Paris

by Edward Rutherfurd

  Thomas Gascon had never experienced panic before. It had never occurred to him that the sensation of working on the inner edge of the tower’s slope would be any different from working on the outer edge as he had been up till now. But yesterday, he’d had the network of girders under him. Today, there was nothing under his feet. Nothing except forty yards of empty space.

  He’d supposed he had a good head for heights because he could stand on a hill and look down. And 120 feet wasn’t so high, in any case. But this was like stepping onto a tightrope.

  And then he realized that two men were looking up at him. Monsieur Eiffel was smiling. But the eye of Jean Compagnon missed nothing, and he wasn’t smiling.

  “What’s the matter?” his voice was sharp. “You want to come down?”

  And at that moment Thomas Gascon knew that he was about to lose his job.

  “Mais non!” he cried. And then, he hardly knew how he did it, except that he knew he must, he made himself lean out a little, and somehow let go of the girder with his left hand and saluted Monsieur Eiffel. “Bonjour, monsieur,” he called. “I’m just waiting for your creeping crane to send me something.”

  He could see Eiffel smile and nod, but Compagnon’s gimlet eye was still fixed on him suspiciously. So Thomas, wondering if Compagnon could see the white knuckles of his right hand, which was still clenched tight onto the metal strut, carefully turned and looked at one of his crew. And when he took his eyes off the yawning chasm underneath him, he felt a little better. The man was looking at him curiously also, so he forced himself to smile.

  “When I worked with Monsieur Eiffel on the Statue of Liberty, he told me it would be the most famous project he ever did. Now he builds this.” He managed to loosen his hand from the metal strut and shrugged. “When we’re finished I shall ask him: ‘So, monsieur, what will you do for an encore?’ ”

  The men laughed. He felt calmer now. For the rest of that day, he would glance down every little while, and gradually he got used to it.

  That weekend, when he was up at Montmartre and Luc asked him, “How’s your head for heights?” Thomas just smiled.

  “No problem,” he said.

  In the second week of November he decided to take the plunge.

  “I have to go to see my family on Sunday,” he said to Édith. “Would you like to come? I can show you Montmartre.”

  She looked down thoughtfully.

  “It’s a long way,” she said.

  “Not really. We can take a tram to Clichy and walk up the hill.” He could see her still hesitating. “I think you should come if it’s not raining. But if it’s raining, there won’t be any view to show you.”

  “I could come if there’s a view.”

  “Exactly. I’ll have to have lunch with my family, but then I can show you around. If it’s a clear day, even in November, there are usually some artists painting outside.”

  “All right,” she said.

  They hailed a tram just north of the Arc de Triomphe. Since the trams had no official stops, but were hailed by people as they went along, the drivers used their discretion. For a respectable elderly lady, they’d pull up the horses, but not for young poor folk like Thomas and Édith. As she stepped onto the moving platform, Édith slipped, and if Thomas hadn’t caught her with his arm, she might have fallen. He used the opportunity to pull her close, and she didn’t seem to resist. But moments later she was sitting demurely beside him in the tram, and when he tried to put his hand on her leg, she gently removed it.

  They got out of the tram at the Place de Clichy, and walked up the hill. As they neared the top, he guided her around the picturesque little streets and she remarked that even when she was a little girl, parts of Passy had still looked like this. The windmills on the hill delighted her. But as they started down the slope into the sprawling shantytown of the Maquis she said less, and it seemed to Thomas that she became a little thoughtful.

  “It’s not a palace, where we live,” he said.

  “Who wants to live in a palace?” She gave him a smile.

  When they came to the house and went up the steps, they found the two Gascon parents, Luc, and also Nicole. They were all rather surprised that Thomas had brought a young woman with him, but Thomas told them easily that Édith was a friend from Passy, who’d never been up to Montmartre. “I said I would show her around, and that she could come and eat with us first,” he said to his mother. “Is that all right?”

