Paris: The Novel

Roland. His regimental duties kept him busy. Indeed, he sometimes felt that he was being given extra duties. “That’s to compensate for your winning the lottery for La Belle Hélène,” the captain told him cheerfully. He didn’t have time to go out on the town very much. But whenever he did go to the Folies-Bergère, or to see a play, or just to dine out, his brother officers were always eager to accompany him. The captain in particular seemed to want his company. He had no objection, but sometimes he might have been just as happy to go out for an evening alone.
    In the middle of December, however, he was due some leave, and he’d been wondering what to do.
    Many people, having spent the summer months in the country, would have remained in Paris for the winter season unless, like the fashionable English, they liked to travel down to places like Nice and Monte Carlo on the Mediterranean, or venture into the snowy magnificence of the Swiss Alps, where a few hardy souls would even hike across the mountain trails on skis.
    But his father had recently decided it was time he paid more attention to the family estate. “The house needs attention, so do the farms,” he told Roland. “I want to leave things in good order for you. And before I die,I’m going to sort all the family papers that nobody’s touched in a hundred years.”
    “In that case, Father,” Roland answered with a smile, “you may have to live a long time.”
    So now, knowing that the regiment would certainly be posted, possibly far away, at some point, and having received his father’s invitation, he’d decided to keep his father company in the country.
    The Château de Cygne was not large, but it was full of character. At various times in its history, when the family could afford it, the old building had been altered or added to, so that the final result was a charming mixture of styles. Hidden inside were thick walls belonging to the original little fort, which went back eight hundred years.
    But the oldest part visible from the outside dated from the late fifteenth century, when the son of Guy de Cygne, using the moneys from his mother, Cécile Renard, and the noble heiress he’d married himself, had created a small, romantic château, with a steep roof, round towers and pointed turrets at the corners.
    This charming little French castle also contained the family’s favorite room—a large hall, with quite a low ceiling that was crossed by dark, friendly old beams, and a huge fireplace that could have held a dozen men. On one wall of the hall, looking as if it had always been there, hung the lovely unicorn tapestry supplied by Monsieur Jacob.
    Another wing, equally delightful in decorative brick, had been added a century later, in the rich and cheerful style of the French Renaissance. Finally, in the eighteenth century, yet another wing and court had been added in the classical style. This perhaps was less satisfactory, but a wide ornamental terrace, with a formal garden and elegantly clipped trees, had brought the whole ensemble together in a way that felt pleasing. It was not uncommon to find such places in the lovely Loire Valley region.
    During that Christmas season, Roland and his father had time to discuss many things together. Roland told his father about his adventure with La Belle Hélène, which amused and pleased the vicomte greatly. They also discussed ways to improve the estate. The woods could be used for boar hunting. “We could also raise pheasants for shooting, like the English do,” the vicomte believed. “The château itself is in fair shape,” he informed Roland, “but the upper floors need restoring, and in another dozen years we’ll have to reroof the whole place. One day you may need to sell the house in Paris, unless you can marry a rich woman,” he added.
    Yet sometimes, it seemed to Roland, his father was troubled by darker thoughts.
    “The situation in Europe worries me,” he confessed one evening. “I just hope you won’t have to fight a war, like I did.”
    “The great empires have treaties to maintain the balance of power,” Roland pointed out.
    “Yes. But Germany is still jealous of Britain’s empire. When old Bismarck was running Germany’s policy, for all his ambition, he knew the limits of power. But the people around the young kaiser now are hotheads. I fear for the future.”
    On the state of France itself, however, it was he rather than his father who was the pessimist.
    “The