Paris The Novel

Chapter Sixteen




• 1911 •


It was a quiet Sunday morning in September, and Édith and the girls were at Mass when Luc came to his brother’s lodgings.

“Can you give me some help this evening?” he asked. “We’ll need that handcart of yours. I have some furniture to shift.”

“All right. Shall I bring Robert?” His eldest son was a strong young fellow.

“No. I want to talk with you in private.”

“What about?”

“I’ll tell you later,” said Luc. “I must go now. Meet me with the handcart at the restaurant this evening. Six o’clock.”

Thomas Gascon shrugged.

“As you like.”



He’d owned the handcart for half a dozen years now, and it had been a good investment.

The loss of their lodgings at Monsieur Ney’s establishment had been a great blow to the Gascon family. There was rent to pay, and with her six young children, Édith hadn’t been able to earn much. Thomas had been ready to move up onto Montmartre, on the edge of the Maquis, but Aunt Adeline and Édith wouldn’t hear of it. When Aunt Adeline had found work as a housekeeper near the Pigalle district, however, they had moved to lodgings close by.

This brought them into the vicinity of the Moulin Rouge and the foot of Montmartre—hardly a respectable area, and frequented in the evenings by ladies of the night. But Édith wanted to be near her aunt, and Thomas, at least, was not unhappy to find himself near his brother.

As a foreman, Thomas earned good wages. But there had been two more girls born since then, and so money was often tight. Sometimes Aunt Adeline had to help them with the rent.

One weekend, an old carrier living nearby had asked Thomas if he would help him on a Sunday. He did all kinds of odd jobs carrying furniture and delivering goods in the area. After helping him a few times, Thomas realized that this could be a useful way of supplementing his earnings. Soon, complaining of a bad back, the old man had given up his trade, and Thomas had bought a new handcart for himself, which he kept in a local stable yard. Before long, anyone in the area who wanted a piece of furniture moved, or some sacks of flour, or a load of firewood, would probably ask Thomas Gascon if he’d be free on a Sunday afternoon.



When Édith got back from Mass, she wasn’t too pleased to hear about Luc.

“I hope he’s going to pay you,” she said.

“He will if I ask,” answered Thomas.

“Be careful what he wants you to carry. It may be stolen goods.”

“No it won’t.”

“Just make sure it isn’t the Mona Lisa.”

It was hardly a month since Leonardo da Vinci’s famous painting had been stolen from the Louvre. Apollinaire, a writer thought to be an anarchist, had been arrested; and then a friend of his, a young painter no one had ever heard of, named Picasso. But though they remained under suspicion, no proof against them had been found so far. Nor was there any sign of the painting.

“You always think the worst of my brother, for no reason,” Thomas complained. Some years back, a grateful client had given Luc enough money to expand his bar into a restaurant. “He must have stolen the money,” Édith had declared. “He saved the man’s life,” Thomas assured her. But she only sniffed. “So he says,” she said. “You can believe it. Not me.”

Her unreasonable dislike of Luc was one of the few sources of friction in their marriage. If she ever regretted her hesitant acceptance of Thomas that magical evening after the Wild West show in the Bois de Boulogne, she had never shown it. If she’d wished she had married a man with a little money—and how she must have wished that, after they suddenly lost their lodgings—her only reaction had been to apologize to him. “I never thought that could happen. We had always counted on Monsieur Ney.”

After ten pregnancies, with six healthy children, she still had a good figure. You couldn’t say that of many wives he knew. Whatever her faults, he counted himself lucky to have married Édith.



After lunch he took all but the youngest two children for a walk up the nearby hill of Montmartre. There was a funicular, nowadays, that ran up the left side of the steep, high slope, but one had to pay. Besides, as he told Monique when she complained, they wouldn’t get any exercise if they didn’t go up the steps.

The sun was out, catching the soaring white domes of the church of Sacré Coeur. High on its hill, it gleamed over the huge oval valley of Paris.

“Most of my life,” Thomas remarked to his children, “this hilltop was just a huge field of mud and wooden scaffolding. I used to wonder if I’d ever live to see the church finished. They didn’t take the scaffolding down from the big dome until you were born, Monique, when I was thirty-five.”

“And you were even more pleased to see me than the church,” she insisted.

“Except when you misbehave,” he answered genially.

The transformation of the site was almost complete. The platform, upon which the great Byzantine shrine stood, had been laid out as handsome terraces and flights of steps, like hanging gardens. A splendid statue of Joan of Arc gazed out over Paris from beside the church door. And though not visible to the eye, a subtler change had also occurred.

