Paris The Novel

Chapter Five




• 1887 •


Jacques Le Sourd watched the entrance of the school. It was the last full day before the lycée closed for the summer.

Nobody took any notice of him. Why would they? As far as any of the people in the rue de Grenelle were concerned, he was just a young man of twenty or so, probably a student, or an artisan.

And nobody knew what he was thinking. That was the wonderful thing. It made him free, and powerful. Thanks to his anonymity, he could wait, undisturbed, for the boy he was going to destroy.

Not that he was going to kill him today. He probably could, but he didn’t want to. Not yet. When the right moment came he would do it. That was quite certain. But he was patient and, in his own mind, his patience also gave him power. Power to choose the time. Power because no one would suspect him.

It was amazing, really, he considered, how simple it all was. Discovering where Roland de Cygne lived and where he went to school was easy, of course. And given the school’s regular hours, he could come by and watch the boy arrive or leave the school any day he wished. He’d gotten to know the other places young Roland went. He observed him like this every month or so.

This small matter had made him realize how most people lived their lives by following very predictable patterns. One knew where they were. With a little further study, one could probably guess what they were thinking. Disrupt their routine and they would panic. Offer them a new routine, and they would take it because it made them feel safe. A skillful planner, he suspected, could make people do almost anything he liked. And that is what he meant to do one day, when he changed the world.

Young de Cygne had to be destroyed, then killed. The punishment was due. The death of Jean Le Sourd had to be avenged. How else could he show his love for the father he’d lost?

But Jacques wasn’t just checking on the boy’s whereabouts. His purpose was deeper than that. He wanted to get to know him. The things he did, the company he kept. If possible, he would have liked to know young de Cygne’s mind, even see into his soul. He wanted to understand exactly the unworthy place that Roland de Cygne occupied in the universe, so that his death should be justified as part of a larger pattern of righteousness.

And how laughably predictable the boy’s life had been so far. Where did his family live? In the aristocratic Saint-Germain quarter, of course. Where else? Where did he go to school? In the private, Catholic Lycée Saint-Thomas-d’Aquin, in that same, aristocratic quarter. Naturally. Everything was mapped out for him. He would be a perfect little representative of his detestable class.

And here he came, out of the door of the lycée, with a dozen others of his kind. Jacques Le Sourd watched. Young Roland would be walking eastward along the street, toward his home.

But no. He was walking the other way. Very well. Jacques Le Sourd continued to observe. Some of Roland’s friends peeled off at the boulevard Raspail, but de Cygne crossed it. A few minutes later, he was alone and still walking westward.

Curious, Jacques followed.



Roland de Cygne missed his mother. He’d been seven when she died. Some boys were sent away to boarding school; but on the advice of Father Xavier, his father had sent him to the Catholic lycée near the family house, and he’d been happy there. For Roland delighted in his home.

The house itself was undeniably grand. Its spirit was that of Louis XIV, the Sun King—large, baroque, powerful. One entered through handsome iron gates into a courtyard with wings, known as pavillons, on each side. The hall and broad staircase were of pale, polished stone. In the high, handsome rooms, on parquet floors and Aubusson carpets, Louis XIV formal chairs, lacquered cabinets and heavy boulle desks, their brass inlay softly gleaming, lay like stately ships at anchor. Marble tabletops dimly reflected the sunlight, which entered respectfully into the aristocratic quiet of the house. Ancestral portraits—sad, baroque generals, bland rococo courtiers—reminded today’s de Cygnes that not only the deity, but their ancestors, also saw all that they did and expected—whether or not they could be good—that they should at least uphold the family honor.

The grandest family mansions of the aristocracy were known as hôtels. And had his title been just a little higher up the ladder of nobility, the vicomte might almost have called his house the Hôtel de Cygne.

And yet, despite the severe, masculine grandeur of the house, Roland was very happy there. From his earliest childhood, the big, silent rooms had the familiar peace of holy places. The stately armchairs with their ornate wooden arms and tapestry seats were like so many ancient aunts and uncles. And the sometimes daunting portraits were his grandparents, his friends, for whom he felt a deep and primitive urge to protect and defend.

Above all, although it was only sparsely populated, his home was full of affection.

