Paris: The Novel

we wish to do—but to enlarge the network of people involved in the project. I wonder if you have any suggestions.”
    “As far as funds are concerned, naturally Hortense and I would wish to contribute. I also know an old lady of large fortune who is good enough to take my advice on matters like this. But to enlist public interest, I wondered if it would be a good idea to ask Monsieur Eiffel to give the project his blessing. We happen to know him.” He paused. “And if only to please Hortense, I think he might take an interest.”
    “Indeed.” The lawyer might not be quite the company he’d choose, but Jules was impressed. “That might be very helpful,” he said.
    The meal passed pleasantly enough. De Cygne let Blanchard do most of the talking, but inevitably the aristocrat asked Ney if he was related to the great marshal of the same name.
    “I am, Monsieur de Cygne, and I am very proud of it. I know the marshal’s loyalties might not be your own, but I honor him as a brave soldier.”
    De Cygne greeted this with a nod.
    The lawyer then gently turned the conversation to his daughter, Hortense. Ney did not say more than a fond father should, but it was clear that the young lady was as good as she was beautiful.
    Now it was time for Jules to pursue his agenda too.
    “You’ve had her portrait painted, no doubt,” he remarked easily.
    “In fact, I have not,” the lawyer confessed.
    “Oh,” said Blanchard, as if this was rather strange. “I always think these things add to the reputation of a young woman. People see them, you know.”
    “Have you an artist you’d recommend?” Ney innocently inquired.
    “It would depend what sort of portrait you wanted, I suppose,” Jules answered. “My son Marc is a painter. Rather in the style of Manet, you might say. He did Madame Du Bois the banker’s wife, the other day. They seemed pleased.” He smiled. “You’d better move fast if you want him, though, before his prices shoot up.”
    “I should be most interested,” Ney responded, “if you’d care to put us in touch.”
    He’d understood, of course. A commission for Marc. A place on the committee perhaps, for himself and visibility for his daughter. So far so good.
    Just as the meal was about to end, a waiter came and whispered in Ney’s ear, and with profuse apologies, he left them for a moment to go to meet his clerk at the entrance. While he was gone, de Cygne turned to Blanchard.
    “His game is the daughter, then. He wants to infiltrate her into society.”
    “Undoubtedly,” Jules agreed. “But one can’t blame the fellow. He’s only doing what a father should.” He shrugged. “Who knows, she may be pretty. And I’m sure there will be a fine dowry.”
    De Cygne grunted in a manner that indicated he couldn’t care less.
    “I enjoyed listening to you get your son a commission, though,” the vicomte added with a wry smile.
    “When lawyers take so much in fees, one must claw back what one can,” Blanchard replied cheerfully. “But if the fellow can deliver Eiffel, as he claims,” he continued more seriously, “that would be a great draw to the public. And I think we ought to encourage him.”
    “You’re right, of course,” said the vicomte. He glanced toward the distant figure of Ney with distaste. “But Eiffel is a great man. I am not goingto be introduced to him by a back-streets attorney.” He gave an apologetic shrug. “I’m a snob.” He reached across and touched Blanchard’s arm. “You could introduce me to Eiffel. That would give me great pleasure.”
    Jules laughed.
    “Perhaps the solution will be for Ney to introduce me to Eiffel. And then I can introduce Eiffel to you!”
    “In that case,
mon ami
,” de Cygne said, “I shall be in your debt forever.”
    Ney rejoined them. They finished the meal.
    And it was then that the Vicomte de Cygne, feeling that he ought to make an effort with this potential contributor, asked him pleasantly: “Tell us, Monsieur Ney, as we know you are related to a military hero, have you other interesting figures in your ancestry?”
    Ney hesitated.
    “As it happens, Monsieur de Cygne, I have never been able to discover the connection, if it even exists, but my mother’s maiden name was Arouet.”
    “Arouet?” cried Jules Blanchard. “But that’s the family name of Voltaire.”
    “As you say, monsieur,” answered Ney, “before the great philosopher decided to call himself Voltaire, he was plain Monsieur Arouet.” He smiled.