Paris: The Novel

for you on the Statue of Liberty,” Thomas said, as he came up with him.
    “Ah.” Eiffel paused, clearly trying to remember him. Then he smiled. “Young Monsieur Gascon from Aquitaine, who went to search for his brother,
n’est-ce pas
?”
    “Yes, monsieur.”
    Eiffel indicated to his companions that they should move on and that he would join them shortly.
    “And I forget—did you find your brother?”
    “This is him.” Thomas indicated Luc.
    “And what can I do for you, Monsieur Gascon?”
    “I should like to work for you on the tower, Monsieur Eiffel. Just like I did on the Statue.”
    “But my friend, we have a full complement. It would have given me pleasure to employ you on two such notable projects. Why did you not apply at the start, when we were hiring?”
    Thomas hesitated only a second.
    “My brother here was sick, monsieur, and my family needed me at home.” He glanced at Luc, who managed to cover his astonishment, and continued: “He is well now, as you see.” And Luc solemnly nodded.
    Eiffel looked at him thoughtfully.
    “I know you are a good worker,” said Eiffel. “And as it happens, we are short one man at present. But this is not in the factory. We are short a ‘flyer,’ the fellows who go up the tower.”
    “That is what I should like best of all, monsieur,” cried Thomas. “Perhaps this is fate,” he added hopefully.
    “Hmm. Have you ever worked on a high bridge? Do you have a head for heights? It would be very dangerous for you if you hadn’t.”
    “I have a wonderful head for heights, monsieur, I promise you.”
    “Very well. Report here on the last Monday of this month. Ask for Monsieur Compagnon. I shall tell him to expect you. The wages aren’t huge, but they’re fair.” He nodded, to indicate that the interview was over, and set off toward the river.
    “Thank you, monsieur,” Thomas called after him.

    As Thomas and his brother crossed over the Pont d’Iéna a short time later, Luc turned to him.
    “Why did you lie? Why did you tell him I was sick?”
    “It was necessary,” Thomas confessed. “If he’d thought I was sick, he wouldn’t have hired me.”
    “But you are sick. At least, a bit. Are you strong enough to do this?”
    “I’ll be fine by the end of the month.”
    “Everyone’s going to be furious,” Luc reminded him. “The doctor, our mother, Madame Michel … and especially Berthe.”
    “I know. We needn’t tell them yet.”
    “Well, if you don’t marry Berthe, maybe you’d better find that mystery girl of yours.”
    Thomas laughed.
    “To tell you the truth, I can’t even remember what she looks like. Do you know, it’s two years, to the day, since I saw her at Victor Hugo’s funeral.”
    They continued a little farther in silence. Then Luc spoke.
    “Are you sure you have a head for heights?”

Chapter Five
    •  1887  •
    Jacques Le Sourd watched the entrance of the school. It was the last full day before the lycée closed for the summer.
    Nobody took any notice of him. Why would they? As far as any of the people in the rue de Grenelle were concerned, he was just a young man of twenty or so, probably a student, or an artisan.
    And nobody knew what he was thinking. That was the wonderful thing. It made him free, and powerful. Thanks to his anonymity, he could wait, undisturbed, for the boy he was going to destroy.
    Not that he was going to kill him today. He probably could, but he didn’t want to. Not yet. When the right moment came he would do it. That was quite certain. But he was patient and, in his own mind, his patience also gave him power. Power to choose the time. Power because no one would suspect him.
    It was amazing, really, he considered, how simple it all was. Discovering where Roland de Cygne lived and where he went to school was easy, of course. And given the school’s regular hours, he could come by and watch the boy arrive or leave the school any day he wished. He’d gotten to know the other places young Roland went. He observed him like this every month or so.
    This small matter had made him realize how most people lived their lives by following very predictable patterns. One knew where they were. With a little further study, one could probably guess what they were thinking. Disrupt their routine and they would panic. Offer them a new routine, and they would take it because it made them feel safe. A skillfulplanner, he suspected, could make people do almost anything he liked. And that is what he