  “But of course.” His mother was all smiles. God forbid that any French family should not have food on the table for a guest. Though it was as well, Thomas thought, that it was Sunday, or there might not have been enough. “Did you go to Mass today?” she asked Édith.

  “Oui, madame. With my mother,” Édith answered.

  “You hear that?” said his mother to Nicole. “Perhaps you will accompany me next Sunday, instead of lazing in bed.”

  “I was tired, Maman,” said Nicole irritably.

  “Passy, eh?” said Monsieur Gascon. “Elegant quarter.”

  “We used to have a farm there, monsieur,” said Édith, “but not anymore.”

  “And what do you do, if I may ask?” inquired Thomas’s mother.

  “I help my mother, madame. She’s the caretaker of the Lycée Janson de Sailly. But I also help my aunt Adeline. She has a very good position with Monsieur Ney the attorney, and it may be that I can take her place one day.”

  “Janson de Sailly,” said his father. “I hear that’s very chic already.”

  Thomas watched his mother making her own calculations with this information, while Nicole was eyeing Édith’s skirt and blouse, and her shoes. The clothes looked all right to him. What Nicole thought of them he couldn’t guess. Judging by his mother’s expression, she hadn’t made up her mind yet, but wasn’t especially impressed.

  “This year I started work as a housemaid in a doctor’s house near the Place de Clichy,” Nicole announced.

  “That sounds like a good position,” said Édith politely.

  Nicole shrugged.

  “It’s all right.”

  There was enough food. A big plate of haricots verts appeared. There was even meat, though Thomas saw his mother discreetly cut two of the portions to a smaller size, to provide for Édith. There was a fruit pie. He was glad that his family could eat respectably on a Sunday, and supposed that the money he gave his mother must be helping them to do so. They talked of this and that. His mother discovered that Édith was an only child.

  Luc had been observing Édith, but unusually for him, he’d been rather silent so far. Édith asked him what he was planning to work at when he grew up.

  “I shall work in Montmartre, like I do now,” he answered cheerfully. “And then I am going to be a great comedian, and make a fortune.”

  “Oh,” said Édith.

  “It’s better than working,” said Luc.

  “He’s joking,” said Thomas, though he wasn’t sure that his brother was joking at all.

  To make conversation, Thomas told them how they had taken a tram, and how Édith had nearly fallen.

  “Ah,” said his father. “Thomas is working on his great tower, and people will come from all over the world to see it, but when they see how we move around the city, we shall be ashamed.”

  “Why?” asked his wife.

  “In London they have steam trains that take you all over the city. They go underground, many of them. We still have nothing like that.”

  “And in New York,” Luc chimed in, “they have elevated trains.”

  “The English and the Americans can do what they like,” said Édith, “but why should we spoil the beauty of Paris with soot and steam and hideous rail tracks everywhere? They may be more modern, but we are more civilized.”

  “I agree,” said Thomas’s mother, with approval. “Life is more civilized here.”

  After the meal, Thomas and Édith stepped out into the unpaved streets of the Maquis, and he walked her up the hill to the Moulin de la Galette.
The day was clear but cold, and although it was a Sunday, there weren’t many people up there. Then he took her through the little square where the artists liked to paint. There were just three men out there, wrapped in heavy overcoats and scarves, but doggedly applying paint to canvas. They looked at them for a few minutes, then proceeded to the great building site of Sacré Coeur. Though the huge stone walls of the church were steadily rising, all one could see at present was a great fortress of scaffolding in a sea of mud.

  But from the edge of the hill beside it there was still a magnificent view.

  “There are the towers of Notre Dame.” Thomas pointed them out proudly. The golden domes of the Opéra, only a mile away, and Les Invalides farther off. “And there”—he indicated the site some way to the right of Les Invalides on the panorama—“that’s where Monsieur Eiffel’s tower will soar above them all.” He smiled. “I know the Maquis is a bit primitive, but I love Montmartre. There’s nowhere else in Paris like it.”

  “You’re really proud of the tower, aren’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “That’s nice.”

