Paris The Novel

Chapter Eighteen




• 1914 •


On the seventh day of September, 1914, one of the strangest sights ever seen in the history of warfare took place in the city of Paris. Thomas Gascon, his younger son Pierre, and Luc were standing at the top of the Champs-Élysées to witness it, at almost exactly the place where, a quarter century ago, Thomas had watched the funeral cortege of Victor Hugo. But the procession today was of a very different kind. And it was not the figure of Édith that he was straining to see, but that of his son Robert.

For the French army was going to war.

In taxis.



In the summer of 1914, Europe had been at peace. If France had been watching her neighbor Germany with alarm, as Germany’s army and navy swelled, she had not been idle. Indeed, her battle plan if hostilities with Germany ever resumed was to race eastward and recapture Alsace-Lorraine. Attack: that was the word, and the inspiration. Attack and avenge the honor of France. But so far, the tense peace of Europe, held together by her complex network of alliances, had remained unbroken.

And then, out of the blue, an Austrian archduke was murdered in Sarajevo. What had this to do with Germany and France? On the face of it, nothing. But when Austria declared war on the Serbs, Russia defended their fellow Slavs. Germany, allied with Austria, was obliged to declare war on Russia. Russia was allied with France. To avoid a war on two fronts, Germany resolved to smash France quickly. The German High Command already had a detailed blueprint, the Schlieffen Plan, for how to do it.

Would not this bring out the army of the huge British Empire to defend France, to whom she was bound by the Entente Cordiale? Perhaps. But the Entente was rather vague about hostilities. The British might fight, or they might not.

Except for one thing.

Little Belgium. Set up when Europe was being reorganized after the fall of Napoléon. A constitutional monarchy with a modest king and queen. A small, comfortable kingdom, whose neutrality was universally recognized as inviolable by all the countries of Europe.

The large French forces, poised to attack, lay south of the Belgian border. The German army had no wish to go up against them. But if the German army crossed Belgium, it could walk straight into France unhindered. Diplomatically it was impossible. Morally unthinkable. Militarily, obvious.

In August the Belgian king and his government received a note from Germany. It was couched in the most diplomatic terms. But its message in plain English was clear as day:

We’re going to need to walk through your country and occupy it for a while. When we’re done, you can have it back again. Hope you don’t mind. We’ll be coming in a couple of days.

But the Belgians did mind. They said they’d fight. It had not occurred to the German High Command that this comfortable little kingdom would be so valiant.

And Britain had a treaty with Belgium. A cast-iron treaty, to defend it if Belgium was attacked. Britain, therefore, entered the war at once.

Thus, in the first days of August 1914, all the tottering structures erected to preserve the peace of old Europe came crashing down. No one could have foreseen that it would happen this way.



By the first days of September, Thomas Gascon was in a quandary. Though delayed by the tough Belgian resistance, the German army was in France, its advance guard less than fifty miles from Paris. And every Parisian knew what that meant.

“It’ll be 1870 all over again. Paris will fall. Get out while you can.”

The government got out. Leaving the capital in a hurry, they all headed south for Gascony and the great port of Bordeaux, hoping they might be safe down there.

Thomas Gascon had watched in disgust as the motor cars of the officials sped past the wagons and handcarts of the poor.

“Even if we leave,” he said to Édith, “I don’t know where we’d go.”

And then a remarkable thing happened. It was his eldest son, Robert, who brought the news.

At the age of sixteen, Thomas’s younger son Pierre was already taller than his father. A handsome boy, with a freckled face a little like his mother’s. But when people saw Thomas and Robert standing side by side, they smiled with amusement. For Robert was a perfect reproduction of his father. “I have more hair than you,” Robert would point out to Thomas cheerfully, but his uncle Luc would tell him not to expect this difference to last. “You look exactly the way your father did when he was working on the Statue of Liberty. So in twenty-five years, you can expect to look the same way he does now,” his uncle said. Thomas and Robert had the same physical toughness, the same love of work in the open air, even the same sense of humor. Since Robert was grown up, father and son enjoyed nothing more than going out for a drink in a bar together.