His father, who hadn’t remarried so far, was always kind. His old nanny had also remained with them, providing an endless fund of warmth, and effectively running the house for his father. There were only a small staff of six required to keep the place going, but most of them had been with the vicomte all their lives, and Roland thought of them as practically his family, too. And there was Father Xavier, like a favorite uncle, who never failed to look in every week or so.

But he often thought of his mother, and kept a little photograph of her on the table by his bed, and kissed it every night after he had said his prayers.

Only one thing worried Roland. He was fifteen now. It was time to be thinking of a career. And he still didn’t know what he wanted to do.

“I shan’t force you into anything,” his father told him, “but your position is rather like that of your ancestor Roland, back in the days of Saint Louis. He began life as a younger son, and went to Paris as a student. By all accounts, he was very devout, and lived a life of great purity. Almost a monk. But then his brother died and he had to return home to run the estate, because it was his duty. Since you’re the only son, and there’s no one else to carry on the line, that’s rather your position, too. As you’ll be running the estate, it wouldn’t be a bad thing for you to study law.”

Yet the law didn’t seem a very exciting profession. As the descendant of crusading knights, and even the hero Roland, the boy couldn’t help feeling that fate must have some nobler destiny in store for him.

“What about the army?” he’d several times asked his father. But for some reason his father had seemed reluctant to encourage that ambition.

“I was in the army, of course,” he’d say, “until I resigned my commission. But I don’t want it for you.” He never explained why.

Nor was Father Xavier explicit.

“Do you wish to serve God?” he gently inquired.

“Yes, Father.” He truly did. Indeed, if ambition was not a sin of pride, he hoped he might do some great thing for the world, in the Lord’s service.

“Then you have nothing to worry about,” the priest assured him. “If you commit yourself to God, then He will show you the way.” He smiled. “I know that you desire to do good in the world, Roland, and it does you credit. How pleased your mother would be.”

“Sometimes I dream of her,” the boy confessed. “Perhaps she will show me the way.”

“Perhaps. But be careful,” Father Xavier counseled. “It is not for you to choose how God conveys His wishes. He will decide the means, and it may be something quite unexpected.”



Once his school friends had parted from him in the street, Roland unconsciously picked up his pace. He wasn’t going on this mission because he wanted to, and he hoped to get it over with as quickly as possible.

After all, he was going to see a horror.

Roland was a conscientious pupil. It didn’t come naturally, because he often didn’t want to work. It was only because of his mother, really, that he forced himself to do it. “Promise me, Roland, that you will try your best at school.” It was almost the last thing she’d ever said to him. And to his credit, he had always kept his promise. Other boys in the class might be cleverer, but by working hard, he usually managed to get grades that were only a little behind the leaders.

So when, during a history class that morning, the teacher had asked how many boys had been to visit the horror, and he was the only one not to raise his hand, and the teacher had told him to go to see it, he’d decided to go at once. After all, it wasn’t far.

A mile away at the end of the rue de Grenelle lay the great space of the Champ de Mars, with its western sweep down to the river. But Roland had gone only half that way when his object came in sight.

The great military hospital of Les Invalides occupied a huge open space, once known as the Plaine of Grenelle. In the seventeenth century, Louis XIV had built it in a severe, classical style suitable to a military foundation—though in the middle, for magnificence, he’d added a royal chapel with a gilded dome like St. Peter’s, Rome. From the cold, stern facade of Les Invalides, one could gaze over a long parade of iron-clad lawns, and thence across the Seine to the trees of the Champs-Élysées in the distance. It also housed an artillery museum nowadays, but this was not Roland’s object. Entering the first courtyard, he made straight for the central chapel.

And as he gazed upon the horror that lay within, he understood what the teacher had meant when he’d said: “The chapel of the king has been defiled.”

A square church. Four chapels at the corners made a cross between them. Over the center of the cross, a circular dome. A classic pattern for Christian worship, from Orthodox Russia to Catholic Spain.

But there was nothing Christian about the chapel now. Instead of finding a nave beneath the dome, one looked down from a circular gallery into a marble pit. Twelve pillars of victory encircled this pagan crypt, and in its center, upon a massive, green granite pedestal, rested a stupendous sarcophagus of polished red porphyry, bulging with imperial pride.

The tomb of Napoléon, child of the Revolution, conqueror of God’s anointed monarchs, emperor of France. This was the horror that Roland had been sent to see.

