Paris The Novel

Chapter Nine




• 1897 •


As the month of October began and Jules Blanchard considered his family, he decided that he wasn’t worried about his daughter, Marie. She was everything a young woman of her age should be.

Her hair had changed. The golden curls of her childhood had given way to light brown hair, parted in the middle and fluffed into soft waves. But her eyes were still china blue. She had a perfect peaches-and-cream complexion, and her father adored her. No doubt she’d be married before long, but he could only pray that whomever she married wouldn’t take her far away.

The boys were different. They’d both gone to the Lycée Condorcet, near their home, and done well. But after that, their paths had diverged entirely.

Gérard had been everything his father could reasonably have asked. He’d been eager to go into the family business and he’d worked hard at it. Jules could already rely on him to keep everything running smoothly. Only months ago, he’d married an entirely suitable girl from a good family with plenty of money. He gave his father no worries.

But his younger son was another matter. He worried about Marc.

He hadn’t minded when Marc had been accepted by the École des Beaux-Arts. He liked the art school’s classical facade, which stared so handsomely across at the Louvre from the Seine’s Left Bank. The place had prestige. It sounded quite well to say that his younger son had been there. But somehow he’d supposed that after this, Marc would want to engage himself in the business or administration of art, rather than put paint on canvas himself. True, Marc had done a fine portrait of his mother, which now had pride of place in the salon of the family’s big apartment. But Jules would rather see his son as a gifted amateur than a professional painter.

His wife was of the same opinion. Only his sister Éloïse had stood up for the boy.

“If he wants a career in the art business,” he’d remarked to her, “I know the Durand-Ruel family. They’ve three galleries in Paris now, and another in New York. They’re starting to make money selling the Impressionists. Or I can easily get an introduction to the Duveens. They handle the Old Masters. They could give him advice.”

“But Le Bon Dieu may have given Marc a special gift,” Éloïse had pointed out. “If so, it’s his duty to use it. He’s creative, a free spirit.”

“That,” confessed his father, “is what worries me.”

“You created the Joséphine store.”

“Not the same.”

“Besides,” his sister pointed out, “a painter can become a great man. Think of Delacroix. He was magnificent. You’d be proud to have a son like that.”

“Hmm.” Jules pulled a face. “Delacroix had Talleyrand to ensure him a great career.”

It was true that France’s epic romantic painter had obtained important state commissions from the powerful minister Talleyrand—and many believed that Talleyrand, a close friend of the Delacroix family, was actually the artist’s father.

“Well, you have the resources to help him,” Éloïse pointed out. “And you’re his real father, too.”

Jules Blanchard considered.

“I just think it’s all too easy for him,” he complained. “He hasn’t suffered. Think of all those years I had to suffer working for our father.”

“You didn’t suffer so much,” his sister said tolerantly.

“I suffered,” he insisted.

“He will suffer for his art,” said Éloïse.

“I doubt it.” Jules Blanchard gave his sister a searching look. “Do you really believe the boy has the passion to be an artist? Do you think he’ll stick at it?”

“I don’t know, Jules. But if you want my opinion, you should trust him. You should give him the chance to succeed—or to fail.” Éloïse paused. “If he is not good enough, he will realize it himself. But if he never tries, he’ll always regret that he didn’t.”

That had been two years ago, and soon after the conversation, Jules Blanchard had made Marc an offer.

“I will support you for five years,” he told him. “But if you have not met with any success by that time, then you will have to reconsider, and find some other employment. During those years, from time to time, I may ask you to do certain small projects for me. I shall not ask for more than one a year. Do you agree?”

“Yes, Father. That seems reasonable.”

“Good. Now, you will need a studio. There are a number to be had between the boulevard Haussmann and the Gare Saint-Lazare. Manet had a studio there, and Morisot and a number of our modern painters, and it will be close to our home as well.”

Marc smiled to himself. The area would be close to home and also to his father’s office. He had no wish to live under the parental eyes.

“In fact,” he said with perfect truth, “you’re more than a decade out of date. Some of the artists you’re thinking of have moved out of town altogether. A few went across the river. But the place for any artist to be nowadays is just below Montmartre, in the Place de Clichy area.”

“A bit unsavory.”

“Not really. And if I’m going to do it, I should be in the community, don’t you think? What’s the first project you’d like me to do?” he asked obligingly, to change the subject.

“Your mother wants a new set of dining room chairs. I want you to design them. Something striking, out of the ordinary. I’ve got an excellent man who can make them.”

A month later, Jules and his wife had been astonished when Marc had come in one evening and laid his designs out on the dining room table. The work was unlike anything they had seen before. Over the rich, full-bodied shapes of the chairs were carved elegant, sinuous, tendril-like lines that suggested delicate plants.

“It reminds me of Gothic decoration, yet strangely modern,” remarked his father.

“It makes me think of orchids,” said his mother. “Where does it come from?”

“I have a friend at the School of Decorative Arts,” Marc told them. “He’s been showing me all the latest designs from Germany and England. It’s the coming thing.”

“Does this style have a name?” asked Jules.

“My friend calls it Art Nouveau. You’ll be setting the fashion. If you don’t mind being a little courageous.”

“Well”—Jules looked at his wife—“I asked for something striking. Do you like them?”

Madame Blanchard thought of the effect they would have on her dinner guests. She imagined herself saying, “My son Marc designed these, after he finished at the École des Beaux-Arts.”

“One would need a table to go with them, or they won’t look right,” she said.

“Ah. I thought you might say that.” Marc unfurled more plans: for the table, a sideboard, new window treatments, and new wallpaper. “The wallpaper you’ll have to get from England,” he explained. “I checked out the designs already before I designed the chairs.” And he handed them a catalog. “I’m afraid it’s expensive having an artist in the family,” he said with a grin to his father.

His father considered. The entrepreneur in him understood what his son had done at once.

“It’s bold,” he said. “Completely bold.” He nodded. “We’ll do it.”

The next day he showed the designs to his sister.

“But it’s magnificent!” cried Éloïse. “He really has talent, Jules. I’m delighted.” She thought for a moment. “You know,” she said quietly, “Gérard is a good organizer, but he’d never have thought of this in a thousand years.”

Jules said nothing. But she knew that he knew it.

Soon after this, Jules had taken Marc to the rue du Faubourg-Saint-Antoine to see Monsieur Petit, the cabinetmaker.

Petit was a small round man who moved with a certain gravity. He lived over his workshop in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, as his family had done since before the French Revolution. He took several minutes inspecting the drawings, while his daughter, a pretty young thing of about sixteen, entered the workshop to offer them refreshments. When Petit had completed his inspection, he addressed Marc with the respect of a craftsman for a proven artist.

“This is the first time I have ever been asked to make furniture to designs like these, monsieur,” he explained, and for the next twenty minutes, he and Marc went over them in detail together, the craftsman asking numerous questions as to measurements, and requesting a few minor design alterations to aid in the making. It gave Jules pleasure to see his son and the craftsman so deep in their discussion that when the pretty girl came in again with their tea, neither Petit nor Marc noticed her at all.

It had taken many months to make the furniture. Petit asked Marc to come to his workshop several times to ensure that everything was done as he wished. But when the project was completed, Madame Blanchard’s Art Nouveau dining room created a small sensation.

Meanwhile, Jules was able to get Marc two or three portrait commissions, which Marc completed to everyone’s satisfaction.

It was the success of the first project that had encouraged Jules to suggest the second.

For some time, he had been considering a remodeling of his department store. But he hadn’t been sure exactly what he wanted to do. The moment he’d seen Marc’s designs, a plan had begun to take shape in his mind.

“I want something like what you have done for the dining room, but lighter, more airy. I want to use glass and steel, something absolutely modern, but at the same time sensuous. A big part of our business is selling clothes to women, after all. The Art Nouveau style is perfect for that. I want to design one big room. Then, if we like it, I shall convert the entire store.”

“That’s a huge project,” Marc pointed out. “I’ll make designs, but I can’t oversee their development and execution. We’ll have to work with architects.”

This was clearly sensible. Marc had found a firm of architects, and they in turn had found contractors who specialized in the finest steelwork.

Although Marc had said that he couldn’t supervise the work, his father was aware how often he looked in at the workshop where the decorative steel was being made. And when the actual building was being done, he was on-site in the store almost every day.

Jules also noticed something else. Marc seemed to have a natural talent for getting on with the workers, who clearly liked him.

“Did you know,” Marc asked him one day, “that the steelworkers’ foreman worked for Eiffel, both on the Statue of Liberty and the Eiffel Tower?”

“I must confess I didn’t.”

“He’s very proud of the fact. He was a riveter by trade, but he understands what we’re doing. You should talk to him sometime.”

“What’s his name?” Jules inquired.

“Thomas Gascon.”

And if Jules hadn’t had time to do so, he’d been pleased that Marc discovered these things.

So why, as the third of the five years he had promised Marc began, should Jules Blanchard be worried about his son?

It was instinct, perhaps. Instinct, combined with some observation. It seemed to him that Marc was drinking too much. Not that he was getting drunk, but once or twice when he’d dropped by in the evening, his speech had been a little slurred. Jules had told him to take more exercise, but he doubted that Marc had done so. Occasionally he’d go by the studio, a big attic space at the top of a house next door to a small emporium selling charcuterie near the Place de Clichy. There was no doubt that Marc was working. The place was full of canvases. But it seemed to Jules that too many of them were studies of naked women. Of course, that was to be expected in an artist’s studio, but he couldn’t help asking once: “Do you ever paint women with any clothes on?”

“Certainly, Father. When you got me that commission to paint Madame Du Bois, I not only painted her fully dressed, but wearing a hat as well.”

That a sketch also existed of the lady wearing the hat, and nothing else, was something there was no need for his father—or the lady’s husband—to know.

When he expressed his reservations to his sister, however, Éloïse was dismissive.

“My dear Jules,” she told him, “you are worrying about the wrong member of the family entirely.”

“What do you mean?”

“The person in the family who needs your care and attention isn’t Marc at all. It’s Marie.”

“She seems happy enough.”

“That’s because you like having her at home. But she’s almost twenty-three. She needs to find a husband. I’m sorry to say it, but for once you are neglecting your family duty. It’s high time that you did something about it.”



There were twenty of them, gallant young officers, sitting all together. They were in high spirits. As well they should be. For they were at the Moulin Rouge.

Not only that. Tomorrow evening, one of them was going to sleep with the most beautiful woman in Paris. But who?

The Moulin Rouge was a work of genius. It had been going for only a few years, but it was already a legend.

It was to be found at the foot of the hill of Montmartre, on the broad and leafy boulevard de Clichy that effectively marked the frontier where the serried order of Baron Haussmann’s Paris met the steep chaos of Montmartre. It occupied a former garden plot sandwiched between two respectable, six-story blocks, its large street-level front forming one edge of a platform. And upon this platform rose an almost full-scale model windmill, painted bright red.

Even by the exuberant standards of the Belle Époque, as this age would come to be known, the Moulin Rouge was preposterous. The louche old windmills on the hill above had always been there, but this bright red dummy down below was a loud affront to the baron’s bourgeois boulevard, and meant to be so.

As such, it was wonderfully French.

For if, since the time of Louis XIV, governments had tried to impose a stern classical order on the ancient, often tribal lands of France—each with their own dialects, each with probably a score of local cheeses—they hadn’t found it easy. And even here in the nation’s capital, the spirits of old medieval Paris, of markets and alleys, and jostling crowds, kept bursting up, like brightly colored plants and irreverent weeds, breaking through the tightly cemented surfaces and angry order of monarchs, bureaucrats and policemen.

The Moulin was just such a plant. It was colored bright red. It had the finest cabaret in Paris.

And everybody went there. Workingmen went there. Ladies of the night, of course. Middle-class Paris went there, and the aristocracy. Even Britain’s Prince of Wales had gone there.

The young officers were aristocratic. They were all brother officers in the same regiment. Most of the time, they might expect to be stationed in other places, usually on France’s eastern borders; but for the present they were stationed in Paris, and they were determined to make the most of it.

Like most of the aristocratic regiments of the day, they patronized a particular brothel. If the brothels of Paris were legally regulated, with twice weekly medical inspections, the grandest of them were like private mansions, whose rooms might have exotic themes—Moorish, Babylonian, Oriental. Whenever the Prince of Wales visited Paris, he frequented a very chic brothel where he installed his own bathtub, which he liked to fill with champagne. The house where the officers of the regiment went lay in the quarter between the Opéra and the Louvre. It was discreet, delightful, and was patronized by several great nobles.

But above all these lay the world of the private courtesan, the grandes horizontales. Though many were kept by a single rich man, others took lovers, sometimes for just a night at a time. The luckiest courtesans might marry a rich and elderly client, even one with a title; and if widowed young enough could live in a mansion of their own, and hold a salon—and take fresh lovers too, of course, as long as they understood that she expected to receive gifts, in cash or kind, for the interest she took in them.

The courtesan known as La Belle Hélène was as renowned for her charm as for her many other accomplishments. To spend a night in her company was considered a great privilege. It was also very expensive indeed. Even the richest of the aristocratic young officers balked at the price. So they had come up with an agreeable solution.

Each of the twenty men had contributed the same amount—more than they would have had to pay for a visit to the discreet mansion near the Opéra—into a fund. And tonight they were going to draw lots to discover which of them was to take the money and visit La Belle Hélène.

But before the lottery took place, they would drink champagne and enjoy the show at the Moulin Rouge.

Roland de Cygne had never been to the Moulin Rouge before. He’d often meant to go. But as a regular patron of the rival Folies-Bergère, which was nearer the center of town and whose first-rate comedy and modern dance had always satisfied him, he’d somehow never got around to the Moulin Rouge with its saucier fare. Needless to say, as soon as his companions had discovered this fact, he’d had to endure some teasing, which he did with good humor.

His brother officers liked Roland. He’d shown a fine aptitude for a military career right from the start. When he’d attended the military academy of Saint-Cyr, he’d come out nearly top of his class. Perhaps even more important to his aristocratic companions, he’d shown such prowess at the Cavalry Academy at Saumur that he’d almost made the elite Cadre Noir equestrian team. He was a good regimental soldier, respected by his men, a loyal friend with a kindly sense of humor. He could also be trusted to tell the truth. And he certainly looked the part of the cavalryman. He was a good height, a little taller than his father. His fair hair was parted in the middle, from which it marched out in close-trimmed waves. He wore a short mustache, brushed outward but not curled. The effect was handsome and manly.

Yet sometimes one might notice a quiet thoughtfulness in his blue eyes, even a hint of proud melancholy, and his brother officers thought it was their job to tease him about this too.

“There is an air of mystery about you, de Cygne,” one of them now remarked. “Like Athos in The Three Musketeers, I think you have a hidden past. A secret sorrow. Is it a woman?”

“Of course it is,” the youngest cried. “Tell us, de Cygne. Your secret is safe with us. For at least ten minutes!”

“No,” the oldest of them, a captain, corrected. “Hidden in that handsome cavalryman’s head, I detect an idealist. One day, de Cygne, you will be a hero, as famous as the great knight Bayard, sans peur et sans reproche. Fearless and beyond reproach. Or you’ll surprise us all and enter a monastery.”

“A monastery?” cried the youngest. “What are you talking about? We’re at the Moulin Rouge, for God’s sake!”

“I agree,” Roland responded with a smile. “Anyone wishing to become a monk will be reported to the management.” It was time to end this probing into his character. He glanced around the table. “I think we need more champagne.”

The captain signaled to the waiter, who was at his side in an instant.

“More champagne, Luc.”

“At once, mon capitaine.”

A few minutes later, the floor show began.

