Paris: The Novel

in suits, some sporting straw hats or trilbies. And he’d been watching for a couple of minutes when he saw a face he thought he knew.
    Who the devil was it? A face from long ago. He was sure of that. AndLuc prided himself on never forgetting a face. But it still took him a little time before he realized who it was.
    The strange fellow who’d lain in wait that night, long ago, on the rue des Belles-Feuilles. The man who’d wanted to kill that army officer, Roland de Cygne. The man he’d shaken down so successfully in the Bois de Boulogne. Now he remembered the fellow’s name: Le Sourd. That was it.
    Luc was wondering whether to hide himself when he remembered that the fellow might not even have known for sure what part he’d played in that little drama. And he never even saw me, Luc thought, except in the Moulin Rouge. It was Luc’s nature to be curious, and he wondered what sort of man Le Sourd had become these days, and why he’d come to the recruiting station. So, cautiously, he drew closer so that Le Sourd could see his face.
    It was just as he thought. No reaction. Not a glimmer of recognition.
    He went up to him and nodded.
    “Taking the plunge?”
    “Yes.”
    “The rumor I heard,” said Luc amiably, “is that when they start the general call-up, it’ll be everyone up to age forty-five.”
    Le Sourd nodded.
    “I heard that too.”
    “And what age might you be, if you don’t mind me asking?”
    “Forty. And you?”
    Luc did a quick sum in his head. Whatever Le Sourd’s real age, it had to be nearer fifty than forty. Evidently his desire to fight was strong enough to make him lie about his age. That was probably why he’d decided to volunteer rather than wait for the call-up. For when the general call-up came, they’d be checking everyone’s papers carefully, and they might reject a man who was over the age limit. Whereas at present, Luc guessed, they’d take anyone who offered, as long as they were fit enough, with no other questions asked.
    “I’m thirty-nine. Tell me,” he continued, “since I had to think about it myself, I’m curious to know what made you decide to volunteer?”
    Le Sourd shrugged.
    “I’m a socialist. If the German kaiser wins the war, that won’t be good for us.”
    This was certainly logical. The conservative German emperor had farmore authoritarian instincts than the left-leaning French government. Most of the French trade unions and socialist organizations had come to the same conclusion and backed the government at once. As an expression of national solidarity, several socialists had immediately been given important government positions.
    “You’re like me, then. I’m a patriot, but a socialist too,” said Luc. It wasn’t true, but years behind the bar had taught him two things: if he agreed with a man, that man would believe him, because he wanted to; he’d also be far more talkative. And he could have defended his socialism with ease. Men had confided every political position to him, so many times that he could reproduce those views exactly as he’d heard them. “I was a Jean Jaurès man myself.”
    Jean Jaurès, the workingmen’s leader. A figure of towering decency, beloved by every socialist and even many conservatives too. Murdered by a right-wing fanatic that summer, and generally mourned. A safe choice that carried immediate conviction.
    Jacques Le Sourd nodded, and continued.
    “I’ve seen so many of my young comrades—good union men, socialists, even anarchists—going to the front, that … I felt embarrassed to remain behind, to tell you the truth.”
    Luc glanced at him. He’d heard so many stories down the years that he could usually tell if a man was lying. If he was any judge, Le Sourd was telling the truth.
    “Any family?” he asked.
    “A wife. I married late. But I have a little boy.”
    “Did that hold you back?”
    “Yes. I lost my own father. He was a Communard. It’s not good, to lose a father. But then I thought, what if my son has to live under the kaiser because I refused to fight?”
    “That’s it. I’ve nephews and nieces. I feel the same way.”
    Was it possible this married man was still pursuing his strange vendetta against de Cygne? It seemed improbable. Nor could Luc see how the war would make it any easier to accomplish. Even if, by some fluke, Le Sourd appeared in the same company or regiment as the aristocrat, de Cygne would soon come to know of it. He discarded the idea.
    “Shall we enlist,