As four decades of republican government had gradually weakened the power of the Church, even the message of Sacré Coeur had been altered. Men like Father Xavier and Roland de Cygne remembered that it proclaimed the triumph of a conservative Church over the radical Communards. But most Parisians who nowadays gazed up at the shining white temple on the hill supposed that it was a memorial to the Communards’ heroism—a view which radical governments were glad to encourage.

Since living in Pigalle, Thomas Gascon usually brought his children up here a couple of times a year, and the ritual was always the same. They would wander over the top of the hill, visit the Moulin de la Galette where their uncle Luc had started work, visit the Maquis to view the house where their father had been brought up, and then complete the circle of the hill, walking by the little school where Thomas had learned to read and write.

For the first five years, the tour had always ended with one dramatic moment in front of Sacré Coeur before they descended.

Pointing across the rooftops of Paris to where the Eiffel Tower soared into the sky, Thomas would cry out: “Take a good look at the tower, my children, and remember. For it won’t be there much longer.”

Everyone had known. In 1909, the twenty-year license that Gustave Eiffel had been granted would be up. The city authorities would then order the tower to be dismantled. Even if he couldn’t be the foreman, Thomas had wanted to apply to work on that job. “I put that tower up, and I’ll take it down,” he used to say. But it would break his heart to do it.

So a chance meeting early in 1908 had brought him great joy. He’d been working on a project to the south of the Eiffel Tower, and if the weather was fine he would walk past the tower at the end of the day. One evening, he saw Monsieur Eiffel just ahead of him in the dusk. He couldn’t resist going up to him to pay his respects; and to his pleasure, Eiffel recognized him at once.

“Well, Gascon, it’s good to see you again.”

“It is possible, monsieur, that you may see more of me next year. For I shall certainly apply to dismantle the tower, although it is a terrible shame to do it.”

Eiffel smiled at him.

“Then I have good news for you, my friend. I have just concluded an extension of the contract, until 1915.”

“Another six years. That is something at least, monsieur.”

“And I have other plans too. Do you realize the usefulness of the tower, my dear Gascon, for radio communications?”

“I had not really thought of it.”

“Well, I can assure you that the tower is the finest radio mast in the world. And I have a few other things up my sleeve. Trust me, my friend, and I believe I can save our tower. Just give me a little time.”

And some time later Thomas had read in the newspaper that the army and navy had declared that the tower was essential for their military communications.

Once again, the genius of Eiffel had triumphed. The tower was now sacrosanct. It was part of the defense of France.

So today, before they returned home, Thomas Gascon could pause, point to the Eiffel Tower and tell his children: “That tower is so well constructed, it will stand as long as Notre Dame. And always remember,” he added proudly, “that your father built it.”



Luc was waiting for him at the restaurant. The restaurant didn’t open on Sundays, so the shutters were closed.

It was strange for Thomas to realize that his brother was a man in his thirties now. He hadn’t changed that much. His pale face was a little more fleshy. Thomas’s short brown curls had thinned, but Luc had exactly the same dark hair falling handsomely over his forehead. He looked like an Italian restaurant owner.

And his small restaurant, though it wasn’t making him rich, was undoubtedly providing him with far more income than Thomas could ever earn in manual work.

He still hadn’t married. But Thomas had seen his brother with a succession of handsome women.

The object to be moved turned out to be something more mundane than the Mona Lisa. It was just a carpet.

“I thought it would be a good idea when I put it down,” Luc confessed, “but it wasn’t, and we’re tripping over the edges. I’m going back to a bare floor, and I’ll use the carpet for my own house.” The tables had already been moved to the side and the carpet lay rolled and tied in the center of the floor.

“It’s heavy,” said Thomas as they began to drag it out to the cart.

“It’s good quality,” said Luc. “That’s why I’m taking it for the house.”

They had quite a job getting it onto the handcart, and a section stuck out at the back, but Luc supported it and pushed while Thomas pulled the cart from the front.

“We need Robert,” said Thomas.

“We’ll be all right,” said Luc.

It was a long, slow climb up the streets toward Luc’s place. Years of manual work had given Thomas the strength of an ox, but he was grunting, and Luc was sweating profusely. Finally, however, they reached their destination.

Luc’s house lay at the end of a narrow street that was nestled against the hillside of Montmartre. It had belonged to a builder before Luc bought it. There was a small yard at the front, with bushes on one side and trees on the other. Behind the house lay a small garden. On the left rose the steep slope of the hill covered with shrubs. At the end, a wall. On the right, another wall, and the back of a shed belonging to another house. Against the slope, there was a wooden hut containing a privy, with a small garden shed adjoining it.

They got the carpet into the house, down the narrow hallway and into the main room. At the end of that, they needed a break.

