Paris: The Novel

had worked for Monsieur Eiffel on the Statue of Liberty, and that he’d been sick, the man became friendly and offered to conduct him around.
    They looked first at the two big excavations at the southern and eastern corners, where one could already see, at the bottom of the pit, a good, dry base where the concrete foundations could be poured. Then they walked over to one of the riverside diggings. And Thomas gasped.
    The huge pit in front of him was like a mineshaft. Down at the bottom was a great, open metal box of the kind used to keep out river water when the piers of a bridge are being built. Inside it, the men were using pickaxes and shovels to tear away the ground.
    “They’re already below the level of the Seine,” his guide explained. “The committee chose the site, but when Monsieur Eiffel tested it, he found that the ground on the riverside was so wet it wouldn’t take the ordinary foundations.” He grinned. “Paris would have had its own Leaning Tower of Pisa, but five times higher.”
    “Can the tower still be built?”
    “Oh yes. It’ll have two dry foundations, and two deep ones like this.” He smiled. “But it’s lucky Eiffel knows how to build in rivers.”

    For nearly three more months, Thomas continued to work in the store. Madame Michel was kind to him. He also noticed something else.
    Her daughter was a sallow, yellow-haired girl named Berthe of about his own age. She seldom spoke at all, and moved about behind the counter at a languid pace that, secretly, almost drove Thomas mad.
    So he was greatly astonished when, in May, his father announced: “The widow likes you.”
    “I’m glad.”
    “So does Berthe.” His father smiled. “She likes you a lot.”
    “Are you sure?” And when his father nodded and grinned, he was forced to say: “The feeling’s not mutual.”
    “You could do well there,” his father continued, as though Thomas hadn’t spoken. “She’ll inherit the store, you know … It’s a nice little business. Marry her and you’ll be set up for life.”
    “I’d rather die,” said Thomas.
    “A man’s got to eat,” said his father. “Your mother thinks it’s a good idea, too.”

    It was the last Sunday in May and he’d gone for a stroll around Montmartre in the afternoon. The sun was out, and as he entered an intimate little square called the Place du Tertre, he saw that several painters had set up their easels there.
    Attracted by the cheap rents and picturesque surroundings, artists had taken to living up on Montmartre since about the time he was born. He’d heard tales of Monsieur Renoir up at the Moulin, and it was quite normal to find a few painters out in the open with their easels on a sunny afternoon. Thomas walked through the square glancing at the canvases as he went, but without much interest. Most of the artists were painting the view from the square along the street to the building site of Sacré Coeur, where the scaffolding made a striking outline against the sky. But as he passed one of them, he noticed something different.
    The man was a good-looking fellow in his early thirties, with a light brown beard and a pipe. He had two easels, side by side. One held a sketchbook, the other a primed canvas on which he was just starting to work. Thomas stared at the sketch, and stopped.
    “Pardon, monsieur,” he said politely, “but isn’t that the Gare Saint-Lazare?”
    “It is.” The artist looked up with a pleasant smile. “It’s a sketch I made last winter. A snow scene, but I felt like working it up today.” He shrugged. “It’s nice to sit out in the sun.”
    “I worked there last year,” said Thomas, inspecting the sketch. “I can see the railway lines, the steam from the trains. That’s exactly how it looks.”
    “Thank you.”
    “But why would you paint a railway?”
    “Why not? Monet has painted several pictures of the Gare Saintazare.”
    “So are you what they call an Impressionist?”
    “You can call me that if you like.” The artist smiled. “The term began as an insult, you know. But nobody really knows what it means. Half the people they call Impressionists don’t in fact use the word.”
    “You live here, monsieur?”
    “Mostly. I was in Holland, in Rotterdam, this spring. I may go back there.”
    “What is your name, monsieur?”
    “Norbert Goeneutte.”
    “You know Monsieur Renoir?”
    “Very well. I have modeled for him, in fact.”
    “My name is Thomas Gascon. I live here. I am an ironworker.