“That vulgar tomb,” the teacher had declared, “that infamous, pagan monument. The sepulcher of Napoléon is an insult to Catholic France.”

“And yet, Father,” one of the class had questioned, “isn’t it true that the emperor Napoléon supported the Church?”

“As an opportunist, yes. But only to get the support of the faithful who did not realize that, in truth, he believed in nothing and mocked them behind their backs. When Napoléon was in Egypt, he supported the followers of Muhammad. ‘If I had a kingdom of Jews,’ he said, ‘I would rebuild the temple of Solomon.’ If,” the teacher warmed to his theme, “you want proof of the wretched man’s impiety, remember that, when he was to be crowned emperor by the pope—like the pious emperor Charlemagne a thousand years ago—and before a crowd of thousands in Notre Dame, he seized the crown from the hands of the Holy Father and placed it on his head himself.”

Roland had been gazing at the tomb for a minute or two when he noticed an old man arrive. Like Roland, he advanced to the parapet and stared down at the huge red urn, but there the resemblance between them ended. For the old man was behaving in such a strange manner that Roland soon found the visitor more interesting than the monument.

He was old, but how old it was hard to tell. His hair was snowy white, and he had a silky walrus mustache. His skin had a translucence that suggested great age. But he was a good six feet tall and he held himself ramrod straight, as though he were on parade. Indeed, Roland realized, the old man was actually standing at attention, arms by his sides, as though the emperor himself were inspecting him. And he was so concentrated on this business that he seemed quite oblivious of anything else.

It would have been rude to stare, but while he pretended to admire the painted dome above, Roland continued to observe the old man for a good five minutes until, finally, he saw him salute the tomb, and then gravely turn to walk away. As he did so, however, he noticed Roland.

“Well, boy,” he said sharply, like a sergeant addressing a new recruit, “what are you staring at?”

“Pardon, monsieur.” Roland found himself looking into a pair of blue eyes, proud but not unkindly. “I did not mean to be impolite. I noticed you salute.”

“Certainly, I salute the emperor. So should all those who remember the Glory of France.”

La Gloire. Many nations had known glory in their history, but perhaps none had felt it so keenly as the nation of France: for monarchists, the glory of the Sun King; for republicans, the glory of the Revolution; for soldiers and administrators, the glorious victories of the emperor Napoléon.

“You are a soldier, sir?” Roland dared to inquire.

“I was. And my father before me. He served in the Old Guard.”

“Your father knew the emperor?”

“He did. And so did I. My father survived the Retreat from Moscow. And when the emperor returned for his great final battle and called upon all France to rise to his aid, my father went, and I went with him, though I was hardly older than you. My mother didn’t wish it. She was afraid to lose me. But my father said, ‘Better my son should die than fail to fight for the honor of France.’ So I marched with my father. It was the proudest day of my life.”

“And you did not die.”

“No. It was my father who gave his life. At Waterloo, the emperor’s final battle. I was at his side.” The old man paused. “Ever since, on my father’s birthday, I have saluted him, and the emperor, and the honor of France. That’s seventy-two years. And for the last twenty-six years, since this tomb has been here, I have come to Les Invalides to pay my respects.”

Napoléon might have died in exile on the island of Saint Helena, but his legend had lived on. To his enemies, he remained an upstart and a tyrant. But to many of Europe’s peoples, oppressed under their rigid old monarchies, he remained the republican liberator, the hero of the common man. And to many in France, as well.

Even King Louis Philippe, to make himself more popular, had felt obliged to bring the emperor’s body home to Paris; and now, with a magnificence unmatched by any French king, his ashes rested in this mighty mausoleum in the heart of France.

Whatever he thought of the sacrilegious emperor, Roland had to admire the dignity and the nobility of this old soldier, who must be nearly ninety, yet who stood so tall and straight.

The blue eyes under the bushy eyebrows surveyed Roland carefully.

“And who might you be, young monsieur?” he asked.

“My name is Roland de Cygne, monsieur,” Roland answered.

“A noble. Well, there were nobles who served the emperor, too. Promotion was on merit, whoever you were.” He nodded. “Our country was respected then. Not like now. To think that I should have lived to see the humiliation of Paris and Alsace-Lorraine given to the Germans.”