“I’ll get you a beer,” said Luc, and Thomas nodded gratefully.

As Luc poured their beer, Thomas said, “The carpet’s too big for this room, I think.”

“I’m going to cut it down.”

“Do you want to open it out and see? I don’t mind helping you.”

“Not now. I’m too tired.”

“What was it you wanted to talk to me about, then?”

“Oh. I just wanted to know if you needed any money. I have quite a bit put by.”

“That’s kind of you, Luc. But we’re all right. If I’m ever in trouble, I’ll tell you.”

“Just so long as you let me know.”

They drank their beers in silence, until Luc got up to use the privy.

Thomas measured the carpet with his eye. He wondered how much too big it was. It suddenly occurred to him that if there was a spare strip, he might take it for the passage in their lodgings. Taking out his knife, he cut the string that was tied around the carpet, and began to unroll it.

Then he stepped back, and stared in horror.



Luc gazed at him sadly.

“Why did you do that?” he said.

Thomas did not answer.

“I was only gone for a moment.” Luc sighed. “I never meant you to see. I didn’t want you to know.”

“What happened?”

“An accident. It was awful.”

“Didn’t you get the police?”

“I couldn’t. They mightn’t have believed it was an accident.” He shook his head. “It didn’t look right.”

“You killed her?”

“Of course not.”

“People will look for her.”

“I don’t think so. She was just … a young lady of the night. If they asked me, I could say that she left. But I don’t think they’ll even ask. I just have to get rid of the body.”

“Why did you kill her?”

“I didn’t. I swear it. There was an argument … She fell. It was an accident. That’s all.”

“Oh mon Dieu!”

“You mustn’t tell anyone, Thomas. Not even Édith. Especially Édith.” He paused. “Unless you want your brother …”

Executed. Or at least in prison.

“And now I’m party to it,” said Thomas.

“You opened the carpet. I never meant that to happen.”

“How will you dispose of the body?”

“That’s a secret. Unless you want to help me.”

Thomas was silent. He had two choices. One was to go to the police at once, and betray his brother. The other was not to betray him. If the latter, then he wanted to be sure the body was never found. The poor girl was dead anyway.

He weighed the options.

“I never knew what was in the carpet. You understand? If you’re ever caught and it’s discovered I brought the carpet up here, I had no idea what was in it.”

“That was always my plan.”

“How will you hide her?”

Luc glanced out of the window. Dusk was already falling.

“You’ll see soon enough,” he said.



It had been a year ago, Luc explained, that he’d been in the privy and heard a sound of rock and earth falling just behind him. Investigating afterward, he’d discovered that there had been a little landslide on the slope. And as he probed further, he realized that a small fissure, a few inches wide, had appeared. When he pushed a stick through, he found a cavity. The rock was quite soft. Widening the fissure, he was soon able to step into the cavity, and the next thing he knew, he was in a tunnel.

“It wasn’t a great surprise. You know the hill of Montmartre is riddled with old gypsum mines.”

“So did you explore?”

“Oh yes. There’s a network of tunnels in there.” He nodded thoughtfully. So I rebuilt the privy with a shed beside it. The back of the shed slides open. The opening’s just behind it.”

“Did you tell anyone?”

“Not a soul, except you.”



Although the little garden wasn’t overlooked, Luc waited until darkness had fallen before he led Thomas out to the privy. He gave Thomas a covered lamp to carry. While Thomas waited, Luc entered the little shed beside it, and Thomas heard a wooden partition slide open.

“Bring the lamp,” Luc whispered. Thomas stepped into the shed and felt Luc’s hand guiding him through into the tunnel. “Turn left,” Luc whispered, “and walk twenty paces. Then you can uncover the lamp.” The surface under his feet felt stony.

When he uncovered the lamp, Thomas saw that he was in a high passage, about six feet wide, that led away into the distance. The walls were quite smooth and it was dry.

“Leave the lamp here,” Luc said. “Nobody can see the light from outside. We’ll go back for the girl now.”



She clearly had been in her early twenties. A fair-haired girl. She’d been hit in the face, but that hadn’t killed her. More likely the blow to the back of her head had done that. She must have fallen hard against something. Thomas wanted to ask, “How did it happen?” but he decided the less he knew the better.

There hadn’t been too much blood, and Luc had wrapped her tightly in several large tablecloths to keep it from spreading. The blood there was dry and black.

“You’ll have to get rid of the cloths. And the carpet might be stained,” Thomas said.

“I know,” said Luc. “If there’s a stain on the carpet, I’ll cut it out. Use the good bits. Burn the rest. No one will ever see.”

