Paris The Novel

Chapter Two




• 1883 •


The day started badly. His little brother Luc had disappeared.

Thomas Gascon loved his family. His elder sister, Adèle, had married and moved away; and his younger sister, Nicole, was always with her best friend, Yvette, whose conversation bored him. But Luc was special. He was the baby of the family. The funny little boy whom everybody loved. Thomas had been almost ten when he was born, and had been his guide, philosopher and friend ever since.

In fact, Luc had been absent the evening before. But since his father had assured them that the boy was with his cousins who lived less than a mile away, nobody had worried. Only when Thomas was about to go to work had he overheard his mother’s cry.

“You mean you don’t know he’s at your sister’s?”

“But of course he’s there.” His father’s voice from his bed. “He went there yesterday afternoon. Where else would he be?”

Monsieur Gascon was an easygoing man. He earned his living as a water carrier, but he wasn’t very reliable. “He works exactly as much as he has to,” his wife would say, “and not a second more.” And he would have agreed with her because, in his mind, this was the only reasonable thing to do. “Life is for living,” he’d say. “If you can’t sit and have a glass of wine …” He’d make a gesture, indicating the futility of all other occupations. Not that he drank so much. But sitting was important to him.

He appeared now, barefoot and unshaven, pulling on his clothes and ready to argue. But his wife cut him off.

“Nicole,” she commanded, “run to your aunt at once and see if Luc is there.” Then, turning to her husband: “Ask the neighbors if they have seen your son. To your shame!” she added furiously.

“What shall I do?” Thomas asked.

“Go to work, of course.”

“But …” Thomas wasn’t happy about leaving without knowing that his brother was safe.

“You want to be late and lose your job?” his mother demanded crossly, then softened. “You’re a good boy, Thomas. Your father is probably right that he’s at your aunt’s.” And seeing her son still hesitate. “Don’t worry. If there’s a problem, I’ll send Nicole to find you. I promise.”

So Thomas ran down the hill of Montmartre.

Although he was worried about his little brother, he certainly didn’t want to lose his job. Before becoming a water carrier, his father had always been a laborer, in and out of work all the time. But his mother had wanted Thomas to have a skill, and he’d become an ironworker. Just under medium height, Thomas was stocky and strong, and he had a good eye. He’d learned fast, and although he wasn’t yet twenty, the older men were always glad to have him on their team, and teach him.

It was a fine morning in late spring. He was wearing an open shirt and a short jacket. His baggy trousers were held up with a broad leather belt; his worker’s boots scuffed the powdery dirt in the street. He had only two and a half miles to walk.

The geography of Paris was very simple. Beginning with the ancient oval of settlement on the banks of the Seine around its central island, the city had gradually expanded down the centuries, enclosed by walls that were built in a series of ever-larger concentric ovals. By the late eighteenth century, just before the French Revolution, the city was enclosed by a customs wall, approximately two miles out from the Seine, at whose many gates there were toll booths controlled by hated tax collectors. Outside this large oval lay a huge ring of suburbs and villages, including, to the east, the cemetery of Père Lachaise, and to the north, the hill of Montmartre. Since the Revolution, the hated old customs wall had been dismantled, and just before the recent war with the Germans, a vast line of outer fortifications had enclosed even the outer suburbs. But many of them, especially Montmartre, still looked like the ancient villages they were.

At the bottom of the hill of Montmartre, Thomas crossed the untidy old Place de Clichy, and entered a long boulevard that ran southwest, along the line of the dismantled customs wall, with the streets of the city on his left, and the sprawling suburb of Batignolles village on his right. Occasionally a tram pulled by a team of horses rumbled slowly past him, but like most laboring men he seldom cared to pay the fare to go on the trams and omnibuses whose horses, in any case, hardly went faster than a brisk walk.

After half an hour, he came to a line of smart iron railings on his left, through which one could see the green spaces of the Parc Monceau. Formerly a princely garden, now an elegant public space, the Parc Monceau was the entrance to an exclusive quarter. Gathered around its southern side were the impressive private mansions of the richest bourgeoisie. But its most charming feature lay up here, in the middle of the railings on the northern side.

It looked like a small, round Roman temple. In fact, it was the old toll booth. But in keeping with its aristocratic surroundings, this humdrum function had been served by a perfect, domed rotunda encircled by classical columns. Thomas liked the little temple. It was also the sign that he had reached his destination.

Crossing the boulevard, he walked northward fifty yards and turned left into the rue de Chazelles.

A generation ago, this had been a modest area of workshops and allotments. Then small, two-story villas with mansard roofs had begun to appear. And since Baron Haussmann had started carving his great thoroughfares through the quarter, some long, six-story apartment blocks could be seen nearby. The project that Thomas Gascon was working on lay at number 25 rue de Chazelles, on the north side of the street, rising high above the roofs of the neighboring villas: a gigantic truncated figure, completed to its midriff, swathed in metal drapery and surrounded by scaffolding. It was so tall that it could be seen from across the Parc Monceau.

It was the Statue of Liberty.

