Paris: The Novel

makers and cabinetmakers were to be found. Most were republicans, some radicals, but like Petit, many of these skilled workers, craftsmen and small shopkeepers were sound family men of conservative instincts. But as monarchs had found in the past, once stirred, they were implacable.
    Petit began his walk at a furious pace. The recent snows had melted away, and the streets were dry. After a short while, he came to where the old Bastille fortress had stood. There was nothing to be seen of it now, just a big open space above which the dull gray sky gave no hint of comfort upon his quest.
    This marked the beginning of the old city, so that from now on the street lost the name of faubourg, and became simply the rue Saint-Antoine. After a few hundred yards, however, it changed its name again; for now it became the rue de Rivoli. And it was under that fashionable name that it led past the old Grève marketplace on the riverside, where the city hall, the Hôtel de Ville, had been rebuilt to look like a huge, ornate château; and then the old Châtelet, where the medieval provost had held his court. By now Petit had slowed his pace to a fast walk, and despite the cold air, he was sweating a little.
    Finally, he unconsciously brushed the sleeves of his coat as he entered the rue de Rivoli’s grandest section—the long, arcaded thoroughfare that ran the entire length of the solemn Louvre Palace and the Tuileries Gardens beyond, until at last he came out into the vast open space of the Place de la Concorde.
    He’d been walking almost an hour by now. His anger was no less, but it had slowly changed into a sullen rage bitterly flavored with despair.
    He turned up toward the lovely classical temple of La Madeleine.
    Just to the west of La Madeleine, another of Baron Haussmann’s huge residential boulevards began. The boulevard Malesherbes strode up from La Madeleine on a grand diagonal that took it past the edge of the Parc Monceau and on to one of the city’s northwestern gates. If the boulevard was solidly respectable, the sections nearest La Madeleine were distinctlyfashionable. And it was here, in a large Belle Époque building, that he came to Jules Blanchard’s apartment.

    Jules was most surprised, at half past ten that morning, when a servant announced that Monsieur Petit the furniture maker was there to see him, but he told the servant to bring Petit to the library at once.
    As Petit told his tale, his hands clenching his hat in a mixture of embarrassment and determination, Blanchard understood him completely. He kept his own face grave and immobile throughout, giving nothing away, but inwardly he did not doubt a word that the craftsman was saying, and his heart went out to him. He understood his embarrassment, his shame and his rage.
    When Petit was done, however, Jules remained calm and noncommittal.
    “You must understand, Monsieur Petit, that I know nothing of what you have just told me.”
    “I understand this, monsieur.”
    “First of all, therefore, I must speak to my son. But since you and I are together, let us for a moment consider the matter as far as we ourselves know it. You are sure that your daughter is pregnant?”
    “My wife says so.”
    “I would advise you to seek a doctor first. It might turn out that she is not. And there is always the chance, even if she is, that nature will bring the matter to an end. This can often happen, after all.”
    “Perhaps, monsieur.” Petit looked doubtful.
    “Even if—I say ‘if’ for the time being—it should be that my son is the cause of your daughter’s condition, I think we must put out of our minds the idea that my son would wish to marry your daughter. I say this simply because we must not deceive ourselves. I should be surprised if Marc wishes such a thing, and I should not be in favor of it myself.”
    Petit said nothing. What could he say? He already knew it was true.
    “If that were the case,” Jules continued, “what would you do?”
    “She will leave my house. I will never see her again.”
    “You would not forgive her?”
    “I cannot, monsieur. I have my family to think of. But your family has a responsibility, monsieur.”
    He was probably losing a customer by saying it, but then he was sure he’d lost Blanchard as a customer anyway.
    Jules wondered if the girl would consider an abortion. Such things could be arranged. This was not the moment to raise the matter, however.
    “I make no comment until I have spoken to my son. But you