It was completely dark when they took the girl’s body out. They used straps to carry the corpse, which made it easier. It was a little tricky getting her into the shed and closing the door behind them, but they managed. Once they were in the passage, Luc closed up the entrance. After that, walking along the tunnel was relatively easy. When they reached the lamp, they put the body down. Thomas picked up the lamp and retraced their steps. He wanted to see if there were any drops of blood on the ground. He couldn’t find any.

“Where to now?” he asked.

Without a word, Luc looped the strap over his left shoulder and, holding the lamp in his right hand, led the way. They made three or four turns down similar passages before coming to a larger, higher one. It was hard work and they paused several times. Thomas wasn’t sure of the distance, but he thought they must have walked nearly three hundred yards.

“Are you sure people don’t come in here?” he asked.

“They can’t. I’ve explored it all. This part of the old mines has been sealed off for decades. The little landslide behind my house opened the only way in.”

“Then why are we going so far?”

“You’ll see.”

At last they came to a high chamber, almost like a cave.

“This is it,” said Luc. They put the body down. Then he raised the lamp high. And Thomas let out a cry of fear.

For they weren’t alone.

All around the walls, the skeletons lay. Some of them were propped almost in a sitting position, staring at them in their tattered clothes, as though at some final supper in the dark.

“Do you know who they are?” asked Luc.

“No.”

“At the end of the Commune, forty years ago, there was the famous last fight of the Communards at Père Lachaise. But before that, a party of Communards at Montmartre retreated into the gypsum mines. And instead of going in to finish them off, the army dynamited the entrance of the mine. They knew there was no way out of this section. I found other skeletons in the passages, but I think these fellows made a compact and decided to shoot themselves all together.” He turned to the corpse of the girl. “Help me get her clothes off, then we’ll drag her over to the wall.”

It wasn’t pleasant work, but they did it. At one moment, Thomas gave a little gasp, and Luc said, “What?” and Thomas said, “Nothing.” When they had her propped naked against the wall, Luc carefully removed the tattered remains of a Communard’s coat and wrapped it around her.

“In a year or two, she’ll be a skeleton like the rest of them.”

“If anyone ever examines the shed …”

“I thought of that. I can cover the side of the hill up again. Close the entrance. It should be all right.”

Thomas frowned.

“Just one thing I don’t understand. Why did you ever make the arrangement with the shed and the tunnel in the first place?”

Luc paused.

“I thought it would be a good place to hide things. That is, if I ever wanted to.”

“Oh,” said Thomas.



When they got back into the house, Luc said that Thomas should go.

“I’ll be lighting a fire in the grate tonight,” he explained. “Got to burn the clothes and the tablecloths. Then I’ll check the carpet. You need to be well away before I start.”

“I delivered a carpet, that’s all. I’ve got a family to support,” said Thomas.

“I know.” Luc looked up at him. “When I was a little boy, you came and saved me from the Dalou gang. And you fought for me. I never forgot that, you know.”

Thomas shrugged.

“You were my little brother. That’s all.”

“You just saved my life tonight.”

“I won’t do it again,” Thomas warned.

“I’ll never ask you.” He looked at Thomas with sad eyes. “Do you still love me, brother?”

Thomas didn’t answer.

“Well,” said Luc quietly, “I love you.”

Thomas left.

As he took the cart back down the hill, he reflected on all that he’d seen. It seemed Édith was right about his brother. If he wanted a secret hiding place, then he was probably a receiver of stolen goods, and possibly a thief, just as she’d suggested.

Even worse was something else he’d noticed. As they were stripping the girl in the lamplight, he’d suddenly realized that there were bruises around her mouth and nose that didn’t look like the bruising from being hit. Only one thing he knew of produced bruises like that.

If someone was deliberately suffocated.

His brother may have hit the girl. She may have banged the back of her head. But her death hadn’t come from that. Luc had suffocated her.

His brother had just made him a party to murder.



For three days he wondered whether to go to the police. But the risk was too great. What might they do to him?

A week later, Luc came by to see them, but only briefly. As he left, he signaled to Thomas to walk down the street with him.

“The police came by. Asked me if I’d seen the girl. I said I thought she’d come by late in the week, and I had an idea she spoke of leaving town. But I’ve heard that before from these girls, I told them, and they usually show up again. They asked me if I knew where she came from. Not a clue, I said. They weren’t very interested in her, I can tell you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Thomas quietly.

“Don’t worry,” said Luc, “nor do I.”



And as the weeks went by, they heard nothing more. Winter came, and the girl was forgotten. Just before Christmas, snow fell, covering all that was dark beneath the streets of Paris; and on the day after Christmas, the sun came out, and the snow gleamed as white as the church of Sacré Coeur, high on the hill of Montmartre.