“Our history master says that we must avenge the dishonor of 1870,” Roland told him. Hardly a week went by without the class getting a lecture on the subject. It was a lesson given in schools all over France. “He says we must recover Alsace-Lorraine.”

The old man looked at him, perhaps privately measuring whether this new generation was up to the task.

“The honor of France is in your hands now,” he said finally, and glanced toward the doorway to indicate that the interview was over now.

Hardly knowing that he was doing so, Roland stood at attention as the old man walked stiffly away. And he waited a little time after he was gone before heading out himself.

As he did so, he noticed a young man, with dark, close-cropped hair and eyes set wide apart, dispassionately watching him. As he drew level, he couldn’t resist sharing what was in his mind.

“Did you see that old soldier?” he asked.

The young man inclined his head.

“He knew the emperor Napoléon,” Roland said.

“No doubt.”

“C’est quelque chose,” Roland remarked. “That’s something.”

The stranger didn’t reply.



The next day school broke up at noon. When Roland returned home, his father was absent, but had left a message that he’d be returning after lunch and that they were going out.

When his father duly arrived to collect him, however, and Roland asked where they were going, he was only told, “To see a friend of mine,” which made him rather curious.

Was this friend a man, he asked himself, or might this be a lady?

He’d often wondered about his father’s romantic life. Though the Vicomte de Cygne was devoted to the memory of his late wife, whom he’d adored, he was no hermit. A good height, elegant, quite rich and certainly aristocratic, his father kept his military bearing and mustache, but he always moved gracefully and knew how to make charming conversation. He must surely, Roland guessed, be attractive to women.

Like most aristocrats, the vicomte would have considered it beneath him to be an intellectual, but it wasn’t unfashionable to keep up with the goings-on of the literary and artistic worlds, and he would often go to exhibitions and occasionally put in an appearance at one of the salons where writers and artists could be encountered. A few months ago Roland had found a copy of Les Fleurs du mal on his father’s library table. He’d heard at school that these poems of Baudelaire were pagan, and indecent. But when he nervously asked his father about them, the vicomte seemed quite unconcerned.

“Baudelaire is a bit of a dandy. But some of his poems are exquisite. Have you heard of the composer Duparc? No? Well, his setting of Baudelaire’s ‘L’Invitation au voyage’ is one of the loveliest things one ever heard. He has perfectly captured the sensuousness of France.”

Such conversations hinted to Roland that there were aspects of his father’s life that might be hidden from him. His father’s occasional absences, the fact that his nanny would say approvingly, “The vicomte is a proper man,” his father’s jaunty manner, sometimes, when he went out, had made Roland wonder if he kept a mistress somewhere. He understood that his father would never bring his mistress, even if she were a fashionable and aristocratic lady, into the home where his son was living and which was still sacred to the memory of his late wife.

But was it possible, Roland wondered, that his father had decided he was now old enough to encounter such a person? Was this the friend they were going to see? It was a prospect that filled him with curiosity and some excitement.

Or was there another, more serious possibility? Was his father taking him to meet someone he meant to marry? A stepmother? What might that mean for his future?

When they left the house, the vicomte had still given him no clue. And knowing that his father liked to tease him a little, he knew that it was quite useless to ask him for any further information.

The Vicomte de Cygne’s favorite coach was a fast, light, covered phaeton. It was drawn by two gray carriage horses—the family had always used grays since the eighteenth century, he assured his son. It was driven by the family’s old coachman who, though always immaculately turned out, liked to wear an old-fashioned tricorn hat. It was an equipage combining sportiness, fashion and tradition; and Roland always felt proud to accompany his father on these excursions.

Soon the phaeton’s large wheels were bowling along the boulevard Saint-Germain up toward the river. Coming out on the Quai d’Orsay, Roland had only a moment to admire the classical portico of the National Assembly and the handsome Foreign Ministry beyond, before the phaeton was briskly crossing the broad bridge that led across the river to the great open space of the Place de la Concorde.

Roland had been ten years old before his father had told him why his family had no love for that huge square.

“They call it the Place de la Concorde now,” he’d explained, “but during the Revolution, it was one of the main sites of the guillotine. That’s where my own grandfather lost his head.”

Hardly knowing they did so, both father and son now averted their eyes toward the Tuileries Gardens, on their right, rather than survey the tragic place.

