Paris: The Novel

have been listening to you, several times,” she said.
    “I noticed. But I assumed it was a man. A government spy, perhaps.”
    She laughed.
    “I suppose I could be a government spy. No doubt some of them are women. How exciting.”
    “What do you want?”
    “You are quite clever, monsieur. If you weren’t clever, the things you shout would merely be rude, and vulgar. But your speeches are very witty. Do you rehearse them?”
    “There are parts I have composed. But I invent things as I go along. As the spirit moves me.”
    “Can you read and write?”
    “A little.”
    “You sound quite learned. All that philosophy.”
    “I used to go into the Latin Quarter and listen to the students talking in the taverns. I picked it up. I suppose it interested me.”
    “What else do you do?”
    “I make shoes.”
    “And what is your name?”
    “Hercule Le Sourd.”
    She laughed.
    “It’s a funny combination. Half hero, half robber, perhaps.”
    “I’ve never had to steal. What is your name?”
    “I shall not tell you, monsieur.”
    “As you like.”
    Le Sourd looked at her thoughtfully. He already knew what she wanted.
    He’d been married when he was younger. His wife had died three years ago, leaving him with a five-year-old son. He and his sister’s family lived in the same street, just south of the university quarter, near the Gobelins factory where the tapestries were made. With his son and his sister’s children almost forming an extended family, Le Sourd had felt no immediate pressure to provide himself with another wife. The personal magnetism he displayed on the Pont Neuf made him attractive to women, and for the last couple of years he’d enjoyed a series of romances while retaining his independence. His conquests had included the wives of several well-to-do merchants. But this aristocratic lady was something entirely new.
    He decided to wait and see what she did next.
    “You must be hungry after all your efforts,” she said. “Would you like to dine with me?”
    “If the food is good,” he answered.

    The coachman seemed to know where to go. They had crossed onto the Right Bank now, east of the Louvre. Soon the carriage turned left, toward the Marais. The thought crossed his mind that this woman could be a lunatic of some kind. He was big and strong enough to overpower her and the coachman too. But what if she decided to poison him?
    She seemed to read his thoughts.
    “Life is full of risks.”
    “Are we going to your house?” he asked.
    “No.” She was watching him carefully. “I dare not. Tell me about yourself.”
    He shrugged. He had nothing in particular to hide. He told her about his family, poor craftsmen mostly. “They say we descend from quite an important criminal, who was hanged, a long time ago.”
    “You think it’s true?”
    “I expect so. We’ve tried not to get caught since.”
    He told her about the loss of his wife and that he had a son.
    “But you haven’t married again.”
    “Not yet.”
    “You prefer to be independent.”
    “What makes you think so, madame?”
    She smiled.
    “Have you heard yourself ranting on the Pont Neuf?”
    Through the thin curtains, he could see where they were now. They had come into Henry IV’s Place Royale, in the heart of the Marais. There they stopped. He heard the coachman descend. The door opened.
    “We shall dine,” she said to the coachman. And turning to Le Sourd: “If you step out for a moment, he will set up the table.”
    The coachman went to the back of the carriage. From a compartment he removed a narrow table with legs that swung down, like a trestle. To his surprise, Le Sourd realized that this was going to be inserted inside the carriage. While the coachman busied himself with this task, he looked around him.
    There was no doubt that the square was the most delightful place in Paris. With its four equal sides of perfectly matched brick and stone, the terraced mansions gazed softly down upon the rows of clipped green trees inside which lay the four lawns. At the street level, the arcades with their rounded arches turned the ensemble into a huge cloister.
    Unsurprisingly, everyone soon forgot that King Henry had meant these houses to be tenanted by honest working families. The rich, seeing the quality of the place, had taken it over for themselves. But ordinary folk could still enter its quiet arcades and enjoy the intimate peace of the great square.
    Having inserted the table inside the carriage, the coachman