Paris: The Novel

as Guy had thought. But he kept up the little comedy.
    “And what is the ransom demanded?” he inquired.
    “Nothing, monsieur. My father was able to persuade the man who had it to part with it for nothing. My father told him that, perhaps, this good deed might save his soul.”
    “Let us hope so,” said Guy. It was hard not to smile at the rogue’s cheek.
    “My father sends you his respects, monsieur. Is there any message I should take back to him?”
    Guy de Cygne considered. He knew what he thought: that Le Sourd was a thief and prince of thieves. On the other hand, the thief had given him back his pendant.
    “Please tell your father that Guy de Cygne thanks him for his hospitality, and thanks him for his help.”
    “Thank you, monsieur.” The boy smiled. “May God keep you.”
    “And you too.”
    That night Guy de Cygne thought long and hard. There were terms the nobles used for marrying a rich bourgeoise: “Putting gold on the coat of arms.” Or, less lovely: “Putting dung on your land.”
    Cécile Renard was all right. He imagined he could love her, but he doubted that she’d be happy in the country, and this troubled him a little. But then he thought of what her dowry could bring. He would be able to enlarge the estate. He could make improvements to the manor house.
    He knew his duty. Before he went to bed, he said his prayers. He knew, he told God, that he should honor his father and mother, and if he married the girl, he’d certainly be doing that. But the family motto also came into his mind. “According to God’s will.” He would be guided by it. If God sent him a sign—if, for instance, his bride should die before their wedding day—that would be a clear signal that God did not want the marriage. But if there was no sign, he’d take it as consent. And he gave the Almighty the assurance that he would try to make the girl’s life pleasant, if it could be done.

    The marriage took place three months later. The ceremony was in Paris, at the house of the Renard family.
    It had to be said that they did the thing handsomely—far more so than the de Cygne family could have done at their crumbling manor. But there was something that his parents were able to do that clearly satisfied the bourgeois Renards.
    They were able to summon noble kinsmen that Guy had hardly known he had. He might not be making a noble marriage, but it seemed the news that he was marrying an heiress was enough for all kinds of family friendships to be renewed. A score of noble names appeared, with their sons and daughters. If the Renards had been counting on this, then they had received their part of the bargain.
    Even before the marriage took place, Guy suddenly found himself with kinsmen who declared that his bride was charming, and sweet, and all the other things that are said of a rich young girl—as long as she doesn’t make herself unpleasant—when she arrives on the social scene. Cécile seemed delighted by their friendly attentions, and was promised all kinds of amusement when she came to the country. As for Guy, his kinsmen soon introduced him to their own friends so that, by the time he married, he was on friendly terms with young men who belonged to some of the greatest families in the land.
    The wedding was a success in every way. By the third day, he and Cécile had decided that they liked each other very much indeed. Meanwhile, a week of gaiety in Paris was called for, before he took her down to the valley of the Loire, to see the modest estate which so urgently needed her love.
    He was in a company of a dozen nobles, three days after the marriage,when they had dismounted to wander through the great market of Les Halles. And he was just standing beside a brightly colored stall that offered herbs and spices when he heard a cry from nearby.
    It was Charles, son of the Comte de Grenache, with whom he’d been riding only minutes before. He ran over to him.
    “What’s the matter?” Guy asked.
    “Someone just stole my purse. It was hanging on my belt, on a strap, and the cursed fellow must have cut it off with a knife. My God he was fast.” Charles de Grenache shook his head. “I had thirty francs in there.”
    “Did you see him?”
    “I’m not certain, but I think so. A fellow with a stoop. Tonsured like a priest. His head bobbed like a pigeon.” The young aristocrat looked around. “He just vanished in the crowd. I’ll never see him again. Or my money.”
    Guy smiled.
    “As it happens,”