Paris: The Novel

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