Paris: The Novel

kick him in the head with his workman’s boot, he contented himself with a contemptuous
“Cochon!”
and turned away.
    Thanks to this arrangement, tethered safely to the grille behind by the rope around his waist, Thomas could lean out to left or right as he pleased and watch everything over the heads of the people in front of him.
    Across the avenue, the balconies were crammed with people; there were heads at every window. Some of these folk had paid large sums of money for these vantage points. But he had a view as good as theirs, for free.
    To his left, the wide space around the Arc de Triomphe had been cleared for the dignitaries who were all in deepest mourning dress, or uniform. The great arch itself was an extraordinary sight. Three years ago, a huge sculpture of the goddess Victory in her chariot had been placed on top, making it even more dramatic than before. An enormous drape hung like a scooped curtain over one side of the monument; long banners hung from its corners. And taking up most of the great central arch was the ornate and massive catafalque, sixty feet high, in which Victor Hugo had been lying in state.
    It was more than a funeral. It was an apotheosis.
    The crowds were all in black. The better-off men wore top hats. Thomashimself had put on a short coat that was dark enough, but he wore a blue workingman’s cap. He supposed Victor Hugo wouldn’t mind.
    He was staring toward the arch, where the funeral orations were beginning, when he saw the girl.
    She was standing about fifteen yards away, in the front row. He could see only the back of her head, and there was nothing special about that. There was really no reason he should have felt drawn toward this particular head in the sea of people all around. But for some reason it seemed to him to be special.
    He could see that she had frizzy brown hair. The skin on the back of her neck looked pale. He couldn’t tell what she was wearing, but he thought that she probably belonged to the poorer classes, like himself. He wondered if she would turn round.
    The funeral orations were starting. He couldn’t hear them properly, but that didn’t matter. He was there. He was part of the great event.
    And everyone knew what must be said. Victor Hugo wasn’t only a great romantic poet and novelist.
Liberty, Equality, Fraternity
were his watchwords, and he’d lived by them. When Napoléon III had made himself dictator, Hugo had shamed him before all the world, choosing exile in the island of Guernsey, and refusing to come back until democracy was restored. When the Germans invaded France, he’d returned at once, to share starvation with the people of Paris. He’d served as a deputy and a senator too, and taken up residence on one of the splendid avenues that radiated out from the Arc de Triomphe. He was France’s greatest patriot, the conscience of the nation, the finest spirit of the age.
    A few years ago, as a birthday present, the city had even renamed the avenue where he lived: avenue Victor Hugo.
    From time to time, an oration would end, and the echo of applause could be heard before another speech began. Each time, Thomas would watch the young woman carefully, in case she turned her head. But although she shifted her position a little, he never saw her face. Meanwhile, the clouds were departing from the sky, and the Arc de Triomphe was bathed in sunlight.
    At last the ceremonies were drawing to a close. He heard a church bell start to sound the hour of noon. And at that moment, the entire sky above Paris seemed to shake as a huge roar of cannon split the air. Gun after gun saluted, each bang and rumble reverberating off the buildings, so that it was hard to guess where the guns were placed.
    He saw the girl step forward into the roadway, trying to discover where the sounds were coming from. She turned right around, saw him and stared—which was hardly surprising since, thanks to his rope, he was leaning so far forward that he appeared to be hovering in the air above the heads of the people in front of him. As for Thomas, he was gazing at her as if he’d seen a vision.
    She was wearing the plain dress of a simple working girl. Her face was lightly freckled, her nose small, her mouth was not too wide, but generous. Her eyes were hazel, as far as he could see. She looked at him quizzically. And then she smiled.
    To his surprise, at that moment, he didn’t feel a rush of excitement. In fact, he felt strangely calm, as if everything in the world had