It had to be said, Roland thought, the Moulin Rouge did what it did supremely well. The cavernous space had room for dozens of tables, but the view of the stage was excellent. Part of the atmosphere of the place was created by its particular light. There were numerous gaslights, which provided a warm glow, but the owners had supplemented these with the latest electric lights, which provided a sparkling overlay, magnified in the huge mirrored glass by the stage that reflected the whole scene. The effect was both risqué and magical at the same time.

The orchestra was excellent. And then there were the dancers.

They danced a medley of arrangements that night. There were exotic dances, gymnastic dances with one dancer after another dropping down dramatically to do splits, and then, of course, the dance that had become the Moulin’s signature: the cancan.

“I’m sorry you never got to see La Goulue perform this,” the captain said to Roland, who nodded. In the space of five years, La Goulue had made herself a legend. Now she’d gone off with a circus on her own. But her replacement, Jane Avril, already made famous thanks to a poster by Toulouse-Lautrec, was quite as good. And where La Goulue was loud and outrageous, Avril was a little more elegant.

The troupe came on, in silk dresses, black stockings and extravagant, frilly petticoats. They began in a line, swishing their skirts, and performing half kicks. Then they broke up into a complex choreography. The kicks grew higher. One did a cartwheel. Two others dropped into the splits. They formed back into two lines. And then Jane Avril made her entrance.

If the troupe was athletic, Avril was something more. If the girls had formed a line to support each other as they performed the high kicks, Avril could balance on one leg, like a ballerina, performing half kicks and high kicks one after the other as she made a pirouette. Minute after minute, while the troupe performed all the cancan moves and the tempo increased, Avril was out in front of them, dancing a sort of descant to their tune, before sinking at last, in a single, fluid fall, into a split that made it look like the most natural thing in the world.

It was the cancan, yet beyond the cancan. It was a work of art.

When it ended, no one rose to their feet faster than Roland.

“Magnificent!” he cried as he applauded.

When the audience had finished applauding, the master of ceremonies announced that there would now be a pause for the orchestra to take refreshments before the general dancing began.

For the officers at the table, the moment had come. The captain took command.

“On this sheet of paper,” he announced, drawing it from his pocket, “are written the twenty names of the officers in the draw. Against each name is a number. On each of these small cards”—he produced them with a flourish—“is written a single number from one to twenty. Please inspect them.” He laid them ceremoniously on the table. “Very well. To ensure absolute fairness, I have here a blindfold.” He produced a black silk bandana. “Luc!” he called to the waiter. “Come here and bring me a large soup bowl.”

Luc obliged at once.

Roland noticed that the waiter was quite a handsome young man, with a broad, intelligent face and dark hair, a lock of which fell down over his broad brow. He might be French or possibly Italian, Roland thought. But his age was hard to guess. He had a lithe way of moving that suggested he might be only twenty, but there was a smoothness and worldliness in his manner that belonged to an older man.

“Luc,” announced the captain, “I am going to blindfold you.” And he began to tie the black bandana around the waiter’s head.



As Jacques Le Sourd entered the Moulin Rouge, he did not see the officers at first. He certainly wasn’t looking for them. He’d come there to dance.

Jacques was a busy man. After a brief spell as a teacher, he had turned to his father’s trade as a typesetter. The work was hard, but he still found time to write articles for the various socialist journals that had sprung up. Today had been a free day, and he’d spent it working on an article he was writing for Le Parti Ouvrier about the anarchist movement.

It had been a long afternoon. He’d been up on Montmartre, in the Lapin Agile bar, a picturesque establishment on the back slope of the hill, where artists and people with anarchist views liked to congregate. He had interviewed three anarchists. By the time he was finished, it was well into the evening.

He had wanted to write on the anarchists for a while. During the last few years there had been a number of incidents in France that were supposed to be their work. Bombs had exploded, quite a few people had been killed. There had been a government crackdown, and a number of anarchists had fled to England.

But what was anarchism for? What did it achieve?

There were so many groupings on the Left. If radicalism was a tree that had grown from the ideals of the French Revolution, the mid-century graftings of Marx and Engels had now produced a plant of many branches. There were kindly utopians, trade union men, socialists, communists, anarchists and many variations in between. They all opposed the monarchy. They were all suspicious of the Church. And they all longed for a perfect society of free men. But what that society would be, and how to achieve it, was the subject of endless discussion. And no subject was more disputed than the role of the anarchists.

Le Sourd knew that the true anarchist movement, the anarchism of men like Proudhon in France, followed by Bakunin and Kropotkin, called for the overthrow of the state, which would be followed by a utopian world of friendly collectives. For these men, the violent outrages, the bombings and terrorist acts were only a catalyst—the shock needed to trigger a huge reaction—in which the state, which lacked all moral validity, would collapse. After that, miraculously, poverty, exploitation and human suffering would end.

Jacques was not an anarchist. He thought that even the original anarchist philosophers were utopian dreamers, and that most of their followers were dangerous fanatics. And the three men he’d talked with that day had confirmed all his worst opinions.

Hadn’t they learned anything from the Paris Commune? The Commune for which his father had fought and died? During its brief reign, it had run Paris successfully. But it lacked a proper army. The Communards hadn’t gotten an organization outside the capital, and the forces of reaction had been able to march into Paris and break them. The present regime, republican but corrupt, had been in power ever since.

The more he’d listened to the men this afternoon, the more he had appreciated why his father’s Commune should be his guide. The anarchists he’d spoken to wanted to throw a bomb and run away. There, they seemed to think, their responsibility ended. But his father and his friends had stood up for their beliefs, fought for them, tried to construct something concrete, and been killed for it.

Compare these anarchists with that other heroine of the Commune, still living, Louise Michel. She’d fought for the Commune up in Montmartre. Afterward, at her trial, she’d challenged the government to execute her. “Put a bullet in me,” she had cried, “for if you don’t, I’ll go straight back to opposing you.” And if she hadn’t been a woman, no doubt they would have shot her. But she’d been as good as her word. Deported, in and out of jail ever since, she’d taught, preached revolution, even taken up arms again. People called her an anarchist, but properly speaking, in Jacques Le Sourd’s opinion, she was a revolutionary.

Perhaps, he thought, this comparison might provide the structure for his article.

For Jacques had long ago concluded that the Marxists were right. There must be central organization. There must be a proper power base. Just days ago, the Jewish Workers in Russia and Poland had formed a party to promote socialism and equal rights for women. They were calling it the Bund. This was the sort of well-established development that would be needed, years of it, before the revolution would be ready.

And who knew, when the revolution did come, it might be worldwide. He hoped so. Until then, the anarchist bombs were as useless as they were cruel.

After four hours of listening to these men in the Lapin Agile, who thought that outrage was an end in itself, he’d come to the conclusion that they were vain, self-centered lunatics and artists, and he’d left in disgust.

So having walked down the hill to the boulevard de Clichy, and seeing the bright lights of the Moulin Rouge, he had decided to go in there to relax a little. He might be a revolutionary, but he still loved to dance.

The big hall was packed as usual. Here and there he saw tables where groups of women sat. Some were there to look for clients. Others were just there to have a good time. Either way, since he was tall, and dark, and danced well, he always found women happy to dance with him. And if he wanted more, he could often find that too, without having to pay for it.

Of course, when the revolution finally came, scenes of bourgeois decadence like this would surely have to go. Most of his friends said that even the small café owners would be swept away, and be replaced with cooperatives. There were already quite a few food cooperatives operating in Paris. Whether a family was operating an emporium or a tiny café, they were still profiteering, and exploiting the workers.

He shrugged. That was for another day. His eyes began to travel around the tables where the women sat.

And then, from over on his right, there was a roar. A waiter wearing a blindfold was standing by a long table of young men, who were starting to applaud. People were turning to look. The young men were laughing.

“Bravo, de Cygne,” one of them cried out.

“Bring champagne.”

“No. Oysters. Bring oysters.”

“The honor of the regiment is in your hands.”

“The honor of the regiment is between your legs!”

“Oysters for de Cygne!”

One of the officers had got up to take the blindfold off the waiter, who was smiling broadly. Now the waiter made a congratulatory bow to one of the seated men.

A few moments later the waiter came past him, still smiling to himself.

“What was that about?” Jacques asked.

“Oh, something very amusing, monsieur. A party of young cavalry officers clubbed together so that one of them could pay a visit to, one might say, the most desirable woman in Paris. I had the honor of making the draw.” He nodded. “It must be said, the cavalry has style.”

“I thought I heard the name de Cygne. Would that be the son of the Vicomte de Cygne?”

“I couldn’t say,” Luc replied discreetly.

“It’s an ancient name,” Jacques remarked casually.

“No doubt, monsieur.”

Jacques would have liked to ask the name of the lady in question, but there was no need. For at that moment, a young officer rose unsteadily to his feet, and raising his glass cried out: “To our noble friend de Cygne, and La Belle Hélène.”

Jacques Le Sourd smiled.

“Lucky man,” he said to the waiter. All Paris had heard of La Belle Hélène.

“Tomorrow night, monsieur, the gentleman will be in paradise.”

“Indeed,” said Jacques thoughtfully. Then he looked around the Moulin Rouge at the women again. He saw one or two he’d danced with before. Perhaps he’d get to paradise himself tonight.



A few minutes later, Luc was back at the table. This time, he spoke softly to Roland.

“If you will permit me, monsieur, I have heard that the lady is particularly well-disposed toward those who send flowers to her before their arrival. And she has a particular taste in flowers. If you would allow me, I could make all the arrangements for you. I think you would be well satisfied.”

Roland was surprised, and not altogether pleased. Why was this waiter insinuating himself in his business? But before he could reply, the captain interposed.

“My dear friend, you can put your trust in Luc, I assure you. He knows everything in Paris.” He gave the waiter a wry look. “How he knows all these things, we do not ask. But let him get the flowers, and it will be to your advantage. Give him some money and he’ll take care of it.”

“How much?” Roland asked with a frown. Luc leaned down and murmured something in his ear.

“For flowers?” Roland was incredulous. He stared at Luc suspiciously.

The captain glanced at the waiter. “Special flowers, eh?”

“Very special, mon capitaine,” Luc replied quietly, and the captain nodded.

“My dear de Cygne,” he said to Roland, “take my advice, there’s a good fellow. I want you to leave this in the hands of my friend here. Trust me, you won’t be sorry.”



At about the same time the following evening, a covered horse-drawn cab containing Roland de Cygne rolled from the Arc de Triomphe down the avenue Victor Hugo. It was cool but not cold. A half-moon hung in the sky. By the soft lamplight, Roland could see the yellowed leaves still on the trees that lined the street.

Not surprisingly, he felt excited.

When his companions had teased him the previous night, they had been quite perceptive. He’d never regretted his choice of career. At the age of twenty-five, he was happy in the army. He enjoyed the brotherhood and companionship it offered and he was as proud of his regiment as he was of his name. But though he kept such thoughts to himself, he could not help the fact that he was a de Cygne, whose life—the family motto demanded—must be “According to God’s Will.”

Did that make him a romantic? Certainly some would say that his view of the family’s relationship to the monarchy, to God and to an almost mystical notion of France was romantic. But it was a sense of identity that fortified him for whatever noble task might lie ahead. And if the seeds of those ideas had been implanted by Father Xavier during a walk in the Tuileries Gardens which Roland had long since forgotten, everything in his life so far had served to nurture them.

Was his religion nothing more than a sense of family pride? Only if it was pride that made him cherish in his heart the memory of his mother and her gentle prayers like secret icons, as holy to him as the pure red flame that glimmered over the Host in every Catholic church. Moreover, he was ready to sacrifice his life for that tiny flame, in the hope of a greater light beyond. So that, when he looked dispassionately at the teeming life around him, the desire of the socialists to change the impurity of the world by mere material manipulation seemed as deluded to him as his hopes of redemption seemed illusory to them.

None of these reflections, however, prevented him from being a good companion to his brother officers, and he certainly wasn’t a prude. Fastidious, yes—as the madam at the regiment’s private house had discerned at once the first time he had gone there, when she selected a very sweet girl for him. But he liked women, and felt that some modest career with them, at least, was as much a rite of passage in his life as passing out of Saint-Cyr or the school of equitation. As for the fact that such adventures counted as sins of the flesh, he would go to confession in due course and receive a penance. Meanwhile, though he might not have put the thought into words, he had to assume that the deity, having destined him to be an aristocrat, would understand that it would be necessary to behave in the appropriate manner.

Indeed, the adventure tonight was something of which he could be justly proud. It was almost as good as if he’d gotten into the Cadre Noir. For a de Cygne to have spent the night with the most celebrated courtesan in Paris was done partly for the honor of the family. It was something to tell his sons and grandsons about—when they reached a certain age, of course.

The cab had reached the intersection where the avenue Victor Hugo was met by the rue de la Pompe and several others. Here it turned right, into a quiet but elegant street known, on account of the leafy trees that had formerly graced the place, as the rue des Belles-Feuilles—the street of beautiful leaves. The short downward slope of the street led out onto the broadest and grandest of the lateral avenues that emanated from the Arc de Triomphe, and the little quarter contained a number of diplomatic residences and some of the lesser embassies. Halfway down it, in a small, ornate mansion, whose entrance was reached up a half dozen marble steps, lived La Belle Hélène.



Jacques Le Sourd had first arrived there two hours ago, just after dusk.

It hadn’t been difficult to discover where La Belle Hélène lived. He’d remembered her real name, and a quick perusal of some directories in the morning had given him the address he needed.

First, he’d stood around by the top of the street, looking down it, and quickly ascertained that it was very quiet. During ten minutes, he saw only one person enter it at all. Then he walked casually down the street, taking note of her house and those on each side. After that, he’d gone out into the big avenue below, and let a little time pass. The houses on this avenue were set back even farther than those on the Champs-Élysées, and the view up the long slope toward the Arc de Triomphe was so broad and so grand and so blank that it was almost frightening. And that circumstance, it occurred to him, was curiously appropriate for his mission.

For tonight, Roland de Cygne was going to die.

Next, he went up the street again, on the other side. This time he was looking for places where he might conceal himself. This was not so easy, but there was a tradesman’s entrance to the house just downhill from La Belle Hélène’s. The fact that there was no light above this doorway was not only helpful, but it suggested that it was not much used after dark, and it was a few feet back from the street, which made it less visible. He was just eyeing this from a few yards away when a cab drew up outside the lady’s little mansion.

Surely de Cygne couldn’t be arriving so early? He wasn’t ready. But all was well, for out of the cab, carrying a huge bunch of flowers, came a man that Jacques Le Sourd thought he vaguely recognized. The fellow went straight to the side door, which was opened by a maid. Jacques saw the fellow have a brief conversation with her, then turn. And at that moment he remembered. It was either the waiter that he’d spoken to in the Moulin Rouge last night, or someone very like him. The man glanced toward Jacques, but gave no sign of recognition at all, and got back into the cab, which immediately rattled away. Jacques shrugged. A coincidental resemblance perhaps. Or if it was the waiter, the fellow clearly hadn’t recognized him. He put the incident out of his mind.

When he thought that he had done all that he usefully could, he left the rue des Belles-Feuilles. For there was still another equally important task to complete. He had to plan his escape.

He wasn’t worried about the moment of the killing itself. If there were people in the street who could identify him or give chase, then he wouldn’t shoot. De Cygne could always die another day. But the odds were good that the street would be empty. If destiny had thrown this opportunity in his way, it must be for a reason.

Then, assuming that de Cygne didn’t come on foot, there might be a coachman to deal with. The chances were that the coachman would be too shocked to react in time. But if he tried anything, then Jacques decided he’d shoot him too. It was simpler.

For half an hour he wandered about the area. The first thing to consider was the pistol. He felt inside his overcoat. It was safely concealed there, tied with string around his waist. After firing it, he wanted to dispose of it as soon as possible. He could throw it almost anywhere, but thirty yards down the street on the right was a high wall enclosing the garden of a large mansion. He could easily toss the gun over the wall as he ran past.

