But although Jules and the aristocrat came from rather different social worlds, they had soon discovered that they liked the same operas, smoked the same cigars and even occasionally frequented the same salons. In short, they had found each other rather congenial.
The members of the group could have found the money for the plinth between themselves. But everyone agreed that Parisians ought to express their appreciation for such an ornament to the city with a public subscription of some kind. So when the committee received a note from a city lawyer who thought he could help them do so, it was agreed that Blanchard and de Cygne should meet him and find out what he had to offer.
Jules got there a few minutes early. Almost immediately afterward, the Vicomte de Cygne arrived. That summer he had grown a fashionable pointed beard and mustache—gray and close cropped—which suited him rather well. He greeted Jules and they sat down to wait.
Exactly at the appointed hour, they saw a waiter leading a man across the grand spaces of the Café de la Paix to their table. A somewhat small, thin man, very neatly dressed, with a long, pale face.
Monsieur Ney bowed to them both and took the proffered chair. Drinks were ordered. Ney was polite. He apologized that he might be called to the front desk to sign a document—only for a moment—toward the end of the meal: a piece of information which did not endear him to the vicomte. But he had certainly taken the trouble to inform himself thoroughly about the business at hand. He knew that the artist had sadly died before the plinth could be installed, and that the artist’s brother had almost bankrupted himself providing a stone plinth that he couldn’t pay for.
“I am appalled that the city has not played its part,” he announced. “The site in front of Notre Dame seems well chosen, and the statue is a marvel.”
“And what brought our project to your attention?” asked Blanchard.
“To tell you the truth, monsieur, it was my daughter, Hortense, who learned of it, and told me I should be doing something. She interests herself in everything in the city. And as she is not yet married and has no children to worry about, she finds good causes every day. Her generosity will probably ruin me,” he added with a smile, which gently indicated that he was far from being ruined.
So, thought Jules, the true object of the lawyer was revealed. It was to promote his daughter. He thought of how his sister had taken him to task on the subject of Marie, and felt a pang of guilt. He couldn’t blame the lawyer for doing what he ought to be doing himself. It remained to be seen what the fellow had to offer in return.
“What we really want,” he explained to the lawyer, “is not only to raise money—which of course we wish to do—but to enlarge the network of people involved in the project. I wonder if you have any suggestions.”
“As far as funds are concerned, naturally Hortense and I would wish to contribute. I also know an old lady of large fortune who is good enough to take my advice on matters like this. But to enlist public interest, I wondered if it would be a good idea to ask Monsieur Eiffel to give the project his blessing. We happen to know him.” He paused. “And if only to please Hortense, I think he might take an interest.”
“Indeed.” The lawyer might not be quite the company he’d choose, but Jules was impressed. “That might be very helpful,” he said.
The meal passed pleasantly enough. De Cygne let Blanchard do most of the talking, but inevitably the aristocrat asked Ney if he was related to the great marshal of the same name.
“I am, Monsieur de Cygne, and I am very proud of it. I know the marshal’s loyalties might not be your own, but I honor him as a brave soldier.”
De Cygne greeted this with a nod.
The lawyer then gently turned the conversation to his daughter, Hortense. Ney did not say more than a fond father should, but it was clear that the young lady was as good as she was beautiful.
Now it was time for Jules to pursue his agenda too.
“You’ve had her portrait painted, no doubt,” he remarked easily.
“In fact, I have not,” the lawyer confessed.
“Oh,” said Blanchard, as if this was rather strange. “I always think these things add to the reputation of a young woman. People see them, you know.”
“Have you an artist you’d recommend?” Ney innocently inquired.
“It would depend what sort of portrait you wanted, I suppose,” Jules answered. “My son Marc is a painter. Rather in the style of Manet, you might say. He did Madame Du Bois the banker’s wife, the other day. They seemed pleased.” He smiled. “You’d better move fast if you want him, though, before his prices shoot up.”
“I should be most interested,” Ney responded, “if you’d care to put us in touch.”
He’d understood, of course. A commission for Marc. A place on the committee perhaps, for himself and visibility for his daughter. So far so good.
Just as the meal was about to end, a waiter came and whispered in Ney’s ear, and with profuse apologies, he left them for a moment to go to meet his clerk at the entrance. While he was gone, de Cygne turned to Blanchard.
“His game is the daughter, then. He wants to infiltrate her into society.”
“Undoubtedly,” Jules agreed. “But one can’t blame the fellow. He’s only doing what a father should.” He shrugged. “Who knows, she may be pretty. And I’m sure there will be a fine dowry.”
De Cygne grunted in a manner that indicated he couldn’t care less.
“I enjoyed listening to you get your son a commission, though,” the vicomte added with a wry smile.
“When lawyers take so much in fees, one must claw back what one can,” Blanchard replied cheerfully. “But if the fellow can deliver Eiffel, as he claims,” he continued more seriously, “that would be a great draw to the public. And I think we ought to encourage him.”