Straight ahead, just a short distance back from the square’s northern side, lay the Roman columns and wide pediment of La Madeleine. For some reason, the handsome church always seemed cheerful to Roland.

“Did you know,” his father remarked, “that centuries ago there was a Jewish synagogue on that site?” He smiled. “Then the Church took it over. It was Napoléon who built the structure you see now, as a sort of pagan temple for his army. And now it’s a church again.” He glanced at Roland. “So you see, nothing is permanent, my son.”

Roland loved and admired his father. For all the rites of passage and initiation for which every father should prepare his son, he knew he could rely on him completely. His father had taught him to ride, and how to hunt. How to behave, how to dress properly. How to kiss a lady’s hand. He’d taken him to the races, and taught him how to place his bets. All the things a young man of his class should know to begin his life. And this trust in his father brought him a sense of warmth and comfort. But sometimes, when it came to larger matters, in ways that he could not clearly formulate, he sensed that his father was failing him. It was as if, at times, his father did not believe in things the way he should.

And Roland wanted certainty. Perhaps it was the loss of his mother, or his age, or more likely some innate part of his character, but he needed to believe. Things should be right, or wrong, good, or bad. For if not, how was one to know how to act? What certainty could there be in the world?

And though of course he could not love Father Xavier in the same way that he loved his father, he sometimes preferred the priest’s advice. Father Xavier was clever, certainly. Yet even if he could not follow the many turnings of the priest’s subtle mind, he always sensed that behind everything Father Xavier said and thought, there lay an absolute certainty. The rules by which the priest lived were fixed and eternal. He might consider carefully how best to make a journey, but at the end of the day, he knew exactly where he was going, and why he was going there. In short, the priest knew the truth. This was the strength of Holy Church.

Roland longed so much for his father to be like that.

The phaeton turned right into the rue de Rivoli. Roland loved that long street’s grandeur. On one side lay the Tuileries Gardens and the Louvre Palace. On the other, a seemingly endless line of sonorous, arcaded buildings, begun by Napoléon, with fashionable stores behind the arcades on the street level, and apartments fit for princes on the floors above.

“Did you know that the original Louvre was just a small medieval fort guarding the river, in the corner of the present palace?” his father inquired casually.

“Yes,” Roland replied. “It was just outside the old city wall of King Philippe Auguste.”

“Good.” His father smiled. “Glad they teach you something at school.”

They had gone far along the rue de Rivoli when his father called to the coachman to stop, and Roland saw that they were outside the Hôtel Meurice. He knew that this was where the English travelers liked to stay, and immediately wondered with alarm: Was his father going to marry an Englishwoman?

But it was only to leave a letter for a sporting English friend of his father’s who was about to arrive in Paris. And Roland was still no wiser about where they were going.

So he told his father about the old soldier he had met at Napoléon’s tomb. On the one hand, he had admired the man’s simple dignity. Yet he had dedicated his life to serving an evil master. What did his father think?

The vicomte considered.

“A soldier’s duty is simple,” he replied. “It is to obey orders and to serve his country. And that is what the old man did. As for Napoléon, I dare say his soldiers thought they fought for liberty and for France.”

Roland was not very satisfied with this answer.

“But people like us cannot be friends with the followers of the emperor, can we? The priests at the lycée say that Napoléon was a monster, and he didn’t really support the Church at all.”

His father sighed.

“We may have different views, but we don’t have to be enemies, you know. In any case, it’s not always so simple.” He paused. “Do you follow politics at all, my son?”

“A little.”

“What would you say of the present government of the Republic?”

“It’s not very strong. It’s not popular.”

“Correct. After the disaster of the Commune, most of the elected deputies, certainly most of rural France, wanted the monarchy restored. They wanted stability, really. And peace. They thought a constitutional monarch, something like the British monarchy, would provide it. And there would have been a restoration, I’ve little doubt, if the then head of the royal family hadn’t insisted that any monarch must have sweeping powers.” The vicomte shook his head. “Obstinate to the last. So a temporary constitution was made, with a president and legislature. And as time has passed without war or catastrophe, the monarchist cause has grown less popular.

“But I can’t say the government has been impressive. And the present crowd are both mediocre and corrupt. There are many people who would still like a monarchy or a dictatorship. Whether that would be any better is open to doubt, perhaps, but that is what they want. And at present those parties have a hero. Who is it?”