At that point he’d already be running down the hill, so it would be sensible to continue in the same direction. The huge avenue would be quiet at night. He could turn down it, run to the end, which wasn’t far, and then into the Bois de Boulogne. But should anyone see him, it would immediately invite suspicion. The police were quite good at sweeping the Bois for criminals at night.

At the bottom of the rue des Belles-Feuilles, however, before one reached the avenue, there was an intersection of small streets which led into a network of lanes. It didn’t take him long to find a route that took him through a succession of these lanes and led him back into the avenue Victor Hugo, where there were always people, bars, a brasserie or two. He could hail a cab if he saw one, or even stop for a drink.

Satisfied with this plan, he made his way slowly back toward the rue des Belles-Feuilles.

The street was empty as he went down it. He came to the darkened doorway he had selected and stepped into it. Carefully he drew out his pistol from its hiding place. All he had to do now was to wait. He felt very calm.



He’d always known he would kill Roland de Cygne. He’d made a vow to do it, and that was enough. But it had also become clear to him that he could take his time. When he could do so without risk, he’d do it. Until then he would wait. For there were other things, more important things, that needed to be done. When he was a boy he hadn’t really understood that, but now he did.

Like Roland de Cygne, he believed in a higher cause, a pure ideal, the freedom of the human spirit. Like Roland, he was proud of France. For wasn’t France the home of revolution? True, the American Revolution had been a noble precursor. A bourgeois revolution for a capitalist country, a step along the way, but no more. The true ideals—sullied since by dictatorship and compromise and corruption—had been born in France. And when the new international order came into being, France would have her place of honor in the history of the world.

Above all, Jacques now believed, the final resolution of the long historical struggle was inevitable. It might take time, but the earthly apocalypse, when all men should be free—free of oppression, free of bogus bourgeois comfort, free of superstition—would come. It was destiny. And that certitude gave him strength and comfort.

The death of Roland de Cygne was just a tiny part of that process, of no great importance. But it was a debt of honor he owed his father, and the memory of the Commune, and when the time was right, he would accomplish it.

He’d continued to keep an eye on Roland. He’d known when Roland went to Saint-Cyr, and the school of equitation, and when he was away with his regiment. But he hadn’t realized that the regiment had been posted to Paris recently. That had been careless of him.

So when he had suddenly caught up with him in the Moulin Rouge last night, it had seemed to Jacques that this must be destiny. The opportunity was too good to miss. There was nothing to connect him to Roland or La Belle Hélène. If someone shot the young man as he entered her door, the police would probably assume that it was a jealous lover. Paris took some pride in its crimes of passion. All he had to do was to vanish back into the streets, and the thing was done.

How appropriate that the aristocrat, the new representative of the old monarchist order, should die while visiting a whore.

He waited patiently for Roland to appear.



During the first hour, only half a dozen people entered the street. A manservant went into one of the houses, the rest passed through.

It was past eight o’clock when the cat appeared. It was a small black-and-white creature, hardly more than a kitten. Where it had come from he wasn’t sure, but the little creature sidled up to him and started rubbing itself against his feet. It was so light and dainty that he could scarcely feel it. But he didn’t want it there, and gave it a gentle shove with his foot. This seemed to make the tiny cat even more interested. Perhaps it thought this was some kind of game. This time it got a good grip on his right foot with its sharp little claws, and started attacking the laces with its teeth. Starting to get irritated, he made a kicking motion with his foot that was strong enough to send the kitten flying out into the roadway. Disgusted, it turned toward him and gave a hiss that was unmistakably an insult.

And at that moment, a cab came down the street and pulled up outside the house of La Belle Hélène.

He glanced up and down the street. Not a soul. The door of the cab opened. There was only a single lamp by the door of La Belle Hélène’s house, but it gave enough light to see the face of Roland de Cygne.

The moment had come. Holding the pistol firmly under his coat, he stepped out of his hiding place just as Roland took the first step up to the mansion door. It took only two paces to reach the street. At his normal stride, he should be directly behind de Cygne just as he had reached the door. He took the first step.

“Here, kitty kitty kitty. Where are you, little cat?”

Jacques stared in stupefaction. The servant he’d seen earlier had suddenly appeared from the house below, directly in his path. He couldn’t see the fellow’s face, but judging from the way he was bent, it was an old man.

“Kitty kitty kitty.” The old fellow was moving straight toward him. Jacques was so surprised that he missed taking a step. At this rate he and the old man would meet exactly at the foot of the steps where he had intended to fire. Worse, de Cygne was turning to look. He had counted on him presenting an easy target, outlined in the doorway with his back to him.

“Kind sir, you have not seen a little cat?” The old servant hadn’t looked up, but the question was addressed to him. De Cygne was turning toward him now. At least he couldn’t see his face in the darkness. The coachman was turning to look at him too.

It was no good. The business was getting out of hand. With a muttered curse he turned around, crossed the street and strode rapidly away.



A female servant let Roland in. For apart from her visitors, La Belle Hélène had no men in the house. The coachman, whose son acted as groom, lived in the coach house at the end of the garden.

If his father’s masculine mansion evoked the grand, baroque spirit of Louis XIV, the house of La Belle Hélène was full of the lighter spirit of Louis XV, the Sun King’s successor. On the left side of the hall, an elegant marble staircase curled up to a gallery above. Against the opposite wall, under a gilded rococo looking glass, a turquoise marble side table, on sinuous gilded legs, supported a vase of creamy Paris porcelain, decorated with blue and pink flowers and a charming shepherd playing a pipe. The vase was full of flowers. Beside it he noticed a small silver salver.

As the maid took his top hat and coat, she softly suggested that if he wished to leave an envelope, he might place it on the salver.

This done, she ushered him into the salon, saying that her mistress would be with him shortly. Then she disappeared with the salver.

The salon was furnished with rococo gilt furniture. He noticed a beautiful little writing table with a marquetry top and polished curves. Sèvres porcelain graced the chimney mantel. On the walls were charming paintings by artists like Boucher and Watteau of gods and goddesses, or frivolous ladies and gentlemen of the court, in pastoral landscapes, enjoying themselves in various states of dress or undress. On one wall, however, was a large painting belonging to the present century, of a handsome lady, as clearly drawn as a portrait by Ingres, wearing a wonderful pink silk dress, and walking in a garden that contained a sumptuous peacock.

Everywhere he saw pinks and soft blues, delicacy and charm: it was the most feminine house he’d ever been in. He’d been waiting there only a minute or two when the lady appeared.

La Belle Hélène was wearing a long, light silk gown, cut low over her lovely breasts—a little simpler than she would have worn if she were dining out—which darted to a fashionably narrow waist and laced, or unlaced, at the back.

She looked radiant.

She was in her early thirties, he supposed. Like his, her hair was fair and wavy, and her eyes were blue. But beyond these superficialities, they might have come from different planets. For though the aristocrat was perfectly tailored, shaved and barbered, it was the lady who was sophisticated, in ways of which he was only dimly aware.

Her hair, her skin, her teeth were flawless, and kept that way at great expense. She was waxed and powdered, manicured and scented, until she was a work of art. Her eyes were wide apart and took in everything without seeming to do so. Her face was turned slightly upward, her mouth smiling pleasantly. She was available to him—that was already established—yet she remained perfectly poised.

“Thank you for the beautiful flowers, monsieur,” she said, “which I hope you noticed in the hall. It seems you know exactly what I like.” She smiled. “I see that you understand that flowers are to be smelled as well as looked at.” She paused just an instant. “I collect pollen like a bee. But just a little. Never too much.”

He bowed and smiled, though he had still not comprehended that when Luc had delivered the flowers, neatly tied to the stem of one of the roses was a little packet of cocaine. Not that he need have been shocked if he had known; for cordials containing cocaine were even then being enjoyed, and publicly recommended, by such worthy persons as Thomas Edison in America and Queen Victoria in Britain.

The maid appeared with two glasses of champagne. The glasses were the broad coupes then in fashion. La Belle Hélène used a golden swizzle stick, with a tiny flail at the end to reduce the bubbles in her glass.

“I prefer less bubbles,” she remarked, “though my friends tell me I should not.” Then, as they sipped their champagne, they began to talk.

La Belle Hélène was a beautiful woman. But the reasons she was a great courtesan began with her conversation.

It took her only moments to put him at his ease. Within five minutes, he was having the most delightful conversation he had ever had in his life. She told him a little about herself or, like as not, made reference to something some friend of hers had experienced or told her about, but she seemed chiefly interested in learning about him. And soon she knew far more about him than he guessed.

For her success, her mansion, the works of art on the wall and her friendships, which were genuine, all derived from this one fact: that she studied men. She discovered their strengths and weaknesses, what they felt and what they wanted, and then she set her entire intelligence and imagination to making them happier than they had ever been in their lives. She fulfilled their every desire, and even desires they did not know they had. And they showed their gratitude as only very rich men can. The house and much of the art came from an elderly industrialist, who would have married her if he could have.

In the course of this career, she had amassed not only a little fortune, but a large stock of knowledge about many subjects, from finance and art to wines and the racetrack.

By the time they moved into the little room which she used for intimate dining, she already knew about his regiment, his family and the fact that he liked the Folies-Bergère.

They started with caviar, then a delicious oyster bisque, some hors d’oeuvres and a light, poached turbot, served with an asparagus gelatin. The main course was sliced pheasant breasts cooked with Normandy apple, a speciality of her cook.

Though she served excellent wines, including a wonderful Hermitage with the pheasant, Roland noticed that La Belle Hélène drank almost nothing, and he took care to drink only moderately himself. The food was carefully calculated to be delicious but not too filling, with sorbets to keep the palate clean. They finished with some cheeses and a little fruit.

And all the while, they talked. She wanted to know about his childhood, his likes and dislikes, his views on politics, his travels—which were few. He had never had any woman take such an interest in him, let alone such a woman as this. Though there were some rich aristocrats who could, neither he nor even his father could afford to keep such a lady, and for the first time in his life, Roland experienced a moment of envy for the rich bankers and industrialists who were able to.

At one moment, after they had been discussing his favorite light opera, she gazed at him thoughtfully and asked, “Tell me, my friend, have you ever heard any of the music of Debussy?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t.”

“The other day I went with friends to a concert in which a recent piece of his was played. ‘Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune.’ It’s one of the most sensuous things I ever heard. Quite short. Ten minutes or so.” She paused. “You need to close your eyes and just let it waft over you. Don’t think at all. Like listening to some of Baudelaire’s poems. ‘L’Invitation au Voyage,’ for instance.”

“My father likes that poem. He told me so years ago.”

“One should always listen to one’s father.” She smiled. “I have the impression that you should learn to surrender yourself sometimes.”

Roland frowned. “Surrender” wasn’t a word he used if he could help it.

“Well,” La Belle Hélène continued gently, “perhaps you may surrender to me. If you like.”

By the end of the meal he noticed that her gown had discreetly shifted down to reveal more of her breasts, in a most enticing way. She rose.

“If you would like to come upstairs in a few minutes,” she said, “you will find a dressing room on the right. You will see where to go after that.”

The dressing room was paneled, with a washbasin, water jug and all the things that a man might require for his toilette, including a pair of ivory-backed hairbrushes so miraculously clean that one might have supposed they had never been used before. A nightshirt and an embroidered silk dressing gown of just his size were hanging ready for his use. When he had changed, he went through the small door he saw in front of him, and found himself in the bedroom of La Belle Hélène.

If her salon had been charmingly in the style of Louis XV, La Belle Hélène’s bedroom evoked a more recent style, and was designed entirely for comfort. By the window was a nice little Second Empire sofa, well upholstered and just big enough for two. By the fire was a broad bench, similarly upholstered, where two people might sit very companionably and gaze at the flames. The walls of the room were covered in pink silk. There was a hidden closet in one corner, containing various items that the lady did not think would be needed tonight. Also, strategically placed, but hidden behind curtains for now, two large looking glasses. And then there was the bed itself. It was quite a large four-poster, elegantly draped, but very solidly constructed. And in the middle of it, her hair now loose, and wearing only a satin nightdress, was La Belle Hélène.

Roland de Cygne had made love to some beautiful women, but what he experienced in the next hour and a half was beyond anything he had imagined. La Belle Hélène was not only skillful, she was full of surprises. At one moment he could not believe she could seem so light. At another, he would be amazed by her suppleness and strength. She coaxed him, challenged him; but above all, she was so delicious that he could not stop exploring, could not get enough of her. It was a play without an intermission.

Finally, they rested awhile.

“I feel,” he confessed, “like one of those lucky fellows centuries ago in a Persian garden.”

“Do you remember the start of Omar Khayyám?” she asked.

“Remind me.”

Awake! For Morning in the Bowl of Night

Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:

And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught

The Sultan’s Turret in a Noose of Light.

He nodded. An Englishman had translated the old Persian poem of love, and fate, and nothingness decades ago, and now it was a bestseller all over Europe.

“But it isn’t morning yet,” he objected.

“No,” she said. “It certainly isn’t.”

And then they made love again. And this time, when he was ready to come to a climax, he discovered another of her talents, as she held him in the delicious squeeze for which she was known by her fortunate lovers.

Afterward, he lay quite still and closed his eyes, and it seemed to him as if he were in some faraway place, a Persian garden perhaps, or an endless, timeless desert, under the stars, and he heard her say that he should sleep awhile.



Luc Gascon was puzzled, but he didn’t mind. He loved intrigue.

If Jacques Le Sourd had imagined that he hadn’t been noticed when Luc was delivering the flowers to La Belle Hélène that evening, he didn’t know his man. Luc noticed everything. He’d trained himself to do that ever since he’d worked up at the Moulin de la Galette as a boy, and now, at the Moulin Rouge, a customer only had to blink his eyes for Luc to be at his side in an instant. As for the discreet errands in which he specialized, errands that often required that he not be observed, he’d become a master of that game. If a man needed a message to reach another man’s wife, Luc would find a way to deliver it. If a man wanted to know if his own wife was unfaithful, Luc could probably find that out too.

Above all, in these and many other encounters, Luc had learned never to show that he had noticed anything.

When Jacques Le Sourd had asked about de Cygne at the Moulin Rouge the night before, Luc had taken note of his face. So when he caught sight of him loitering in the rue des Belles-Feuilles this evening, he had remembered him at once. And the fact Le Sourd was in such a quiet street, where de Cygne was shortly to arrive, could not possibly be a coincidence.

He didn’t yet know Jacques’s name. But it was evident that he was not a rich man or an aristocrat. Almost certainly he meant harm of some kind to de Cygne. And de Cygne was now a client, a friend of the captain, moreover. This was really all that Luc needed to know. His clients were his livelihood. Every client for whom he could do a favor was an investment. His clients were to be protected.

Besides, it was his nature to be curious.

His cab had gone only halfway up the avenue toward the Arc de Triomphe, therefore, when he paid the coachman and stepped out. Then he’d made his way back to the rue des Belles-Feuilles and kept watch.

It had been easy to spot Le Sourd returning to take up his hiding place. The way that he briefly touched his stomach with one hand suggested to Luc that he was carrying a weapon of some kind.

More skill had been needed to enter the street and take up a position out of sight nearby, but Luc had accomplished that without too much difficulty. Now he could observe everything that passed.

And if this fellow tried to attack de Cygne, what was Luc going to do? Luc hadn’t the slightest doubt. He was going to save the aristocrat. That was where his interests lay. The only question was, how?

Luc wasn’t afraid for himself. Once he got close, the stranger would have to be very fast indeed to escape the stiletto Luc always carried, and which would have done its work before the stranger even saw it coming. But it would be best if he could intervene without causing any stir at all. No noise. Luc’s world was a private world, and he meant to keep it that way.