The workshops of Gaget, Gauthier et Cie occupied a large site that ran back to the street behind. There were several big, high sheds, a foundry and a movable crane. In the middle of the site stood the huge torso.

First, Thomas went into the shed on the left. This was the atelier where the craftsmen worked at long tables, making the decorative friezes for the head and the torch. He loved watching them work, but his real reason for entering was because the bald and corpulent foreman was usually here in the early morning, and he liked to say a polite “Bonjour, monsieur” to remind that all-powerful figure of his existence.

This morning, however, the foreman was preoccupied. Monsieur Bartholdi was there. The designer of the Statue of Liberty looked every inch the fashionable artist he was, with his handsome, finely drawn face, his broad brow, and his floppy cravat tied in a large bow. He’d been working on the idea for years. Originally he had conceived a similar statue to stand at the entrance to the Suez Canal, the gateway to the East. That project had been abandoned. But then this other, wonderful opportunity had arisen. With a huge public subscription, the people of France would commission a statue as a gift to America, to stand beside New York Harbor, the gateway to the West. And now Monsieur Bartholdi had become one of the most famous artists in the world.

Not daring to interrupt them, Thomas went quickly out of the atelier and entered the shed next door.

If Bartholdi had designed a magnificent statue, a huge problem still remained: how the devil to construct it? The original plan, suggested by the great French architect Viollet-le-Duc, had been to build the statue around a huge stone pillar. But then the great man had died without leaving further instructions, and no one knew what to do. Finally, a bridge builder had said he could construct a framework for the statue, and so he had been brought in as the project’s engineer.

The engineer had set about his task almost as if he were building another bridge. The statue was going to be hollow. Instead of a stone pillar, the central core would be a pylon of iron girders. The outer framework would be a huge skeleton of iron. And onto this skeleton the thin copper outer skin would be riveted. Spiral staircases inside would allow people to go up into the viewing platform in the statue’s diadem.

The engineer’s plans also allowed the statue to be constructed in several pieces at the same time. Liberty’s right hand held a great torch up to the sky; but in her left, she would clasp the tablets of the law, on which the date of the Declaration of Independence would be carved. This was the hand upon which Thomas and his crew were working.

There were two others working with him on the hand that day, both bearded, serious men in their forties. They greeted him politely, and one asked if his family was well.

It did not seem appropriate to say that his little brother had gone missing. Indeed, Thomas thought, it might bring bad luck. For if you said a thing, it might happen.

“They’re fine,” he said. For now, he’d concentrate on his work.

The hand was huge. A dozen men could have sat on the outstretched palm and fingers. The inner core was a sturdy framework of thick iron bars. But around this framework were wrapped dozens of long, thin metal strips, like so many straps. They were only two inches wide, lay quite close together, and exactly followed the contours of Bartholdi’s model, so that, when they were all attached, the resulting hand would look like a limb from some gigantic wicker man.

Fixing them in place was careful and patient labor. For over an hour, the three men worked quietly, speaking little. And they were not interrupted until the foreman’s morning visit.

He was still in the company of Monsieur Bartholdi. But they had been joined by a third figure.

Most of the engineering supervision at the workshops was done by the engineer’s junior partner. But today the engineer himself had come to pay a visit.

If Bartholdi was every inch an artist, the engineer also looked his part. Where Bartholdi’s face was long and poetic, it seemed that the god Vulcan had fashioned the head of the engineer in his forge and compressed it in a vice. Everything about the man was compact and tidy—his close-cropped hair and beard, his clothes, his movements—yet also full of energy. And his eyes, which bulged slightly, had a luminous quality that suggested that he, too, could dream.

For several minutes he and Bartholdi inspected the huge hand, tapping the thin bands of iron, measuring here and there, and eventually nodded with approval to the foreman and cheerfully announced: “Excellent, messieurs.” They were about to leave when the engineer turned to Thomas and remarked: “You are new here, aren’t you?”

“Yes, monsieur,” said Thomas.

“And what is your name?”

“Thomas Gascon, monsieur.”

“Gascon, eh? Your ancestors came from Gascony, no doubt?”

“I do not know, sir. I suppose so.”

“Gascony.” The engineer considered, then smiled. “The old Roman province of Aquitania. The warm south. The land of wine. Of brandy too: let us not forget Armagnac.”

“Or The Three Musketeers,” Bartholdi chimed in. “D’Artagnan was a Gascon.”

“Voilà. And what can we say of the character of your countrymen, Monsieur Gascon?” the engineer continued playfully. “Aren’t they known for chivalry, and honor?”

“They’re supposed to boast a lot,” said the foreman, not to be left out.

“Are you boastful, Monsieur Gascon?” asked the engineer.

“I have nothing to boast about,” answered Thomas simply.

“Ah,” said the engineer. “Then perhaps I can help you. Why do you think we are constructing the statue in this particular way?”

“I suppose,” said Thomas, “so that it can be disassembled and taken across the Atlantic.” He knew that after the statue was completed here in the rue de Chazelles, its copper skin attached with temporary rivets, the whole thing could be taken down and reassembled again in New York.

