Paris: The Novel

by Edward Rutherfurd

  The hours passed. He didn’t even doze. At dawn, he started violently again, as someone threw slops from a window down into the street. And by the time the city gates were opening, and people were moving about in the streets, he staggered down the stairs, hollow-eyed, to face the day.

  He had to attend his first lecture early that morning. He didn’t want to go out unarmed. But a student couldn’t wander around with a weapon in his belt. How could he keep it under his hand unseen? After looking around his possessions he hit upon a solution. He had a roll of cheap parchments, mostly rabbit and squirrel, the kind that clerks and merchants used for transactions. Slipping the dagger through the middle, he found that he could carry it quite hidden, but pull it out with ease. Thus armed, he descended into the street to join his fellow students.

  Everything seemed normal. He felt some comfort from being in a crowd, but he couldn’t help wondering—if he were suddenly attacked, would his fellow students protect him? From some angry townsman with a club, probably. From two or three armed men? Perhaps not. Even as he walked back in their company toward his lodgings after the lectures, he found himself glancing over his shoulder to see if he was being followed.

  Another thought also occurred to him. Shouldn’t he try to protect his body in some way? Could he wear a leather vest, like a man-at-arms, under his clerical dress? Some of them had metal studs. If he could somehow attach the ends together between his legs, might that give him some protection, or would his assailants just slit it with a knife?

  On the western side of the Latin Quarter, there was a gate in the city wall where the road led out to a church in the suburbs called Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Just inside this gate there was an armorer’s workshop. He’d never been in there, but he’d heard it was one of the best. In the afternoon, therefore, he paid the place a visit.

  The little factory was certainly busy. It had forges like a blacksmith. He saw swords, helms, chain armor, all manner of implement and protective clothing for the fighting man. But while everything was designed to protect the head and arms, the torso and the legs, there was no individual item to protect a man between his legs. And I can hardly walk around in a suit of body armor, Roland thought.

  He asked for the master armorer, and was pointed toward a short, brisk figure with a close-cropped graying beard, who listened carefully as he explained the protection that he wanted.

  “Never been asked for that before,” the craftsman remarked. “Did you get caught with somebody’s wife?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, I always say we can make anything. You want something like a chastity belt, only it would have to be bigger. Difficult to make that out of metal. I doubt you could sit down.” The armorer considered. “To be flexible, it would have to be like a short hose, chain armor over a leather backing, I should think. It’d be quite heavy, you know, and it’ll cost you.”

  “You could do it?”

  “Not for a month, at least, maybe longer. I’ve orders waiting from some of the greatest nobles in the land.” He looked up at the unhappy young man. “Can it wait that long?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Better hang on to yourself, then.” The craftsman grinned.

  Roland departed sadly. He probably couldn’t afford such a thing, even if he could find anyone to make it.

  It was almost a day and a half since he had slept, and he was starting to feel light-headed. He hardly knew what to do with himself. Returning to the rue Saint-Jacques, he turned down toward the river. Soon, on his left, he passed the Church of Saint-Séverin. And in the hope that the place might calm his spirits, he went in there to rest.

  There was something very intimate about its strange, old, narrow vaults. Though rebuilt from time to time, the church had already been there for seven hundred years, since the days of the early Frankish kings. As he sat on a stone bench, his back to the wall and his eyes on the door, with his dagger concealed in the roll of parchment across his knees, young Roland reflected on his situation.

  The facts were all too obvious. He had sinned, and God was punishing him. He deserved it. That much was clear as day. But what could he do? He must repent. He must beg forgiveness with all his heart, though whether it would be granted was another matter.

  A terrible thought occurred to him. Could it be that God actually intended he should be castrated? Was God not only punishing him, but saving him from further temptation? Had God decided to ensure that his life was dedicated to religious service as a celibate priest or monk? Surely it could not be. Wasn’t it God’s will that he should overcome temptation, more or less, rather than have temptation removed from him? Abelard might have suffered that fate, but Abelard was a great scholar and philosopher. His own place in the world was far more modest. He wasn’t worthy of so much attention. Plenty of other men in Holy Orders had done the same as he had, and got away with it. If he dedicated his life to serving the Church, he told himself, that ought to be enough. If he truly repented, forgiveness would be granted.

  So Roland tried to pray. He tried very hard indeed, for over an hour. And at the end of that time, he did feel a little calmer. At least he’d made a start, he thought. That was something. He got up, and cautiously went into the street.

  If only he didn’t feel so tired. He must get sleep. But he didn’t want to sleep at his lodgings. He needed to find another place. Somewhere the men searching for him wouldn’t think of. Where could he go?

  And then, it seemed to him, he had a good idea. What about the girl on the rue Saint-Honoré? What about Louise? Neither Martine nor her uncle knew about her.

  Louise had a little room near the tavern. She’d surely let him sleep with her there. And to show that his repentance was sincere, he wouldn’t make love to her. That might work. He’d go to the tavern and ask her.

  With this new, confused hope in his heart, he crossed over the river, and headed north.

  There was only one thing that worried him. Once in bed with her, would he still be able to resist temptation? And would she let him? Still pondering this difficulty, he came to the rue Saint-Honoré and started to turn into it.

