Paris: The Novel

by Edward Rutherfurd

“My brother here was sick, monsieur, and my family needed me at home.” He glanced at Luc, who managed to cover his astonishment, and continued: “He is well now, as you see.” And Luc solemnly nodded.

  Eiffel looked at him thoughtfully.

  “I know you are a good worker,” said Eiffel. “And as it happens, we are short one man at present. But this is not in the factory. We are short a ‘flyer,’ the fellows who go up the tower.”

  “That is what I should like best of all, monsieur,” cried Thomas. “Perhaps this is fate,” he added hopefully.

  “Hmm. Have you ever worked on a high bridge? Do you have a head for heights? It would be very dangerous for you if you hadn’t.”

  “I have a wonderful head for heights, monsieur, I promise you.”

  “Very well. Report here on the last Monday of this month. Ask for Monsieur Compagnon. I shall tell him to expect you. The wages aren’t huge, but they’re fair.” He nodded, to indicate that the interview was over, and set off toward the river.

  “Thank you, monsieur,” Thomas called after him.

  As Thomas and his brother crossed over the Pont d’Iéna a short time later, Luc turned to him.

  “Why did you lie? Why did you tell him I was sick?”

  “It was necessary,” Thomas confessed. “If he’d thought I was sick, he wouldn’t have hired me.”

  “But you are sick. At least, a bit. Are you strong enough to do this?”

  “I’ll be fine by the end of the month.”

  “Everyone’s going to be furious,” Luc reminded him. “The doctor, our mother, Madame Michel … and especially Berthe.”

  “I know. We needn’t tell them yet.”

  “Well, if you don’t marry Berthe, maybe you’d better find that mystery girl of yours.”

  Thomas laughed.

  “To tell you the truth, I can’t even remember what she looks like. Do you know, it’s two years, to the day, since I saw her at Victor Hugo’s funeral.”

  They continued a little farther in silence. Then Luc spoke.

  “Are you sure you have a head for heights?”

  Chapter Five

  • 1887 •

  Jacques Le Sourd watched the entrance of the school. It was the last full day before the lycée closed for the summer.

  Nobody took any notice of him. Why would they? As far as any of the people in the rue de Grenelle were concerned, he was just a young man of twenty or so, probably a student, or an artisan.

  And nobody knew what he was thinking. That was the wonderful thing. It made him free, and powerful. Thanks to his anonymity, he could wait, undisturbed, for the boy he was going to destroy.

  Not that he was going to kill him today. He probably could, but he didn’t want to. Not yet. When the right moment came he would do it. That was quite certain. But he was patient and, in his own mind, his patience also gave him power. Power to choose the time. Power because no one would suspect him.

  It was amazing, really, he considered, how simple it all was. Discovering where Roland de Cygne lived and where he went to school was easy, of course. And given the school’s regular hours, he could come by and watch the boy arrive or leave the school any day he wished. He’d gotten to know the other places young Roland went. He observed him like this every month or so.

  This small matter had made him realize how most people lived their lives by following very predictable patterns. One knew where they were. With a little further study, one could probably guess what they were thinking. Disrupt their routine and they would panic. Offer them a new routine, and they would take it because it made them feel safe. A skillful planner, he suspected, could make people do almost anything he liked. And that is what he meant to do one day, when he changed the world.

  Young de Cygne had to be destroyed, then killed. The punishment was due. The death of Jean Le Sourd had to be avenged. How else could he show his love for the father he’d lost?

  But Jacques wasn’t just checking on the boy’s whereabouts. His purpose was deeper than that. He wanted to get to know him. The things he did, the company he kept. If possible, he would have liked to know young de Cygne’s mind, even see into his soul. He wanted to understand exactly the unworthy place that Roland de Cygne occupied in the universe, so that his death should be justified as part of a larger pattern of righteousness.