“That is true,” said the engineer. “But there is another reason. The statue is going to stand beside the open waters of New York Harbor, exposed to the winds, which will catch it like a sail. If it is completely static, it will be under enormous stress. Temperature changes will also cause the metal to expand and contract. The copper skin could crack. So firstly, I have constructed the inside like a metal bridge, so that it can move, just enough to relieve the stress. And secondly, I have arranged that the plates of beaten copper that form the skin shall be riveted, each one separately, onto these metal strips—these ‘saddles’ as you ironworkers call them. The copper plates are attached to the framework, but not to each other. So each plate can slide, just a fraction, against its neighbor. In this way the skin will never crack. You will not see it with the eye, but all the time, the Statue of Liberty will move. This is good engineering. Do you understand?”

Thomas nodded.

“Good,” the engineer went on. “And now I can tell you why you may boast. Because of its engineering, and your careful work in putting it together, this statue of ours will last for centuries. Countless millions of people will see it. Quite certainly, my young friend, this will be the most famous construction that you, or I, will ever build. That is something we may boast about, don’t you think?”

“Yes, Monsieur Eiffel,” said Thomas.

Eiffel smiled at him. Bartholdi smiled at him. Even the foreman smiled, and Thomas Gascon felt very happy.

Just then he saw his sister Nicole standing by the doorway.

She was trying to catch his attention, yet was afraid to come in. She was going through that phase when her legs looked thin as stalks, and with her pale face and her large eyes, she seemed very vulnerable. If their mother had sent her all the way here, it could only mean that Luc was lost. Or worse.

But what a moment to arrive. If she would just wait until the foreman and the visitors were gone. He saw her eyes pleading as he tried to ignore her.

But the foreman missed nothing. Seeing Thomas’s momentary distraction, he immediately turned and stared at Nicole.

“Who’s that?”

“My sister, sir.” It was no use lying.

“Why is she interrupting you?”

“My little brother vanished this morning, sir. I think he must be … I don’t know.”

The foreman was not pleased. Staring at Nicole, he motioned her to approach him.

“Well,” he said abruptly. “What is it?”

“My mother sent me to find Thomas, monsieur. My brother Luc is nowhere to be found. They are fetching the police.”

“Then they have no need of Thomas.” He motioned her to go away.

The little girl’s mouth fell open. Involuntarily, Thomas started to move toward her, then checked himself.

He couldn’t lose his job. The foreman might be harsh, but he was quite logical. Perhaps if the matter had been brought to him privately … But not with Monsieur Bartholdi and Monsieur Eiffel watching. He had to keep discipline.

If only Nicole would go now. Quickly. But she didn’t. Her face started to pucker. Was she going to cry? She turned to him.

“What shall I tell Mother?”

And he was just about to say, “You must go now, Nicole,” when the voice of Monsieur Eiffel interrupted.

“I think that, upon this occasion—and this occasion only—our young friend should go and find his brother. But tomorrow morning, Monsieur Gascon, we shall expect you here to complete this great work.” He turned to the foreman. “Would you agree?”

The foreman shrugged, but nodded.

“Go,” the foreman said to Thomas, who would have thanked him properly, except that his sister had already fled.



Seen from a distance, the hill of Montmartre hadn’t changed so much since Roman times. For centuries old vines had grown there, tended by local nuns in the Middle Ages, though the vineyards nowadays had either been built upon, or lapsed into waste ground. But one pleasant change had occurred. A number of wooden windmills had gathered near the summit, their lumbering sails turning in the wind, giving the hill a picturesque appearance.

Only drawing closer was it clear that Montmartre had become a bit of a mess. Too steep and inconvenient for Baron Haussmann to tame, it was still half rural. But in the places where Montmartre had tried to smarten itself, it seemed to have given up, its crooked streets and steep alleys breaking off unfinished, turning into trackways of wooden huts and cabins scattered, higgledy-piggledy, across the hillside.

In all this mess, no part was more disreputable than the shantytown just over the hill on its northwestern flank. The Maquis, they called it: the bush, the wilderness, or even skid row. The house in which the Gascons lived was one of the better ones: a simple frame covered with wooden boards and an upstairs balcony that made it look like a shanty version of a Swiss chalet. An outside staircase led to the upper floor that the family occupied.

“Where have you looked?” Thomas asked, as soon as he got there.

“Partout.” Everywhere, said his mother. “The police came.” Her shrug indicated that she had no faith in them. Monsieur Gascon was sitting in the corner. The yoke he put across his shoulders to carry the water buckets lay on the floor beside him. He was staring at the floor in guilty silence. “You should go to work,” his wife said to him quietly.

“Let them do without their water,” he said defiantly, “until my son is found.” And Thomas guessed his father thought that little Luc was dead.

“Your aunt gave him a balloon yesterday afternoon, and sent him home,” his mother continued to Thomas, “but he never got here. None of the children at the school have seen him. One boy said he had, but then he changed his mind. If anyone knows anything, they’re not telling.”

“I’m going out to search,” said Thomas. “What color was the balloon?”

“Blue,” said his mother.



