Paris: The Novel

by Edward Rutherfurd

  And just as he had when he was a boy, while he loved and respected his father, Roland felt a sense of sorrow that the vicomte could not, or would not, take a moral stance when he should.

  Sometimes the Vicomte de Cygne wondered if he should have married again. Not so much for his own sake as for his son. The trouble was that at the time when little Roland had probably needed a mother most, he himself had been grieving far too deeply for his lost wife even to think of marrying another.

  Since then he’d been fortunate in having a number of romantic friendships. One woman he might have married if she had been available. Another was available, but she would not have been accepted socially by his friends. Others had usually followed a similar pattern—discreet, safe, amusing. He had not been unhappy.

  As for his domestic situation, his Paris house was very effectively run by Nanny, even in her old age. And at the family château, where certainly, a woman’s hand was called for, he wasn’t sure he’d really be able to tolerate anyone else’s interference nowadays. He’d long ago decided to keep it the way it was, in somewhat masculine order, until such time as Roland should marry and his wife and children could do as they pleased with the place while he watched, no doubt with horror as well as amusement. He’d supposed that was the natural order.

  But as he looked at his son today, the vicomte couldn’t help feeling that he had let him down. Plenty of other boys had grown up without a mother, of course. But Roland’s upbringing had been too masculine. He lacked balance.

  I shouldn’t have let Father Xavier influence him so much, either, the vicomte thought.

  He’d never objected to the priest, who was so obviously in love with his wife. He’d rather sympathized with him. He had known Father Xavier’s love would remain entirely platonic. The priest was correct, and pure. But perhaps that was why he harbored doubts about him. For during the course of his life, rightly or wrongly, the vicomte had developed a certain suspicion of men who were too pure.

  God knows what stuff that priest had put in his son’s head down the years.

  Not that the Vicomte de Cygne objected to his son’s being a monarchist, nor a devout Catholic, nor a young aristocrat, proud of his ancestry and with the prejudices of his class. The vicomte shared most of those prejudices himself. In fact, he rather enjoyed these aristocratic snobberies. But he enjoyed them without believing in them too much. Indeed, the very fact that, as an aristocrat, he looked down upon most of humanity—and that he also knew the shortcomings of his fellow aristocrats—made it easy for him not to expect too much from imperfect human nature, nor to judge people too harshly.

  But his son believed too much. And a lifetime of observation, including the horrors of the Commune, had led the vicomte to think that when men believed too strongly, it made them cruel.

  He was especially concerned by a conversation they had just after Christmas.

  It concerned an army officer. His name was Dreyfus and, unusually for an officer, he was Jewish. When a minor spying scandal had emerged, he had been accused of passing secrets to the Germans, court-martialed and sent to prison on Devil’s Island.

  Some people had said that the prosecution was badly flawed, and even that Dreyfus was innocent. As one might expect, the military authorities refused to contemplate the idea that there had been any mistake. And there the matter had rested.

  The subject had come up quite casually when they were talking about the difference between civilian and military courts, and the vicomte was remarking that no system of justice could ever be perfect.

  “That Dreyfus fellow, for instance: I dare say he’s guilty, but it may turn out one day that he wasn’t. That’s just the way it goes.”

  “Oh, I think we can be sure he’s guilty, Father,” Roland replied. “After all, the man’s a Jew.”

  “My dear boy, you can’t say he’s a traitor just because he’s a Jew.”

  “Perhaps not. But it makes him suspect, doesn’t it?”

  “I don’t think so. What is it you object to about the Jews?”

  “Apart from the obvious fact that they are not Catholics, one can never be sure of their loyalty. One never knows what they’re up to.”

  “You mean there’s a general conspiracy?”

  “The Jews all stick together, don’t they?”

  “But you surely don’t think that our friend Jacob, for instance, who sold me that wonderful tapestry, is part of a conspiracy?”

  “I don’t know, Father. He may be.”

  “And do most of your fellow officers believe such things?”

  “Of course. And as far as this Dreyfus is concerned, most of them think that Jews shouldn’t be officers at all.”

  “There is no evidence for a conspiracy, you know.”

  “Naturally. It’s a conspiracy.”

  His father sighed.

  “My dear son, that has been the doctrine of every maniac in the secret police since the days of Babylon. If we can see a conspiracy, then it’s proved. If we can’t see it, then the conspirators must be hiding it. This is a logic from which there is no escape.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But there may not be a conspiracy, my dear boy. Has this not occurred to you?”

  Roland was silent.

  The vicomte was proud of his son. He could see that through these prejudices, which unfortunately were commonplace, Roland was expressing the idealist’s desire to serve a cause. The fault in his son lay not in his nature, which was honorable, but in his perceptions, which were limited. All the more reason, he considered, that he should try to render his son one important service.

  He must broaden the young man’s mind, teach him that there were many ways to live, and that there was virtue in tolerance, too, in an imperfect world.

  So he was all the more glad of that idea he’d had when he met Blanchard and that appalling lawyer the other day. Not that he’d have any objection to having Sunday lunch with the Blanchard family, but his intention had been to send his son instead. Roland should mix with some other kinds of people. The Blanchard family would be a good start.

