Paris: The Novel

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 takethe 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 becalled 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