  A hand closed on his elbow. He leaped in the air. His hand flew to the roll of parchment. He twisted, with a terrified face, toward his assailant.

  “My dear young man. Did I startle you?”

  It was the priest from the church by the Cemetery of the Innocents. The man to whom he’d delivered the letter the week before.

  “Father!” he cried.

  “I’m very sorry I made you jump,” said the elderly priest apologetically. “But I thought I recognized you. You came to my house the other day. Are you all right?” His mild blue eyes were peering at the younger man. “You look very pale.”

  “Yes, mon Père, I am well.” Roland stared at the priest with a mixture of relief and embarrassment. “Thank you. Ah … The truth is that … I did not sleep well last night.”

  “Why was that, my son?”

  “Well, you see …” Roland searched his mind feverishly. “There was a fire in my lodgings. Just a small fire. It was put out. But my room is a terrible mess. Black dust everywhere …” He was babbling, but the elderly priest continued to look at him kindly.

  “And where will you sleep tonight, my son?”

  “Oh … Well … I was going to ask a friend …”

  “Why don’t you sleep at my house? There is plenty of room.”

  “Your house?”

  “It would be a strange thing if the priest of the Saints Innocents did not help a scholar in need.”

  And then it seemed to Roland that he understood. This was a gift from the Almighty. God had sent this priest to save him from temptation in his hour of need. He need not sleep with Louise. He would be safe.

  “Thank you, mon Père,” he said. “I accept.”

  The priest’s house lay almost beside the church. It wasn’t large, but it had a pleasant hall with a fireplace and a window, and an area partitioned by a heavy curtain, where a
mattress could easily be laid for a guest. An elderly nun from a nearby convent came in each day to act as the priest’s housekeeper, and she quietly laid out a meal for them both. After he had eaten a rich stew, and a little cheese, and drunk a goblet of wine, Roland started to feel very much better.

  The priest’s conversation was pleasant. He asked Roland about his family and his studies, and it was soon clear that he was an excellent scholar himself. He spoke about his parish, and its poor. And it was only toward the end of the meal that he gently inquired: “Are you in some sort of trouble, my son?”

  Roland hesitated. How he would have liked to tell the kindly priest the truth. Should he make his confession and ask for his help? Could the priest perhaps arrange for his protection? The Church was powerful. He wanted to confess.

  But he couldn’t do it.

  “No, mon Père,” he lied.

  The old man didn’t press him. But as the sun was falling he remarked that at the end of each day he went into his church to pray, and suggested that perhaps Roland would like to accompany him.

  “I should,” said Roland fervently. And he went to pick up his roll of parchment, so that he’d have his dagger with him, just in case.

  “There’s no need to bring that with you,” the old man said. “It will be quite safe here in the house.”

  What could he do? Reluctantly he went out unarmed.

  The Church of the Saints Innocents was silent. They were alone.

  “Each time I pray here,” the priest remarked, “I like to remember that I am in the presence of all those poor Christian souls, the simple people of Paris without even a name by which to remember them, who lie in the cemetery beside us.” He smiled. “It makes our own troubles seem very small.”

  Then he went to a small side altar, sank to his knees and silently began to pray.

  Roland knelt beside him, and did his best to do the same. The old man’s presence was comforting. He felt a sense of peace. Surely, he thought, in this quiet sanctuary, he must be under God’s protection.

  And yet … As the time passed, and the church remained silent, he could not help it if his ears were straining for any tiny sound. He wanted to turn his head to look around, to make sure that no shadowy figures were stealing toward them. But he did not dare, for fear of disturbing his companion’s prayers.

  And then, to his shame, came other thoughts. What if the church door suddenly burst open now, and two or three armed men rushed in? He didn’t have his dagger, but the old priest was not heavy. Could he pick him up and use him as a shield? He was just contemplating this possibility when he heard the priest’s voice at his side.

  “Let us say a Pater Noster, my son.”

  Pater Noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur Nomen tuum … the eternal words of the Lord’s Prayer, murmured softly in the quiet church.

  And when it was done, and they had returned to the priest’s house and bolted the door, Roland lay down on the bed prepared, with his roll of parchment beside him, and slept in peace.

  The sun was already well up when he awoke. Breakfast was awaiting him on the table. The old priest had already gone out, but had left a message with his housekeeper that he would expect Roland to join him for supper again that evening, and to stay in his house that night.

  As he made his way across the river to the Latin Quarter, Roland felt quite refreshed. Whatever the dangers that lurked, he thought, there must be some solution—some way, if he were truly repentant, that God would grant him protection. Perhaps, this evening, he would confess everything to the old priest and ask his advice.

  He went up the rue Saint-Jacques. There were plenty of students about. He kept his eyes open, but saw no sign of danger.

  He was fifty paces from his lodgings when a student came up to him.

  “There’s a fellow looking for you,” he said.

  Roland froze.

  “A man? What sort of man?”

  “I don’t know. I never saw him before.”

  “Just one?” His heart was starting to beat violently. “Are you sure there weren’t several?”