  And how laughably predictable the boy’s life had been so far. Where did his family live? In the aristocratic Saint-Germain quarter, of course. Where else? Where did he go to school? In the private, Catholic Lycée Saint-Thomas-d’Aquin, in that same, aristocratic quarter. Naturally. Everything was mapped out for him. He would be a perfect little representative of his detestable class.

  And here he came, out of the door of the lycée, with a dozen others of his kind. Jacques Le Sourd watched. Young Roland would be walking eastward along the street, toward his home.

  But no. He was walking the other way. Very well. Jacques Le Sourd continued to observe. Some of Roland’s friends peeled off at the boulevard Raspail, but de Cygne crossed it. A few minutes later, he was alone and still walking westward.

  Curious, Jacques followed.

  Roland de Cygne missed his mother. He’d been seven when she died. Some boys were sent away to boarding school; but on the advice of Father Xavier, his father had sent him to the Catholic lycée near the family house, and he’d been happy there. For Roland delighted in his home.

  The house itself was undeniably grand. Its spirit was that of Louis XIV, the Sun King—large, baroque, powerful. One entered through handsome iron gates into a courtyard with wings, known as pavillons, on each side. The hall and broad staircase were of pale, polished stone. In the high, handsome rooms, on parquet floors and Aubusson carpets, Louis XIV formal chairs, lacquered cabinets and heavy boulle desks, their brass inlay softly gleaming, lay like stately ships at anchor. Marble tabletops dimly reflected the sunlight, which entered respectfully into the aristocratic quiet of the house. Ancestral portraits—sad, baroque generals, bland rococo courtiers—reminded today’s de Cygnes that not only the deity, but their ancestors, also saw all that they did and expected—whether or not they could be good—that they should at least uphold the family honor.

  The grandest family mansions of the aristocracy were known as hôtels. And had his title been just a little higher up the ladder of nobility, the vicomte might almost have called his house the Hôtel de Cygne.

  And yet, despite the severe, masculine grandeur of the house, Roland was very happy there. From his earliest childhood, the big, silent rooms had the familiar peace of holy places. The stately armchairs with their ornate wooden arms and tapestry seats were like so many ancient aunts and uncles. And the sometimes daunting portraits were his grandparents, his friends, for whom he felt a deep and primitive urge to protect and defend.

  Above all, although it was only sparsely populated, his home was full of affection.

  His father, who hadn’t remarried so far, was always kind. His old nanny had also remained with them, providing an endless fund of warmth, and effectively running the house for his father. There were only a small staff of six required to keep the place going, but most of them had been with the vicomte all their lives, and Roland thought of them as practically his family, too. And there was Father Xavier, like a favorite uncle, who never failed to look in every week or so.

  But he often thought of his mother, and kept a little photograph of her on the table by his bed, and kissed it every night after he had said his prayers.

  Only one thing worried Roland. He was fifteen now. It was time to be thinking of a career. And he still didn’t know what he wanted to do.

  “I shan’t force you into anything,” his father told him, “but your position is rather like that of your ancestor Roland, back in the days of Saint Louis. He began life as a younger son, and went to Paris as a student. By all accounts, he was very devout, and lived a life of great purity. Almost a monk. But then his brother died and he had to return home to run the estate, because it was hi
s duty. Since you’re the only son, and there’s no one else to carry on the line, that’s rather your position, too. As you’ll be running the estate, it wouldn’t be a bad thing for you to study law.”

  Yet the law didn’t seem a very exciting profession. As the descendant of crusading knights, and even the hero Roland, the boy couldn’t help feeling that fate must have some nobler destiny in store for him.

  “What about the army?” he’d several times asked his father. But for some reason his father had seemed reluctant to encourage that ambition.

  “I was in the army, of course,” he’d say, “until I resigned my commission. But I don’t want it for you.” He never explained why.

  Nor was Father Xavier explicit.

  “Do you wish to serve God?” he gently inquired.

  “Yes, Father.” He truly did. Indeed, if ambition was not a sin of pride, he hoped he might do some great thing for the world, in the Lord’s service.

