Paris: The Novel

Jean Compagnon. Then a moment later he turned abruptly into another street, leaving Thomas to go on alone.
    Thomas was strong, and he knew how to fight. But he wasn’t under any illusions. If the burly foreman wanted to kill him, he could do it.
    At the tower, Pepe was replaced without any explanation. They were doing the finishing touches now. Not all the men were needed anymore. No doubt the news of the accident would be out soon, but obviously it had not been released to the newspapers yet. The day passed quietly.

    It did not pass so quietly for Édith. She had slept through the night in her aunt’s quarters, because Aunt Adeline had given her a sleeping draft. She awoke and took a little tea and a croissant.
    But even while she was eating this
petit déjeuner
, the terrible feeling that had been gnawing at her the day before came back, with just the same awful, insistent coldness, so that she cried out to Aunt Adeline in agony: “It was me that killed him! It was my fault.”
    Her aunt sighed.
    “You’re quite wrong.”
    “I told him to take a bow. If he hadn’t done that …”
    “He would have done it anyway.”
    “Maybe not.”
    “He had the choice. People have to take responsibility for their actions. It was he who decided to go up the tower, anyway, in the first place.”
    There was truth in this. But not enough, Édith felt, to absolve her. She sat with her head bowed over her cup of tea, shaking her head slowly.
    And then something happened.
    At first, when she felt the little gush, she didn’t understand. She went into the bedroom where she slept and used the bed pan. A few minutes later, she called her aunt.
    Aunt Adeline was very calm. She told Édith to stay where she was and that she’d be back in a few minutes. Then she went out to fetch the doctor.
    Later in the morning, the doctor gave her the news. She had lost the child.
    “Thank God,” said Aunt Adeline.

    It was a week later that Thomas was told Monsieur Eiffel wanted to see him in his office.
    The great man had wasted no time installing himself in his office at the top of the tower. Since the elevators were not operating yet, it meant a huge climb; but Eiffel didn’t seem to mind. From the third platform, a small spiral staircase led directly up to his quarters.
    As he knocked on the door and went in, Thomas was struck by how comfortable the office was. The wall had already been papered in a dark, striped wallpaper. There was a patterned carpet on the floor. Eiffel had a table, a desk and a couple of chairs, and a few small ornaments. And one could look out on a breathtaking panorama. Monarchs and presidents might have palaces, but Monsieur Eiffel, without any doubt, now had the finest office in the world.
    There was quite a strong wind blowing that day. As he stood close to the pinnacle of the great tower, Thomas could just feel the faintest motion.
    Eiffel was sitting at his desk. He was looking at some papers. Without looking up, he read Thomas’s thoughts.
    “The maximum sway caused by the wind is about twelve centimeters,” he remarked drily. He finished checking a list, then looked up. “You know why I sent for you?”
    “I think so, monsieur. I apologize.”
    “When the Russian tsar built his city of St. Petersburg, he drove his workers relentlessly. Do you know how many men died working on that great enterprise?”
    “Non, monsieur.”
    “A hundred thousand. St. Petersburg rests on their bones. When we began work on this tower,” Eiffel continued, “it was assumed there would be accidents. There always are on big projects, alas. But I took exemplary care. I put in movable barriers and screens—safety precautions more sophisticated than anything used on a building site before. And we built the tower without the loss of a single life.” He paused. “Until the other day.”
    “It was not your fault, Monsieur Eiffel. It was mine. It was an accident.”
    “Do you think that anyone will remember that? All that will be remembered will be that one of the workers on my tower fell to his death.”
    “I am truly sorry, monsieur.”
    “I made space for you, when you asked me if you could work on the tower. This is how you repay my kindness. You have dishonored me.”
    Thomas bowed his head. The children of the Maquis, like the knights of old, understood honor. Every Frenchman understood it. And he had dishonored his hero.
    “I have in front of me the list of names of the workers on the tower,” continued Eiffel.