Not the least of Ney’s achievements, it was now discovered, was to have secured a grave in the cemetery of Père Lachaise. Not quite in the avenue where his distinguished relation’s grave had been placed—among other great Napoleonic military men—but within sight of it.
Soon after the interment, Hortense departed for the south again, having instructed Adeline and Édith to run everything exactly as usual until her return in May.
It was not until the second week of May that Hortense came back from Monte Carlo. To their surprise, she arrived in the company of a very handsome olive-skinned gentleman named Monsieur Ivanov who, she explained, was her financial advisor.
“Ivanov: That’s a Russian name, isn’t it?” Aunt Adeline asked him.
“It is Russian,” he replied, “but my mother was Tunisian.”
Monsieur Ivanov had sleek black hair, brushed back, and his clothes were perfectly tailored. He said little, but he was always at Hortense’s side.
Hortense stayed in her father’s house for a month. She looked in at the home most days. Aunt Adeline told her that her father had desired to have a celebration when Mademoiselle Bac was a hundred, but Hortense said she was very busy and that it would have to wait.
One day she came by with a middle-aged couple and spent two hours looking over the building, inspecting every room.
It was the middle of June when Hortense called in one fine evening. Thomas and Édith were sitting with Aunt Adeline in her room, after putting their children to bed.
“I have news for you,” Hortense said. “I am returning to Monte Carlo immediately. The home has been sold. The new owners have no need of any help, however, so you will all have to leave. The new owners will take over tomorrow, but you can stay another two weeks.”
“But we have nowhere to go,” Thomas protested.
“You have two entire weeks.” She shrugged. “That should be plenty of time to find something. At least temporary.” She turned to Monsieur Ivanov. “There is a picture of me in the hall. Take that. It belongs to me. I have to go and say good-bye to one of the residents now.”
While Aunt Adeline, Thomas and Édith sat in stunned silence, and Monsieur Ivanov went to take the portrait down from the wall, Hortense made her way upstairs. Édith went with her. She wasn’t going to accept this without a protest.
“Surely, Mademoiselle Hortense, you can give us more time, at least. I have four children.”
“You will have to think of something. I will give you a reference.”
“My aunt and I have served your father many years. Did he not remember us in any way?”
“No.”
Hortense did not pause on the main floor, but continued up to the attic. While Édith stood in the doorway, she entered the room of Mademoiselle Bac. It was silent.
“Mademoiselle Bac,” she said clearly, “can you hear me?” No sound came from the iron bed. “Monsieur Ney is dead.” Hortense paused. “The place has been sold, and everyone has gone. You are all alone.” She paused again, to let this sink in. “It is time to die now,” she said. Then she left.
They went down the main stairs. Down in the hall, Monsieur Ivanov was holding the painting.
“What did you tell the old lady?” he asked.
Hortense shrugged.
“The truth.” She opened the big front door. “Let’s go.”
And Édith was left alone in the hall, wondering what to do next.
Chapter Fifteen
• 1907 •
Roland de Cygne could hardly believe his ears. He was Captain de Cygne these days, and his friend the captain was now a commandant. Yet for all his respect for his mentor, he thought the commandant must be mistaken.
“I assure you, mon cher ami, that it’s true,” his mentor continued. “I didn’t tell you at the time, because thanks to that waiter at the Moulin Rouge—to whom you owe your life, by the way—the fellow was frightened off. But we were all watching out for you. After your father’s death, you will recall, the regiment was posted away, and there was less to worry about. But now that we are to return to Paris, I feel obliged to mention it to you.”
“And the name of this lunatic, or villain—I don’t know what to call him?”
“Jacques Le Sourd. I know nothing about his whereabouts, but no doubt he can be found. Whether he would still like to kill you … Who knows.” He smiled. “Just watch out, if you go visiting any of the courtesans of Paris again!”
“I think,” said Roland, “that I’ll pay a visit to the waiter. What’s his name?”
“Luc Gascon.”
Luc was easy to find. He had his own bar these days, just off the Place Pigalle, a quarter mile east of the Moulin Rouge.
He was stouter than before, but just as charming. And when Roland told him who he was, he nodded.
“I thought I recognized you, Monsieur de Cygne. I knew that your regiment had been away. Welcome back to Paris.”
Roland briefly explained how he had found out about Le Sourd.
“You understand,” he said, “that until recently I had no idea of the service you had rendered me.”
“I know, monsieur.”
“I should like you to accept this, to show my gratitude,” said Roland, and handed him an envelope, which Luc quickly inspected.
“You are more than generous, Monsieur de Cygne,” he said. “I could open a restaurant with this.”
“Just don’t spend it at the races,” Roland said with a smile. “But the question now is, what should I do about Le Sourd? Do you have any idea why he wanted to kill me?”
“Non, monsieur. I never discovered.”
“I should like to talk to him. Do you know where he is?”
“Give me a day, and I shall find out, monsieur. But it might be dangerous for you to interview him.”
“I’ll take a pistol,” said Roland.
