Paris: The Novel

much time there as he should. He was too busy with his life in Paris. But the place had its chatelaine.
    Claire had heard about Laïla, the Jewish girl whom they’d rescued in the war, but she’d never met her. She found a delightful woman in her thirties. Laïla had married recently, a local vet, and they had converted one of the stable yards into a delightful office and animal hospital, as well as a large apartment for themselves. It suited everybody.
    “Laïla’s part of the family,” Esmé explained. “She knows far more abouteverything in the château than I do, and she keeps the place in wonderful order.”
    When Laïla took Claire around, and explained all the furniture to her, it was clear that she had mastered her subject to an almost professional standard. Indeed, when she showed Claire her favorite unicorn tapestry, one might almost have thought that she owned it herself.
    Claire spent a relaxing weekend at the château, enjoying the country air. Then Esmé drove her back to Paris. Upon parting from her, he reminded her that she had an appointment to see the place on the Île de la Cité the following morning, but that he would not accompany her.
    “I’ll see you for dinner,” he said, “and you can tell me the verdict.”

    Claire left the funicular behind her and went through the streets of Montmartre. She had only once before been up there for the wine festival, and that had been long ago. No doubt it was even busier at the weekend, but there was still plenty of activity. The little vineyard on the back of the hill was looking very charming. Below it, the streets of the old Maquis were looking quite respectable now. But the whole hill still retained a bright, intimate village atmosphere that probably went back to medieval or even Roman times. The wine from the grapes themselves was not too drinkable, but she found space at a table at the Lapin Agile where the men welcomed her very cheerfully and insisted on sharing their bottle of wine with her.
    It took only a couple of drinks for her to feel very much at home.
    Were they all from Montmartre? she asked.
    No, they laughed, they were all from the car works out at Boulogne-Billancourt. But their foreman was from here.
    He was a short, sturdy, thickset man, but with a kindly face. His grandfather had lived in the Maquis when he was a boy.
    “You had to be tough to live in the Maquis,” one of the men said, and there was a chorus of agreement. Yes, one had to be tough.
    She was quite definitely a little drunk by the time she thanked them and went back up the hill. She might be a little drunk, she thought, but it hadn’t helped her in the least decide what to do about that pied-à-terre. Did Phil really mean it when he said he wanted to learn French?

    It was half an hour later that Marcel Gascon walked out onto the wide steps in front of the great white basilica of Sacré Coeur. It was a lovely afternoon, the light catching the towers of Notre Dame, the distant dome of Les Invalides and the graceful curve of the Eiffel Tower.
    There were quite a few people about, but he noticed one woman sitting alone, staring out over the city. It was the woman who’d shared a drink with the boys a short time ago. She’d been an elegant woman, distinguished.
    He’d rather wished the boys hadn’t made so much of the toughness of the Maquis. It was true, of course. But they made it sound as if everyone who came from there was crude, stupid, perhaps.
    He went over to the woman, and stood beside her. She looked up and smiled.
    “I come up here every year, madame, to look at the view.”
    “It’s beautiful.”
    He pointed at the Eiffel Tower.
    “It never looks the same, the tower. Changes in the light. Like those Impressionists. You know. They’d paint the same thing in different lights. Different every time.”
    “This is true,” said Claire.
    “It’s made of iron, yet it looks so delicate. It’s masculine, but feminine.” He shrugged.
    “That is very observant, monsieur. I agree with you.”
    “Oui,”
said Gascon, feeling quite pleased with himself. “It’s indestructible, that tower,” he continued with satisfaction. “Like a ship, weathers every storm.” He paused. “My grandfather built that tower,” he couldn’t resist adding.
    “Really? That’s a fine thing. You must be very proud, monsieur.”
    “
Oui, madame
. Have a good evening.”
    Claire watched him go, then gazed at the view.
    Now she knew. She’d better telephone Phil.