A simple ruse would be to pretend to be a servant whose master next door had long been expecting a guest, and who believed that de Cygne was entering the wrong house. He’d done something like that once before, and it was enough to create confusion and interpose himself between de Cygne and his attacker. But then the little cat had entered the picture, and this was better still. The fact that the little performance was absurd mattered not in the least. He could be bent, apparently looking for the cat, so that his own face was hard to see. In case of need, the stiletto would be already in his hand, held against his stomach.

And the business had gone off perfectly. He’d seen the stranger’s pistol, but the stranger had never had the chance to use it, nor had he seen Luc’s face. It had also been clear from the stranger’s actions that he did not want his own face to be seen either. That was useful information.

In less than half a minute, de Cygne was safely inside, the stranger was gone and the cab was rolling away.

One possibility remained, that the stranger might come back later, in the hope of accosting de Cygne when he came out. But Luc knew he needn’t worry about that. He knew very well that those fortunate to spend the night with La Belle Hélène remained with her until long after the sun was up; and it was clear that the stranger had no wish to make his attack in broad daylight.

All that remained now was to find out more. It might well be that he would warn de Cygne of his danger. But he’d rather investigate first.

An ordinary person might have gone to the police. That never crossed Luc’s mind. What profit to him if he did that? What if de Cygne were involved in something he wanted hidden, and a police intervention brought it to light? None of his clients would think much of that. In general, as far as Luc was concerned, the police were to be avoided. A blunt and destructive weapon, of little purpose to a man who liked creativity and finesse.

No, his first task was to find out who this would-be assassin was. Then he’d decide what to do.



The sun was well up when Roland de Cygne awoke. The curtains had been scooped and tied. One window had been opened a fraction to let in a little cool fresh air.

La Belle Hélène was already up, wearing a loose silk robe. A faint fragrance suggested she had already performed some part of her toilette. Her hair was lightly brushed, but that was all. She looked wonderfully fresh.

“Will you join me for a little breakfast?”

“Certainly,” he said. He put on his dressing gown and went to the dressing room. By the time he returned, some fresh coffee, hot milk and fresh bread had appeared on a low table by the sofa. She motioned him to the settee. She poured coffee for him. She had pulled up a little chair for herself, from which she now observed him, it seemed with pleasure.

“I could live here forever,” he said, and meant it.

She bowed her head at the compliment. He expected she had heard it many times before, but he didn’t suppose she minded hearing it again.

“You will find yourself a charming wife one day, monsieur, and”—she returned the compliment—“in my opinion she will be a very lucky woman.”

He sipped his coffee. He felt very happy. She continued to observe him.

“Tell me one thing,” she said. “I was a little curious. The appointment was made by a certain captain of your regiment, who informed me that the gentleman would be coming incognito. Normally I might have refused, but the captain’s reputation is of the highest, and I thought perhaps my visitor might be a person whose identity was too significant to be mentioned by name.”

It was true that great men, especially royal personages like England’s Prince of Wales, frequently went about the town under other names. Roland laughed.

“And all you got, madame, was a humble young officer named Roland de Cygne.”

“I assure you that I was entirely delighted with what I received, monsieur. But I did not know your identity until your card arrived with your flowers. I was just curious as to why.”

So then Roland told her the truth.

“You won me in a lottery?”

“Madame, not all the officers in the regiment are so rich. But we are loyal. All for one, and one for all.”

She put back her head and laughed. It was a charming laugh.

“That is the funniest thing I ever heard. And you say there were twenty of you?”

“Oui, madame.”

She got up and went to the window, and looked out. The sun caught the silhouette of her body through her silk robe. He discovered that he suddenly wanted her again. He rose and went toward her. “I suppose …,” he asked, “you would not consider …”

She turned and smiled, and put her arms around his neck.

“Avec plaisir, monsieur,” she said.

It was about three quarters of an hour before he finally left the house. She came down into the hall with him herself. Just before they reached the door, she put her hand on his arm.

“One moment,” she said. “I have a present for you.” Disappearing for a moment she returned with an envelope. “Now, my dear de Cygne, I want you to do something for me. You are to take this. It contains one twentieth of what you brought with you last evening. And you are to tell your brother officers that you, and you alone, are the man who received the favors of La Belle Hélène as a gift, for free.”

He gazed at her in amazement. Then, before putting on his hat, he bowed.

“If I live to be a hundred, I shall never feel more honored.”

“Don’t say that. You might even get the Légion d’honneur.”

He grinned.

“Not even the Légion d’honneur, madame,” he said gallantly, and left.

As he put on his top hat and strode up the street, Roland de Cygne felt happier and more proud of himself than ever before in his life. For just a moment, he considered the possibility that some other man might be in La Belle Hélène’s house that very night, but he put the thought from him. Across the street he noticed a small black-and-white cat. Probably the one that fellow was looking for last night.



After he had gone, she smiled. He was a nice boy. Too preoccupied to be entirely sensuous, but nice. As for the gift, she was amused. And for five percent of one night’s work, she had purchased a story that would travel all around Paris to her credit. It was always a good thing to be liked.



It took Luc only a day to find out about Le Sourd. A couple of the regular women at the Moulin Rouge had danced with him. One had slept with him.

“You want to know what he’s like, dear?” she asked.

“No. Just his name.”

She knew that. And that he was a printer who wrote articles for the radical press. That was all Luc needed. But he thought carefully before he made his next move.



The captain was most surprised at the barracks to receive word that a Monsieur Gascon from the Moulin Rouge wished to speak to him in private. He came out of his office to make sure it was Luc, then called him in.

Luc told him quickly and concisely what he knew.

“I don’t know what it means, mon capitaine, but I thought I should be discreet. I haven’t told Monsieur de Cygne. I thought it better to tell you.”

“My God.” The captain stared at him. “And you’ve already saved his life, by the sound of it. You think this is some affair of the heart? A jealous husband?”

“He’s not married. He likes to dance with girls and sometimes …”

“Why on earth would he want to shoot de Cygne then?”

“I don’t know. But he’s political. Radical.” Luc made a face.

“You don’t like the socialists?”

“There are not many people in the restaurant and entertainment trades who do, mon capitaine. They think we’re decadent and want to close us down.”

“A little decadence does you good, eh? Well, I entirely agree.” He leaned back in his chair thoughtfully. “The de Cygne family is old, monarchist, Catholic, of course. But so are half the officers in the French army. There’s got to be more to it than that. I’m interested that you didn’t just tell de Cygne himself all the same. He could show his gratitude to you for saving his life, at least.”

“I don’t know him, mon capitaine, nor what this means, nor what he might do. So I came to you.”

“You’re a clever fellow, Luc, and we’re in your debt. I shan’t forget that,” said the officer. “I want to think about this. But in the meantime, I need to protect de Cygne.”

“I do have one suggestion,” said Luc. “With your permission.”



It was two days later when the errand boy at the printers came back to where Jacques Le Sourd was working and told him that there was a policeman at the door who wanted to see him.

The boy noticed Le Sourd go very pale, but he followed the boy to the front door, where the policeman was waiting for him. The policeman was a tall, severe-looking man who looked at him coldly.

“You are Jacques Le Sourd?”

“Yes.”

“This is for you.” The policeman handed him an envelope. Then, to Jacques’s astonishment, he walked swiftly away.

Jacques opened the envelope, frowning. Was this some kind of legal summons? To what did it refer?

The envelope contained a single sheet of paper. On it were written just two short lines in capital letters:

RUE DES BELLES-FEUILLES

YOU ARE BEING WATCHED

For the rest of that day, Jacques wondered what to do. The message was clear enough. Someone had seen him waiting for Roland de Cygne. That person, or whoever had informed him, appeared to be a policeman. But how much did he know, and what did he want?

Was it a policeman who had given him the envelope? Here his own fear had let him down, and he cursed himself for it. He’d been so afraid at the moment when the tall man arrived that he had just assumed it was a real policeman. But a real policeman arrests you. He doesn’t give you a cryptic message and walk away. Does he?

What was the meaning of the cryptic message, anyway? Was it a warning, telling him to be careful? Or was it a threat to expose him?

And how much did this person—or persons—know? If someone recognized him loitering in the rue des Belles-Feuilles, they might suppose that he was planning to burgle one of the houses. If so, they certainly didn’t know him. If somehow they had an inkling of his true intent, that would be another matter.

His work ended without his being any the wiser. He started to walk home. It was already after dusk. Once or twice he had the feeling that he was being followed. But though he glanced behind him, he saw nothing suspicious, and told himself that he was imagining things.

He was nearing his home when a young street urchin approached with his hand held out for money. Jacques shook his head. And before he knew it, the boy had thrust something into his hand and run away.

It was another envelope. This time, the message told him more. It began with just two words in capitals, like the message before:

DE CYGNE

And below it, in smaller letters, a message that told him, without fail, to leave the sum of 250 francs in an envelope in the Bois de Boulogne’s long allée de Longchamp, at the foot of the twentieth tree on the left, at six o’clock the following evening.

So they knew. And it was blackmail.

But who knew? The only link he could think of was the waiter at the Moulin Rouge. Even assuming it was him, however, it seemed likely that he had accomplices, which included the tall fellow dressed as a policeman. The threat was clear. Pay up or the police would be informed. Indeed, it might be that the tall messenger really was a policeman—a corrupt one, but no less dangerous for that.

Should he bluff it out? Perhaps. No crime had been committed. Nothing could be proved. Whereas if he paid, he was virtually admitting that he’d intended harm to an officer of the French army. On the other hand, if the sender of the messages chose to accuse him, he’d have to explain to the police why he was hiding in a doorway watching for de Cygne. Investigations would be made. He’d probably be under police suspicion for the rest of his life. He was still thinking about this conundrum when he reached his lodgings.

The building where he lived was one of a pair of tenements in Belleville, between the cemetery of Père Lachaise and the park of Buttes-Chaumont. It was six stories high, and he occupied a single, good-sized room on the fifth floor, with a small washroom and kitchen attached. His mother lived in a similar apartment on the raised ground floor of the building next door. It wasn’t a bad arrangement. The rents were low. He could lead his own life but keep an eye on his mother as well.

He made himself a little food, and drank a glass of wine. He went to the bookshelf and pulled out a book. Between its pages were concealed a number of banknotes. Not a huge sum, but enough to hide from any casual intruder. He had 150 francs.

And that was all he had. He’d never saved. He supposed he might one day, but so far he had preferred to work just enough to live, and to devote his spare time to study and political work. With a shrug he went down the stairs and into the building next door. He usually looked in on his mother each day.

The widow Le Sourd was sitting by her window, as she usually did when she wasn’t working, watching the street. Her hair was no longer gray, but white these days, and she had grown a little thinner in the last few years, but she was still the same stern, gaunt figure that he remembered from his boyhood. He leaned over and kissed her.

“I saw you come in. Have you eaten?”

“Yes, Maman. And you?”

“Of course. But there is some cake in the kitchen if you want it.”

“No. Maman, have you any cash?”

“Perhaps. How much?”

“A hundred francs.”

“A hundred? That’s quite a lot.”

“Can I borrow it?”

She stared at him silently.

“What would your father say? That his son should have to borrow from his mother?”

“I have given you money before.”

“That is true.” She sighed. “I work, Jacques, but I save. A little.”

“I know.”

“You work, but you do not save.”

“I know that too.”

“What is it for? Some woman? You should marry. It is time you married.”

“It’s not for a woman.”

“What then?”

“I cannot tell you. I may not need it, but if I do, I will pay it back.” He paused. “It is for a good cause.”

She looked at him sharply.

“Tell me.”

“No. It is better you do not know.”

She shook her head sadly.

“You are speaking of politics?” Seeing him indicate that he was, she pursed her lips. “Whatever you do, be careful. I have always told you to be careful.”

“I am careful.”

“There is a leather wallet in the top drawer of the desk. Bring it to me.”

“You should hide your money better, Maman,” he remarked as he did so.

She shrugged, took the wallet and counted out the notes.

“There are not many more,” she said.

Soon after this, Jacques Le Sourd went back to his own apartment. He worked on the anarchist article for a little while, then turned in to sleep. He still hadn’t decided what to do.



The following evening, he went to the Bois de Boulogne. It was certainly a good place to make a drop of this kind. Anyone could be hiding in the trees, slip forward to pick up the envelope and vanish into the trees again.

He left the money by the tree. Inside the envelope with the money was a note. It was written in capital letters and unsigned. It said: “THERE IS NO MORE.”

As he left the park, he reflected that to escape further trouble, he’d better stay away from Roland de Cygne for a time, perhaps a long time.

It had not occurred to him that this was exactly what Luc Gascon and the captain had intended.



“In the name of the Father, and of the Son …” The voice of Roland de Cygne came through the screen of the confessional. Old Father Xavier listened attentively.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” Roland’s voice continued. “It has been a month since I last confessed.”

Father Xavier knew that. The last confession had been quite boring. Indeed, as a friend rather than a confessor, he sometimes felt his young protégé needed to get out and sin a little more.

So he was rather pleased when, a couple of minutes later, Roland confessed to the sin of fornication.

“With one woman or several?” he quietly inquired.

“One.”

“How many times?”

“I slept with her one night. And again in the morning.”

“With what sort of person was this?”

“A courtesan.”

“When you say a courtesan, my son, you mean a prostitute?”

There was a momentary pause.

“She was not what you’d call a prostitute. She is known as La Belle Hélène.”

“La Belle Hélène?” Father Xavier shifted on his seat. This was getting interesting. Could the Vicomte de Cygne really be giving Roland such a huge allowance? “Very well. You paid for her services, in any case.”

Another hesitation.

“Well, yes and no.”

“My son, either you paid her or you didn’t. The sins of fornication and prostitution are slightly different.”

So then Roland explained.

For a few moments after he had finished, no clear sound came from the priest on the other side of the screen. Then, in a slightly strangulated voice, Father Xavier spoke: “The sin of prostitution is greater than that of ordinary fornication, because each person treats the other heartlessly, as an object rather than a child of God. In this case, given the circumstances, I think we may say that the sin does not quite—I say quite—constitute prostitution, and your penance may therefore be somewhat less. Have you other sins to confess?”

Roland listed a few minor transgressions.

“And do you repent of your sins?” asked the priest.

Again a hesitation. The young man was really too honest for his own good.

“I am trying to, Father,” he said.

“That will do, as a start.” Father Xavier pronounced a penance that would take Roland a couple of hours and gave him absolution, before dismissing him.

After Roland had departed, and no other penitent had come, Father Xavier sat quietly contemplating the tale he’d heard, and practically hugging himself with amusement and with pleasure.

Of course he knew, theologically, that it could not be so; yet it was hard for Father Xavier not to believe, loving the aristocracy as he did, that La Belle Hélène’s rebate was a divine dispensation for the family of de Cygne, which had served Him so faithfully and for so long.



It was a month later that the three men met for lunch at the Café de la Paix. They met for a purpose, and the purpose was a worthy one. But each of them, also, had a secret agenda of his own.

Jules Blanchard had chosen the Café de la Paix for two reasons. It was large and fashionable. Being almost opposite the Opéra, it was convenient for him, in that he could walk over from his office in the department store on boulevard Haussmann. Convenient also for the Vicomte de Cygne, whose coachman only had to cross the river to reach it, and then take the vicomte to certain shops he liked to visit afterward. As for the lawyer they were going to meet, no doubt he’d be pleased to be there anyway, convenient or not.

He wondered what this legal fellow was going to be like. Neither he nor the vicomte had ever heard of him.

Whatever the man was like, it was a noble object that brought them together. It concerned the honor of Paris, and indeed of France.