Once outside, Thomas paused. Could he find his brother? He told himself he could. There seemed little point in searching the Maquis again. Down the hill, the city outskirts spread northward to the suburb called Saint-Denis. But so far as Thomas knew, his little brother never went out there. The small free school his mother made him attend, and most of the places Luc knew, lay up the hill. Thomas started to climb.

The Moulin de la Galette stood on the ridge just above the Maquis. It was one of a pair of windmills owned by an enterprising family who had set up a guinguette bar with a little dance floor there. People came out from the city to enjoy some cheap drink and rustic charm, and Luc haunted the place. He’d sing songs for the customers, who’d give him tips.

The barman was sweeping the floor.

“The police have been here already,” he said. “Luc never came last night.”

“He may have had a blue balloon.”

“No balloon.”

Thomas went along several streets after that, stopping here and there to ask if anyone remembered a boy with a balloon the day before. Nobody did. It was hard not to feel discouraged, but he pressed on. After half an hour of wandering about like this, he came out onto the great platform of ground overlooking the city where, behind a high wooden fence, they were building the huge basilica of Sacré Coeur.

Thomas had been seven years old during the German siege. He remembered the big cannon up on the hill, and the fighting over them, and the terrible shooting of Communards when the government troops arrived from Versailles. His father had been careful to stay out of trouble—or perhaps he was just too lazy—but like most workingmen, he had no liking for this vast, triumphant monument to Catholic order that the conservative new republic was placing on the hill to stare over the city. Thomas, however, had been fascinated: not by the church’s meaning, but by how the huge thing was built.

And for that reason, as he gazed at the sacred site on the hill of Montmartre, he began to feel a sense of dread.

The hill was mainly composed of the soft stone material known as gypsum, which possessed two qualities. First, it would slowly dissolve in water, and was thus a poor foundation for any large building. Second, when heated, after giving off steam, it could easily be ground to the powder from which white plaster was made. For that reason, men had been burrowing into the hill of Montmartre for centuries to extract the gypsum. And so famous had these quarryings become that now, even across the oceans, white plaster had come to be known as plaster of Paris.

When the builders of Sacré Coeur began their task, therefore, they found that the underlying terrain was not only soft, but so honeycombed with mine shafts and tunnels that, had the great building been placed directly upon it, the entire hill would surely have collapsed, leaving the church in a stupendous sinkhole.

The solution had been very French: a combination of elegant logic and vast ambition. Eighty-three gigantic shafts were dug, each over a hundred feet deep, filled with concrete. Upon these mighty columns, like a huge box almost as deep as the church above, the crypt was constructed as a platform. This work alone had taken almost a decade, and by the end of it, even those who hated the project would remark with wry amusement: “Montmartre isn’t holding up the church. It’s the church that’s holding up Montmartre.”

Every week, Thomas had gone to the site to gaze. Sometimes a friendly workman would take him to see the cavernous excavations and giant masonry up close. Even when the work on the church itself had begun, the site was still a muddy mess, cratered with pits and trenches. And now, as he stared at the high boards of the fence, the thought came to him, with a horrible urgency: What if his poor little brother’s body had been dumped somewhere on that site? It might be days before it was noticed, if it hadn’t already been covered over. Or what if it had been dragged into the maze of tunnels and shafts below? There were ways into that labyrinth, but once inside it was easy to get lost. Was Luc down there, in the dark and secret chambers of the hill?

No, he told himself, no. He mustn’t think like this. Luc was alive. Just waiting to be found. All he had to do was think. Where might he be?

He walked forward to the corner of the street below and paused. All Paris lay before him. Here and there a golden dome could be seen, or a church steeple rising above the rooftops. On the main island in the Seine, the towers of Notre Dame Cathedral rose higher than all. And above them, the blue sky still reigned, uninterrupted. And telling him nothing.

He tried to pray. But God and His angels were silent as well.

So after a while, he started along the street that led westward along the contour of the hill. There were some houses here, of the better sort, with small gardens. The lane began to descend. On his right a steep bank of land appeared, with a garden wall above it. The bank was covered with bushes.

“Psst. Thomas.” A whisper from above. He stopped. His heart leaped. He looked up into the bushes. He couldn’t see anyone. “Are you alone? Is anybody in the lane?” It was Luc’s voice.

“Nobody,” said Thomas.

“I’m coming down.” Moments later, Luc was at his side.

They both had the same soft brown eyes. But where Thomas Gascon was thickset and sturdy, his brother Luc, at the age of nine, was a thin little boy. The features of the young workman’s sunburned face were short and straight, and his close-cropped brown hair was already showing the first, faint signs of thinning. His brother’s skin was paler, his hair was dark and long, his nose more aquiline. He might have been a young Italian boy—looks he inherited from his father’s mother, who had come to Paris from Toulon.

He was dirty and his hair was a mess, but apart from that he didn’t look too bad.

“I’m hungry,” he said. He’d been hiding there all night. “I was going to wait until this evening and go down the hill, so I could meet you coming back from work,” he explained.

“Why didn’t you go home? Mother and Father are sick with worry.”

Luc shook his head.

“They said they’d be waiting for me. They said they’d kill me.”

