Paris: The Novel

up, then her children would slide so easily into the noble title their bourgeois father had bought that few people would even remember that they had nearly slipped out of the class to which their mother belonged.
    Geneviève’s sister Catherine had married a rich merchant. But he had shown no interest in getting himself ennobled. This had caused Geneviève and her brother some grief, but it seemed there was nothing they could do about it. Geneviève had married a noble.
    Perceval d’Artagnan came from a cadet branch of the ancient family of Montesquiou d’Artagnan, which, long ago, had gone their own way and chosen to be known by the simpler appellation of d’Artagnan.
    When Geneviève married Perceval, she had done well. He had enough money to maintain both a pleasant château on the edge of Burgundy and a house in Paris. He was proud of his ancient lineage, which went back over seven centuries to an ancient ruler of Gascony. In this century, however, a distant relation had also taken the name of d’Artagnan, and this had not pleased Geneviève’s husband.
    “The fellow’s just a spy and general stooge for Mazarin,” he’d told her dismissively when they first married. But recently this d’Artagnan had risen so far in the royal service that he’d become head of the king’s prestigious Musketeers, and favored at court. From this time, Geneviève noticed, her husband started referring to him as “my kinsman d’Artagnan, the Musketeer.”
    It might be said, then, that Geneviève had everything she wanted. She had comfort, and status, and after a dozen years of marriage she had two children living, a boy and a girl, both of whom were strong and healthy. There was only one problem.
    She had a husband who did nothing.
    He had always been a man of strong views. The chief of these, from their earliest days together, had been the importance of the old aristocracy.
    “It all began with Richelieu,” he’d complain, “a nobleman who should have known better: this constant undermining of the old feudal privileges. They want to make the king into a central tyrant. As for the upstart Mazarin …” His disgust for the lowborn Italian cardinal was complete.
    The two Fronde rebellions that came just before their marriage had brought matters to a head. First the lesser nobles and Parisians hadrebelled against paying new taxes; then the old princely families had done the same. The mob had entered the Louvre. Mazarin had been driven out of Paris.
    But order had been restored. Supported by the young king’s mother—who was now so close to the cardinal that they seemed like man and wife—Mazarin ruled once more. The boy Louis XIV, whom Mazarin treated like a son, had come of age; in 1661, when the cardinal died, he had taken the reins of power into his strong young hands.
    And if one thing was clear, Geneviève thought—whether her husband liked it or not—it was that young Louis XIV, having loved Mazarin like a father, and seen the chaos of the Fronde, had no intention of leaving France in the hands of the old feudal nobility. He meant to rule them with a rod of iron. Her husband could huff and puff as much as he liked, but he was living in the past.
    And doing nothing. He spent time on his estate. He hunted. He went about in Paris. And that was it. His sole occupation was being an aristocrat, and it never occurred to him that this was not enough to do with one’s life.
    “You know, Catherine,” she remarked to her sister once, “I sometimes think you were right to marry a merchant. At least he has something to do.”
    “He works because he has to.”
    “That may be. But he works. A man should work. I respect him.”
    “You don’t respect Monsieur d’Artagnan?”
    “No. Not anymore. It makes things … difficult.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Perhaps you could lend me your husband now and then.”
    Her sister laughed.
    “What would Monsieur d’Artagnan say to that?”
    Geneviève shrugged.
    “At least it keeps it in the family.”
    “Well, I’m afraid you can’t borrow my husband, and please don’t try.”
    “I won’t.” Geneviève sighed. “
Mon Dieu
, Catherine, I’m bored.”

    Hercule Le Sourd stared. It was a handsome, fair-haired woman inside the carriage. An aristocrat by the look of it. She motioned for him to sit opposite her. He hesitated. Then, out of curiosity really, he complied.
    “Close the door,” she said.
    He did so, and immediately the carriage started to move.
    “I