Paris: The Novel

over tomorrow, but you can stay another two weeks.”
    “But we have nowhere to go,” Thomas protested.
    “You have two entire weeks.” She shrugged. “That should be plenty of time to find something. At least temporary.” She turned to Monsieur Ivanov. “There is a picture of me in the hall. Take that. It belongs to me. I have to go and say good-bye to one of the residents now.”
    While Aunt Adeline, Thomas and Édith sat in stunned silence, and Monsieur Ivanov went to take the portrait down from the wall, Hortense made her way upstairs. Édith went with her. She wasn’t going to accept this without a protest.
    “Surely, Mademoiselle Hortense, you can give us more time, at least. I have four children.”
    “You will have to think of something. I will give you a reference.”
    “My aunt and I have served your father many years. Did he not remember us in any way?”
    “No.”
    Hortense did not pause on the main floor, but continued up to the attic. While Édith stood in the doorway, she entered the room of Mademoiselle Bac. It was silent.
    “Mademoiselle Bac,” she said clearly, “can you hear me?” No sound came from the iron bed. “Monsieur Ney is dead.” Hortense paused. “The place has been sold, and everyone has gone. You are all alone.” She paused again, to let this sink in. “It is time to die now,” she said. Then she left.
    They went down the main stairs. Down in the hall, Monsieur Ivanov was holding the painting.
    “What did you tell the old lady?” he asked.
    Hortense shrugged.
    “The truth.” She opened the big front door. “Let’s go.”
    And Édith was left alone in the hall, wondering what to do next.

Chapter Fifteen
    •  1907  •
    Roland de Cygne could hardly believe his ears. He was Captain de Cygne these days, and his friend the captain was now a commandant. Yet for all his respect for his mentor, he thought the commandant must be mistaken.
    “I assure you,
mon cher ami
, that it’s true,” his mentor continued. “I didn’t tell you at the time, because thanks to that waiter at the Moulin Rouge—to whom you owe your life, by the way—the fellow was frightened off. But we were all watching out for you. After your father’s death, you will recall, the regiment was posted away, and there was less to worry about. But now that we are to return to Paris, I feel obliged to mention it to you.”
    “And the name of this lunatic, or villain—I don’t know what to call him?”
    “Jacques Le Sourd. I know nothing about his whereabouts, but no doubt he can be found. Whether he would still like to kill you … Who knows.” He smiled. “Just watch out, if you go visiting any of the courtesans of Paris again!”
    “I think,” said Roland, “that I’ll pay a visit to the waiter. What’s his name?”
    “Luc Gascon.”

    Luc was easy to find. He had his own bar these days, just off the Place Pigalle, a quarter mile east of the Moulin Rouge.
    He was stouter than before, but just as charming. And when Roland told him who he was, he nodded.
    “I thought I recognized you, Monsieur de Cygne. I knew that your regiment had been away. Welcome back to Paris.”
    Roland briefly explained how he had found out about Le Sourd.
    “You understand,” he said, “that until recently I had no idea of the service you had rendered me.”
    “I know, monsieur.”
    “I should like you to accept this, to show my gratitude,” said Roland, and handed him an envelope, which Luc quickly inspected.
    “You are more than generous, Monsieur de Cygne,” he said. “I could open a restaurant with this.”
    “Just don’t spend it at the races,” Roland said with a smile. “But the question now is, what should I do about Le Sourd? Do you have any idea why he wanted to kill me?”
    “
Non, monsieur
. I never discovered.”
    “I should like to talk to him. Do you know where he is?”
    “Give me a day, and I shall find out, monsieur. But it might be dangerous for you to interview him.”
    “I’ll take a pistol,” said Roland.

    It was good to be back in the family house again. Now that he was based in Paris, he thought he might use the house, as far as his regimental duties allowed. Most of the rooms were under dust covers, but his old nanny was still living there with a housekeeper and a maid to keep the house going, and he spent a pleasant evening talking to her.
    Most of the time, when he was away on his regimental duties, Roland did not need to reflect on political matters. But