  The fact that Blanchard had an unmarried daughter who would undoubtedly bring with her an excellent dowry had also crossed his mind. True, she wasn’t an aristocrat, but one must move with the times. A girl like that might be what Roland needed.

  The important thing was not to give his son any idea of his plan. The boy would be sure to rebel if he thought he was being manipulated.

  And here events played nicely into his hands. Early in January, there was a heavy fall of snow. It made the château look magical. But unfortunately, in the ensuing frost, some pipes froze, and by the second week in January when a thaw began, it was discovered that the cellars were flooding quite seriously.

  Roland’s leave was ending in any case, and he had to return to Paris. So the day before he was due to depart, the vicomte called him into his estate office.

  “My dear son, I have two small favors to ask of you. The first is that I have just found this letter in my desk, which I received six weeks ago and entirely forgot. It’s from a man in Canada who thinks he is related to us. I don’t believe he is. As far as I know, no member of the family has ever gone to Canada. But I don’t think that he is trying to insinuate himself. He writes very charmingly. Anyway, as I have so much to do here, and I’m embarrassed to have taken so long to reply, would you do me the kindness to reply to him. Write something nice. One never knows when one might need a friend in Canada.”

  Somewhat unwillingly, Roland agreed to do so.

  “And what is the second thing?” he asked.

  “Ah. I had planned to go to Paris with you, but with all this water trouble, I think I should stay at the château. Would you go in my place to a luncheon I had promised to go to? In fact, to tell you the truth, I practically invited myself.”

  “When, Father?”

  “On the third Sunday of this month. That’s the sixteenth, I think.”

  “I suppose so. Who’s giving the lun
ch?”

  “A friend of mine named Jules Blanchard. He owns the Joséphine department store, you know. I met him through the business over the Charlemagne statue.”

  “But Father, I don’t know any people like that. I wouldn’t know what to say.”

  “My dear son, you don’t have to say anything. Just go there as my representative. I don’t want to offend him by not turning up. In any case, you’ll find him excellent company. He knows how to behave. Quite a man about town, in fact. And it certainly won’t do you any harm to meet some people like that. They’re important, you know.”

  “I shall be a fish out of water.”

  “Just turn up as a kindness to me.”

  “As you wish.”

  The following morning Roland left for Paris. It never crossed the mind of either father or son that they would never meet again.

  Jules Blanchard lived in an apartment. Ten years ago, he and his wife had considered buying a handsome house near the Parc Monceau. But in the end they’d both decided against it. “The house at Fontainebleau is enough work to keep up,” Jules had remarked. And the apartment they had, which was already large, was so close to his beloved department store, and so convenient for the Opéra and the other amusements they both liked, that they decided to stay where they were. They had never regretted the decision.

  On the morning of the third Sunday in January in the year 1898, while his wife and Marie were still at Mass, Jules Blanchard rose from the breakfast room, and made his way to his small library, where he meant to read the newspaper in peace for a couple of hours. God knows there was a lot to read about that week. After that, he’d prepare for the family gathering at lunchtime.

  He was feeling quite pleased with himself.

  In the last few weeks, he had taken his sister’s words to heart. Though Jules had always had a large circle of friends, in recent years he’d been so involved with the department store, which truly fascinated him, that he had often been content to stay at home in the evenings with his wife when they might have gone out. They entertained a little, especially now that they had the new dining room to show off. Both Jules and his wife liked small dinner parties for just six or ten, and sometimes these included guests who might be of interest to Marie. But too often they had been middle-aged people that were of interest to Jules—businessmen, professional people, sometimes a politician.

  Not that Marie had been without friends. Far from it. She and her mother went out to galleries and to visit family friends. Her aunt Éloïse went out with her to something interesting at least once a week, and had introduced Marie to quite a few people in the circles that she herself enjoyed. But these tended to be intellectual people—charming to add to the right sort of dinner party, but not quite as financially solid as he’d want for his daughter’s husband.

  Marie’s brothers might have done more for her, but there was a problem. Gérard and his new wife had friends. But though Marie was on perfectly friendly terms with Gérard, she wasn’t close to him. Never had been since she was a child. They met whenever the family gathered, but that was all.

  Marc, on the other hand, she loved. But though Jules Blanchard admired his younger son’s talent and imagination, he wasn’t too sure who his friends might be, and what sort of lives they led. And if one thing was certain in his mind, it was that his daughter should have a blameless reputation. It was one thing for an unmarried man of his class to have a mistress. But the rules for women were entirely different. Marie was intelligent, charming, everything that a man of her class might want in a wife—which included the facts that she was respectable, of unblemished reputation and sexually innocent. Mostly, even at the age of twenty-two, Marie went hardly anywhere without a chaperone. And Marc knew the rules. Marie might meet his respectable friends, but could never be left alone with any man. This by no means prevented Marc from entertaining his sister, but it also meant that there was a good deal of his daily life that she could not see.

  In the last few weeks however, Marie’s parents had made a huge effort. There had been some delightful little parties. They had gone out a lot. She had met perhaps a dozen suitable men, and it seemed reasonable to assume that soon a good candidate would appear.

