Paris: The Novel

ancestry and with the prejudices of his class. The vicomte shared most of those prejudices himself. In fact, he rather enjoyed these aristocratic snobberies. But he enjoyed them without believing in them too much. Indeed, the very fact that, as an aristocrat, he looked down upon most of humanity—and that he also knew the shortcomings of his fellow aristocrats—made it easy for him not to expect too much from imperfect human nature, nor to judge people too harshly.
    But his son believed too much. And a lifetime of observation, including the horrors of the Commune, had led the vicomte to think that when men believed too strongly, it made them cruel.
    He was especially concerned by a conversation they had just after Christmas.
    It concerned an army officer. His name was Dreyfus and, unusually for an officer, he was Jewish. When a minor spying scandal had emerged, he had been accused of passing secrets to the Germans, court-martialed and sent to prison on Devil’s Island.
    Some people had said that the prosecution was badly flawed, and even that Dreyfus was innocent. As one might expect, the military authorities refused to contemplate the idea that there had been any mistake. And there the matter had rested.
    The subject had come up quite casually when they were talking about the difference between civilian and military courts, and the vicomte was remarking that no system of justice could ever be perfect.
    “That Dreyfus fellow, for instance: I dare say he’s guilty, but it may turn out one day that he wasn’t. That’s just the way it goes.”
    “Oh, I think we can be sure he’s guilty, Father,” Roland replied. “After all, the man’s a Jew.”
    “My dear boy, you can’t say he’s a traitor just because he’s a Jew.”
    “Perhaps not. But it makes him suspect, doesn’t it?”
    “I don’t think so. What is it you object to about the Jews?”
    “Apart from the obvious fact that they are not Catholics, one can never be sure of their loyalty. One never knows what they’re up to.”
    “You mean there’s a general conspiracy?”
    “The Jews all stick together, don’t they?”
    “But you surely don’t think that our friend Jacob, for instance, who sold me that wonderful tapestry, is part of a conspiracy?”
    “I don’t know, Father. He may be.”
    “And do most of your fellow officers believe such things?”
    “Of course. And as far as this Dreyfus is concerned, most of them think that Jews shouldn’t be officers at all.”
    “There is no evidence for a conspiracy, you know.”
    “Naturally. It’s a conspiracy.”
    His father sighed.
    “My dear son, that has been the doctrine of every maniac in the secret police since the days of Babylon. If we can see a conspiracy, then it’s proved. If we can’t see it, then the conspirators must be hiding it. This is a logic from which there is no escape.”
    “Exactly.”
    “But there may not be a conspiracy, my dear boy. Has this not occurred to you?”
    Roland was silent.
    The vicomte was proud of his son. He could see that through these prejudices, which unfortunately were commonplace, Roland was expressing the idealist’s desire to serve a cause. The fault in his son lay not in his nature, which was honorable, but in his perceptions, which were limited. All the more reason, he considered, that he should try to render his son one important service.
    He must broaden the young man’s mind, teach him that there were many ways to live, and that there was virtue in tolerance, too, in an imperfect world.
    So he was all the more glad of that idea he’d had when he met Blanchard and that appalling lawyer the other day. Not that he’d have any objection to having Sunday lunch with the Blanchard family, but his intention had been to send his son instead. Roland should mix with some other kinds of people. The Blanchard family would be a good start.
    The fact that Blanchard had an unmarried daughter who would undoubtedly bring with her an excellent dowry had also crossed his mind. True, she wasn’t an aristocrat, but one must move with the times. A girl like that might be what Roland needed.
    The important thing was not to give his son any idea of his plan. The boy would be sure to rebel if he thought he was being manipulated.
    And here events played nicely into his hands. Early in January, there was a heavy fall of snow. It made the château look magical. But unfortunately, in the ensuing frost, some pipes froze, and by the second week in January when