Paris: The Novel

shouting.
    “Ah.” Jules Blanchard glanced at him. “Well,” he announced to the gathering, “everyone is here except Monsieur de Cygne.” And seeing some surprise on their faces: “I had better explain who he is.”

    As Roland walked into the boulevard Malesherbes from La Madeleine, he wasn’t very happy. He didn’t want to go to this lunch. He’d do his best, because his father had asked him to; but he wasn’t looking forward to it.
    He’d had an irritating morning as well. He’d put off answering the letter from the Canadian that his father had given him, and decided that he really must deal with it today. So he’d read it.
    The letter was perfectly polite. It informed him that although the writer’s family name was spelled “Dessigne” these days, they had always understood that they were a branch of the noble de Cygne and that since the writer was making a visit to France that summer, and had the idea of visiting some of the châteaus of the Loire, he wondered if he might be allowed to see the old family château one afternoon.
    Whatever the man’s intentions, it was quite clear that he was mistaken, and Roland had no intention of letting him through the door. But how to get rid of him politely? He had tried to compose a suitable letter for two hours, and each time he tried, he had felt more and more irritated, so that in the end he had been forced to leave for lunch with the letter unfinished.
    Part of the trouble was that he had been in a bad temper from the moment he woke up. In fact, he’d been in a foul mood since Thursday. And for this he could not be blamed.
    The cataclysm that had taken place in France on the Thursday of that week, and was to echo down French history for generations to come, consisted of a single letter. It wasn’t even written by anyone important—just by a popular novelist named Émile Zola. And it concerned that obscure Jewish officer, Dreyfus.
    “J’accuse …”
the letter said. “I accuse …” Who did Zola accuse? The French establishment, the justice system and, worst of all, the army itself.
    They knew that Dreyfus was innocent, he said. The army and the government were involved in a disgraceful conspiracy to keep an innocent man in the tropical penal colony of Devil’s Island, rather than admit the evidence that another officer, who had been identified, was the real traitor. And why were they all prepared to pervert the course of justice? Because Dreyfus was a Jew.
    Before the spring was out, all France would have taken sides. For the moment, the government was furious, and as for the army, there was not the faintest question among Roland’s fellow officers.
    “Zola ought to be shot.”

    Frank sat at the dining room table. Marc’s family were certainly making things very easy for him.
    He’d heard that in France, as in Spain, it wasn’t always easy to get into people’s houses, and that one would never really understand the country until one did. He’d also heard that the French could be difficult. Here Marc had already given him excellent advice.
    “All you have to do, Frank, is to show respect. You must remember that the English defeated Napoléon in the end, and that they have the biggest empire in the world, so they are inclined to be arrogant. French is the language of diplomacy, of course, so we have no problem with the English diplomats. The rest of their countrymen, however, come over here and try to order us about in English. Naturally, we don’t always like it. However, if you show respect, and make an effort to speak French, everyone will help you.” He’d paused. “I have to tell you, all the same, that there is one small problem.”
    “What’s that?”
    “The Americans have terrible difficulty with the French accent. I don’t know why, but I have noticed that it is so. Sometimes an American will learn French, and we listen hard, because we realize they are speaking our language, but we can’t understand what they’re saying.” He shrugged. “It’s a pity.” Then he’d grinned. “But don’t worry,
mon vieux
. If you do your homework with the language, I personally will take care of your pronunciation.”
    Manners dictated that Madame Blanchard, who spoke little English, should put de Cygne on her right and Frank on her left. But Fox theEnglishman was on the other side of him. De Cygne spoke a little English. On the other side of de Cygne was Marie. Jules Blanchard took the other end of the table, with his