“I’ll see you for dinner,” he said, “and you can tell me the verdict.”
Claire left the funicular behind her and went through the streets of Montmartre. She had only once before been up there for the wine festival, and that had been long ago. No doubt it was even busier at the weekend, but there was still plenty of activity. The little vineyard on the back of the hill was looking very charming. Below it, the streets of the old Maquis were looking quite respectable now. But the whole hill still retained a bright, intimate village atmosphere that probably went back to medieval or even Roman times. The wine from the grapes themselves was not too drinkable, but she found space at a table at the Lapin Agile where the men welcomed her very cheerfully and insisted on sharing their bottle of wine with her.
It took only a couple of drinks for her to feel very much at home.
Were they all from Montmartre? she asked.
No, they laughed, they were all from the car works out at Boulogne-Billancourt. But their foreman was from here.
He was a short, sturdy, thickset man, but with a kindly face. His grandfather had lived in the Maquis when he was a boy.
“You had to be tough to live in the Maquis,” one of the men said, and there was a chorus of agreement. Yes, one had to be tough.
She was quite definitely a little drunk by the time she thanked them and went back up the hill. She might be a little drunk, she thought, but it hadn’t helped her in the least decide what to do about that pied-à-terre. Did Phil really mean it when he said he wanted to learn French?
It was half an hour later that Marcel Gascon walked out onto the wide steps in front of the great white basilica of Sacré Coeur. It was a lovely afternoon, the light catching the towers of Notre Dame, the distant dome of Les Invalides and the graceful curve of the Eiffel Tower.
There were quite a few people about, but he noticed one woman sitting alone, staring out over the city. It was the woman who’d shared a drink with the boys a short time ago. She’d been an elegant woman, distinguished.
He’d rather wished the boys hadn’t made so much of the toughness of the Maquis. It was true, of course. But they made it sound as if everyone who came from there was crude, stupid, perhaps.
He went over to the woman, and stood beside her. She looked up and smiled.
“I come up here every year, madame, to look at the view.”
“It’s beautiful.”
He pointed at the Eiffel Tower.
“It never looks the same, the tower. Changes in the light. Like those Impressionists. You know. They’d paint the same thing in different lights. Different every time.”
“This is true,” said Claire.
“It’s made of iron, yet it looks so delicate. It’s masculine, but feminine.” He shrugged.
“That is very observant, monsieur. I agree with you.”
“Oui,” said Gascon, feeling quite pleased with himself. “It’s indestructible, that tower,” he continued with satisfaction. “Like a ship, weathers every storm.” He paused. “My grandfather built that tower,” he couldn’t resist adding.
“Really? That’s a fine thing. You must be very proud, monsieur.”
“Oui, madame. Have a good evening.”
Claire watched him go, then gazed at the view.
Now she knew. She’d better telephone Phil. She’d enjoy teaching him French.
Acknowledgments
Paris is first and foremost a novel. Other than the historical figures—from monarchs and ministers to Claude Monet and Ernest Hemingway—all the characters who make their appearances in its pages are entirely fictional. The names of these fictional families include some of the most common names in France, with two exceptions.
The name of Ney is chosen for reasons that the story will make clear; though Monsieur Ney and his daughter, Hortense, are, of course, entirely fictitious.
And the invented name de Cygne needs a word of technical explanation. The use of the particle “de,” which simply means “of,” is often a sign of a noble family. A man with this sort of name is addressed as “Monsieur de Cygne,” or spoken of as “Jean de Cygne.” But when using the family name or title by itself, we do not need the particle. Just as in English we may refer to the Duke of Wellington as “Wellington,” we should properly say “Cygne,” rather than “de Cygne.” In the case of French names, however—except when speaking of the most famous historical figures—it has become common nowadays to add the particle even where it’s not needed. And so in this novel I have referred to “de Cygne” and to the “de Cygne family,” rather than the more technically correct “Cygne” and “Cygne family.” I hope that purists will forgive me for this.
A few times in the tale, I have made some tiny adjustments to historical detail where absolute precision would have been confusing to the reader. For instance, the great minister of King Henry IV is called Sully, the name by which he is best known to history, although this was actually a title he gained two years after his appearance in the narrative. Insofar as possible, I have sought to avoid the use of more than one historical name for each given place or street. All named places are real with the sole exception of the little Chapel of Saint-Gilles. The saint is real, but his chapel is invented.