“Who?”

“The Dalou boys.”

“Oh.” This was serious. There were several gangs of boys in the Maquis, but the Dalou boys were vicious. If they told Luc they’d kill him, he could expect to be hurt badly. And they were quite capable of waiting up for him all night. “What did you do to them?” Thomas asked.

“Aunt Lilly gave me a balloon. I met them in the street and Antoine Dalou said he wanted it. But I said no. Then Jean Dalou knocked me down and took it.”

“And then?”

“I was unhappy. I wept.”

“So?”

“As they were going away, I threw a broken bottle at the balloon, and it burst.”

“Why did you do that?”

“So that they shouldn’t have it, either.”

Thomas shook his head.

“That was stupid.”

“Then they came after me, and Antoine Dalou picked up some big stones to throw at me, and I ran. He hit me once, in the back. And I got away. But they didn’t give up. And Jean Dalou shouted that they were going to kill me, and that I’d never get home alive. So I stayed away. They won’t attack you, though. They’ll be afraid of you.”

“I can get you home,” said Thomas. “But what then?”

“I don’t know. Can I go and live in America?”

“No.” Thomas took his hand. “Let’s go.”



As soon as Luc was safely home, Thomas went out again.

It didn’t take him long to find the Dalou boys. They were hanging out near their shack on the other side of the Maquis. Most of the little gang seemed to be there: Antoine, the same age as Luc, with a narrow face like a ferret; Jean Dalou, a bit better looking, and a couple of years older, who led the gang; Guy, one of the Noir family, their cousin, a woebegone-looking boy, with a vicious bite; and two or three others. Thomas came straight to the point.

“My brother shouldn’t have burst the balloon,” he said to Jean Dalou. “But it wasn’t kind of you to take it.”

Nobody said anything.

“Anyway,” Thomas continued, “it’s over. But leave my brother alone, or I shall be angry.”

Jean Dalou didn’t reply. Then Antoine Dalou spoke.

“I kept the broken bottle he threw. He’s going to get it back in his face.”

Instinctively, Thomas made a move toward him. As he did so, Jean Dalou shouted, “Bertrand!” And a moment later the door of the shack burst open and a young man rushed out. Thomas silently cursed. He’d forgotten about Jean’s elder brother.

Bertrand Dalou was about the same age as Thomas. He worked, sporadically, on construction sites. He had a great mop of shaggy brown hair that was both greasy and dusty, since he seldom washed. He looked furiously at Thomas, while Jean Dalou shouted: “His brother threw a broken bottle at Antoine, and now he’s come to beat Antoine up.”

“Liar!” cried Thomas. “My brother was out all night, with the police looking for him, because these boys said they’d kill him. I came to tell them to leave him alone. You want the police instead?”

Bertrand Dalou spat. It didn’t matter what the truth was, and they both knew it. Honor was at stake. And there was only one way to deal with that, in the Maquis. He began to circle, and Thomas did the same.

Thomas had never fought Bertrand before, but since he was a Dalou, he’d be fighting as dirty as he knew. The question was, how much did he know?

His first move wasn’t subtle. He rushed as though to close, swung his fist toward Thomas’s face, to make him draw his head back, and launched a savage kick to his groin. But instead of blocking with his leg, Thomas leaped back, caught Bertrand’s leg on the swing and wrenched it upward so that Bertrand crashed to the ground. Dalou was quick though. Thomas hardly got one kick in before he was up again.

A moment later they were grappling. Bertrand tried to throw him, but Thomas kept his balance and got in a short, hard punch just below the heart that shook Dalou up enough for Thomas to get him in a throttle hold. He squeezed. He wasn’t careful enough, though, and the Dalou boy punched him so hard in the eye that he let go.

Again they circled. Thomas’s eye was throbbing, and soon it would start to close up. The fight had better not last too long.

Dalou’s next move was cunning. Putting his tousled head down, he made another rush toward Thomas, as if to butt him in the midriff and knock him over. Only at the last instant did Thomas see the hand come up in a two-fingered eye gouge that could have blinded him. Quick as a flash, he whipped his fist up in front of his nose so that Bertrand’s fingers smashed into his knuckles.

Watching his opponent recoil, Thomas wondered what was coming next. He didn’t have to wait long. Bertrand’s hand suddenly clapped down to his pocket. Thomas saw the hand starting to come out again, and knew what it meant. If things weren’t going to get really ugly, he had one second, and he must not miss. The hand was out. The razor was opening.

He kicked. Thank God he was fast. Dalou’s hand jerked violently up as the razor flew into the air. With a cry of pain Dalou looked up, to see where his razor would fall. And that was his mistake.

It was time to end the fight. One more kick. A big one. With perfect speed and balance, Thomas struck. His heavy workman’s boot swung up into Bertrand’s groin with such a mighty impact that it lifted the eldest Dalou brother clean off the ground so that he seemed to hang in the air, like a rag doll, before falling to the ground.

Thomas circled him, looking down, ready to strike again, but there was no need. Bertrand Dalou was staying down.

It was over. Order, such as it was in the Maquis, had been restored. The Dalou gang wouldn’t be bothering his little brother anymore.



