Paris: The Novel

reservists were being called to the front. The army had transports for only four thousand. The solution? Taxis.
    A decade ago they would have been horse-drawn—and there were still plenty of horse-drawn vehicles in Paris, as in every other part of the Western world. But the Renault company had produced a sturdy and excellent motor—the Renault AG—that now served as the favored taxicab in thecity. Six hundred of them had been put in service for the patriotic task. They’d have to make the journey two or three times.
    The Renault AG was a cheerful little vehicle. It looked as if the passenger cabin of a horse-drawn cab had been placed on smaller wheels, and a motor attached to the front. On that warm day, most of the soft roofs on the backs of the cabs were folded down.
    The first fleet of taxis was circling the Arc de Triomphe to the applause of the crowd before they turned, two, three, four at a time and scuttled down the Champs-Élysées toward the Louvre and then, eastward, toward the front.
    How splendid the young men looked in their kepis, their blue coats and red trousers, hardly changed since the glorious days of Napoléon. With what gallant panache they waved and saluted from their taxis as they passed. It was so colorful, so stylish, so French. If the Parisians had been terrified and ready to flee just days before, this cheerful, mad parade of courage and daring seemed to put new heart into them. When a dozen taxis broke out from the Arc de Triomphe and careered down the Champs-Élysées all together, the cheers turned into a roar.
    All the time Thomas was watching intensely. Robert was in one of the taxis, but heaven knows which one. He’d told him where he planned to stand, so he’d be looking out, as long as he was able to get in the right side of the taxi.
    Several times he reached out to take Pierre’s arm, thinking that he’d caught sight of him, and Pierre got ready to wave, but each time Thomas had shaken his head; and he could tell that, although Pierre naturally wanted to wave to his brother, he was starting to get bored.
    But then at last he saw him. He was sure he did. Robert was sitting in the back of the taxi looking out.
    “Robert!” he cried, so loudly that surely one would have heard it from the avenue de la Grande-Armée. “Bravo, Robert!” And he waved wildly from the edge of the street, and Pierre and Luc waved too. And it seemed to them that the figure in the cab raised his hand in acknowledgment as best he could, for he was probably pressed rather tightly in the cab, and then a moment later the cab had passed.
    “I think it was him,” said Thomas.
    “Certainly it was,” said Luc.
    “Did he see us?” asked Pierre.
    “I’m sure he did,” Luc answered.
    It was clear that he and Pierre were ready to go.
    “You go on,” said Thomas. “I’ll just wait a while.” He was still watching the cabs going by.
    “Are you sure?” asked his brother.
    “You know,” said Thomas quietly, “just in case it wasn’t him.”
    “It was him,” said Luc. But Thomas didn’t answer. So Luc and Pierre left, but Thomas Gascon remained where he was, staring into every cab that passed. Because he wanted to be sure that Robert didn’t come by and see nobody waiting for him. After all, you never knew what was going to happen, out there at the front. Several times he waved at cabs where he saw someone who resembled his son.
    And though the crowds began to thin, he remained there another hour until, at last, a cab went by with a single old gentleman in a top hat, whoever he was, and then there were no more.

    When he got home, Pierre gave him a message that Luc wanted to see him at his restaurant, so Thomas went round there.
    Luc was sitting alone at a table, and he motioned his brother to sit down and poured him a glass of wine.
    “I’ve been thinking, brother,” Luc said. “This big offensive out at the Marne. It’s quite a gamble, you know.”
    “I suppose so.”
    “If it fails, the Germans could be here in less than a week. What will you do then?”
    “I don’t know. What will you do?”
    “Serve them dinner.” He shrugged. “What else does a restaurant do?”
    “I hadn’t thought about it like that.”
    “But what if we hold them at the Marne, or somewhere out there in eastern France? Everyone thinks this war will be a short affair, one way or the other. If they’re right, there’s nothing to do but wait. But what if it isn’t so short? What’ll happen