Paris: The Novel

“And his father was a notary, too.”
    Blanchard gazed at Ney. Though the notary didn’t exactly look like the great hero of the eighteenth-century Enlightenment, there was some resemblance, at least in their small, thin physiques.
    “I’m surprised you don’t claim it,” remarked de Cygne drily.
    “I am a lawyer, Monsieur de Cygne. Others might demand proof, and I do not possess it.”
    But the aristocrat wasn’t going to let the matter drop just yet. He was going to punish the lawyer, just a little, for intruding upon him. He considered.
    “What was that story about Voltaire? When he was quite young, he ran a national lottery, collected all the money and then awarded the prize to himself. Wasn’t that how he made his first fortune? Something like that.”
    If this was intended to embarrass Ney, it failed. He smiled.
    “In fact, monsieur, he and several others realized that in a certain national lottery, the government had made a mathematical mistake in calculating the odds. They put together a syndicate, bought blocks of tickets, and made a great fortune. But it was perfectly legal.”
    “Oh,” said de Cygne, and shrugged. “Well, I prefer my story.”
    “So do I,” said the lawyer with a laugh. “So do I.” And then, just for once, Monsieur Ney inadvertently let down his guard. “Think of it,” he cried: “Oh what a fraud! How delicious! If a man could get away with that, and not get caught …”
    And, quite forgetting himself, he let out a loud, gleeful cackle that was almost fiendish, while the businessman and the aristocrat stared at him in fascinated horror.
    There was a silence. The lawyer dabbed at his face with a silk handkerchief.
    “Well, Monsieur Ney,” said Jules Blanchard, “it has been most interesting to meet you.” And he politely escorted him to the entrance. “I shall be in contact very soon. Did you really want me to put you in touch with my son Marc?”
    “Assuredly, monsieur,” said Monsieur Ney. “As soon as possible.”
    “Then in that case,” he wrote on the back of his card, “all you need do is write to him at this address. It’s his studio.”
    When Jules got back to the vicomte, that gentleman declared that they both needed a brandy.
    But he didn’t want to discuss Ney anymore. It seemed that the lawyer had already been expunged from his mind. It had not occurred to Jules that the aristocrat might also have a hidden agenda, but as the vicomte looked at him reflectively, it seemed that he might.
    “I see that you are a good father,” said de Cygne.
    “You mean the commission for Marc? I’m sure you do things for your son too, Vicomte.”
    “I lost my wife when my son was a young boy. It makes it more difficult. I worry about him, still. Do you worry about your children?”
    “Of course.” He told de Cygne briefly about Gérard and Marie. “They’re all right, I think. But I worry about Marc.”
    “You see your children often?”
    “At least once a month, the whole family meets for Sunday lunch, either in Paris or at Fontainebleau. They bring their friends. For better or worse, it’s family.”
    De Cygne thought of his own quiet house and nodded.
    “That is how it should be. Do you ever have older guests?”
    “Certainly.” Blanchard looked at him curiously.
    “Might I be a guest at one of your lunches?”
    “By all means.” Blanchard hesitated. “They are quite informal, you understand. The Blanchard family is entirely bourgeois. It might not be to your taste, you know.”
    De Cygne reflected that if Blanchard wanted to, he could probably buy the de Cygne house, château and estate, and have change to spare. But that was not the point. It was another little plan that was framing in his mind, and the Blanchard family was exactly to his purpose.
    “If you would invite me,” he said, “I should be delighted to come.”
    “Well,” answered Jules, “Christmas and the New Year are almost upon us, but what about the third Sunday in January? The sixteenth. In Paris.”
    “Excellent,” said de Cygne. “I shall be there.” Even though, in truth, he hadn’t the least intention of going.

    It had never occurred to Roland de Cygne that his father’s life might be drawing to a close. The vicomte appeared to be in excellent health. So he was always glad, afterward, that when his father had suggested he come down to the château and stay with him awhile, he had accepted.
    The last couple of months in Paris had passed quietly enough for