The Gascon family were happy that night. When Thomas had returned earlier in the day, his mother had fussed over his eye, which was rapidly turning black, but his father had understood. “It’s done?” he had inquired, and after Thomas had nodded, his father had said no more. Then his mother had informed them that she would be cooking a large meal for that evening, and disappeared with Nicole to the market. Luc had fallen asleep for a couple of hours.

By late afternoon, the rich smell of a ragout was filling their lodgings, and long before sundown they were sitting down to a feast. Onion soup, the food of the poor, but delicious for all that. Fresh baguettes from the bakers. Madame Gascon’s ragout would usually consist of pig’s trotters, vegetables and whatever seasoning she had, food that was as cheap as it was healthy. But today there were morsels of beef swimming in a sauce that was thicker than they had tasted in a long while. Then there was a Camembert, and a goat cheese, and a hard Gruyère, all washed down with cheap red wine.

Luc had quite got over his ordeal, and gave them an imitation of Antoine Dalou that had them all in stitches. Thomas told them about his encounter with Monsieur Eiffel, and what he had said about the Statue of Liberty. And then Luc suddenly piped up again.

“I want to live in America.”

This was met with protests.

“Will you leave us all behind?” asked his mother.

“I want you to come too,” said Luc. But nobody wanted to go.

“America is a fine country. No question,” said Monsieur Gascon expansively. “They have everything there. Big cities—not like Paris, of course. But great lakes, and mountains and prairies as far as the eye can see. If your own country is not so good—if you are English, or German, or Italian—unless you’re rich … Alors … it’s probably better in America. But in France, we have everything. We have mountains—the Alps and the Pyrenees; we have great rivers like the Seine and the Rhône; we have huge farmlands, and forests. We have cities, and cathedrals, and Roman ruins in the south. We have every kind of climate. We have the greatest wines in the world. And we have three hundred cheeses. What more do you want?”

“We haven’t any deserts, Papa,” said Nicole.

“Mais oui, my little one. We have.” Monsieur Gascon puffed his chest out as though he had accomplished the feat himself. “When I was your age, France went to Africa and conquered Algeria. We have all the desert we want, right there.”

“This is true,” laughed Thomas.

“But people don’t fight each other in America,” said Luc, with feeling.

“What do you mean?” his father cried. “They’re always fighting in America. First they fought the English. Then the Indians. Then they fought each other. They’re worse than us.”

“You stay here and be grateful,” said his mother affectionately.

“As long as Thomas protects me,” said Luc.

“Ah,” said Monsieur Gascon, looking proudly at his elder son, “let us all drink to that.” And they did.



The next morning when Thomas got up, he went to his little brother.

“You know,” he said, “you’re very funny. You should stick to that. Make people laugh. Then even the Dalou boys will like you.”

When he got to work, the foreman was looking out for him.

“You found your brother?”

“Oui, monsieur.”

The foreman stared at his eye for a moment.

“Can you see to work?”

“Oui, monsieur.”

The foreman nodded. One didn’t ask questions when people came from the Maquis.

So Thomas worked quietly all day. Monsieur Eiffel didn’t come by.



On the following Saturday morning, Aunt Éloïse stood in the big open space known as the parvis of Notre Dame Cathedral, looked at the three Blanchard children standing in a row in front of her, and thought that her brother Jules and his wife had not done badly.

Gérard, at sixteen the eldest, was a solid, determined fellow, with a square, hard face, who would undoubtedly become his father’s partner one day. She had to confess, she preferred his younger brother, Marc. He was going to be tall and handsome like his father, though of a more slender build, and being an intellectual and imaginative boy, he was closer to her in spirit. True, his schoolwork was a little erratic, and he was inclined to daydream. “But you shouldn’t worry about him,” she’d told Jules when he’d been concerned. “Thirteen-year-old boys are often a little dreamy. And who knows, perhaps he will do something in the arts or literature one day that will make our name famous.”

And then there was little Marie. At eight years old, thought Aunt Éloïse, one could only say a little about her character. But she was sweet and kind—that was certain. And how was it possible not to love those blue eyes, and that mass of golden curls, and the charming plumpness that might easily turn, one day, into an excellent figure?

Yet in one of the three children, it seemed to Aunt Éloïse that she had detected a character flaw. Not too serious, but concerning. She kept her own counsel about this, however. Even if she was right, it might be corrected. And besides, she reminded herself, nobody was perfect.

Meanwhile, her own task in the family, as she saw it, was to bring them whatever gifts of the spirit she could. That was why this morning, on their visit to the Île de la Cité, she had first taken them to the exquisite Sainte-Chapelle.



Marc liked his aunt’s tall elegance, and the fact that she knew so many things. They had stood in the high, painted chapel, bathed in the warm light from its great windows, gazed up at the tall Gothic vaults of blue and gold and he had felt moved by the beauty of the place.