The magnificent statue of the mounted emperor Charlemagne on the parvis of Notre Dame was a national treasure. It might not be ancient, but it was heroic, a latter-day Gothic masterpiece. It was also falling apart—or, to be precise, it needed a new and suitably handsome plinth to stand upon. The old one had been small and temporary and unless something was done soon, the emperor of the Franks would have to be carted away.

Yet was the city of Paris prepared to spend a sou on it? No it wasn’t. An informal committee of citizens had got together to raise money. He’d joined it because he admired the statue, and as the owner of the Joséphine department store, it was the sort of thing he ought to be seen supporting. The Vicomte de Cygne had joined because he descended from the emperor’s legendary companion Roland.

But although Jules and the aristocrat came from rather different social worlds, they had soon discovered that they liked the same operas, smoked the same cigars and even occasionally frequented the same salons. In short, they had found each other rather congenial.

The members of the group could have found the money for the plinth between themselves. But everyone agreed that Parisians ought to express their appreciation for such an ornament to the city with a public subscription of some kind. So when the committee received a note from a city lawyer who thought he could help them do so, it was agreed that Blanchard and de Cygne should meet him and find out what he had to offer.

Jules got there a few minutes early. Almost immediately afterward, the Vicomte de Cygne arrived. That summer he had grown a fashionable pointed beard and mustache—gray and close cropped—which suited him rather well. He greeted Jules and they sat down to wait.

Exactly at the appointed hour, they saw a waiter leading a man across the grand spaces of the Café de la Paix to their table. A somewhat small, thin man, very neatly dressed, with a long, pale face.

Monsieur Ney bowed to them both and took the proffered chair. Drinks were ordered. Ney was polite. He apologized that he might be called to the front desk to sign a document—only for a moment—toward the end of the meal: a piece of information which did not endear him to the vicomte. But he had certainly taken the trouble to inform himself thoroughly about the business at hand. He knew that the artist had sadly died before the plinth could be installed, and that the artist’s brother had almost bankrupted himself providing a stone plinth that he couldn’t pay for.

“I am appalled that the city has not played its part,” he announced. “The site in front of Notre Dame seems well chosen, and the statue is a marvel.”

“And what brought our project to your attention?” asked Blanchard.

“To tell you the truth, monsieur, it was my daughter, Hortense, who learned of it, and told me I should be doing something. She interests herself in everything in the city. And as she is not yet married and has no children to worry about, she finds good causes every day. Her generosity will probably ruin me,” he added with a smile, which gently indicated that he was far from being ruined.

So, thought Jules, the true object of the lawyer was revealed. It was to promote his daughter. He thought of how his sister had taken him to task on the subject of Marie, and felt a pang of guilt. He couldn’t blame the lawyer for doing what he ought to be doing himself. It remained to be seen what the fellow had to offer in return.

“What we really want,” he explained to the lawyer, “is not only to raise money—which of course we wish to do—but to enlarge the network of people involved in the project. I wonder if you have any suggestions.”

“As far as funds are concerned, naturally Hortense and I would wish to contribute. I also know an old lady of large fortune who is good enough to take my advice on matters like this. But to enlist public interest, I wondered if it would be a good idea to ask Monsieur Eiffel to give the project his blessing. We happen to know him.” He paused. “And if only to please Hortense, I think he might take an interest.”

“Indeed.” The lawyer might not be quite the company he’d choose, but Jules was impressed. “That might be very helpful,” he said.

The meal passed pleasantly enough. De Cygne let Blanchard do most of the talking, but inevitably the aristocrat asked Ney if he was related to the great marshal of the same name.

“I am, Monsieur de Cygne, and I am very proud of it. I know the marshal’s loyalties might not be your own, but I honor him as a brave soldier.”

De Cygne greeted this with a nod.

The lawyer then gently turned the conversation to his daughter, Hortense. Ney did not say more than a fond father should, but it was clear that the young lady was as good as she was beautiful.

Now it was time for Jules to pursue his agenda too.

“You’ve had her portrait painted, no doubt,” he remarked easily.

“In fact, I have not,” the lawyer confessed.

“Oh,” said Blanchard, as if this was rather strange. “I always think these things add to the reputation of a young woman. People see them, you know.”

“Have you an artist you’d recommend?” Ney innocently inquired.

“It would depend what sort of portrait you wanted, I suppose,” Jules answered. “My son Marc is a painter. Rather in the style of Manet, you might say. He did Madame Du Bois the banker’s wife, the other day. They seemed pleased.” He smiled. “You’d better move fast if you want him, though, before his prices shoot up.”

“I should be most interested,” Ney responded, “if you’d care to put us in touch.”

He’d understood, of course. A commission for Marc. A place on the committee perhaps, for himself and visibility for his daughter. So far so good.

Just as the meal was about to end, a waiter came and whispered in Ney’s ear, and with profuse apologies, he left them for a moment to go to meet his clerk at the entrance. While he was gone, de Cygne turned to Blanchard.

“His game is the daughter, then. He wants to infiltrate her into society.”

“Undoubtedly,” Jules agreed. “But one can’t blame the fellow. He’s only doing what a father should.” He shrugged. “Who knows, she may be pretty. And I’m sure there will be a fine dowry.”

De Cygne grunted in a manner that indicated he couldn’t care less.

“I enjoyed listening to you get your son a commission, though,” the vicomte added with a wry smile.

“When lawyers take so much in fees, one must claw back what one can,” Blanchard replied cheerfully. “But if the fellow can deliver Eiffel, as he claims,” he continued more seriously, “that would be a great draw to the public. And I think we ought to encourage him.”

“You’re right, of course,” said the vicomte. He glanced toward the distant figure of Ney with distaste. “But Eiffel is a great man. I am not going to be introduced to him by a back-streets attorney.” He gave an apologetic shrug. “I’m a snob.” He reached across and touched Blanchard’s arm. “You could introduce me to Eiffel. That would give me great pleasure.”

Jules laughed.

“Perhaps the solution will be for Ney to introduce me to Eiffel. And then I can introduce Eiffel to you!”

“In that case, mon ami,” de Cygne said, “I shall be in your debt forever.”

Ney rejoined them. They finished the meal.

And it was then that the Vicomte de Cygne, feeling that he ought to make an effort with this potential contributor, asked him pleasantly: “Tell us, Monsieur Ney, as we know you are related to a military hero, have you other interesting figures in your ancestry?”

Ney hesitated.

“As it happens, Monsieur de Cygne, I have never been able to discover the connection, if it even exists, but my mother’s maiden name was Arouet.”

“Arouet?” cried Jules Blanchard. “But that’s the family name of Voltaire.”

“As you say, monsieur,” answered Ney, “before the great philosopher decided to call himself Voltaire, he was plain Monsieur Arouet.” He smiled. “And his father was a notary, too.”

Blanchard gazed at Ney. Though the notary didn’t exactly look like the great hero of the eighteenth-century Enlightenment, there was some resemblance, at least in their small, thin physiques.

“I’m surprised you don’t claim it,” remarked de Cygne drily.

“I am a lawyer, Monsieur de Cygne. Others might demand proof, and I do not possess it.”

But the aristocrat wasn’t going to let the matter drop just yet. He was going to punish the lawyer, just a little, for intruding upon him. He considered.

“What was that story about Voltaire? When he was quite young, he ran a national lottery, collected all the money and then awarded the prize to himself. Wasn’t that how he made his first fortune? Something like that.”

If this was intended to embarrass Ney, it failed. He smiled.

“In fact, monsieur, he and several others realized that in a certain national lottery, the government had made a mathematical mistake in calculating the odds. They put together a syndicate, bought blocks of tickets, and made a great fortune. But it was perfectly legal.”

“Oh,” said de Cygne, and shrugged. “Well, I prefer my story.”

“So do I,” said the lawyer with a laugh. “So do I.” And then, just for once, Monsieur Ney inadvertently let down his guard. “Think of it,” he cried: “Oh what a fraud! How delicious! If a man could get away with that, and not get caught …”

And, quite forgetting himself, he let out a loud, gleeful cackle that was almost fiendish, while the businessman and the aristocrat stared at him in fascinated horror.

There was a silence. The lawyer dabbed at his face with a silk handkerchief.

“Well, Monsieur Ney,” said Jules Blanchard, “it has been most interesting to meet you.” And he politely escorted him to the entrance. “I shall be in contact very soon. Did you really want me to put you in touch with my son Marc?”

“Assuredly, monsieur,” said Monsieur Ney. “As soon as possible.”

“Then in that case,” he wrote on the back of his card, “all you need do is write to him at this address. It’s his studio.”

When Jules got back to the vicomte, that gentleman declared that they both needed a brandy.

But he didn’t want to discuss Ney anymore. It seemed that the lawyer had already been expunged from his mind. It had not occurred to Jules that the aristocrat might also have a hidden agenda, but as the vicomte looked at him reflectively, it seemed that he might.

“I see that you are a good father,” said de Cygne.

“You mean the commission for Marc? I’m sure you do things for your son too, Vicomte.”

“I lost my wife when my son was a young boy. It makes it more difficult. I worry about him, still. Do you worry about your children?”

“Of course.” He told de Cygne briefly about Gérard and Marie. “They’re all right, I think. But I worry about Marc.”

“You see your children often?”

“At least once a month, the whole family meets for Sunday lunch, either in Paris or at Fontainebleau. They bring their friends. For better or worse, it’s family.”

De Cygne thought of his own quiet house and nodded.

“That is how it should be. Do you ever have older guests?”

“Certainly.” Blanchard looked at him curiously.

“Might I be a guest at one of your lunches?”

“By all means.” Blanchard hesitated. “They are quite informal, you understand. The Blanchard family is entirely bourgeois. It might not be to your taste, you know.”

De Cygne reflected that if Blanchard wanted to, he could probably buy the de Cygne house, château and estate, and have change to spare. But that was not the point. It was another little plan that was framing in his mind, and the Blanchard family was exactly to his purpose.

“If you would invite me,” he said, “I should be delighted to come.”

“Well,” answered Jules, “Christmas and the New Year are almost upon us, but what about the third Sunday in January? The sixteenth. In Paris.”

“Excellent,” said de Cygne. “I shall be there.” Even though, in truth, he hadn’t the least intention of going.



It had never occurred to Roland de Cygne that his father’s life might be drawing to a close. The vicomte appeared to be in excellent health. So he was always glad, afterward, that when his father had suggested he come down to the château and stay with him awhile, he had accepted.

The last couple of months in Paris had passed quietly enough for Roland. His regimental duties kept him busy. Indeed, he sometimes felt that he was being given extra duties. “That’s to compensate for your winning the lottery for La Belle Hélène,” the captain told him cheerfully. He didn’t have time to go out on the town very much. But whenever he did go to the Folies-Bergère, or to see a play, or just to dine out, his brother officers were always eager to accompany him. The captain in particular seemed to want his company. He had no objection, but sometimes he might have been just as happy to go out for an evening alone.

In the middle of December, however, he was due some leave, and he’d been wondering what to do.

Many people, having spent the summer months in the country, would have remained in Paris for the winter season unless, like the fashionable English, they liked to travel down to places like Nice and Monte Carlo on the Mediterranean, or venture into the snowy magnificence of the Swiss Alps, where a few hardy souls would even hike across the mountain trails on skis.

But his father had recently decided it was time he paid more attention to the family estate. “The house needs attention, so do the farms,” he told Roland. “I want to leave things in good order for you. And before I die, I’m going to sort all the family papers that nobody’s touched in a hundred years.”

“In that case, Father,” Roland answered with a smile, “you may have to live a long time.”

So now, knowing that the regiment would certainly be posted, possibly far away, at some point, and having received his father’s invitation, he’d decided to keep his father company in the country.

The Château de Cygne was not large, but it was full of character. At various times in its history, when the family could afford it, the old building had been altered or added to, so that the final result was a charming mixture of styles. Hidden inside were thick walls belonging to the original little fort, which went back eight hundred years.

But the oldest part visible from the outside dated from the late fifteenth century, when the son of Guy de Cygne, using the moneys from his mother, Cécile Renard, and the noble heiress he’d married himself, had created a small, romantic château, with a steep roof, round towers and pointed turrets at the corners.

This charming little French castle also contained the family’s favorite room—a large hall, with quite a low ceiling that was crossed by dark, friendly old beams, and a huge fireplace that could have held a dozen men. On one wall of the hall, looking as if it had always been there, hung the lovely unicorn tapestry supplied by Monsieur Jacob.

Another wing, equally delightful in decorative brick, had been added a century later, in the rich and cheerful style of the French Renaissance. Finally, in the eighteenth century, yet another wing and court had been added in the classical style. This perhaps was less satisfactory, but a wide ornamental terrace, with a formal garden and elegantly clipped trees, had brought the whole ensemble together in a way that felt pleasing. It was not uncommon to find such places in the lovely Loire Valley region.

During that Christmas season, Roland and his father had time to discuss many things together. Roland told his father about his adventure with La Belle Hélène, which amused and pleased the vicomte greatly. They also discussed ways to improve the estate. The woods could be used for boar hunting. “We could also raise pheasants for shooting, like the English do,” the vicomte believed. “The château itself is in fair shape,” he informed Roland, “but the upper floors need restoring, and in another dozen years we’ll have to reroof the whole place. One day you may need to sell the house in Paris, unless you can marry a rich woman,” he added.

Yet sometimes, it seemed to Roland, his father was troubled by darker thoughts.

“The situation in Europe worries me,” he confessed one evening. “I just hope you won’t have to fight a war, like I did.”

“The great empires have treaties to maintain the balance of power,” Roland pointed out.

“Yes. But Germany is still jealous of Britain’s empire. When old Bismarck was running Germany’s policy, for all his ambition, he knew the limits of power. But the people around the young kaiser now are hotheads. I fear for the future.”

On the state of France itself, however, it was he rather than his father who was the pessimist.

“The corruption of the government is so complete, Father, I can’t understand why most of the deputies don’t shoot themselves in shame. When I think of the Panama Canal … I despair of my country.”

It was true that the catastrophe of the Panama Canal had shocked all France. At first, it had been advertised as a great French enterprise. Its builder, de Lesseps, had triumphantly engineered the Suez Canal some years earlier. Now French expertise would astonish the New World as well. But not only had the plans been misconceived, not only had the entire business gone bankrupt, taking with it the savings of ordinary people all over France, but de Lesseps and his friends had mounted one of the biggest cover-ups the world had ever seen, bribing innumerable politicians high and low to conceal the disaster. Even Eiffel, who’d been called in to try to correct the engineering when it was far too late, had almost been tarnished with the scandal.

Respect for the political class had been destroyed for a generation.

“My son,” the vicomte had replied with a shake of his head, “I share your outrage, but scandals like these have been found in every country, and I suspect they always will be.”

“I do not accept that nothing can be done,” Roland replied. “But I think it’s proof that we cannot trust our elected officials.”

“And you would replace it with a monarchy? A sacred king?”

“I consider the monarch to be sacred. Yes. He is anointed by God. But if not a monarch, perhaps a man who is above mere politics. A man of destiny.”

“That is how Napoléon first portrayed himself, yet you do not approve of him.”

“I mean a religious man.”

“A few years ago, General Boulanger seemed like such a man, yet when perhaps he could have made a bid for power, he shied away from taking up such a burden. I cannot think of any plausible figure in France today. Nor am I so sure that I trust any single man, even an anointed monarch, so much better than I do one who is an ordinary politician.” The vicomte sighed. “All governments are corrupt. It’s just a question of degree.” He smiled wryly. “And whether they’re any good at it.”

And just as he had when he was a boy, while he loved and respected his father, Roland felt a sense of sorrow that the vicomte could not, or would not, take a moral stance when he should.



Sometimes the Vicomte de Cygne wondered if he should have married again. Not so much for his own sake as for his son. The trouble was that at the time when little Roland had probably needed a mother most, he himself had been grieving far too deeply for his lost wife even to think of marrying another.