  Before it grew dark, he took her back to Passy. On the avenue Victor Hugo, she thanked him, let him kiss her on the cheek, and parted from him. He thought she had enjoyed the visit, but he couldn’t be sure.

  The next Sunday, she wasn’t free, and so he went to see his parents. His mother waited until the meal was nearly over before she brought up the subject.

  “That girl you brought here: Are you interested in her?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe.”

  “You can do better,” said his mother firmly.

  “You just say that because she isn’t the daughter of the widow Michel,” he answered with a shrug. He glanced at his father, but his father refused to meet his gaze. He turned back to his mother. “You seemed to get on.”

  “You can do better.”

  After the meal, he went for a walk with Luc. He hadn’t been entirely surprised by his parents’ reaction. Nothing less than the widow Michel’s daughter was ever going to satisfy them now. But he hoped for something better from Luc.

  So he was taken by surprise when Luc finally spoke.

  “Was that the girl we went looking for?” Luc suddenly asked.

  “Yes. How did you guess?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you think of her?”

  Luc paused. Then he looked a little sad.

  “She doesn’t like me,” he said.

  “Why do you say that? She didn’t say so to me. Not a word. I think she likes you.”

  But Luc shook his head.

  “No. I promise you it’s so. I can tell.”

  “I’m sure you’re wrong,” said Thomas. But he was puzzled.

  Three days later Édith asked him if he would be free to visit her mother and her aunt that Sunday.

  It was mid-afternoon when they met. She was waiting for him at the top of the avenue Victor Hugo. They walked around the great circle under the Arc de Triomphe until, directly across from the Champs-Élysées, the massive avenue de la Grande-Armée stretched down to the west. Turning down the avenue, they walked a few blocks, turned right and proceeded a little way. The houses in the street, though respectable enough, had a gray and dingy air that Thomas found depressing. One house on a corner, somewhat larger than the others with an impressive central door, also had a gateway beside it, leading to an internal courtyard, protected from intruders by a tall screen of iron railings. To the right of this iron screen was a door, and a bell chain, which Édith pulled. Somewhere within Thomas heard a small, harsh clang. Moments later, the door was opened.

  “This is my mother,” said Édith.

  One could see the likeness at once. The same freckles, the same wide mouth. But time had not been kind to Édith’s mother. She’d been pretty once. He could see that. Then she’d become blowzy. But in recent years, she’d started to let herself go. She had dyed her hair with henna, some while ago, and the gray roots showed as cruelly as a wintry wind, winnowing the autumn leaves. The eyes that had once been bright were puffy. The skin on her neck was criss-crossed with deepening lines, and sagging.

  “So you’re the boy who works on the tower.” She managed a smile.

  “Oui, madame,” he answered politely.

  She led them down a narrow passage into a room. It contained a sofa with a curved back, two formal chairs, a sideboard on which a decanter, a bottle and some glasses stood, and a small table. The window, framed by heavy damask curtains, gave onto the yard, but the thick gauze in front of the glass only let in a modicum of light.

  “My sister-in-law has a beautiful situation, n’est-ce pas?”

  So Aunt Adeline was the sister of Édith’s vanished father. Thomas hadn’t realized that.

  “Beautiful, madame,” he said.

  “My aunt is the concierge,” Édith explained. “She really looks after the whole place.”

  “It’s a big house,” said Édith’s mother. “A big responsibility. But she has the head for it. That’s for sure.”

  “And Monsieur Ney lives here?” said Thomas.

  “Monsieur Ney owns the establishment,” said Édith’s mother, with the pride of someone with a rich friend. “His office is next door. And he has his own house nearby, where he lives with his daughter.”

  “His daughter is called Hortense,” Édith explained.

  “Ah, Mademoiselle Hortense,” said her mother. “She will make a fine marriage, one of these days. That’s for sure.”

  “Perhaps I should show Thomas the house,” suggested Édith.

  Her mother glanced at the sideboard, and nodded.