“It’s like a jeweled casket, isn’t it?” said Aunt Éloïse quietly. “That’s because when King Louis IX, whom we call Saint Louis, went on crusade six hundred years ago, the emperor in Byzantium—who you can be sure needed the money—sold him some of the most important relics in Christendom, including a piece of the Cross, and the Crown of Thorns itself. Then Saint Louis built this chapel, like a great reliquary, to house these sacred treasures. Cathedrals like Notre Dame, as you know, often took centuries to build, but the Sainte-Chapelle was finished in just five years, all in one style. That’s why it is so perfect.”

“What were the other relics?” Marc had asked.

“A nail from the Cross, a miraculous robe worn by the infant Jesus, the spear that pierced His side, some drops of His blood, some milk from the Blessed Virgin Mary. And also the rod of Moses.”

“You think they were genuine?”

“I couldn’t say. But the chapel was the most beautiful in the world.” She had paused for a moment. “However,” she continued, “I am sorry to say that at the Revolution this wonderful place was completely destroyed. The revolutionaries—who were not at all religious—stripped it bare … The Sainte-Chapelle was absolutely ruined. There are many things about the Revolution that were fine, but the destruction of this chapel was not one of them.” She had turned to Marc and held up her finger. “This is why, Marc, it is important that—especially at times of war and upheaval—there should be people of culture and humanity to protect our heritage.”

Why did she always address these remarks to him, and not to his brother? He’d seen Gérard turn his eyes up to the sky in boredom. But his brother wasn’t really bored, Marc thought. He was jealous that Aunt Éloïse so clearly had a higher opinion of Marc than she did of him.

Aunt Éloïse was in full flood.

“Fortunately, things of beauty are not so easily destroyed—at least, not in France. And Viollet-le-Duc, the architect, completely restored the Sainte-Chapelle to its former glory, as we see it now. It’s wonderful, almost a miracle.” She looked approvingly at Marc again. “So you see, my dear Marc, no matter how bad things seem, we must never give up. As long as there are artists and architects, and patrons—you might be any of these—even miracles can be accomplished.”



And now they were standing in front of the mighty towers of Notre Dame. Beside them was a huge equestrian statue of the emperor Charlemagne. Aunt Éloïse, feeling she hadn’t paid enough attention to Gérard in the Sainte-Chapelle, remarked that it was only just before his own birth that the medieval buildings of old Paris had been swept away from the place. “Until then, Gérard, Notre Dame was surrounded with gabled houses and dark alleys—just like in The Hunchback of Notre-Dame,” she added pleasantly.

“I’m glad they were destroyed,” he said in a surly voice.

Aunt Éloïse considered. Was there something challenging in his tone? Did he imagine she must be in love with every picturesque reminder of the Middle Ages? Was he letting her know that he’d be happy to smash down her own sensibilities, like Baron Haussmann with his demolition gangs?

“I quite agree with you, Gérard,” she said, with a charming smile. “First of all, there was only a tiny space in front of the cathedral, and that was filled with disreputable stalls. And second, by the time they were demolished, the old houses were rotting where they stood, and the people in them lived like rats. Whereas now”—she gestured around the parvis—“we have this magnificent space to enjoy.”

That seemed to shut him up. It was time to pay attention to little Marie. But as she turned her gaze toward the little girl, Aunt Éloïse noticed she was looking unhappy. “Is something wrong, chérie?” she asked.

“No, Aunt Éloïse,” said Marie.



It had been just after breakfast that the terrible thing had happened. Marie supposed that it had been her own fault, for stupidly leaving her diary on the table in her bedroom. Normally she kept it locked in a drawer. But all the same, did Gérard have to come into her room when she wasn’t there and read it?

Even that wouldn’t have been so bad if she hadn’t just confided to it a secret that she wouldn’t for all the world want anyone to know. She was in love. With a school friend of Marc’s.

“So, little sister,” he’d said cruelly, “I see that you have secrets in your life.”

“That’s none of your business,” she’d cried, going scarlet with embarrassment.

“We all have secrets,” he said, handing her the book contemptuously. “But yours aren’t very interesting. Perhaps there’ll be something better to read when you are older.”

“You’re not to tell,” she wailed.

“Who would I tell?” he’d asked coolly. “Who would care?”

“Get out! I hate you!” She’d only just stopped weeping with mortification and rage an hour later, when Aunt Éloïse had come to collect them.



Aunt Éloïse cast about in her mind for something that might interest Marie. One story occurred to her, not quite appropriate for a nicely brought-up girl of eight, but with a slight alteration …

“There is a wonderful story, Marie, a true romance that belongs to this very place. Do you know the tale of Abelard and Héloïse?” Marie shook her head. “Very well.” Aunt Éloïse gave the two boys a hard stare. “I shall tell the story, Gérard and Marc, and you will not interrupt or add anything at all. Do you understand?” She turned back to Marie.

“Long ago, Marie,” she began, “in the Middle Ages, just before this great cathedral of Notre Dame was built, there was a big old church, not nearly so beautiful, upon the site. And there was something else very important that was here. Does anyone know what that was?”

“The university,” said Marc.

“Exactly. Before it moved across to the Left Bank—to the area we now call the Sorbonne—the University of Paris, which was really a school for priests, occupied some houses here on the Île de la Cité by the old cathedral. And at the university there was a philosopher called Abelard whose lectures were so brilliant that students came from all over Europe to hear him.”