Since then he’d been fortunate in having a number of romantic friendships. One woman he might have married if she had been available. Another was available, but she would not have been accepted socially by his friends. Others had usually followed a similar pattern—discreet, safe, amusing. He had not been unhappy.

As for his domestic situation, his Paris house was very effectively run by Nanny, even in her old age. And at the family château, where certainly, a woman’s hand was called for, he wasn’t sure he’d really be able to tolerate anyone else’s interference nowadays. He’d long ago decided to keep it the way it was, in somewhat masculine order, until such time as Roland should marry and his wife and children could do as they pleased with the place while he watched, no doubt with horror as well as amusement. He’d supposed that was the natural order.

But as he looked at his son today, the vicomte couldn’t help feeling that he had let him down. Plenty of other boys had grown up without a mother, of course. But Roland’s upbringing had been too masculine. He lacked balance.

I shouldn’t have let Father Xavier influence him so much, either, the vicomte thought.

He’d never objected to the priest, who was so obviously in love with his wife. He’d rather sympathized with him. He had known Father Xavier’s love would remain entirely platonic. The priest was correct, and pure. But perhaps that was why he harbored doubts about him. For during the course of his life, rightly or wrongly, the vicomte had developed a certain suspicion of men who were too pure.

God knows what stuff that priest had put in his son’s head down the years.

Not that the Vicomte de Cygne objected to his son’s being a monarchist, nor a devout Catholic, nor a young aristocrat, proud of his ancestry and with the prejudices of his class. The vicomte shared most of those prejudices himself. In fact, he rather enjoyed these aristocratic snobberies. But he enjoyed them without believing in them too much. Indeed, the very fact that, as an aristocrat, he looked down upon most of humanity—and that he also knew the shortcomings of his fellow aristocrats—made it easy for him not to expect too much from imperfect human nature, nor to judge people too harshly.

But his son believed too much. And a lifetime of observation, including the horrors of the Commune, had led the vicomte to think that when men believed too strongly, it made them cruel.

He was especially concerned by a conversation they had just after Christmas.

It concerned an army officer. His name was Dreyfus and, unusually for an officer, he was Jewish. When a minor spying scandal had emerged, he had been accused of passing secrets to the Germans, court-martialed and sent to prison on Devil’s Island.

Some people had said that the prosecution was badly flawed, and even that Dreyfus was innocent. As one might expect, the military authorities refused to contemplate the idea that there had been any mistake. And there the matter had rested.

The subject had come up quite casually when they were talking about the difference between civilian and military courts, and the vicomte was remarking that no system of justice could ever be perfect.

“That Dreyfus fellow, for instance: I dare say he’s guilty, but it may turn out one day that he wasn’t. That’s just the way it goes.”

“Oh, I think we can be sure he’s guilty, Father,” Roland replied. “After all, the man’s a Jew.”

“My dear boy, you can’t say he’s a traitor just because he’s a Jew.”

“Perhaps not. But it makes him suspect, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t think so. What is it you object to about the Jews?”

“Apart from the obvious fact that they are not Catholics, one can never be sure of their loyalty. One never knows what they’re up to.”

“You mean there’s a general conspiracy?”

“The Jews all stick together, don’t they?”

“But you surely don’t think that our friend Jacob, for instance, who sold me that wonderful tapestry, is part of a conspiracy?”

“I don’t know, Father. He may be.”

“And do most of your fellow officers believe such things?”

“Of course. And as far as this Dreyfus is concerned, most of them think that Jews shouldn’t be officers at all.”

“There is no evidence for a conspiracy, you know.”

“Naturally. It’s a conspiracy.”

His father sighed.

“My dear son, that has been the doctrine of every maniac in the secret police since the days of Babylon. If we can see a conspiracy, then it’s proved. If we can’t see it, then the conspirators must be hiding it. This is a logic from which there is no escape.”

“Exactly.”

“But there may not be a conspiracy, my dear boy. Has this not occurred to you?”

Roland was silent.

The vicomte was proud of his son. He could see that through these prejudices, which unfortunately were commonplace, Roland was expressing the idealist’s desire to serve a cause. The fault in his son lay not in his nature, which was honorable, but in his perceptions, which were limited. All the more reason, he considered, that he should try to render his son one important service.

He must broaden the young man’s mind, teach him that there were many ways to live, and that there was virtue in tolerance, too, in an imperfect world.

So he was all the more glad of that idea he’d had when he met Blanchard and that appalling lawyer the other day. Not that he’d have any objection to having Sunday lunch with the Blanchard family, but his intention had been to send his son instead. Roland should mix with some other kinds of people. The Blanchard family would be a good start.

The fact that Blanchard had an unmarried daughter who would undoubtedly bring with her an excellent dowry had also crossed his mind. True, she wasn’t an aristocrat, but one must move with the times. A girl like that might be what Roland needed.

The important thing was not to give his son any idea of his plan. The boy would be sure to rebel if he thought he was being manipulated.

And here events played nicely into his hands. Early in January, there was a heavy fall of snow. It made the château look magical. But unfortunately, in the ensuing frost, some pipes froze, and by the second week in January when a thaw began, it was discovered that the cellars were flooding quite seriously.

Roland’s leave was ending in any case, and he had to return to Paris. So the day before he was due to depart, the vicomte called him into his estate office.

“My dear son, I have two small favors to ask of you. The first is that I have just found this letter in my desk, which I received six weeks ago and entirely forgot. It’s from a man in Canada who thinks he is related to us. I don’t believe he is. As far as I know, no member of the family has ever gone to Canada. But I don’t think that he is trying to insinuate himself. He writes very charmingly. Anyway, as I have so much to do here, and I’m embarrassed to have taken so long to reply, would you do me the kindness to reply to him. Write something nice. One never knows when one might need a friend in Canada.”

Somewhat unwillingly, Roland agreed to do so.

“And what is the second thing?” he asked.

“Ah. I had planned to go to Paris with you, but with all this water trouble, I think I should stay at the château. Would you go in my place to a luncheon I had promised to go to? In fact, to tell you the truth, I practically invited myself.”

“When, Father?”

“On the third Sunday of this month. That’s the sixteenth, I think.”

“I suppose so. Who’s giving the lunch?”

“A friend of mine named Jules Blanchard. He owns the Joséphine department store, you know. I met him through the business over the Charlemagne statue.”

“But Father, I don’t know any people like that. I wouldn’t know what to say.”

“My dear son, you don’t have to say anything. Just go there as my representative. I don’t want to offend him by not turning up. In any case, you’ll find him excellent company. He knows how to behave. Quite a man about town, in fact. And it certainly won’t do you any harm to meet some people like that. They’re important, you know.”

“I shall be a fish out of water.”

“Just turn up as a kindness to me.”

“As you wish.”

The following morning Roland left for Paris. It never crossed the mind of either father or son that they would never meet again.



Jules Blanchard lived in an apartment. Ten years ago, he and his wife had considered buying a handsome house near the Parc Monceau. But in the end they’d both decided against it. “The house at Fontainebleau is enough work to keep up,” Jules had remarked. And the apartment they had, which was already large, was so close to his beloved department store, and so convenient for the Opéra and the other amusements they both liked, that they decided to stay where they were. They had never regretted the decision.

On the morning of the third Sunday in January in the year 1898, while his wife and Marie were still at Mass, Jules Blanchard rose from the breakfast room, and made his way to his small library, where he meant to read the newspaper in peace for a couple of hours. God knows there was a lot to read about that week. After that, he’d prepare for the family gathering at lunchtime.

He was feeling quite pleased with himself.

In the last few weeks, he had taken his sister’s words to heart. Though Jules had always had a large circle of friends, in recent years he’d been so involved with the department store, which truly fascinated him, that he had often been content to stay at home in the evenings with his wife when they might have gone out. They entertained a little, especially now that they had the new dining room to show off. Both Jules and his wife liked small dinner parties for just six or ten, and sometimes these included guests who might be of interest to Marie. But too often they had been middle-aged people that were of interest to Jules—businessmen, professional people, sometimes a politician.

Not that Marie had been without friends. Far from it. She and her mother went out to galleries and to visit family friends. Her aunt Éloïse went out with her to something interesting at least once a week, and had introduced Marie to quite a few people in the circles that she herself enjoyed. But these tended to be intellectual people—charming to add to the right sort of dinner party, but not quite as financially solid as he’d want for his daughter’s husband.

Marie’s brothers might have done more for her, but there was a problem. Gérard and his new wife had friends. But though Marie was on perfectly friendly terms with Gérard, she wasn’t close to him. Never had been since she was a child. They met whenever the family gathered, but that was all.

Marc, on the other hand, she loved. But though Jules Blanchard admired his younger son’s talent and imagination, he wasn’t too sure who his friends might be, and what sort of lives they led. And if one thing was certain in his mind, it was that his daughter should have a blameless reputation. It was one thing for an unmarried man of his class to have a mistress. But the rules for women were entirely different. Marie was intelligent, charming, everything that a man of her class might want in a wife—which included the facts that she was respectable, of unblemished reputation and sexually innocent. Mostly, even at the age of twenty-two, Marie went hardly anywhere without a chaperone. And Marc knew the rules. Marie might meet his respectable friends, but could never be left alone with any man. This by no means prevented Marc from entertaining his sister, but it also meant that there was a good deal of his daily life that she could not see.

In the last few weeks however, Marie’s parents had made a huge effort. There had been some delightful little parties. They had gone out a lot. She had met perhaps a dozen suitable men, and it seemed reasonable to assume that soon a good candidate would appear.

Even today’s lunch had been a possible occasion to invite a suitable man to join them. Given that it was a family affair, Jules had tried to think of neighbors or friends they knew.

Éloïse had always liked Pierre Jourdain, that boy Marie had taken such a fancy to when she was a little girl, but he’d recently gotten engaged. Then there were the sons of their close neighbor Dr. Proust, a most distinguished man. True, his wife was Jewish, but his sons were brought up Catholic, which Jules supposed was all right, and the family was well-off. The trouble was that the elder son was a dilettante with no proper career, while his younger brother, Robert, who looked far more promising, was still a bit too young.

Then, out of the blue, had come a note from the Vicomte de Cygne regretting that he was unable to get into Paris, but hoping that his friend would forgive him if his son, Roland, came in his place.

Could it be that the aristocrat had decided that his son should meet Marie? If so, it was cleverly done. This apparently chance arrangement gave no embarrassment to anyone. And God knows, Jules thought, the vicomte knows exactly who and what sort of fellow I am. He shook his head in amusement. Anything would depend of course on the character of Roland de Cygne and whether Marie liked him, but he couldn’t deny that a marriage with such an aristocratic family would be as gratifying as it was unexpected.

Who else was coming? His sister, Éloïse, Gérard and his wife. Marc was bringing a young American—respectable, Marc said, but whose French wasn’t too strong. And bearing that in mind, Jules had done something rather clever. He occasionally needed to transact business with English companies, where legal work was required, and had found an excellent English legal firm in Paris, a Mr. Fox and his son, the latter being about Marc’s age. Not a prospect for Marie of course, since he was undoubtedly Protestant. But since he spoke both French and English fluently, Fox would help with the American.

All in all, the day was looking very satisfactory.



Monsieur Petit stood and stared at his daughter Corinne. His fists were clenched. He was shaking with rage.

“I am going to see Monsieur Blanchard now,” he said.

“What for?” she cried. “What good will that do?”

“He is a man of honor. Perhaps he will make his son marry you.”

“He will not do it. He cannot do it.”

“That may be so.” He spoke quietly now, and that was even more frightening. “But if there is no marriage, then you will leave this house, and I shall never see you again.”

Paul Petit did not know when his family had first come to the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, but they were certainly there by the time of the French Revolution. And on the great day when the Faubourg Saint-Antoine arose, and marched up the long eastern thoroughfare to storm the Bastille, the Petits marched with them. They had supported every republican uprising since.

Though his wife went to Mass, which he considered a harmless women’s foible, Paul Petit despised all priests. “They are monarchists and bloodsuckers,” he would declare. But that did not mean that his children could ignore the last six of the Ten Commandments, and woe betide them if they did. Paul Petit came from a family of twelve children. He had eight of his own. Like his father before him, he was a hardworking craftsman. There was enough money to put food on the table, and clothe all the children decently. But not more. One slip, and the family would descend into chaos. That was all it would take. “The gutter,” he would warn his children, “lies just outside the door.” If he was stern, therefore, it was to ensure the family’s survival.

And when he had to be, Paul Petit was hard. Very hard. He was about to cast his daughter out of his house. He had to, if only as an example to her sisters.

As he set off to walk to see Jules Blanchard, he was still shaking. It wasn’t only Corinne’s crime that was tearing him apart. It was the fact that she had lied to him. And not just once, but coolly and calmly over many weeks. It enraged him, and it hurt him.

He remembered the start of it so well. She’d taken a message from him to a customer near the Parc Monceau and taken a long time to return. But when she’d explained her long absence, he’d been rather pleased.

“Father, I met Monsieur Blanchard in the street, and he made me return with him to see his wife. She needs extra help in the house two afternoons a week, and wondered if you could spare me.”

The Blanchards were highly respectable, as well as valued customers. If Corinne could earn a little extra money in this way, her parents had no objection at all.

The arrangement had lasted three weeks when Corinne told them that Gérard, their recently married son, and his wife could use her for a third afternoon. Weeks had passed, Corinne had brought home some modest wages from this work, and it had never occurred to her parents to question the business.

Once, just once, he might have detected something, when he remarked that he wondered if there were any store fittings that Monsieur Blanchard might need at Joséphine, and whether he might call upon him. He’d noticed Corinne suddenly go a little pale. But his wife had promptly remarked: “I’m sure he has you in mind, Paul, with his kindness to Corinne, and her being in his house every week. I don’t think you should go calling on him for other favors. He might feel it was too much.”

“You’re right, my dear,” he’d agreed at once, and put the idea out of his mind. “Keep your ears open, though,” he’d said to Corinne.

So when, this morning, his wife had told him that Corinne was pregnant by Marc Blanchard, that she’d been modeling for him in his studio, and that she’d never been near the house of Monsieur Blanchard or his son Gérard, Paul Petit had found it quite difficult to believe that it was true.

“And when did this start?” he had demanded. “How could such an idea enter your head?”

“I used to speak to him a little when he came here. I knew he painted people in his studio,” Corinne had confessed. “But then I met him in the street that day I went to the Parc Monceau. He was going to see his parents. He suggested that I come and model for him. It sounded …” She wanted to say interesting, or exciting, but didn’t dare. “I didn’t think you would allow it …”

“Of course I should not allow it!” her father had shouted.

“So I made up the story. I thought it would be just for a few afternoons, and then it would be over.”

“So you went and sat in a chair and he made drawings of you … How did this lead to what has happened now? Did he force himself on you?”

“No, Papa. It wasn’t quite like that. Artists’ models … they are not dressed, you know.”

“You were undressed?”

“And then, the third week … one thing led to another …” She trailed off.

“You became his mistress.”

“I suppose.”

“You suppose?” And only his wife throwing herself between them had prevented him from striking her. “You bring shame upon your family,” he cried. “Shame upon your parents, upon your poor brothers and sisters. And ruin upon yourself. But do not think that I will allow you to ruin this family,” he told her furiously. “For when a branch is rotten, it must be cut off.”



The rue du Faubourg Saint-Antoine was a very long street. It began out in what had formerly been a faubourg, a suburb, on the eastern side of the old city. Long before the Revolution, it had been an artisans’ quarter, where most of the carpenters, furniture makers and cabinetmakers were to be found. Most were republicans, some radicals, but like Petit, many of these skilled workers, craftsmen and small shopkeepers were sound family men of conservative instincts. But as monarchs had found in the past, once stirred, they were implacable.