One error, however, I have allowed myself. In this novel, Ernest Hemingway attends the Paris Olympics on July 21, 1924. In fact, ignoring the games, he left for Pamplona on June 25 and did not return to Paris until July 27. But I feel he should have been at the games, even if he wasn’t! At other times, he certainly liked to visit the Vélodrome d’hiver, as related in the story.
While I have undertaken extensive research in writing this book, I have also been aided by the fact that, though I am of British origin, I have a large number of French cousins whose homes have been my own, in Paris, Fontainebleau and other places, ever since I was a child. And while none of those cousins, or my many French friends, make any personal appearances in this story, my familiarity with them, and my memory of many stories heard, were a great help to me in imagining the tales of French families interacting through the days of the Belle Époque, the two world wars and the French resistance.
To thank all these many people would take too much space. But I should like to record my particular debt, both for their hospitality and their historical and cultural advice in the preparation of this book, to Isabelle, Janine and Caroline Brizard, and to the late Jacques Sarton du Jonchay, whose memories of the interwar years were invaluable.
Similarly, rather than record my thanks to all the curators of the many museums and cultural institutions in Paris I have come to know down the years, I should like to recommend just two that readers might possibly overlook. The Musée Carnavalet in the Marais quarter takes one through the history of Paris magnificently. And the charming Musée de Montmartre is full of fascinating surprises.
Despite the fact that, even nowadays, I always finish each project with an enviable collection of printed books to add to my library, I have never thought it appropriate as a simple storyteller to supply a detailed bibliography for each novel. However, having enjoyed his books ever since I first read The Fall of Paris, his masterly account of the Siege and Commune of 1870–71, I could not fail as a reader to record forty years of gratitude to Sir Alistair Horne, whose books on France and on Paris continue to be such a delight.
Once again, my many thanks to Mike Morgenfeld for preparing maps with such exemplary care and patience.
And finally, as always, I thank my agent, Gill Coleridge, for her constant guidance and wisdom, and my two exemplary editors, Oliver Johnson at Hodder and William Thomas at Doubleday, for their vision, unstinting support and creative responses to the many challenges of a complex project of this kind. I also owe great thanks to Coralie Hunter at Doubleday, to Cara Jones at RCW and to Anne Perry at Hodder for their help in guiding the manuscript through its various stages.
About the Author
Edward Rutherfurd is the bestselling author of seven novels, including London, Sarum, The Pr
inces of Ireland, The Rebels of Ireland, and New York.
Visit: www.edwardrutherfurd.com
Also available as an ebook by Edward Rutherfurd:
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Also by Edward Rutherfurd
Sarum
Russka
London
The Forest
The Princes of Ireland
The Rebels of Ireland
New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author’s use of names of actual persons, places, and characters are incidental to the plot, and are not intended to change the entirely fictional character of the work.
Copyright © 2013 by Edward Rutherfurd
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
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DOUBLEDAY and the portrayal of an anchor with a dolphin are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Family tree designed by Jeffrey L. Ward
Jacket design by Michael J. Windsor
Jacket illustrations: Eiffel Tower © SSPL/Getty Images;
painting © DEA/G. Dagli Orti/Getty Images
Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with the Library of Congress.
eISBN: 978-0-385-53531-1
v3.1
Contents
COVER
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
FAMILY TREE
Chapter One • 1875 •
Chapter Two • 1883 •
Chapter Three • 1261 •
Chapter Four • 1885 •
Chapter Five • 1887 •
Chapter Six • 1307 •
Chapter Seven • 1887 •
Chapter Eight • 1462 •
Chapter Nine • 1897 •
Chapter Ten • 1572 •
Chapter Eleven • 1604 •
Chapter Twelve • 1898 •
Chapter Thirteen • 1898 •
Chapter Fourteen • 1903 •
Chapter Fifteen • 1907 •
Chapter Sixteen • 1911 •
Chapter Seventeen • 1637 •
Chapter Eighteen • 1914 •
Chapter Nineteen • 1917 •
Chapter Twenty • 1918 •
Chapter Twenty-one • 1920 •
Chapter Twenty-two • 1924 •
Chapter Twenty-three • 1936 •
Chapter Twenty-four • 1794 •
Chapter: Twenty-five • 1936 •
Chapter Twenty-six • 1940 •
Epilogue • 1968 •
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
OTHER BOOKS BY THIS AUTHOR
Paris: The Novel Page 96