  “Tell your aunt that we are waiting for her.”

  Thomas followed Édith up a small staircase, then along a passage that took them into the back of the main house. With a smile, she opened another door, and he found himself standing on a broad landing looking down a big staircase toward the front door.

  “It’s a handsome entrance,” he remarked. “Do you ever come in that way?”

  “Oh no. The front door is always locked,” she told him. “Come.” She went to a door on the right, knocked softly, and entered.

  The room was spacious. The paneling on the wall was a little cracked in places, but the general effect was grand. A picture of an eighteenth-century aristocrat with a face of perfect serenity hung over the fireplace. Colored prints of ladies in court dress graced the walls. In front of the window stood a small, elegant rococo writing desk and chair. Against the wall to the right of the door was a fine walnut armoire. And on the side of the room across from the fire stood a magnificent eighteenth-century canopied bed where, propped up on pillows and cushions, sat a lady of distinction swathed in lace. She was reading a small, leather-bound book.

  “Ah. La petite Édith,” said the lady whose face, were it not for the obtrusion of some poorly fitting ivory teeth, would have exactly resembled the serenity over the fireplace.

  “May I present my friend Thomas Gascon, Madame Govrit?” asked Édith politely. “He is working on Monsieur Eiffel’s tower.”

  Madame Govrit de la Tour gazed at Thomas over her book.

  “I am sorry to hear it, young man,” she said, quite calmly. “I have seen the pictures in the newspapers of this tower of Monsieur Eiffel, whoever he may be.” She spoke the builder’s name as though she considered it unpronounceable. “You should find other employment.”

  “You do not like the tower, madame?” Thomas offered.

  “Certainly not.” She laid the book facedown on the bedspread. “When I think of what France has built in the past, young man—of the Louvre, or Versailles—and then I see pictures of this monstrous spike that will no doubt rust before it is even constructed, this barbaric seaside vulgarity that is to hang in the sky over Paris, I ask myself, what has France come to?” She picked up her book again. “You seem to be respectable, but you dishonor France. You should stop this work at once.”

  “T
hank you, madame,” said Thomas, as he and Édith withdrew.

  Once the door was closed, Édith giggled. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not really.” Thomas shrugged. “It’s what half Paris of thinks.” One could read articles saying the same thing in the newspapers every week.

  “I know. But she has her own way of saying it. She’s our aristocrat,” Édith said with a note of pride.

  “So what is this place? Old people live here?”

  “Yes, but it’s very special. Monsieur Ney comes to a private arrangement with each person. Some of them give him a sum of money, others have a house, or land, or income of some kind, and then they come to live here, and he looks after everything for them. He’s a lawyer, so he always knows what to do.”

  “How many are there?”

  “About thirty.”

  “Don’t they have families?”

  “Some do. But they all know they can trust Monsieur Ney. They say,” she continued quietly, “that one old lady was so happy that she left Monsieur Ney her entire fortune when she died.”

  Thomas said nothing.

  They looked into another room, not nearly as lavish as the first, where an old lady was sitting in the single armchair facing the window. She seemed half asleep.

  “Madame Richard can be difficult. My aunt has to give her a little laudanum,” Édith explained.

  As they went down the passage, a short, fat woman waddled out of one of the rooms. She was dressed in black, with a face so fleshy it was perfectly round. Could this be Aunt Adeline? he wondered.

  “Have you seen my aunt, Margot?” asked Édith.

  “Non. Haven’t seen her,” the small round woman answered placidly. “Bonjour, monsieur,” she said to Thomas, as she passed.

  “That’s Margot, the nurse,” Édith explained. “I wonder if my aunt could be upstairs.”

  They reached the top floor of the house by a steep and narrow staircase. The passage was windowless, though some light came from a skylight at the end. Édith called out her aunt’s name a couple of times, but there was no reply. She turned to go back down the narrow stairs. But just before he followed her, out of curiosity, Thomas opened the nearest door.