Paris: The Novel

cried back. But the crowd was encircling them.
    “Scissors!” someone cried. “Razors!”
    Thomas wasn’t afraid to fight, even at his age, but half of them were women, and he wasn’t used to fighting women. There were too many people anyway. So he did the only thing he could.
    “Mes camerades,”
he cried, “I am Thomas Gascon from the Maquis of Montmartre, member of the FTP, Resistance fighter. It was I who cut the cables in the Eiffel Tower. Come with me to Montmartre, if you don’t believe me, and I will show you witnesses. Whatever her faults, I ask you to let me take this young woman home, on this day of celebration.”
    They looked at him. Could this old man be telling the truth? They decided he was.
    “Vivent les FTP!”
somebody cried. “Bravo, old man!” And they started to laugh and clap him on the back.
    For such is the strange and sudden sense of chivalry of the French mob.
    “She’s free. She’s free,” they cried.
    So Thomas Gascon took the girl home, before he went to his family celebration.

    For Max Le Sourd, however, there was one duty still to be performed. When he explained to his father what it was, his father agreed to help.
    Their first trip was to the cemetery. They needed to break some rules. After a little talk to the guardian, the matter was arranged.
    So it was the corpse of Charlie de Cygne that was now placed in a simple casket and taken by Max Le Sourd, Thomas and the Dalou boys in a van to the cemetery of Père Lachaise. There the coffin was lowered into a small plot, pleasantly situated near the grave of Chopin.
    Over the grave they placed a wooden cross inscribed with Charlie’s name, the description “Patriot,” and the fact that he had died for France.

    There were no religious obsequies. “His family can do that,” Max said. But there was something else to be done. “You’re the writer,” Max said to his father. “I’ll give you the information, but you write it.”
    The letter was a good one. It made no mention of the betrayal, but stated that Charlie had been wounded in an operation and died without pain. He had shown great bravery and dignity. His compatriots loved and respected him. Before dying he had spoken of his son.
    It was simple and respectful.
    “Shall we send it in the mail?” asked Max. But his father shook his head.

    In early September, Roland de Cygne was surprised to receive a visit from Jacques Le Sourd at the château. Asking to speak with him alone, Le Sourd bowed his head, and told him: “I have the great sorrow, Monsieur le Vicomte, to bring you the news of the death of your son. But he died bravely.” And he handed him the letter.
    Roland read the letter slowly.
    “When he disappeared, we feared something might have happened. But one always hopes, you know.”
    “I trust it meets with your approval, monsieur, but to honor him as best they could, his comrades buried him in Père Lachaise.”
    “Père Lachaise? There are some great names there.”
    “His grave is close to that of Chopin. For the moment, it is marked with a wooden cross, very simple, with his name. You may wish a priest …”
    “Of course.” Roland paused and thought for a moment. “Was he carrying anything?”
    “No papers, monsieur. They preferred not to carry identification, on a mission.”
    “I understand. There wasn’t perhaps a little lighter, made of a bullet casing?”
    “Not that we found, monsieur.”

    The letter from Richard Bennett did not arrive until the summer of 1945.
    It explained the great difficulties he had encountered in tracing the benefactor he had known only as Monsieur Bon Ami.
    But eventually, I was able to discover through a Paris lawyer that the owner of a Voisin C-25 coupe kept at a château in a certain part of the valley of the Loire was a Monsieur Charles de Cygne. I have learned with great sorrow that he died not long after he saved my own life. Please accept my deep condolences for your loss
.
    More than a hundred and sixty airmen, from Britain, Canada, Australia and New Zealand were betrayed or captured, many being sent to the camp at Buchenwald. Thanks to your son, I was one of the lucky ones to escape
.
    When I parted from your son, he gave me a little lighter, which I enclose, telling me it would bring me luck, which it certainly did. He told me I could return it after the war. Alas, he is not there to receive it himself, but I believe he leaves a son who, perhaps, might like to have it as a memento of a