Paris: The Novel

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