At the age of eighteen, Robert had been conscripted. Now he was part of the reserve.

“General Joffre is regrouping. He refuses to give up,” he told his family excitedly. “The British are with us on our northern flank. Joffre thinks we can drive them back at the Marne. We’re all being called to the front for an attack. Will you come and see me off tomorrow?” He grinned. “There’s transport laid on for some of the boys. But personally I’ll be taking a taxi.”



It was an extraordinary maneuver. Ten thousand reservists were being called to the front. The army had transports for only four thousand. The solution? Taxis.

A decade ago they would have been horse-drawn—and there were still plenty of horse-drawn vehicles in Paris, as in every other part of the Western world. But the Renault company had produced a sturdy and excellent motor—the Renault AG—that now served as the favored taxicab in the city. Six hundred of them had been put in service for the patriotic task. They’d have to make the journey two or three times.

The Renault AG was a cheerful little vehicle. It looked as if the passenger cabin of a horse-drawn cab had been placed on smaller wheels, and a motor attached to the front. On that warm day, most of the soft roofs on the backs of the cabs were folded down.

The first fleet of taxis was circling the Arc de Triomphe to the applause of the crowd before they turned, two, three, four at a time and scuttled down the Champs-Élysées toward the Louvre and then, eastward, toward the front.

How splendid the young men looked in their kepis, their blue coats and red trousers, hardly changed since the glorious days of Napoléon. With what gallant panache they waved and saluted from their taxis as they passed. It was so colorful, so stylish, so French. If the Parisians had been terrified and ready to flee just days before, this cheerful, mad parade of courage and daring seemed to put new heart into them. When a dozen taxis broke out from the Arc de Triomphe and careered down the Champs-Élysées all together, the cheers turned into a roar.

All the time Thomas was watching intensely. Robert was in one of the taxis, but heaven knows which one. He’d told him where he planned to stand, so he’d be looking out, as long as he was able to get in the right side of the taxi.

Several times he reached out to take Pierre’s arm, thinking that he’d caught sight of him, and Pierre got ready to wave, but each time Thomas had shaken his head; and he could tell that, although Pierre naturally wanted to wave to his brother, he was starting to get bored.

But then at last he saw him. He was sure he did. Robert was sitting in the back of the taxi looking out.

“Robert!” he cried, so loudly that surely one would have heard it from the avenue de la Grande-Armée. “Bravo, Robert!” And he waved wildly from the edge of the street, and Pierre and Luc waved too. And it seemed to them that the figure in the cab raised his hand in acknowledgment as best he could, for he was probably pressed rather tightly in the cab, and then a moment later the cab had passed.

“I think it was him,” said Thomas.

“Certainly it was,” said Luc.

“Did he see us?” asked Pierre.

“I’m sure he did,” Luc answered.

It was clear that he and Pierre were ready to go.

“You go on,” said Thomas. “I’ll just wait a while.” He was still watching the cabs going by.

“Are you sure?” asked his brother.

“You know,” said Thomas quietly, “just in case it wasn’t him.”

“It was him,” said Luc. But Thomas didn’t answer. So Luc and Pierre left, but Thomas Gascon remained where he was, staring into every cab that passed. Because he wanted to be sure that Robert didn’t come by and see nobody waiting for him. After all, you never knew what was going to happen, out there at the front. Several times he waved at cabs where he saw someone who resembled his son.

And though the crowds began to thin, he remained there another hour until, at last, a cab went by with a single old gentleman in a top hat, whoever he was, and then there were no more.



When he got home, Pierre gave him a message that Luc wanted to see him at his restaurant, so Thomas went round there.

Luc was sitting alone at a table, and he motioned his brother to sit down and poured him a glass of wine.