  “I saw only one,” the student said. And Roland was just wondering whether to make a run for it when the student waved to a poor-looking young fellow up the street and called out: “Here he is.”

  Roland began to turn and run. But then he stopped.

  No. He wouldn’t run. He couldn’t go on like this. There was only one young man, probably sent as a scout, to check out his whereabouts before the thugs were brought in. If I can just bring him down, he thought, and make him confess … take him to the authorities … It’d be hard for Martine’s uncle to attack me after that.

  He reached into the roll of parchment, pulled out the dagger.

  And with a shout of rage, he rushed at the stranger, hurling himself upon him. The young man went down. Roland stayed on top of him. He pressed the dagger blade to the fellow’s throat.

  “Who sent you?” he cried. The young man’s eyes were wide with terror.

  “The lord de Cygne,” he answered hoarsely. “Your father, sir.”

  “My father?”

  “I am Pierre, the miller’s son, from your village.”

  Roland stared at him. It could be true. He realized that the young fellow’s face was vaguely familiar. He hadn’t seen him for a few years. He kept the dagger at his throat, in case.

  “Why are you here?”

  “Your brother. He has had an accident. He is dead. Your father wants you to return home at once. I have a letter for you from the priest.”

  “My brother is dead?” That could mean only one thing. He’d have to take his place back at home as the future lord de Cygne.

  “Yes, sir. I am sorry.”

  And then, without thinking—for in truth he loved his brother—but in sheer relief at such an unexpected way out of his troubles, Roland spoke the words that, for the rest of his life, would cause his villagers behind his back to call him the Black de Cygne:

  “Thank God!” he cried.

  The letter from the priest explained the details. His brother had suffered a fall from his horse onto a gatepost, had punctured his lungs and died within the hour. The priest urged Roland to do his father’s bidding and return at once, since his presence was greatly needed.

  He well knew, the priest wrote, what a sacrifice it would be to give up his studies at the university, and the religious life. And indeed, Roland thought, he might have felt some reluctance to leave Paris, had it not been for this trouble over Martine with the merchant. But, the priest went on, it was not for us to question providence. One must simply bow one’s head and do one’s duty. It was clearly a sign, the priest explained, that God had decided that Roland should serve Him in another calling.

  Roland made the arrangements that very day. He told his teachers that his father required him urgently to go into Normandy, but that he hoped soon to return. He told his friends that he was secretly hoping to study in Italy, at the University of Bologna. To Martine, he sent no message at all. And having, he hoped, left enough confusion to throw her uncle off his track, he spent the night at the house of the kindly old priest and departed the next morning for his home in the valley of the Loire.

  Since he made no inquiries, he never knew that, six months later, Martine was married to a merchant named Renard. But had he known, he would have been glad.

  Chapter Four

  • 1885 •

  Thomas Gascon found his true love on the first day of June, in the morning. It had rained the day before, and gray clouds were still passing across the open sky above the Arc de Triomphe. But the horse chestnut trees were in their full, white blossom, and the promise of summer was in the air, as the huge crowds gathered.

  He had come for a funeral.

  Writers were honored in France. And now that Victor Hugo—beloved author of Les Misérables, The Hunchback of Notre-Dame and a score of other tales—had died at the age of eighty-three, France was giving him a state funeral.

  The entire l
egislature, senators, deputies, judges and officers of state; the leaders of the universities, the academies and the arts, had arrived at the Arc de Triomphe, where the author had been lying in state. More than two million people lined the route the funeral cortege would take, down the Champs-Élysées to Concorde, over the bridge to the Left Bank and along the boulevard Saint-Germain until, at last, it would climb to the summit of the old Roman hill in the Latin Quarter where the mausoleum of the Panthéon now stood, ready to receive the greatest sons of France.

  Paris had never seen such a crowd—not in the days of the Sun King, not during the Revolution, not even under the emperor Napoléon.

  And all for a novelist.

  Thomas had arrived at dawn to get a good view. Some people had camped out in the street the night before to get a good position, but Thomas had been more cunning. He had inspected the place previously and chosen a spot near the top of the Champs-Élysées, on its southern side, with his back resting against a building.

  As the huge avenue rapidly filled, his view was soon blocked, but he didn’t mind. He waited patiently until everything was in place, the police and soldiers all busy lining the roadway and the crowd around him so thick that it was impossible to move.

  First, he reached down to the rope tied around his waist and unwound the loose end, to which he’d attached a small hook. Just behind him, at shoulder height, a narrow ledge ran along the stone facade of the building, and above that was a window protected on the outside by a metal grille. Skillfully, he tossed the rope up so that the hook caught in the grille.

  Then, suddenly grabbing the shoulders of the two people in front of him, he levered himself up quickly. They hardly had time to protest before he was scrambling up their backs, and a moment later, with a foot resting on the head of one of them, he got his other heel firmly on the ledge, reached up, pulled the hook through the grille and tied the rope off. The two men below were now cursing volubly, and one of them tried to punch him, but the crowd was so close that it was hard for the man to get a decent swing. And after Thomas made a motion as though to kick him in the head with his workman’s boot, he contented himself with a contemptuous “Cochon!” and turned away.