It was good to be back in the family house again. Now that he was based in Paris, he thought he might use the house, as far as his regimental duties allowed. Most of the rooms were under dust covers, but his old nanny was still living there with a housekeeper and a maid to keep the house going, and he spent a pleasant evening talking to her.
Most of the time, when he was away on his regimental duties, Roland did not need to reflect on political matters. But finding himself back again in his family’s old mansion, in the great historical center of France, he could not help being struck by the mutability of the past and present.
The ancestors who had lived in this house had doubtless considered England their traditional enemy, as she had been for so many centuries. Yet now all that was changed. Bismarck’s German Empire had arisen. France had suffered the humiliation of 1870, and the loss of Alsace-Lorraine. When he was a boy, who had his teachers at the Catholic lycée along the street told him were his enemies? The Germans of course. His generation’s duty? To avenge France’s dishonor.
And who were France’s allies now against the kaiser’s German threat? The English, linked to France by the Entente Cordiale, together with the Russians, who feared the kaiser too.
Wherever one looked in the streets of old Paris, from the ruins of the medieval walls to Notre Dame, to the bleak grandeur of Les Invalides, it was always the same story: Men called to glory, or to defend la patrie; men killed, in many thousands. The struggle for power, and, intermittently, the attempt to find a balance of power among the nations, until the peace broke down once again.
Would his own generation do any better? he wondered.
Luc Gascon was as good as his word. He came by during the evening with the address of Le Sourd’s workplace, a printer’s on the edge of Belleville, and even the days of the week when he might be found there.
Roland set out late the following morning. His plan was simple. He would have lunch at Maxim’s. After that, he would go and interview Le Sourd. The late afternoon and evening he left open. If things went wrong, Le Sourd might have killed him by then. Or he Le Sourd. In either case the evening might be disrupted. No p
oint in making plans one might not keep.
Before he set out, he discovered a small problem. His service revolver was not easy to conceal. Although it fit into the deep pocket in his outer coat, it might be discovered when he took off his coat at Maxim’s. The alternative was to put the gun in an attaché case.
But this presented a social difficulty. For just as no gentleman in Europe would be seen carrying a parcel if he could avoid it—there were servants, or in worse cases women, for that—even an attaché case, in the mind of Roland de Cygne, made one look too like a businessman, instead of an aristocrat. Had he been in uniform on his way to a staff meeting, that would be an entirely different matter; but he was going to Maxim’s for lunch.
It took him several minutes to think about it. If he’d taken his own conveyance, he could have left the revolver there. His father’s jaunty carriage was still in the coach house, though without horses or coachman, and Roland had been thinking of buying himself a handsome motor car, a Daimler perhaps. But until he did so, he had no transport, so he’d have to take a cab. Once he got to the restaurant, he’d leave the case at the hat and coat counter, of course, and with luck no one he knew would see him arriving with it. He wondered whether, after lunch, he could discreetly remove the revolver, slip it into his coat pocket, and leave the case at Maxim’s to be picked up later. For if Le Sourd by any chance killed him, the thought of the newspapers reporting that his body had been found with an attaché case was highly irksome.
Yes, he decided, he’d try to do that.
Yet despite the probably dangerous business that lay ahead, Roland was in a cheerful mood. It was a bright October day. He was happy to be back in Paris, and eager to investigate the changes that had taken place there since he had been away.
He’d already been struck by the motor cars in the street—there were not many among the horse-drawn vehicles, but certainly more than one saw in the provinces. More surprising was the presence of the Métro. For if Paris had been slow to adopt underground trains, when it finally happened, the network grew fast. Above all, he’d been struck by the elegance of the serpentine, Art Nouveau entrances to the Métro that appeared down all the boulevards. They were really very pleasing.
He soon found a cab, and told the driver to continue a little way along the Seine, until they were level with Les Invalides. For there were three more additions to the city he could look at as they passed. The first was a bridge.
The Pont Alexandre III had also been completed while he was away. Named for the recent Russian tsar who’d become France’s ally against German aggression, it was a flamboyant affair, a pair of golden winged horsemen supported on pillars at each end, and other emblems linking Paris with St. Petersburg. It might be a little gaudy, Roland thought, but on the whole it was magnificent.
Immediately across the bridge he encountered the other two. On his left, the Grand Palais, and on his right, the Petit Palais.
If the great fair of 1889 had bequeathed Paris the Eiffel Tower, the next fair at the turn of the century had left these two magnificent pavilions. A facing pair of exhibition halls that started as handsome stone museums and, as they rose, turned into soaring Art Nouveau glass houses. They were like opera houses made of glass, he thought, and flanking the short avenue to the new bridge, with the trees of the Champs-Élysées just behind them, their setting couldn’t have been more delightful.
The cab turned into the Champs-Élysées. Moments later they were at the Place de la Concorde, turning up to La Madeleine, and there was Maxim’s on the left.
Maxim’s: It had been a struggling new bistro the only time that Roland had been there before, back in the nineties. But now it was a palace.
The location, of course, had helped. Set in the broad street between the Place de la Concorde and La Madeleine, it lay at the very epicenter of the city for the rich Parisian or visitor alike. Its facade was discreet. But it had been the transformation of the interior that had raised Maxim’s to the height of fashion. And as he entered, Roland was astonished.
