Paris: The Novel

in death, the aristocratic pose. I am not impressed, Monsieur le Vicomte. You are merely playing a role. Here in the middle of this desert of the spirit, you act out a part that belongs to …”—he searched for words—“a great illusion. It’s absurd. Perhaps you imagine that, in the afterlife, God is going to tip His hat to you in courteous recognition, like the Roi Soleil.”
    Roland de Cygne said nothing. Even if he had agreed with Le Sourd, he would not have told him.
    Le Sourd aimed. Roland waited.
    “Merde,”
said Le Sourd. And instead of firing, he turned and walked away through the trees.

Chapter Twenty
    •  1918  •
    James Fox looked thoughtfully at the young woman who sat across the desk from him.
    It was a November day. As usual, the offices of Fox and Martineau, of which he was now the senior partner, maintained an almost sepulchral quiet. Occasionally a sound from the narrow alley off Chancery Lane intruded through the window, but seldom enough to challenge the soft hiss of the coal fire in the grate.
    The young lady had arrived a little while before, without appointment, and asked to see the senior partner. He had no meeting at that moment, and when he’d heard her name, and realized who she must be, he’d told his clerk to usher her in.
    She was quietly, almost severely dressed—a white shirt, a simple pearl choker, dark gray coat and skirt, her dark hair swept up and pinned under a sensible hat. Appropriate, for the country was still at war. But the material was expensive. One could tell that she came from the well-to-do upper-middle class.
    Her face was rather beautiful, he thought. Her eyes large, almost violet in color. There was a certain elegance in her movements. Was there something French about her, or did he just imagine it because of what he knew? Her name was Louise.
    “How can I help you?” he asked.
    “You are the family lawyers,” said Louise. “I believe you always have been.”
    “That is certainly true. It began with my own father and your grandfather.”
    “So if I were adopted you would know.”
    He did not move a muscle of his face.
    “We might, or might not, I should say.”
    “I think you know.”
    He did not answer.
    “My mother told me I was adopted. She told me when I was sixteen.”
    “Did she?”
    “She didn’t want to tell me, even then. I never had any idea until one day I overheard two of my parents’ friends talking about our family, and one of them said that I was adopted but that I didn’t know. What do you think of that, Mr. Fox?”
    “If clients ask us, we generally recommend that they should tell children when they are adopted. Some do not. But even if you had been adopted, I don’t know why you’d come to see me.”
    “When I asked my mother about it, and I told her what I’d heard, she wasn’t very pleased. Then she told me that she and my father had adopted me because they loved me, but that my real parents didn’t love me, and didn’t want me. I was quite upset by what she said at the time. It was a new thought for me, you see, that my real parents had rejected me. But now I think my mother said it because she wanted me to love her, and not the parents I never knew.”
    “I believe you have had a happy childhood and a good home. Is that correct?”
    “Yes, it is.”
    “And your parents loved you as they should?”
    “Yes, they did.”
    “Parents need to be loved too, you know. Even if everything you say is correct, I think you should consider your mother. Perhaps she was afraid you would love her less. You surely do not wish to hurt her.”
    “But I’d like to know if she was telling me the truth.”
    “Quite often people have children that they can’t look after, for all sorts of reasons. It’s not lack of love, but circumstances that force them to act. Whoever your parents were—assuming you are correct—it’s clear that they went to great lengths to ensure that you had a wonderful home and upbringing, probably one they could never have given you.”
    “Shouldn’t one always want to know the truth?”
    “Speaking as a family lawyer of thirty years’ experience”—he smiled—“sometimes I wish people knew the truth, and sometimes I wish they didn’t. So if you have come to me for advice, then I advise you to be kind to the parents who gave you a home, and to forget the rest.”
    “I didn’t come to you for advice.” She looked at him steadily. “I asked my mother who my real parents were, but