  “Then you have nothing to worry about,” the priest assured him. “If you commit yourself to God, then He will show you the way.” He smiled. “I know that you desire to do good in the world, Roland, and it does you credit. How pleased your mother would be.”

  “Sometimes I dream of her,” the boy confessed. “Perhaps she will show me the way.”

  “Perhaps. But be careful,” Father Xavier counseled. “It is not for you to choose how God conveys His wishes. He will decide the means, and it may be something quite unexpected.”

  Once his school friends had parted from him in the street, Roland unconsciously picked up his pace. He wasn’t going on this mission because he wanted to, and he hoped to get it over with as quickly as possible.

  After all, he was going to see a horror.

  Roland was a conscientious pupil. It didn’t come naturally, because he often didn’t want to work. It was only because of his mother, really, that he forced himself to do it. “Promise me, Roland, that you will try your best at school.” It was almost the last thing she’d ever said to him. And to his credit, he had always kept his promise. Other boys in the class might be cleverer, but by working hard, he usually managed to get grades that were only a little behind the leaders.

  So when, during a history class that morning, the teacher had asked how many boys had been to visit the horror, and he was the only one not to raise his hand, and the teacher had told him to go to see it, he’d decided to go at once. After all, it wasn’t far.

  A mile away at the end of the rue de Grenelle lay the great space of the Champ de Mars, with its western sweep down to the river. But Roland had gone only half that way when his object came in sight.

  The great military hospital of Les Invalides occupied a huge open space, once known as the Plaine of Grenelle. In the seventeenth century, Louis XIV had built it in a severe, classical style suitable to a military foundation—though in the middle, for magnificence, he’d added a royal chapel with a gilded dome like St. Peter’s, Rome. From the cold, stern facade of Les Invalides, one could gaze over a long parade of iron-clad lawns, and thence across the Seine to the trees of the Champs-Élysées in the distance. It also housed an artillery museum nowadays, but this was not Roland’s object. Entering the first courtyard, he made straight for the central chapel.

  And as he gazed upon the horror that lay within, he understood what the teacher had meant when he’d said: “The chapel of the king has been defiled.”

  A square church. Four chapels at the corners made a cross between them. Over the center of the cross, a circular dome. A classic pattern for Christian worship, from Orthodox Russia to Catholic Spain.

  But there was nothing Christian about the chapel now. Instead of finding a nave beneath the dome, one looked down from a circular gallery into a marble pit. Twelve pillars of victory encircled this pagan crypt, and in its center, upon a massive, green granite pedestal, rested a stupendous sarcophagus of polished red porphyry, bulging with imperial pride.

  The tomb of Napoléon, child of the Revolution, conqueror of God’s anointed monarchs, emperor of France. This was the horror that Roland had been sent to see.

  “That vulgar tomb,” the teacher had declared, “that infamous, pagan monument. The sepulcher of Napoléon is an insult to Catholic France.”

  “And yet, Father,” one of the class had questioned, “isn’t it true that the emperor Napoléon supported the Church?”

  “As an opportunist, yes. But only to get the support of the faithful who did not realize that, in truth, he believed in nothing and mocked them behind their backs. When Napoléon was in Egypt, he supported the followers of Muhammad. ‘If I had a kingdom of Jews,’ he said, ‘I would rebuild the temple of Solomon.’ If,” the teacher warmed to his theme, “you want proof of the wretched man’s impiety, remember that, when he was to be crowned emperor by the pope—like the pious emperor Charlemagne a thousand years ago—and before a crowd of thousands in Notre Dame, he seized the crown from the hands of the Holy Father and placed it on his head himself.”

  Roland had been gazing at the tomb for a minute or two when he noticed an old man arrive. Like Roland, he advanced to the parapet and stared down at the huge red urn, but there the resemblance between them ended. For the old man was behaving in such a strange manner that Roland soon found the visitor more interesting than the monument.