“How old was he?” asked Marie.

“Not old.” Aunt Éloïse smiled. “He was lodging in the house of an important priest named Fulbert. And Fulbert’s young niece, Héloïse, was also living there.”

“Was she pretty?” Marie wanted to know.

“Without a doubt. But more important, this Héloïse was a most remarkable and intelligent girl. She could read Latin, and Greek, and even Hebrew. She took lessons from Abelard. And we should not be surprised that these two extraordinary people fell in love. They secretly married, and they had a son, named Astrolabe.”

“Astrolabe?”

“An instrument for showing the position of the stars. I admit the name is a little strange, but it shows that their love was absolutely cosmic. But Héloïse’s uncle Fulbert was very angry, and he punished Abelard, and made them part. Abelard went away, though he continued to be a famous philosopher. And Héloïse became a nun, and finally a famous abbess. And she and Abelard wrote extraordinary letters to each other. She was one of the most remarkable women of her age.”

“And were they still in love?” Marie asked.

“With time, Abelard became a little cold. Men are not always kind.”

“No, they are not,” the child said furiously, with a glance at Gérard.

“But the lovers were buried together, and they are now in Père Lachaise.”

“And were you named after Héloïse? Are you like her?”

“No, I was named after my grandmother Éloïse.” Aunt Éloïse smiled. “And my life has been quite different. But the story is famous, and it shows that even if we cannot be happy all the time, we can still have a life that is rich in every way.”



Marc watched his aunt carefully. He had been amused by the way she had altered the story. Fulbert’s punishment of Abelard had been far more terrible: He’d hired thugs to castrate the great philosopher. But such things were not for the ears of little Marie.

He also knew that something else Aunt Éloïse had said was not quite true. A year ago, his father had told him: “Your aunt wanted to marry a man who’s quite a famous author now; but unfortunately he married someone else. Don’t tell her I told you. She had other offers, but she never found anyone who interested her enough.” His father had shrugged. “She’s an attractive woman, but too independent.”

Marc knew his aunt had friends who were writers and artists. When he’d shown some talent for drawing at school, it was always her opinion he wanted on his efforts. He could easily imagine Aunt Éloïse as an abbess in the Middle Ages, or as one of those eighteenth-century women who held salons where the great men of the Enlightenment would come. Had she had lovers? If she had, no one in the respectable Blanchard family had ever breathed a word.



It was only a moment’s walk to the Petit Pont bridge, where they stared over the water to the Left Bank. Aunt Éloïse tried to engage Gérard in conversation again.

“The Île de la Cité is just like a boat in the river, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so.”

“You know, Gérard, that on its coat of arms, Paris is pictured as a ship. Do you remember the city’s Latin motto? ‘Surgit nec mergitur’: Whatever the storm, the ship sails on. It never sinks. That’s exactly the story of Paris.”

Gérard shrugged. Most Parisians were proud of their city and its treasures. People came from all over the world to see them. But the truth was, he didn’t really care. He knew Aunt Éloïse and Marc despised him for it. No doubt little Marie would as well, one day. Well, let them. He knew what he was going to do with his life. He was going to run the family business.

No one else in the family could do it. His grandfather had seen it, right from the start: “Gérard’s the one with the sound head,” he’d told the family, when Gérard was only ten. Marc was no use. He was like Aunt Éloïse: full of useless ideas and distractions. Little Marie, as a girl, didn’t need to be considered. Even his father, Gérard privately considered, was a poor custodian.

Jules Blanchard had waited until his father’s death before he had fulfilled his dream. Three years ago, his elegant department store had opened. Cheekily, he had chosen a site on the boulevard Haussmann behind the Paris Opéra and only a stone’s throw from the great Printemps store. Like Printemps, he offered high-quality clothing at fixed prices that the middle classes could afford, including some lines for which he’d signed exclusive deals. He’d called the store Joséphine.

Why Joséphine, his family had asked? After the empress Joséphine, of course, he’d explained. She’d been the wife of Napoléon, she was exotic and, if she had faults of character, she was always elegant. It was the perfect name, he’d told them.

Jules had borrowed hugely to finance it. It had to be confessed, he’d had the devil’s own luck. Just a year after Joséphine opened, the mighty Printemps emporium had burned down, and was still being rebuilt. With the main competition temporarily removed, Joséphine’s business had surged. “Make hay while the sun shines,” Jules had remarked cheerfully.

But Gérard wasn’t impressed. He hated retail. The wholesale business, which thank God his father had kept, produced cash; the retail business ate the cash. Wholesalers could lend money. Retailers borrowed. A wholesale premises was a simple, functional building that lasted a lifetime. A department store was like a stage set. His brother, Marc, loved the glamorous store, and Gérard’s secret dread was that he might want to run it one day. At all costs that must be prevented.

For Gérard’s plan was simple. One day, when his father retired or died, if the department store hadn’t ruined them in the meantime, he was going to get rid of it. Sell it if possible; if not, close it.