“You’re right, of course,” said the vicomte. He glanced toward the distant figure of Ney with distaste. “But Eiffel is a great man. I am not going to be introduced to him by a back-streets attorney.” He gave an apologetic shrug. “I’m a snob.” He reached across and touched Blanchard’s arm. “You could introduce me to Eiffel. That would give me great pleasure.”
Jules laughed.
“Perhaps the solution will be for Ney to introduce me to Eiffel. And then I can introduce Eiffel to you!”
“In that case, mon ami,” de Cygne said, “I shall be in your debt forever.”
Ney rejoined them. They finished the meal.
And it was then that the Vicomte de Cygne, feeling that he ought to make an effort with this potential contributor, asked him pleasantly: “Tell us, Monsieur Ney, as we know you are related to a military hero, have you other interesting figures in your ancestry?”
Ney hesitated.
“As it happens, Monsieur de Cygne, I have never been able to discover the connection, if it even exists, but my mother’s maiden name was Arouet.”
“Arouet?” cried Jules Blanchard. “But that’s the family name of Voltaire.”
“As you say, monsieur,” answered Ney, “before the great philosopher decided to call himself Voltaire, he was plain Monsieur Arouet.” He smiled. “And his father was a notary, too.”
Blanchard gazed at Ney. Though the notary didn’t exactly look like the great hero of the eighteenth-century Enlightenment, there was some resemblance, at least in their small, thin physiques.
“I’m surprised you don’t claim it,” remarked de Cygne drily.
“I am a lawyer, Monsieur de Cygne. Others might demand proof, and I do not possess it.”
But the aristocrat wasn’t going to let the matter drop just yet. He was going to punish the lawyer, just a little, for intruding upon him. He considered.
“What was that story about Voltaire? When he was quite young, he ran a national lottery, collected all the money and then awarded the prize to himself. Wasn’t that how he made his first fortune? Something like that.”
If this was intended to embarrass Ney, it failed. He smiled.
“In fact,
monsieur, he and several others realized that in a certain national lottery, the government had made a mathematical mistake in calculating the odds. They put together a syndicate, bought blocks of tickets, and made a great fortune. But it was perfectly legal.”
“Oh,” said de Cygne, and shrugged. “Well, I prefer my story.”
“So do I,” said the lawyer with a laugh. “So do I.” And then, just for once, Monsieur Ney inadvertently let down his guard. “Think of it,” he cried: “Oh what a fraud! How delicious! If a man could get away with that, and not get caught …”
And, quite forgetting himself, he let out a loud, gleeful cackle that was almost fiendish, while the businessman and the aristocrat stared at him in fascinated horror.
There was a silence. The lawyer dabbed at his face with a silk handkerchief.
“Well, Monsieur Ney,” said Jules Blanchard, “it has been most interesting to meet you.” And he politely escorted him to the entrance. “I shall be in contact very soon. Did you really want me to put you in touch with my son Marc?”
“Assuredly, monsieur,” said Monsieur Ney. “As soon as possible.”
“Then in that case,” he wrote on the back of his card, “all you need do is write to him at this address. It’s his studio.”
When Jules got back to the vicomte, that gentleman declared that they both needed a brandy.
But he didn’t want to discuss Ney anymore. It seemed that the lawyer had already been expunged from his mind. It had not occurred to Jules that the aristocrat might also have a hidden agenda, but as the vicomte looked at him reflectively, it seemed that he might.
“I see that you are a good father,” said de Cygne.
“You mean the commission for Marc? I’m sure you do things for your son too, Vicomte.”
“I lost my wife when my son was a young boy. It makes it more difficult. I worry about him, still. Do you worry about your children?”
“Of course.” He told de Cygne briefly about Gérard and Marie. “They’re all right, I think. But I worry about Marc.”
“You see your children often?”
“At least once a month, the whole family meets for Sunday lunch, either in Paris or at Fontainebleau. They bring their friends. For better or worse, it’s family.”
De Cygne thought of his own quiet house and nodded.
“That is how it should be. Do you ever have older guests?”
“Certainly.” Blanchard looked at him curiously.
“Might I be a guest at one of your lunches?”
“By all means.” Blanchard hesitated. “They are quite informal, you understand. The Blanchard family is entirely bourgeois. It might not be to your taste, you know.”
De Cygne reflected that if Blanchard wanted to, he could probably buy the de Cygne house, château and estate, and have change to spare. But that was not the point. It was another little plan that was framing in his mind, and the Blanchard family was exactly to his purpose.
“If you would invite me,” he said, “I should be delighted to come.”
“Well,” answered Jules, “Christmas and the New Year are almost upon us, but what about the third Sunday in January? The sixteenth. In Paris.”
“Excellent,” said de Cygne. “I shall be there.” Even though, in truth, he hadn’t the least intention of going.
It had never occurred to Roland de Cygne that his father’s life might be drawing to a close. The vicomte appeared to be in excellent health. So he was always glad, afterward, that when his father had suggested he come down to the château and stay with him awhile, he had accepted.