“I’ve been thinking, brother,” Luc said. “This big offensive out at the Marne. It’s quite a gamble, you know.”

“I suppose so.”

“If it fails, the Germans could be here in less than a week. What will you do then?”

“I don’t know. What will you do?”

“Serve them dinner.” He shrugged. “What else does a restaurant do?”

“I hadn’t thought about it like that.”

“But what if we hold them at the Marne, or somewhere out there in eastern France? Everyone thinks this war will be a short affair, one way or the other. If they’re right, there’s nothing to do but wait. But what if it isn’t so short? What’ll happen then?”

“Pierre might have to fight.”

“Not only boys like Pierre. There’ll be a general conscription. I’ve heard army officers talk about it in the past. You’re over fifty, a bit too old. But I’ll probably be called up.”

“You think so?”

“I do. So I’ve made a decision. I’ll wait a little while, but if we hold the Germans, I’m going to volunteer.”

“Why?”

“You probably get better treatment, have a better chance of finding yourself a good billet, if you’re a volunteer. People who wait to be conscripted, and forced into the army, don’t do so well. That’s usually how these things work.” He gave his brother a thoughtful look. “If that happens, Thomas, I want you and Édith to take over the bar and restaurant.”

“But that’s not what I do.”

“Thomas, if the war drags on, life might get very hard. I don’t think people will be building much. And anyway, you’re not getting any younger. There could be food shortages. Think of the siege of Paris back in 1870. People were starving. With the bar, you stand a better chance of getting by than most people. And then after the war, whoever wins, you’ll still have it.”

Thomas looked doubtful.

“I don’t know, Luc. It’s not my style. And Édith …”

There was no need for Thomas to finish the sentence. But it wasn’t only that Édith had never liked Luc. Ever since the terrible secret of the murder had come between them, there had been a distance between the two brothers as well. Nothing was ever said, but they both knew it. Even in Luc’s absence, Thomas was reluctant to become involved in his brother’s business. And he certainly didn’t want to join him as any kind of partner.

“Don’t worry,” said Luc, wryly, “I’ll probably be killed. I wouldn’t be the first,” he added quietly.

But to Thomas’s surprise, when he spoke to Édith about the subject that night, she was enthusiastic. “As long as Luc’s not there,” she stipulated.

“I thought you would not want it,” he said.

“Why? It’s better than what we have.”

“Luc thinks he might be killed.”

“Make sure he leaves the business to you. Make sure there’s a proper will.”

This wasn’t Thomas’s way of doing things. But the next day when, with embarrassment, he mentioned what Édith had said to his brother, Luc smiled and remarked that she was quite right. “Give this to your wife,” he said, and handed Thomas a copy of his will, together with the name of his lawyer.



It was not long before news started arriving about the great battle on the River Marne. It had been the small band of gallant aviators in their flimsy biplanes who had brought the French command news that the German forces outside Paris were split. French and British troops, reinforced by the Parisian troops who’d come in by taxi, were poured into the gap.

The fighting was desperate, the casualties huge. But in less than a week, the Germans had pulled back northeastward to the line of the River Aisne in Picardy and Champagne. There they started a massive line of trenches, and dug in. Paris was saved.

But the news of the casualties was terrible. In that one week of battle, France alone had a quarter of a million casualties, of whom eighty thousand were dead. In such extreme circumstances, it was not always possible to make precise tallies, nor, at first, to inform all the families of the dead.



A week after the battle was over, when there was still no news of Robert, Luc Gascon went to volunteer. He’d taken his decision carefully.

It was clear that Germany would not be able to overrun France as planned. Not only that: the kaiser would now be forced to fight a war on two fronts—on the plains of France and Flanders to his west, and in Russia to the east. The war might be brief, but Luc suspected it would not. More recruits would certainly be needed, and soon.