White tablecloths, deep red carpet and banquettes along the walls: rich, discreet—all the plush comfort he might have expected for the enjoyment of haute cuisine. The genius however came from the decoration. Carved woodwork, painted panels, lamps, even the great painted glass ceiling—all Art Nouveau. It was softly lit, yet stunning; it was the latest thing, yet from the moment of its creation it seemed as if it had always been there. Like all great hotels and restaurants, Maxim’s was not just a place to eat, it was a theater. And a work of art.
He had only a light lunch of a fillet of sole with a single glass of Chablis. He allowed himself a small chocolate pastry and a sharp coffee. He wanted to keep his wits about him.
He hadn’t seen anyone he knew, which perhaps was a sign that he had been away too long. And he was about to leave when a passing gentleman stopped, and then addressed him.
“Monsieur de Cygne?”
It was Jules Blanchard, a little more portly than when they’d last met, but quite unmistakable. Roland rose at once and greeted him.
They had a pleasant chat. Roland learned that Marie and Fox had married and gone to London, where James was to take over from his father. Marie’s English, her father proudly informed him, was already perfect.
But all the same, her parents hoped her absence would not be too long—especially since she now had a daughter, Claire. “My granddaughter will speak English perfectly,” her grandfather predicted. “But she’ll always be French, of course.”
“I missed my opportunity to marry her myself,” said Roland politely. “Alas, it was the time of my father’s death …”
Meanwhile, he made Jules promise that he and his wife would come to his house to dine with him.
“I shall open up the house for that, at least,” he said.
Assuming, of course, that he was alive.
Apart from one or two visits to Père Lachaise, Roland had never been anywhere near Belleville. The printer’s was in a small industrial space between a builder’s yard and a dingy office building.
He put his hand in his coat pocket as soon as he had stepped down from the cab, and kept it there resting gently on the pistol.
Entering the printer’s, he found an outer office with piles of recently printed materials—posters, broadsheets and business advertisements—on the floor, and a stained wooden counter manned by a small, bald-headed man in shirtsleeves. The smell of paper and printer’s ink was so sharp it almost made his eyes water.
“I am here to see Monsieur Le Sourd.”
The bald man looked surprised.
“He’s working. Is he expecting you?”
“Kindly tell him that an old friend from the past has arrived in Paris and is anxious to see him again.”
Rather unwillingly, the man went through a door behind him, and returned a minute later with a message that Le Sourd was not expecting anyone.
“Tell him I will wait,” replied Roland. But there was no need: for a moment later, drawn by curiosity, Jacques Le Sourd appeared in the doorway.
At the sight of de Cygne, he froze. So, thought Roland, he knows me. But after a brief hesitation, Le Sourd regained his composure.
“Do I know you, monsieur?”
“Captain Roland de Cygne.” Roland gazed at him evenly.
“I have nothing to say to you, monsieur.”
“There I must disagree. You can help me solve a mystery. It will only take ten minutes of your time. After that we may each of us return to our business. Or I can wait here until you are free at the end of the day.”
Jacques Le Sourd looked at the bald man, who shrugged. Then he signaled Roland to follow him into the street.
A hundred yards to the left there was a small bar. Apart from the owner, it was empty. They moved to a table and Roland ordered two cognacs. As they waited for the cognacs to arrive, Roland kept his right hand in his coat pocket. Le Sourd noticed it.
“You carry a gun,” he remarked.
“Merely a
precaution, in case I am attacked,” Roland answered calmly. “I have a dinner engagement this evening, and it would be impolite not to appear.”
The cognacs arrived. Roland raised the small glass with his left hand, took a sip and put it down.
“And now, Monsieur Le Sourd—of whom, until recently, I had never heard in my life—be so good as to tell me: Why do you wish to kill me?”
Le Sourd’s face was impassive.
“Why do you think that I do?”
“Because some ten years ago you waited for me with a pistol in the rue des Belles-Feuilles. I have no idea why, but you can hardly blame me for being curious.”
Jacques Le Sourd was silent. For a moment it looked as if he in turn might ask a question. Then he seemed to think better of it.
“We are not far from the cemetery of Père Lachaise,” he said finally. “There is a wall there called the Mur des Fédérés, where a number of Communards were shot.”
“So I have heard. What of it?”
“They were shot out of hand, without trial. Murdered.”
“They say that the last week of the Commune saw many terrible deeds, by both sides.”
“My father was one of the men shot against that wall.”
“I am sorry to hear it.”
“Do you know the name of the officer who directed that firing squad?”
“I have no idea.”
“De Cygne. Your father.” Le Sourd was watching him carefully.
“My father? You are sure of this?”
“I am certain.”
Roland gazed at Le Sourd. There was no reason for him to invent such a thing. He stared away, into the middle distance.
Was it possible that this was the reason his father had always been unwilling to discuss that period in his life? Had the memory of the execution haunted him? Might it even have caused him, ultimately, to resign his commission? If so, his father had taken that secret to the grave.
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