“General Boulanger, I suppose.”

“Indeed. He was minister of war until recently. He was able to embarrass the Germans a couple of times. He was fired the other day, but he has a big political following. If there’s ever a crisis in the Republic, which is possible, he might be the man to rule France. What do they say in the lycée?”

“That he is a bad man. He does not believe in God.”

“Well, he may, or he may not. But because he said he didn’t believe in God, the Republican politicians of France thought he couldn’t be a monarchist, and so they trusted him, and made him a minister. Now they have discovered not only that he has a big public following, but he has the backing of both the monarchists, including important members of the royal family, and of the Bonapartists, including members of the emperor’s family. So the Catholic monarchists and the followers of Napoléon are all on the same side supporting a man who may or may not believe in God. What do you make of that?”

“I don’t know.”

His father smiled.

“Well, nor do I, my boy. I wonder what Father Xavier thinks. We must ask him.” And this thought seemed to amuse the vicomte even more, for he burst out laughing.

Roland wished his father wouldn’t mix things up in this way. He tried to get back to something with a simpler answer.

“The old man said we should avenge the dishonor of 1870,” he said. “Do you agree with that?”

“The War of 1870 was an act of stupidity,” his father answered. “It was we who started it. Napoléon III was a fool, and the Germans took advantage of it.”

“But shouldn’t we avenge our dishonor?”

“Who knows? Probably not.”

Roland gave up. He would never get a simple answer out of his father. At least, not in his present mood. They had passed the Louvre now, and were approaching the old Châtelet. Yet there was something he still wanted to know. Something he’d often wondered, but never asked before.

“Papa,” he said, “can I ask you a question?”

“Certainly.”

“Why did you leave the army?”

And this time, he could see, his father was not so comfortable answering.

“I’d served for years. And someone had to look after the estate. It needed my care.” He was silent again for a little while. “The War of 1870 was terrible, you know.”

“You mean, losing to the Germans?”

“Not that so much.” His father fell silent for a minute. “It was the fighting afterward, against the Commune … A civil war is a terrible thing, my son. May you never live to see one.”

“Father Xavier told me that the Communards did unspeakable things. He says that in the final week, they killed the archbishop of Paris and massacred innocent monks and priests in cold blood. He said they were martyred, just like the priests in the Revolution.”

“It’s true.” His father nodded. “And we killed a lot of Communards, too, you know. Thousands.”

“But they were in the wrong.”

“Probably.” He shook his head. “I dare say they thought they were fighting for Liberty, Equality and Fraternity.”

“And disorder.”

“That, too, no doubt.”

“Did you kill many Communards?” Roland asked.

There was a silence.

“Let us speak of other things,” the vicomte said.

The rue de Rivoli was long. After a mile and a quarter, it briefly changed its name before ending in the square where the old Bastille had stood. They passed the site of the old Grève market on their right, and Roland was just looking at some workmen refurbishing the huge Hôtel de Ville beside it when the phaeton made a crisp turn to the left and started up the rue du Temple.

“You know how this street got its name?” his father inquired.

“The Knights Templar lived up here.”

“There’s hardly a trace of their buildings now, but did you know that for centuries after the Templars were destroyed, the tax exemptions on their land remained? Made it a popular place to live!”

The street seemed to grow narrower as they went northward, until they reached a dark square. Just off the square was a small street.

“Here we are,” said his father.

The shop had a single window in which, before a dark brown velvet curtain, Roland saw a Louis XIV armchair that needed repair. It seemed a dingy sort of place. His father saw his face and smiled.

“My friend is very discreet,” he remarked. “That chair, by the way, is a museum piece, and the sort of person who buys it will want to see it unrestored.”

Realizing that this visit must be part of his education, Roland stared at the chair and said nothing.

The door of the store was locked. His father rang the bell. And a few moments later, a small, middle-aged man, slightly stooped, dressed, despite the warm weather, in a tightly buttoned black frock coat, and wearing thick glasses, peered through the glass and then let them in.

“Monsieur de Cygne.” The man made a quick bow. “It is a pleasure to see you.”