The recruiting station was a collection of quickly erected wooden huts near the Gare de l’Est railway station. There he found a small crowd of men, waiting in groups and chatting together before they joined the short line filing in at the doorway. As he certainly wasn’t in a hurry, he paused and surveyed the scene.

There were all sorts of men. Most seemed to be in their thirties. The younger men, he surmised, had been more recently conscripted and were probably already in the reserve. A few were laborers and factory hands, but more of them looked like clerks or shop assistants, mostly in suits, some sporting straw hats or trilbies. And he’d been watching for a couple of minutes when he saw a face he thought he knew.

Who the devil was it? A face from long ago. He was sure of that. And Luc prided himself on never forgetting a face. But it still took him a little time before he realized who it was.

The strange fellow who’d lain in wait that night, long ago, on the rue des Belles-Feuilles. The man who’d wanted to kill that army officer, Roland de Cygne. The man he’d shaken down so successfully in the Bois de Boulogne. Now he remembered the fellow’s name: Le Sourd. That was it.

Luc was wondering whether to hide himself when he remembered that the fellow might not even have known for sure what part he’d played in that little drama. And he never even saw me, Luc thought, except in the Moulin Rouge. It was Luc’s nature to be curious, and he wondered what sort of man Le Sourd had become these days, and why he’d come to the recruiting station. So, cautiously, he drew closer so that Le Sourd could see his face.

It was just as he thought. No reaction. Not a glimmer of recognition.

He went up to him and nodded.

“Taking the plunge?”

“Yes.”

“The rumor I heard,” said Luc amiably, “is that when they start the general call-up, it’ll be everyone up to age forty-five.”

Le Sourd nodded.

“I heard that too.”

“And what age might you be, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Forty. And you?”

Luc did a quick sum in his head. Whatever Le Sourd’s real age, it had to be nearer fifty than forty. Evidently his desire to fight was strong enough to make him lie about his age. That was probably why he’d decided to volunteer rather than wait for the call-up. For when the general call-up came, they’d be checking everyone’s papers carefully, and they might reject a man who was over the age limit. Whereas at present, Luc guessed, they’d take anyone who offered, as long as they were fit enough, with no other questions asked.

“I’m thirty-nine. Tell me,” he continued, “since I had to think about it myself, I’m curious to know what made you decide to volunteer?”

Le Sourd shrugged.

“I’m a socialist. If the German kaiser wins the war, that won’t be good for us.”

This was certainly logical. The conservative German emperor had far more authoritarian instincts than the left-leaning French government. Most of the French trade unions and socialist organizations had come to the same conclusion and backed the government at once. As an expression of national solidarity, several socialists had immediately been given important government positions.

“You’re like me, then. I’m a patriot, but a socialist too,” said Luc. It wasn’t true, but years behind the bar had taught him two things: if he agreed with a man, that man would believe him, because he wanted to; he’d also be far more talkative. And he could have defended his socialism with ease. Men had confided every political position to him, so many times that he could reproduce those views exactly as he’d heard them. “I was a Jean Jaurès man myself.”

Jean Jaurès, the workingmen’s leader. A figure of towering decency, beloved by every socialist and even many conservatives too. Murdered by a right-wing fanatic that summer, and generally mourned. A safe choice that carried immediate conviction.

Jacques Le Sourd nodded, and continued.

“I’ve seen so many of my young comrades—good union men, socialists, even anarchists—going to the front, that … I felt embarrassed to remain behind, to tell you the truth.”

Luc glanced at him. He’d heard so many stories down the years that he could usually tell if a man was lying. If he was any judge, Le Sourd was telling the truth.

“Any family?” he asked.

“A wife. I married late. But I have a little boy.”

“Did that hold you back?”

“Yes. I lost my own father. He was a Communard. It’s not good, to lose a father. But then I thought, what if my son has to live under the kaiser because I refused to fight?”

“That’s it. I’ve nephews and nieces. I feel the same way.”