  Even today’s lunch had been a possible occasion to invite a suitable man to join them. Given that it was a family affair, Jules had tried to think of neighbors or friends they knew.

  Éloïse had always liked Pierre Jourdain, that boy Marie had taken such a fancy to when she was a little girl, but he’d recently gotten engaged. Then there were the sons of their close neighbor Dr. Proust, a most distinguished man. True, his wife was Jewish, but his sons were brought up Catholic, which Jules supposed was all right, and the family was well-off. The trouble was that the elder son was a dilettante with no proper career, while his younger brother, Robert, who looked far more promising, was still a bit too young.

  Then, out of the blue, had come a note from the Vicomte de Cygne regretting that he was unable to get into Paris, but hoping that his friend would forgive him if his son, Roland, came in his place.

  Could it be that the aristocrat had decided that his son should meet Marie? If so, it was cleverly done. This apparently chance arrangement gave no embarrassment to anyone. And God knows, Jules thought, the vicomte knows exactly who and what sort of fellow I am. He shook his head in amusement. Anything would depend of course on the character of Roland de Cygne and whether Marie liked him, but he couldn’t deny that a marriage with such an aristocratic family would be as gratifying as it was unexpected.

  Who else was coming? His sister, Éloïse, Gérard and his wife. Marc was bringing a young American—respectable, Marc said, but whose French wasn’t too strong. And bearing that in mind, Jules had done something rather clever. He occasionally needed to transact business with English companies, where legal work was required, and had found an excellent English legal firm in Paris, a Mr. Fox and his son, the latter being about Marc’s age. Not a prospect for Marie of course, since he was undoubtedly Protestant. But since he spoke both French and English fluently, Fox would help with the American.

  All in all, the day was looking very satisfactory.

  Monsieur Petit stood and stared at his daughter Corinne. His fists were clenched. He was shaking with rage.

  “I am going to see Monsieur Blanchard now,” he said.

  “What for?” she cried. “What good will that do?”

  “He is a man of honor. Perhaps he will make his son marry you.”

  “He will not do it. He cannot do it.”

  “That may be so.” He spoke quietly now, and that was even more frightening. “But if there is no marriage, then you will leave this house, and I shall never see you again.”

  Paul Petit did not know when his family had first come to the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, but they were certainly there by the time of the French Revolution. And on the great day when the Faubourg Saint-Antoine arose, and marched up the long eastern thoroughfare to storm the Bastille, the Petits marched with them. They had supported every republican uprising since.

  Though his wife went to Mass, which he considered a harmless women’s foible, Paul Petit despised all priests. “They are monarchists and bloodsuckers,” he would declare. But that did not mean that his children could ignore the last six of the Ten Commandments, and woe betide them if they did. Paul Petit came from a family of twelve children. He had eight of his own. Like his father before him, he was a hardworking craftsman. There was enough money to put food on the table, and clothe all the children decently. But not more. One slip, and the family would descend into chaos. That was all it would take. “The gutter,” he would warn his children, “lies just outside the door.” If he was stern, therefore, it was to ensure the family’s survival.

  And when he had to be, Paul Petit was hard. Very hard. He was about to cast his daughter out of his house. He had to, if only as an example to her sisters.

  As he set off to walk to see Jules Blanchard, he was still shaking. It wasn’t only Cori
nne’s crime that was tearing him apart. It was the fact that she had lied to him. And not just once, but coolly and calmly over many weeks. It enraged him, and it hurt him.

  He remembered the start of it so well. She’d taken a message from him to a customer near the Parc Monceau and taken a long time to return. But when she’d explained her long absence, he’d been rather pleased.

  “Father, I met Monsieur Blanchard in the street, and he made me return with him to see his wife. She needs extra help in the house two afternoons a week, and wondered if you could spare me.”

  The Blanchards were highly respectable, as well as valued customers. If Corinne could earn a little extra money in this way, her parents had no objection at all.

  The arrangement had lasted three weeks when Corinne told them that Gérard, their recently married son, and his wife could use her for a third afternoon. Weeks had passed, Corinne had brought home some modest wages from this work, and it had never occurred to her parents to question the business.

  Once, just once, he might have detected something, when he remarked that he wondered if there were any store fittings that Monsieur Blanchard might need at Joséphine, and whether he might call upon him. He’d noticed Corinne suddenly go a little pale. But his wife had promptly remarked: “I’m sure he has you in mind, Paul, with his kindness to Corinne, and her being in his house every week. I don’t think you should go calling on him for other favors. He might feel it was too much.”

  “You’re right, my dear,” he’d agreed at once, and put the idea out of his mind. “Keep your ears open, though,” he’d said to Corinne.

  So when, this morning, his wife had told him that Corinne was pregnant by Marc Blanchard, that she’d been modeling for him in his studio, and that she’d never been near the house of Monsieur Blanchard or his son Gérard, Paul Petit had found it quite difficult to believe that it was true.

  “And when did this start?” he had demanded. “How could such an idea enter your head?”