Paris: The Novel

meant to do one day, when he changed the world.
    Young de Cygne had to be destroyed, then killed. The punishment was due. The death of Jean Le Sourd had to be avenged. How else could he show his love for the father he’d lost?
    But Jacques wasn’t just checking on the boy’s whereabouts. His purpose was deeper than that. He wanted to get to know him. The things he did, the company he kept. If possible, he would have liked to know young de Cygne’s mind, even see into his soul. He wanted to understand exactly the unworthy place that Roland de Cygne occupied in the universe, so that his death should be justified as part of a larger pattern of righteousness.
    And how laughably predictable the boy’s life had been so far. Where did his family live? In the aristocratic Saint-Germain quarter, of course. Where else? Where did he go to school? In the private, Catholic Lycée Saint-Thomas-d’Aquin, in that same, aristocratic quarter. Naturally. Everything was mapped out for him. He would be a perfect little representative of his detestable class.
    And here he came, out of the door of the lycée, with a dozen others of his kind. Jacques Le Sourd watched. Young Roland would be walking eastward along the street, toward his home.
    But no. He was walking the other way. Very well. Jacques Le Sourd continued to observe. Some of Roland’s friends peeled off at the boulevard Raspail, but de Cygne crossed it. A few minutes later, he was alone and still walking westward.
    Curious, Jacques followed.

    Roland de Cygne missed his mother. He’d been seven when she died. Some boys were sent away to boarding school; but on the advice of Father Xavier, his father had sent him to the Catholic lycée near the family house, and he’d been happy there. For Roland delighted in his home.
    The house itself was undeniably grand. Its spirit was that of Louis XIV, the Sun King—large, baroque, powerful. One entered through handsome iron gates into a courtyard with wings, known as
pavillons
, on each side. The hall and broad staircase were of pale, polished stone. In the high, handsome rooms, on parquet floors and Aubusson carpets, Louis XIV formal chairs, lacquered cabinets and heavy boulle desks, their brass inlay softly gleaming, lay like stately ships at anchor. Marble tabletops dimlyreflected the sunlight, which entered respectfully into the aristocratic quiet of the house. Ancestral portraits—sad, baroque generals, bland rococo courtiers—reminded today’s de Cygnes that not only the deity, but their ancestors, also saw all that they did and expected—whether or not they could be good—that they should at least uphold the family honor.
    The grandest family mansions of the aristocracy were known as
hôtels
. And had his title been just a little higher up the ladder of nobility, the vicomte might almost have called his house the Hôtel de Cygne.
    And yet, despite the severe, masculine grandeur of the house, Roland was very happy there. From his earliest childhood, the big, silent rooms had the familiar peace of holy places. The stately armchairs with their ornate wooden arms and tapestry seats were like so many ancient aunts and uncles. And the sometimes daunting portraits were his grandparents, his friends, for whom he felt a deep and primitive urge to protect and defend.
    Above all, although it was only sparsely populated, his home was full of affection.
    His father, who hadn’t remarried so far, was always kind. His old nanny had also remained with them, providing an endless fund of warmth, and effectively running the house for his father. There were only a small staff of six required to keep the place going, but most of them had been with the vicomte all their lives, and Roland thought of them as practically his family, too. And there was Father Xavier, like a favorite uncle, who never failed to look in every week or so.
    But he often thought of his mother, and kept a little photograph of her on the table by his bed, and kissed it every night after he had said his prayers.
    Only one thing worried Roland. He was fifteen now. It was time to be thinking of a career. And he still didn’t know what he wanted to do.
    “I shan’t force you into anything,” his father told him, “but your position is rather like that of your ancestor Roland, back in the days of Saint Louis. He began life as a younger son, and went to Paris as a student. By all accounts, he was very devout, and lived a life of great purity. Almost a monk. But then