Was it possible this married man was still pursuing his strange vendetta against de Cygne? It seemed improbable. Nor could Luc see how the war would make it any easier to accomplish. Even if, by some fluke, Le Sourd appeared in the same company or regiment as the aristocrat, de Cygne would soon come to know of it. He discarded the idea.

“Shall we enlist, comrade?” said Le Sourd.

“Why not?”

When they got to the desk, a young officer was taking down their details. He looked like a child. Le Sourd gave his age as forty, and though the officer gave him a quick look, he either didn’t care, or he was so young that anyone over thirty-five seemed equally old to him.

With Luc, for some reason, the officer took more care. Searching through a huge dossier on the desk he found his name.

“The doctors will check you out,” he said, and he waved him on.



Dear Maman and Papa, and all the family,

I am alive and well. I have been digging trenches since the big battle, which you’ll have heard about. Please send me strong gloves if you can, because I may be in this trench for some time.

Thank you for seeing me off, Papa. I saw you waving like a lunatic in the Champs-Élysées, but I was too embarrassed to wave back.

My love to you all.

Your son,

Robert



Marc Blanchard had not expected the proposal from his brother, nor was it welcome. Though he was forty-five, he’d been wondering whether to enlist.

“What about Father?” he said. “He could do it far better than me.”

“He doesn’t want to,” Gérard answered. He gave a wry smile. “I already asked him.”

It was more than five years since Jules Blanchard had finally retired to Fontainebleau. He still kept the big apartment on the boulevard Malesherbes, but he went there less and less.

“The store manager and two of my best clerks have all gone to fight. I couldn’t stop them,” Gérard continued. “I need help, and I want someone in the family. If anything happened to me …”

“You look pretty robust.”

“That may be. But all the same …”

“James could do it. He’s a lawyer, and far more competent than I.”

“Your sister and brother-in-law are in England. They can’t come over.”

“You’ve already asked them?”

“Of course. I knew you wouldn’t want this. You have your own life—though that may be somewhat curtailed while this war lasts, I imagine.”

Marc’s career had been moderately successful. Every year he got a commission or two for a portrait. When a gallery put on a show of his work, a large and fashionable crowd turned up and the paintings would sell. He had talent, but not genius. Had he wanted to, he could have become the director of a museum or an art school, or he could have run a gallery, but he disliked administration. Instead, while carrying on his own work, he became a critic and promoter of the work of others, a respected fixture on the art scene and a man with many friends. Now that the war had started, he had wondered whether to offer himself to the government as a war artist.

And now his brother wanted him to come and help run the family business.

“I could be called up,” Marc objected. “I’m probably just young enough.”

“I already have an exemption for you,” Gérard told him. “The wholesale business is part of the war effort, you know. We’re already supplying food to the troops.” He paused. “I need you to understand the wholesale business, but your main task would be to keep the store going—if we can.”

“Joséphine? You’d close Joséphine?”

“I know you like the store. It would break Father’s heart if we had to close it. But if the war drags on, fashion goods are going to be tough to sell. It may be hard to keep Joséphine going. I know I wouldn’t be able to do it. I haven’t got the talent. But perhaps you could succeed.” He glanced at his brother with mild amusement. “Funnily enough, if you put your mind to it, I think you’d run Joséphine rather well.”

Marc gave his brother a long look.

“But I’d have to work for you.”

“We’d work together. But yes, I’d make the final investment decisions.” Gérard gazed at him calmly. “People are going to sacrifice their lives, Marc. This would be your sacrifice. You may dislike the idea, but it wouldn’t kill you. And I want to preserve the business for the next generation.”

“I’ll give you my answer tomorrow,” Marc told him.

He was at his aunt Éloïse’s apartment within the hour. She wasn’t surprised to see him.

“I assume that Gérard has spoken to you,” she remarked.

“You’ll support me when I refuse, won’t you?” he said.

“Not at all,” she answered firmly. She smiled. “I love you, Marc, but you are selfish. And we’re at war. You must accept at once.”