The last couple of months in Paris had passed quietly enough for Roland. His regimental duties kept him busy. Indeed, he sometimes felt that he was being given extra duties. “That’s to compensate for your winning the lottery for La Belle Hélène,” the captain told him cheerfully. He didn’t have time to go out on the town very much. But whenever he did go to the Folies-Bergère, or to see a play, or just to dine out, his brother officers were always eager to accompany him. The captain in particular seemed to want his company. He had no objection, but sometimes he might have been just as happy to go out for an evening alone.
In the middle of December, however, he was due some leave, and he’d been wondering what to do.
Many people, having spent the summer months in the country, would have remained in Paris for the winter season unless, like the fashionable English, they liked to travel down to places like Nice and Monte Carlo on the Mediterranean, or venture into the snowy magnificence of the Swiss Alps, where a few hardy souls would even hike across the mountain trails on skis.
But his father had recently decided it was time he paid more attention to the family estate. “The house needs attention, so do the farms,” he told Roland. “I want to leave things in good order for you. And before I die, I’m going to sort all the family papers that nobody’s touched in a hundred years.”
“In that case, Father,” Roland answered with a smile, “you may have to live a long time.”
So now, knowing that the regiment would certainly be posted, possibly far away, at some point, and having received his father’s invitation, he’d decided to keep his father company in the country.
The Château de Cygne was not large, but it was full of character. At various times in its history, when the family could afford it, the old building had been altered or added to, so that the final result was a charming mixture of styles. Hidden inside were thick walls belonging to the original little fort, which went back eight hundred years.
But the oldest part visible from the outside dated from the late fifteenth century, when the son of Guy de Cygne, using the moneys from his mother, Cécile Renard, and the noble heiress he’d married himself, had created a small, romantic château, with a steep roof, round towers and pointed turrets at the corners.
This charming little French castle also contained the family’s favorite room—a large hall, with quite a low ceiling that was crossed by dark, friendly old beams, and a huge fireplace that could have held a dozen men. On one wall of the hall, looking as if it had always been there, hung the lovely unicorn tapestry supplied by Monsieur Jacob.
Another wing, equally delightful in decorative brick, had been added a century later, in the rich and cheerful style of the French Renaissance. Finally, in the eighteenth century, yet another wing and court had been added in the classical style. This perhaps was less satisfactory, but a wide ornamental terrace, with a formal garden and elegantly clipped trees, had brought the whole ensemble together in a way that felt pleasing. It was not uncommon to find such places in the lovely Loire Valley region.
During that Christmas season, Roland and his father had time to discuss many things together. Roland told his father about his adventure with La Belle Hélène, which amused and pleased the vicomte greatly. They also discussed ways to improve the estate. The woods could be used for boar hunting. “We could also raise pheasants for shooting, like the English do,” the vicomte believed. “The château itself is in fair shape,” he informed Roland, “but the upper floors need restoring, and in another dozen years we’ll have to reroof the whole place. One day you may need to sell the house in Paris, unless you can marry a rich woman,” he added.
Yet sometimes, it seemed to Roland, his father was troubled by darker thoughts.
“The situation in Europe worries me,” he confessed one evening. “I just hope you won’t have to fight a war, like I did.”
“The great empires have treaties to maintain the balance of power,” Roland pointed out.
“Yes. But Germany is still jealous of Britain’s empire. When old Bismarck was running Germany’s policy, for all his ambition, he knew the limits of power. But the people around the young kaiser now are hotheads. I fear for the future.”
On the state of France itself, however, it was he rather than his father who was the pessimist.
“The corruption of the government is so complete, Father, I can’t understand why most of the deputies don’t
shoot themselves in shame. When I think of the Panama Canal … I despair of my country.”
It was true that the catastrophe of the Panama Canal had shocked all France. At first, it had been advertised as a great French enterprise. Its builder, de Lesseps, had triumphantly engineered the Suez Canal some years earlier. Now French expertise would astonish the New World as well. But not only had the plans been misconceived, not only had the entire business gone bankrupt, taking with it the savings of ordinary people all over France, but de Lesseps and his friends had mounted one of the biggest cover-ups the world had ever seen, bribing innumerable politicians high and low to conceal the disaster. Even Eiffel, who’d been called in to try to correct the engineering when it was far too late, had almost been tarnished with the scandal.
Respect for the political class had been destroyed for a generation.
“My son,” the vicomte had replied with a shake of his head, “I share your outrage, but scandals like these have been found in every country, and I suspect they always will be.”
“I do not accept that nothing can be done,” Roland replied. “But I think it’s proof that we cannot trust our elected officials.”
“And you would replace it with a monarchy? A sacred king?”
“I consider the monarch to be sacred. Yes. He is anointed by God. But if not a monarch, perhaps a man who is above mere politics. A man of destiny.”
“That is how Napoléon first portrayed himself, yet you do not approve of him.”
“I mean a religious man.”
“A few years ago, General Boulanger seemed like such a man, yet when perhaps he could have made a bid for power, he shied away from taking up such a burden. I cannot think of any plausible figure in France today. Nor am I so sure that I trust any single man, even an anointed monarch, so much better than I do one who is an ordinary politician.” The vicomte sighed. “All governments are corrupt. It’s just a question of degree.” He smiled wryly. “And whether they’re any good at it.”
Paris: The Novel Page 35