Petit began his walk at a furious pace. The recent snows had melted away, and the streets were dry. After a short while, he came to where the old Bastille fortress had stood. There was nothing to be seen of it now, just a big open space above which the dull gray sky gave no hint of comfort upon his quest.

This marked the beginning of the old city, so that from now on the street lost the name of faubourg, and became simply the rue Saint-Antoine. After a few hundred yards, however, it changed its name again; for now it became the rue de Rivoli. And it was under that fashionable name that it led past the old Grève marketplace on the riverside, where the city hall, the Hôtel de Ville, had been rebuilt to look like a huge, ornate château; and then the old Châtelet, where the medieval provost had held his court. By now Petit had slowed his pace to a fast walk, and despite the cold air, he was sweating a little.

Finally, he unconsciously brushed the sleeves of his coat as he entered the rue de Rivoli’s grandest section—the long, arcaded thoroughfare that ran the entire length of the solemn Louvre Palace and the Tuileries Gardens beyond, until at last he came out into the vast open space of the Place de la Concorde.

He’d been walking almost an hour by now. His anger was no less, but it had slowly changed into a sullen rage bitterly flavored with despair.

He turned up toward the lovely classical temple of La Madeleine.

Just to the west of La Madeleine, another of Baron Haussmann’s huge residential boulevards began. The boulevard Malesherbes strode up from La Madeleine on a grand diagonal that took it past the edge of the Parc Monceau and on to one of the city’s northwestern gates. If the boulevard was solidly respectable, the sections nearest La Madeleine were distinctly fashionable. And it was here, in a large Belle Époque building, that he came to Jules Blanchard’s apartment.



Jules was most surprised, at half past ten that morning, when a servant announced that Monsieur Petit the furniture maker was there to see him, but he told the servant to bring Petit to the library at once.

As Petit told his tale, his hands clenching his hat in a mixture of embarrassment and determination, Blanchard understood him completely. He kept his own face grave and immobile throughout, giving nothing away, but inwardly he did not doubt a word that the craftsman was saying, and his heart went out to him. He understood his embarrassment, his shame and his rage.

When Petit was done, however, Jules remained calm and noncommittal.

“You must understand, Monsieur Petit, that I know nothing of what you have just told me.”

“I understand this, monsieur.”

“First of all, therefore, I must speak to my son. But since you and I are together, let us for a moment consider the matter as far as we ourselves know it. You are sure that your daughter is pregnant?”

“My wife says so.”

“I would advise you to seek a doctor first. It might turn out that she is not. And there is always the chance, even if she is, that nature will bring the matter to an end. This can often happen, after all.”

“Perhaps, monsieur.” Petit looked doubtful.

“Even if—I say ‘if’ for the time being—it should be that my son is the cause of your daughter’s condition, I think we must put out of our minds the idea that my son would wish to marry your daughter. I say this simply because we must not deceive ourselves. I should be surprised if Marc wishes such a thing, and I should not be in favor of it myself.”

Petit said nothing. What could he say? He already knew it was true.

“If that were the case,” Jules continued, “what would you do?”

“She will leave my house. I will never see her again.”

“You would not forgive her?”

“I cannot, monsieur. I have my family to think of. But your family has a responsibility, monsieur.”

He was probably losing a customer by saying it, but then he was sure he’d lost Blanchard as a customer anyway.

Jules wondered if the girl would consider an abortion. Such things could be arranged. This was not the moment to raise the matter, however.

“I make no comment until I have spoken to my son. But you may be sure that you will hear from me afterward.”

The interview was at an end. As soon as Petit had left, Jules sent a servant to Marc’s lodgings with a message that he should come to see him at once.

“Not later this morning,” he reiterated. “At once.”



Marc arrived at twenty minutes before noon. He was smiling broadly. He had his American friend already with him, and cheerfully introduced the fellow, who seemed harmless enough, to his parents before his father asked him to step into his library for a private word.

Jules closed the door.

“Corinne Petit is pregnant.”

“She is?” The surprise on Marc’s face was genuine.

“Her father was here this morning. He wants to know what you mean to do about it. Is there a chance you are not the father?”

Marc considered.

“I imagine I am.” He shrugged. “She was innocent.”

“A virgin?”

“Yes. And … I doubt she would even have had the opportunity …”

“He thinks you should marry her.”

“Ah, non.”

“You know what will happen to her, don’t you? Her father is going to throw her out into the street. She is dead to him. Ruined.”

“Mon Dieu!”

“What do you expect? Have you no sense of responsibility?” His father’s voice was rising. “You seduce the young daughter of a man who does work for our family, who trusts us and holds us in respect. You ruin her and think there will be no consequences? How do you think I felt, watching the poor fellow’s rage and agony? How do you imagine I should feel if some scoundrel, yes, some scoundrel like you had ruined your sister? Villain!” he shouted. “Cretin!” He was almost panting with rage.

Marc was completely silent. Then, after a pause, he answered with a single word.

“Joséphine.”

“What do you mean, Joséphine?”

“You insult me and call me names, Father, but it was you who called your department store, for which you and our family are known all over Paris, by the name of your former mistress.”

“Nonsense. It’s named after the empress Joséphine. Everyone knows that.”

“Don’t worry. Maman has no idea.”

“She has no idea because it is not the case,” his father answered sharply.

Marc shrugged.

“As you like.”

“If,” said his father quietly, “you had a charming mistress, a woman of the world who could take care of herself, I’d have no objection whatsoever.”

“I should need a larger allowance.”

“But this case,” his father continued, ignoring the impertinent interruption, “is entirely different.” He paused. “We could take no notice of the girl, of course, we could say that she is just a little whore and that you may not even be the father. I know many families who would do exactly that. Do you wish me to do so?”

“No.”

“I am glad to hear that, at least, since I am not disposed to do any such thing. We shall have to see what arrangements can be made. She can have the child out of sight in the country. That’s not a problem. It could be adopted. If need be, I can pay for its upbringing. But I’m afraid that Petit still won’t have his daughter back in his house. I understand it, but it’s tragic.” He looked at his son bleakly. “Meanwhile, in order to help you reflect on this, I am stopping your allowance.”

“For how long?”

“Until further notice.” He signaled that there was nothing more to say. “You had better rejoin your American friend. Our other guests are about to arrive. Oh, and one more thing,” he added. “Your sister is to know nothing about this business. You understand? Absolutely nothing.”



Frank Hadley was a very decent fellow. He’d come to Paris to study art, and he’d been there only a couple of weeks when he bumped into Marc Blanchard, who’d befriended him, taken him around and now invited him to meet his family.

He was twenty-five years old, tall, well-built, with a mane of brown hair, honest brown eyes set wide apart, and whose strong, athletic frame suggested that he might be a good oarsman, and probably swing the lumberjack’s ax as well—both of which guesses would have been correct. During his education, he’d picked up enough French to make a start when he got to France, and he was studying the language hard for two hours every morning.

He looked around the apartment with interest. It was obvious that Marc’s family had plenty of money, but it was bourgeois money. There was none of the stately Louis XIV furniture favored by the aristocracy, nor the lighter, rococo furniture of the gilded age. The furniture of the Blanchards’ large apartment was mostly nineteenth century—sofas and chairs with curling legs and backs, lacquered cabinets, here and there a desk in the simpler, more severe Directoire style of the Napoleonic period. And above all, a profusion of potted plants—palm trees in tubs standing in corners, flowering plants on tables. The haute bourgeoisie of France, almost as much as the entire middle and upper classes of Victorian England, had taken to indoor plants.

He’d done his best to make small talk with Marc’s mother. But although she couldn’t have been a more kindly hostess, her English was limited, and their conversation had not been sparkling during the first couple of minutes. So he’d been relieved when an elegant lady, who explained that she was Marc’s aunt, and a pleasant, fair-haired girl, who turned out to be Marc’s sister, had entered the room. The girl spoke only a little more English than her mother, but Aunt Éloïse spoke English quite fluently, and it was quickly apparent that she was a cultivated and well-read lady. This was just the sort of person, he thought, that he should get to know.

They’d been talking only a couple of minutes, however, when, quite unmistakably, they heard the sound of Monsieur Blanchard’s voice raised in anger. They couldn’t hear what he was saying, but Frank was almost sure he heard the word “Villain!” being shouted. And then: “Cretin!”

He glanced inquiringly at Marie, who blushed with embarrassment. He had a sense that Marc’s mother might know what this was all about. He wondered for a moment if perhaps he ought to go.

It was Aunt Éloïse who calmly took command of the situation.

“Well, Monsieur Hadley, it seems that Marc must have displeased his father. We do not know what he has done, but I think we can say it is quite certain that he has done something.” She smiled. “Perhaps your father was sometimes angry with you.”

“I seem to remember being taken to the woodshed, as we say, when I was a boy.”

“Voilà.” She made an elegant motion with her hand. “Then it seems that all families in the world are the same. So. As we have guests coming at any moment, my dear Hadley, you will now immediately have to become one of the family. We shall carry on exactly as if nothing had happened at all, n’est-ce pas?”

Frank grinned.

“I can do that.”

“Excellent.” Aunt Éloïse looked around. It did not seem that Marie or her mother were ready with any observations at this moment, so she continued in the same vein. “Very soon, Hadley, we shall ask you all about yourself, but I shan’t ask you yet, or when the others come you will have to say it all again.” She paused, but only for a moment. “In France, you will soon discover,” she continued, as if, indeed, nothing had happened at all, “we often raise our voices when we are discussing matters which are of absolutely no importance whatsoever. Philosophy, for instance. Everybody shouts and interrupts each other. It’s most agreeable. If, however, the world is coming to an end”—she raised her finger—“it is de rigueur to remain very calm, and, if possible, to look bored.” She gave him a wry look. “At least, this was the ideal in the best circles, before the Revolution. And we still remember it.”

“We have the stiff upper lip in America,” Frank said, “but we haven’t yet mastered the art of being bored.”

“If you stay with us long enough, my dear Hadley,” said Aunt Éloïse with a smile, “I’m sure that we can bore you. Ah.” She turned. “People are coming.”

Everyone was arriving now. Gérard and his wife, Marc, who was looking a little pale, and moments later a pleasant Englishman named James Fox. Just after that, Monsieur Blanchard also returned to the room. He welcomed Fox, embraced Gérard and his wife, and if he did not look at Marc, gave no other sign that anything might be amiss between them.

His sister, Éloïse, turned to him.

“My dear Jules, while you had your passionate discussions with Marc, I have been having a charming conversation with Hadley here, who is now quite one of the family.” She gave her brother a stare.

She spoke in French, but Frank got the gist of it, and he smiled to himself. The French manners might seem a little artificial, but Aunt Éloïse had just gently let her brother know that their American guest had heard him shouting.

“Ah.” Jules Blanchard glanced at him. “Well,” he announced to the gathering, “everyone is here except Monsieur de Cygne.” And seeing some surprise on their faces: “I had better explain who he is.”



As Roland walked into the boulevard Malesherbes from La Madeleine, he wasn’t very happy. He didn’t want to go to this lunch. He’d do his best, because his father had asked him to; but he wasn’t looking forward to it.

He’d had an irritating morning as well. He’d put off answering the letter from the Canadian that his father had given him, and decided that he really must deal with it today. So he’d read it.

The letter was perfectly polite. It informed him that although the writer’s family name was spelled “Dessigne” these days, they had always understood that they were a branch of the noble de Cygne and that since the writer was making a visit to France that summer, and had the idea of visiting some of the châteaus of the Loire, he wondered if he might be allowed to see the old family château one afternoon.

Whatever the man’s intentions, it was quite clear that he was mistaken, and Roland had no intention of letting him through the door. But how to get rid of him politely? He had tried to compose a suitable letter for two hours, and each time he tried, he had felt more and more irritated, so that in the end he had been forced to leave for lunch with the letter unfinished.

Part of the trouble was that he had been in a bad temper from the moment he woke up. In fact, he’d been in a foul mood since Thursday. And for this he could not be blamed.

The cataclysm that had taken place in France on the Thursday of that week, and was to echo down French history for generations to come, consisted of a single letter. It wasn’t even written by anyone important—just by a popular novelist named Émile Zola. And it concerned that obscure Jewish officer, Dreyfus.

“J’accuse …” the letter said. “I accuse …” Who did Zola accuse? The French establishment, the justice system and, worst of all, the army itself.

They knew that Dreyfus was innocent, he said. The army and the government were involved in a disgraceful conspiracy to keep an innocent man in the tropical penal colony of Devil’s Island, rather than admit the evidence that another officer, who had been identified, was the real traitor. And why were they all prepared to pervert the course of justice? Because Dreyfus was a Jew.

Before the spring was out, all France would have taken sides. For the moment, the government was furious, and as for the army, there was not the faintest question among Roland’s fellow officers.

“Zola ought to be shot.”



Frank sat at the dining room table. Marc’s family were certainly making things very easy for him.

He’d heard that in France, as in Spain, it wasn’t always easy to get into people’s houses, and that one would never really understand the country until one did. He’d also heard that the French could be difficult. Here Marc had already given him excellent advice.

“All you have to do, Frank, is to show respect. You must remember that the English defeated Napoléon in the end, and that they have the biggest empire in the world, so they are inclined to be arrogant. French is the language of diplomacy, of course, so we have no problem with the English diplomats. The rest of their countrymen, however, come over here and try to order us about in English. Naturally, we don’t always like it. However, if you show respect, and make an effort to speak French, everyone will help you.” He’d paused. “I have to tell you, all the same, that there is one small problem.”

“What’s that?”

“The Americans have terrible difficulty with the French accent. I don’t know why, but I have noticed that it is so. Sometimes an American will learn French, and we listen hard, because we realize they are speaking our language, but we can’t understand what they’re saying.” He shrugged. “It’s a pity.” Then he’d grinned. “But don’t worry, mon vieux. If you do your homework with the language, I personally will take care of your pronunciation.”

Manners dictated that Madame Blanchard, who spoke little English, should put de Cygne on her right and Frank on her left. But Fox the Englishman was on the other side of him. De Cygne spoke a little English. On the other side of de Cygne was Marie. Jules Blanchard took the other end of the table, with his sister, Éloïse, on his right and his daughter-in-law on his left.

The conversation was general, with Fox quietly supplying translations when they were needed. And since Hadley was the guest from abroad, the whole table demanded, in the most friendly way, to know all about him.

Where was he from? his hostess asked. He explained that he’d been brought up in several places because his father was a professor and had moved around several universities before retiring recently to Connecticut.

“A professor of what?” asked Aunt Éloïse.

“Of Latin.”

“Your family were always academic?” she asked hopefully.

“No, ma’am,” he replied. “My grandfather made a pretty good fortune in the dry goods business, but my father liked to study, so he followed an academic career.”

“Dry goods, you say?” Gérard Blanchard asked from down the table. “Wholesale or retail?”

“Both.”

“So, your family is like ours,” Gérard said with approval. “Solid.”

Aunt Éloïse looked faintly irritated, but Frank smiled.

“We like to think so,” he answered cheerfully.

Aunt Éloïse wanted to know what had caused him to study art, and he explained that his mother was a talented musician and artist.

“I went to a small university called Union College, pretty much in the area where the Hudson River School of painters found their inspiration,” he explained. “Scenery of amazing grandeur. That as much as anything got me started.” He suddenly turned to look up the table to Marc. “You told me Americans have difficulty pronouncing French, Marc. So let’s see how you get on in American. My university is in a little city on the Mohawk River called Schenectady. Who here can pronounce that?”

After everyone at the table had tried, he shook his head.

“Fox got pretty close, but he’s English. The rest of you: nowhere near!”

His French hosts seemed to enjoy this very much. There were cries of genial protest: “It’s impossible. It cannot be done.”