  He was old, but how old it was hard to tell. His hair was snowy white, and he had a silky walrus mustache. His skin had a translucence that suggested great age. But he was a good six feet tall and he held himself ramrod straight, as though he were on parade. Indeed, Roland realized, the old man was actually standing at attention, arms by his sides, as though the emperor himself were inspecting him. And he was so concentrated on this business that he seemed quite oblivious of anything else.

  It would have been rude to stare, but while he pretended to admire the painted dome above, Roland continued to observe the old man for a good five minutes until, finally, he saw him salute the tomb, and then gravely turn to walk away. As he did so, however, he noticed Roland.

  “Well, boy,” he said sharply, like a sergeant addressing a new recruit, “what are you staring at?”

  “Pardon, monsieur.” Roland found himself looking into a pair of blue eyes, proud but not unkindly. “I did not mean to be impolite. I noticed you salute.”

  “Certainly, I salute the emperor. So should all those who remember the Glory of France.”

  La Gloire. Many nations had known glory in their history, but perhaps none had felt it so keenly as the nation of France: for monarchists, the glory of the Sun King; for republicans, the glory of the Revolution; for soldiers and administrators, the glorious victories of the emperor Napoléon.

  “You are a soldier, sir?” Roland dared to inquire.

  “I was. And my father before me. He served in the Old Guard.”

  “Your father knew the emperor?”

  “He did. And so did I. My father survived the Retreat from Moscow. And when the emperor returned for his great final battle and called upon all France to rise to his aid, my father went, and I went with him, though I was hardly older than you. My mother didn’t wish it. She was afraid to lose me. But my father said, ‘Better my son should die than fail to fight for the honor of France.’ So I marched with my father. It was the proudest day of my life.”

  “And you did not die.”

  “No. It was my father who gave his life. At Waterloo, the emperor’s final battle. I was at his side.” The old man paused. “Ever since, on my father’s birthday, I have saluted him, and the emperor, and the honor of France. That’s seventy-two years. And for the last twenty-six years, since this tomb has been here, I have come to Les Invalides to pay my respects.”

  Napoléon might have died in exile on the island of Saint Helena, but his legend had lived on. To his enemies, he remained an upstart and a tyrant. But to many of Europe’s peoples, oppressed under their rigid old monarchies, he remained the republican liberator, the hero of the common man. And to many in France, as well.
r />   Even King Louis Philippe, to make himself more popular, had felt obliged to bring the emperor’s body home to Paris; and now, with a magnificence unmatched by any French king, his ashes rested in this mighty mausoleum in the heart of France.

  Whatever he thought of the sacrilegious emperor, Roland had to admire the dignity and the nobility of this old soldier, who must be nearly ninety, yet who stood so tall and straight.

  The blue eyes under the bushy eyebrows surveyed Roland carefully.

  “And who might you be, young monsieur?” he asked.

  “My name is Roland de Cygne, monsieur,” Roland answered.

  “A noble. Well, there were nobles who served the emperor, too. Promotion was on merit, whoever you were.” He nodded. “Our country was respected then. Not like now. To think that I should have lived to see the humiliation of Paris and Alsace-Lorraine given to the Germans.”

  “Our history master says that we must avenge the dishonor of 1870,” Roland told him. Hardly a week went by without the class getting a lecture on the subject. It was a lesson given in schools all over France. “He says we must recover Alsace-Lorraine.”

  The old man looked at him, perhaps privately measuring whether this new generation was up to the task.

  “The honor of France is in your hands now,” he said finally, and glanced toward the doorway to indicate that the interview was over now.

  Hardly knowing that he was doing so, Roland stood at attention as the old man walked stiffly away. And he waited a little time after he was gone before heading out himself.

  As he did so, he noticed a young man, with dark, close-cropped hair and eyes set wide apart, dispassionately watching him. As he drew level, he couldn’t resist sharing what was in his mind.

  “Did you see that old soldier?” he asked.

  The young man inclined his head.

  “He knew the emperor Napoléon,” Roland said.

  “No doubt.”

  “C’est quelque chose,” Roland remarked. “That’s something.”