dossier on the desk he found his name.

“The doctors will check you out,” he said, and he waved him on.

Marc Blanchard had not expected the proposal from his brother, nor was it welcome. Though he was forty-five, he’d been wondering whether to enlist.

“What about Father?” he said. “He could do it far better than me.”

“He doesn’t want to,” Gérard answered. He gave a wry smile. “I already asked him.”

It was more than five years since Jules Blanchard had finally retired to Fontainebleau. He still kept the big apartment on the boulevard Malesherbes, but he went there less and less.

“The store manager and two of my best clerks have all gone to fight. I couldn’t stop them,” Gérard continued. “I need help, and I want someone in the family. If anything happened to me …”