“But why did you come to France, Monsieur Hadley?” Marie ventured, a little shyly.

“Impressionists, mademoiselle. The French Impressionists became all the rage in America, and so every ambitious young painter in the United States wants to come to France now. I guess I’m just one of a tribe.”

“It’s true,” Marc informed them. “Soon I believe there will be more American Impressionists in France than French ones. But I’ve seen Hadley’s work, and he has a lot of talent.”

“You study and paint, Monsieur Hadley,” de Cygne remarked, “yet you look to me like a man who enjoys outdoor pursuits as well.”

Frank smiled.

“To tell you the truth, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do after I left Union College, so I went west for a year and worked on a ranch. Loved it. Big open spaces, and I like physical work. By the end of it, though, I was sure I wanted to study painting.”

“So you ride?”

“I do.”

“Western?”

“I use an English saddle in New England, but I like to ride western. You ride?”

“I am in a cavalry regiment, monsieur. So, yes. As for the western saddle, ever since Buffalo Bill was here, everyone wants to try it.”

From the far end of the table, Jules Blanchard gently intervened.

“Monsieur de Cygne is too modest to say it,” he said, “but I happen to know from his father that he almost made the elite Cadre Noir team. That means, Hadley, that he’s one of the best horsemen in France.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” said the aristocrat, but Hadley could see that he didn’t mind the compliment. He noticed that Marie was impressed, as well.

It seemed to Hadley that he’d provided quite a useful diversion from whatever Marc and his father had been quarreling about. Everyone seemed to be in a pretty good mood.

But now Gérard had a question.

“Tell me, Monsieur Hadley, if you fail to make a career as a painter, what will you do then? Will you work?”

“Ah non!” cried Aunt Éloïse. “Assez, Gérard. Enough.”

Hadley laughed.

“I see you like to get to the point,” he said good-humoredly. “And it’s a fair question. My father’s been generous, and I’m going to give it all I’ve got for a few years. But if I can’t really achieve anything, then I think I’ll go into business. And I believe I know what business I’d like to get into.”

“Dry goods?”

“No. Motor cars. I think they have a huge future. Just in the last year or two, Ford in America, Benz in Germany, Peugeot in France, have all started turning from steam cars to the internal combustion engine. I believe that’s going to be a very exciting business.”

Gérard seemed impressed. De Cygne looked thoughtful.

“I know one or two rich men who want motor cars,” the aristocrat remarked, “as a rich man’s toy, of course. But you think in America it will go further than that?”

“Not yet awhile. But within a generation, I suspect so. And not just in America. All over the world.”

This thought silenced the whole table for a moment. But Jules Blanchard was looking at Hadley with particular approval, and thinking that this was just the friend that Marc needed to give him some balance and steadiness.

Fox had contented himself with offering instant translations so far, but now he entered the conversation. He was an interesting-looking fellow, Frank thought. Nearly as tall as himself, but more sparely built and with the quiet face of a professional man.

“The great change in transport that we’re about to see in Paris,” he informed Hadley, “is the Métro. They won’t start tunneling until late this year—the French are years behind the Americans and the English, I’m afraid, but the plans are very extensive. Now it’s happening, the whole network may come very fast.”

“And don’t forget the designs for the entrances and exits,” Marc added. “The plans are for the most lovely Art Nouveau metalwork. It’s going to be elegant.”

The main course had arrived. And it was a triumph. Bœuf en croûte, made to perfection. A tenderloin of beef, a thick layer of rich foie gras around it and the whole encased in a puff pastry. The aroma alone was sumptuous. Even de Cygne was impressed.

“Madame,” he said to his hostess, with feeling, “you have a wonderful cook.”



As Roland looked around the table, he had to confess that this meal with the Blanchard family hadn’t been as bad as he’d expected. True, they weren’t his sort of people. The apartment was not to his taste, and as for the Art Nouveau dining room they were so proud of, it seemed vulgar to him, simply because it was new.

But his father had been right. He should meet different sorts of people. The Blanchard sons might not be his style, and their aunt seemed too intellectual, but Jules Blanchard was a sensible man. As for the other guests, he liked Hadley. These Americans had a naturalness that was pleasing. Fox was that most British invention, the English gentleman, who had a code of manners that nobody could complain about—and he was certainly behaving very nicely by acting as interpreter.

That left Marie and her mother.

He’d been watching Madame Blanchard since the start of the meal. She was a pleasant-looking woman, a little thicker in the waist now than when she’d been a young woman, no doubt, but with her regular features and blue eyes, she looked somewhat younger than her years. Any middle-aged man with a wife like that might count himself lucky.

She had, of course, a cook and servants to prepare and serve the meal, but he could see from the way that she glanced at each dish, and observed the servants at their work that she was completely the mistress of her household. She knew exactly how everything had been prepared. If there’d been a single fork out of place, she’d have indicated the fact to one of the servants with the faintest nod, and the error would have been instantly corrected.

He discovered that she and her husband were second cousins—just as half the aristocrats he knew had married their relations—and it was evident from things she let fall that her own parents had been no poorer than her husband’s. In short, without needing to assert herself in the least, Madame Blanchard was a woman who was completely sure of herself and comfortable with who she was. He respected that.

And as he observed Marie, it occurred to him that one day she would be just like her mother. She was a little quiet, but then she had been strictly brought up. So much the better. He learned from her mother that she and Marie had both been to Mass that morning, and that they went every Sunday. The girl was a good Catholic. He approved of that too.

She was pretty. He wondered what it might be like to awaken passion in her. Very pleasant indeed, he would guess.

And it suddenly occurred to Roland, who had hardly known what it was to have a mother and a normal family life himself, that this delightful comfort could be his if he were to marry this girl.

Was it breaking the code? Would it be letting the family down if he married into the bourgeoisie? Certainly he’d never imagined himself doing such a thing. What would his friends say? Perhaps not so much, if she were rich. What would his father say? He suspected that his father might have maneuvered him into attending this lunch for precisely this purpose. I must ask him, he thought.

Just then, Marie asked whether Hadley intended to travel in France, and what places he meant to visit.

Everyone had a piece of advice to offer. Hadley explained that he was hoping that by the early summer his French might have improved a good deal, but that the weather hardly invited going anywhere outside Paris just yet.

“You could go to Versailles,” de Cygne suggested. “Much of what one sees is indoors. And it’s only a short journey by train.”

“Is it open this time of year?” asked Jules.

“I could arrange a private visit,” de Cygne offered, which impressed everybody.

“You should accept at once, Hadley,” Jules told him.

“If you and Marc would like it, I could conduct you myself,” de Cygne continued. “My family has some connection with the place. Perhaps Mademoiselle Marie would like to accompany us.”

Marie glanced at her mother, who nodded and looked at her husband.

“Certainly,” said Jules. With her brother there, the outing was entirely respectable. Indeed, it was a charming way for de Cygne to reciprocate for the lunch. And if the aristocrat liked to see more of his daughter … well and good.

“Have you room for a translator?” Fox inquired.

“Certainly,” answered de Cygne. He didn’t want to take too obvious an interest in the girl just yet. The polite Englishman would be excellent additional cover.

So it was all agreed, and a date set for the following Saturday.

It was a pity therefore that a minute or two later, in all innocence, Frank Hadley should have chosen to ask de Cygne: “What exactly is the business with this army officer that the newspapers seem to be so excited about?”



Roland de Cygne began very carefully. He assumed that this solid Catholic family would feel as he did, but it was wise to be cautious.

He explained briefly how Dreyfus had been tried for treason and found guilty. How another officer, Esterhazy, had subsequently been investigated, but had been cleared. Not everyone, he explained, was convinced, but there the matter had rested until, this week, a well-known novelist named Zola had written an open letter to the president of France that made serious allegations of a conspiracy to cover up the truth.

“As far as I know,” he concluded, “Zola has no special knowledge or standing in the matter, whatever he may say. And it may be that the government will prosecute him. But we shall see.”

“And you may be sure, Hadley,” Marc added, “that the army is not happy either. Would that be fair?” he asked de Cygne.

“Certainly,” de Cygne answered straightforwardly. “Most, I think all, of my fellow officers feel that the army has been insulted by Zola. I do not suppose,” he continued, turning to Hadley, “that the army of the United States would be happy if they were publicly accused of injustice and dishonesty.”

From down the table, Jules Blanchard moved quickly to avert any trouble.

“You understand, Hadley, that cases like this arise from time to time in every country. What is unfortunate is that Zola chose such an inflammatory way to approach the subject. But I have no doubt”—he looked around the table firmly to make his message quite clear—“that calmness and wisdom will soon prevail.”

And now his wife showed that she, too, could command the situation when she chose.

“I am very disappointed that no one has tried the fruit flan.” She nodded to the servant who was holding it to move forward. “Monsieur de Cygne, you will not insult my flan I hope.”

“It looks delicious, madame.” Roland took his cue at once, and accepted a slice.

“I know you have been at your château on the Loire,” she continued firmly. “Do tell us about it. Is it of great age?”

Fox, also ready to help, immediately asked Gérard a question about his business.

But it wasn’t enough.

“All that you say is true, Monsieur de Cygne.” Aunt Éloïse was speaking. “But you have not mentioned the matter that is central to Zola’s accusation. Namely, that Dreyfus is a Jew.” Hadley saw Jules Blanchard put his hand on his sister’s wrist. But it did no good. “It’s true, Jules,” she cried. “Everybody knows it.”

No one spoke. Roland had no wish to respond, but it seemed he couldn’t avoid it.

“Dreyfus was not on trial for his religion, madame, but for passing secret information to a foreign power. He is suffering on Devil’s Island. If he is innocent, then I am sorry for it. But no one has proved that it is so. That is the truth, pure and simple. What I resent in this business hardly concerns Dreyfus himself, guilty or not. It is Zola that I resent. Because he seeks to undermine the reputation and the honor of the army. And the army together with the Church are the two institutions in France which are above reproach. I say this not as an aristocrat, nor even as an officer and a Catholic, but as a soldier, a Christian and a patriot.”

Gérard Blanchard gave a murmur of approval. So did his wife. Jules too nodded, out of respect and good manners, at the least.

“Do you make any distinction between a Jew and a Christian?” Aunt Éloïse asked quietly.

“Certainly, madame. They follow different faiths.”

“And you think that Zola should be in jail as well?”

“It would not worry me if he were.”

“In America,” said Aunt Éloïse to Hadley, “you have free speech. Your constitution guarantees it. Despite the Revolution, it seems that we in France do not, and I am ashamed of my country.”

Hadley said nothing. But Roland did.

“I am sorry that you are ashamed of France, madame,” he said icily. “Perhaps you and Captain Dreyfus and Zola could find some other country, more to your liking.”

“I don’t think it’s necessary to elevate all this to a question of principle,” remarked Gérard. “I don’t know if Zola had broken the law or not by writing his letter. If he has, then that’s for the courts to decide. And if there’s no crime, then they won’t. That’s all. It’s not so serious.”

For once, Gérard was actually trying to be helpful. It didn’t do him any good.

“My dear Gérard, you run a business very well, I’m sure,” said Aunt Éloïse irritably, “but I have known you all your life, and you wouldn’t know a moral principle if it came up and smacked you in the face.”

“And you, Tante Éloïse, live in a little world of your own,” Gérard retorted furiously. “May I remind you that it was our family’s wholesale business that made the money that allows you to sit around all day reading books and thinking yourself superior to the rest of us.”

“This has nothing to do with Dreyfus,” said Aunt Éloïse coldly.

“Well, I’m with Monsieur de Cygne anyway,” said Gérard. “I don’t say all Jews are traitors, but this is a Christian country, so they can’t feel the same as we do. That’s all.”

And now, to avoid any more bloodshed before the situation got completely out of hand, Jules Blanchard put his foot down. To be precise, he rapped on the table and stood up, because it was the only way of getting their undivided attention, and then he made a little speech.

It was a good speech. And it proved in the months and years ahead to be more prescient than he could have guessed.

“Monsieur de Cygne, Hadley, Fox and my dear family. This is my house, and for myself and my wife, I demand that this discussion end. Completely. But there is something more to say.

“Today, we have very nearly quarreled. We have not quarreled”—he looked at Gérard and Éloïse sternly—“but we have nearly done so. And let us be grateful that from this we have learned an important lesson. For if the people here—who are all kind, and well mannered—can come so close to blows, then I wonder what will happen when other, less well-disposed people discuss this difficult subject.

“Three days ago, when I read Zola’s letter, I confess that I was surprised and shocked. But I did not understand the effect it would have upon people. Now I believe that this letter is going to create a great chasm in our French society. It may tear us apart. And whatever the rights or wrongs of the matter, I regret the destruction of good relations between honest people.

“So at the least let us all learn”—he looked around the whole table and smiled—“that this is a subject for carefully controlled debate, but that none of us will ever allow ourselves to discuss it at any lunch or dinner party again. Because if we do, we shall inevitably lose all our friends!”

Even de Cygne, furious though he was, could only admire his host. His father had been right. This was a superior man. A statesman. From his end of the table, he gave a polite nod of respect as Blanchard sat down.

Aunt Éloïse was not mollified, but she said nothing. Fox murmured, “Very wise.” And Frank Hadley could not help reflecting that if Aunt Éloïse had been right in assuring him that the French only argued passionately about matters of no importance, then this Dreyfus affair must be the exception that proved the rule.

The rest of the meal passed off without incident. But it was subdued.

As they were leaving, Frank went up to de Cygne and quietly asked, “Is the visit to Versailles still on?”

“Certainly,” said the aristocrat, and quickly confirmed the arrangement to Jules Blanchard.

Frank would have liked to talk to Marc about the whole business after they’d gone out together. But their discussion had hardly begun when Marc clapped his hand to his head.

“My dear fellow, with all this drama, I almost forgot, I have someone coming to sit for a portrait at four o’clock. Let’s have a drink tomorrow evening and discuss everything.”

So Frank decided to turn into the Champs-Élysées and walk up to the Arc de Triomphe for a little exercise. Perhaps, if he felt in need of more, he might walk on as far as the Bois de Boulogne.



When Roland got back to his barracks, he was still furious. His anger was not directed against the Blanchard family particularly, with the exception of Aunt Éloïse, who besides being an intellectual, which automatically made her suspect, was clearly a republican. The very fact of her existence might have put him off the rest of the Blanchard family too, but he’d seen that Marie’s brother Gérard and his aunt were hardly on speaking terms, and this suggested that it might be possible to be one of the family and still keep the wretched woman at arm’s length.

But he still needed someone or something to vent his anger upon. So he was almost glad to see the unfinished reply to the Canadian still lying on his writing table. He sat down to compose.

Dear Sir,

Your letter has been handed me by my father, the Vicomte de Cygne, for reply, as he has not time to reply to you himself.

Quite apart from the fact that the spelling of your name in no way suggests that it has any connection with that of the vicomtes de Cygne, I can assure you that no member of our family has ever migrated from France to Canada, nor even visited that country. We should certainly know it if they had. The idea of a Canadian branch of our family is therefore entirely fanciful.

I do not think that a visit to the Château de Cygne could be of interest to you therefore, and the house itself will in any case be closed for major repairs this summer.

No doubt, monsieur, you have French ancestry. But if you wish to find connections in France, you will have to look elsewhere.

He put down his pen with grim satisfaction. That should dispose of Monsieur Dessignes, whoever he might be. He signed and sealed the letter and laid it on the desk. A task completed. It was just four o’clock.



At the very moment that he sealed the letter, a pale, well-dressed lady reached the door of the house near the boulevard de Clichy where Marc Blanchard had his studio. She looked about her uncertainly, not having been there before. But the address was correct.

Wondering what it would be like to have her portrait painted, Hortense Ney started up the stairs.