“I received your summons, my dear Jacob, and came at once,” the vicomte answered easily. “This is my son, by the way. Roland, this is Monsieur Jacob.” And to his slight discomfort, Roland found himself shaking a small, proffered hand, aware of only one thing: that his father, an aristocrat and a good Catholic, had apparently answered the summons of a man who was, obviously, a Jew.

The door closed behind them. While his father went through some brief inquiries about the owner’s family and general health, Roland allowed his eyes to roam around the long and narrow space. There was the usual clutter of eighteenth-century tables, classical heads and china that one might expect to find in any antique store. Behind this was an open space, and farther back, a door that probably led to a storeroom. There was not a lot of light. He felt confined. But above all, he felt uncomfortable.

He remembered asking Father Xavier, once, what he thought about the Jews.

“They gave us our God, the Old Testament and the prophets,” the priest answered carefully.

“But they killed Christ,” Roland objected.

“This cannot be denied,” Father Xavier agreed.

“So they all go to hell,” Roland continued, because he wanted to get it right.

But here Father Xavier had hesitated for a moment, as if considering what was just and proper.

“We may suppose,” he said finally, “that in normal circumstances, it is unlikely that a Jew, or indeed a Protestant, will enter Heaven. But we cannot know the mind of God. And in His infinite wisdom, He may make exceptions.”

Roland might have preferred something more definite, but it seemed enough to be going on with. Non-Catholics were in a lot of trouble. And when it came to all the things he heard people say about the Jews, at school and in the homes of his friends, he felt he could assume that most of the evil tales must be based upon something.

He looked at Monsieur Jacob with suspicion, therefore, and wondered why his father was treating him in such a friendly manner.

“So what would you like me to see?” his father was asking.

“A moment, monsieur.” Jacob disappeared through the door at the back, returning shortly with what looked like a rug, which he proceeded to unroll. “A moment more,” he said, as he lit several lamps around it. “Voilà, Monsieur de Cygne, and young Monsieur Roland. Here it is.”

They stepped forward. And his father gasped.

“Where the devil did you find it?” he cried.

“On a friend’s recommendation, I bid blind on the entire contents of a house in Rouen,” the dealer explained. “A month later, to my surprise they told me I’d won the auction. When I went to clear the place out, I found this wrapped up in the basement.” He smiled. “Then I thought, this might belong in Monsieur de Cygne’s château down in the Loire valley. It’s the right period. But if it should not be of any interest to you, then I will show it to other customers.”

“My dear Jacob …” The vicomte turned to his son. “Do you know what this is, Roland?”

The tapestry at which Roland was gazing was remarkable in many ways. In the first place, it had no border, and every inch of its luminous blue-green background seemed to be covered in magical flowers and plants, from which birds, animals and humans were emerging. The whole tone of the picture, as well as the dress of the knights and ladies, suggested that it was medieval.

“Because they are so sprinkled with plants, these tapestries are known as mille fleurs, a thousand flowers,” his father said.

“It looks magical,” Roland said.

“The glow,” Monsieur Jacob explained—he had a soft voice so that Roland had to strain to listen, which irritated him—“comes from the fact that the background color is dark blue, to which the green is added.” He turned to the vicomte. “As you see, there is a little wear and tear on one corner. This can be repaired if you wish. There is also a little discoloration from damp near the bottom. It may be treatable, or it may not. Overall, however, it is in remarkable condition.”

“It really looks like a painting,” said Roland. It wasn’t much of a comment, but he wanted to say something.

“Excellent,” said Monsieur Jacob softly. “You are more correct than you know. Before a tapestry was made, it was normal for the artist to paint the design separately. This is known as a cartoon. But in the case of these particular tapestries, the artist painted directly onto the canvas backing, through which the needleworkers would pass their wool and silken thread. The colors were matched precisely.” He turned again to Roland’s father. “But it is the figures themselves that we should examine.”

Roland stared. Amid the bright flowers and plants were several trees. Apparently this was meant to be a wood, or perhaps an orchard. There were birds in the trees. Four people, two men and two women, dressed in rich clothes, were walking in a stately way through the scene. They were accompanied by several hunting dogs. Farther off, other animals lurked in the undergrowth. Then he heard his father exclaim.

“My God. A unicorn.”

In the upper right-hand quarter of the scene, leaping away through the trees, where one might have expected to see a deer making its escape, was a pale unicorn. So perfect was the composition that, having spotted it, the eye was led right around the scene before returning to the lovely, haunting presence of the magical creature.

