Paris: The Novel

corruption of the government is so complete, Father, I can’t understand why most of the deputies don’t shoot themselves in shame. When I think of the Panama Canal … I despair of my country.”
    It was true that the catastrophe of the Panama Canal had shocked all France. At first, it had been advertised as a great French enterprise. Its builder, de Lesseps, had triumphantly engineered the Suez Canal some years earlier. Now French expertise would astonish the New World as well. But not only had the plans been misconceived, not only had the entire business gone bankrupt, taking with it the savings of ordinary people all over France, but de Lesseps and his friends had mounted one of the biggest cover-ups the world had ever seen, bribing innumerable politicians high and low to conceal the disaster. Even Eiffel, who’d been called in to try to correct the engineering when it was far too late, had almost been tarnished with the scandal.
    Respect for the political class had been destroyed for a generation.
    “My son,” the vicomte had replied with a shake of his head, “I share your outrage, but scandals like these have been found in every country, and I suspect they always will be.”
    “I do not accept that nothing can be done,” Roland replied. “But I think it’s proof that we cannot trust our elected officials.”
    “And you would replace it with a monarchy? A sacred king?”
    “I consider the monarch to be sacred. Yes. He is anointed by God. But if not a monarch, perhaps a man who is above mere politics. A man of destiny.”
    “That is how Napoléon first portrayed himself, yet you do not approve of him.”
    “I mean a religious man.”
    “A few years ago, General Boulanger seemed like such a man, yet when perhaps he could have made a bid for power, he shied away from taking up such a burden. I cannot think of any plausible figure in France today. Nor am I so sure that I trust any single man, even an anointed monarch, so much better than I do one who is an ordinary politician.” The vicomte sighed. “All governments are corrupt. It’s just a question of degree.” He smiled wryly. “And whether they’re any good at it.”
    And just as he had when he was a boy, while he loved and respected his father, Roland felt a sense of sorrow that the vicomte could not, or would not, take a moral stance when he should.

    Sometimes the Vicomte de Cygne wondered if he should have married again. Not so much for his own sake as for his son. The trouble was that at the time when little Roland had probably needed a mother most, he himself had been grieving far too deeply for his lost wife even to think of marrying another.
    Since then he’d been fortunate in having a number of romantic friendships. One woman he might have married if she had been available. Another was available, but she would not have been accepted socially by his friends. Others had usually followed a similar pattern—discreet, safe, amusing. He had not been unhappy.
    As for his domestic situation, his Paris house was very effectively run by Nanny, even in her old age. And at the family château, where certainly, a woman’s hand was called for, he wasn’t sure he’d really be able to tolerate anyone else’s interference nowadays. He’d long ago decided to keep it the way it was, in somewhat masculine order, until such time as Roland should marry and his wife and children could do as they pleased with the place while he watched, no doubt with horror as well as amusement. He’d supposed that was the natural order.
    But as he looked at his son today, the vicomte couldn’t help feeling that he had let him down. Plenty of other boys had grown up without a mother, of course. But Roland’s upbringing had been too masculine. He lacked balance.
    I shouldn’t have let Father Xavier influence him so much, either, the vicomte thought.
    He’d never objected to the priest, who was so obviously in love with his wife. He’d rather sympathized with him. He had known Father Xavier’s love would remain entirely platonic. The priest was correct, and pure. But perhaps that was why he harbored doubts about him. For during the course of his life, rightly or wrongly, the vicomte had developed a certain suspicion of men who were too pure.
    God knows what stuff that priest had put in his son’s head down the years.
    Not that the Vicomte de Cygne objected to his son’s being a monarchist, nor a devout Catholic, nor a young aristocrat, proud of his