“There are two famous tapestry sets that feature the unicorn,” Jacob said. “There is the spectacular Lady and the Unicorn series, on its dazzling red background, which was placed on show just five years ago in the Cluny Museum. Do you know this museum, young Monsieur Roland? It’s on the site of the old Roman baths on the Left Bank, only a short walk from your father’s house. And there is also another set, called the Hunt of the Unicorn, on a green background, that is owned by the Duc de La Rochefoucauld. Both those sets, we are almost certain, were of Flemish origin—made in what, today, we call Belgium. But this tapestry is French. It dates to a little later than those sumptuous masterpieces—to the early fifteen hundreds—and belongs to what we call the Loire School. Perhaps this unicorn was inspired by those famous tapestries, or perhaps it came there by chance. But I like that it is rare, and the work is of very high quality.”

At last, thought Roland, he’s finished. When Jacob had called him young Monsieur Roland, and asked if he knew the Cluny Museum, which in truth he’d never entered, although it was close to his home, he’d felt as if the antique dealer’s soft voice, in some insinuating way, was rebuking him for his ignorance, and putting him down. He hated Jacob for it.

But his father was gazing at the tapestry with admiration.

“My dear Jacob,” he said at last, “tell me what you want for it.”

The dealer wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to him. De Cygne glanced at it and nodded.

“The restoration?” he asked.

“If you will leave it to me …,” Jacob suggested.

“Of course.”

Roland had seldom seen his father so pleased as when he got into the carriage afterward.

“It’s perfect for the château,” he remarked. “Exactly the right date, the right spirit. Each generation, my son, should add something of beauty to a house like ours. That will be my contribution.”

They started back down the rue du Temple. His father stared ahead thoughtfully.

“Jacob didn’t have to do that, you know,” he suddenly remarked. “He could have sold it to a dozen rich collectors for more than I paid him.”

“Why did he offer it to you, then?” Roland asked.

“I did him a good turn some years ago, when I recommended him to the Comte de Nogent, who’s become one of his most valuable customers. Jacob must have been waiting for an opportunity to return the favor.” He nodded. “Certainly, his choice couldn’t have been better.”

“You think he really bought it the way he said?”

“Why not?”

Roland didn’t answer. But he knew exactly what he thought about the soft-voiced dealer who had tried to put him down.

Jacob had probably stolen it.

It wasn’t so strange for him to imagine such a thing. Whether seriously or in jest, it was the sort of thing that most of the boys he knew at school would have said. So would their parents. The presumption was general: the Jews were all in league together, and they were all conspiring to cheat the Christians. The first proposition would have come as a surprise to the Jewish community; the second dismissed as absurd.

But it was not a question of logic. It was a question of tribe. The Jews were not of the French tribe, for they had their own. Nor their religion. And therefore, tribal instinct declared, they could not be trusted—not even to obey the Ten Commandments that they themselves had given the world. Roland supposed this was something that everybody knew. And he would have been most surprised if anyone had told him he was prejudiced, it being the nature of a prejudice that those who possess it have no idea that it is prejudice at all.

So, as they drove away in the elegant phaeton, Roland experienced a secret sense of disappointment that his father should, through moral carelessness, have allowed himself to be cheated by Jacob, and indeed, that he should have had any dealings with Jacob at all. It was just one more indication, he thought, that his father, though kind, was shallow and lacked any fixed center.

In such circumstances, how was he to find any certainty? Whatever his father’s shortcomings, he himself was still the descendant of crusaders, and of the heroic friend of Charlemagne himself. What life could he follow that would be worthy of those ancestors, and of his mother, too?

There was the Church of course. But he also had a duty to provide heirs for the family. It looked as if providence had chosen that he should follow the path of his pious namesake in the reign of Saint Louis, and attend to the estate and his family. But in some way that might make up, perhaps, for the moral laxity of his father.

He was still brooding about this when, as they reached the foot of the rue du Temple, the coachman took another way home and crossed directly over the bridge to the Île de la Cité. And they were just passing in front of the parvis of Notre Dame when he turned to his father and declared: “I have decided upon my career, Papa.”

“Ah. The law, perhaps?”

“No, Papa. I wish to join the army.”