Paris: The Novel

losing to the Germans?”
    “Not that so much.” His father fell silent for a minute. “It was the fighting afterward, against the Commune … A civil war is a terrible thing, my son. May you never live to see one.”
    “Father Xavier told me that the Communards did unspeakable things. He says that in the final week, they killed the archbishop of Paris and massacred innocent monks and priests in cold blood. He said they were martyred, just like the priests in the Revolution.”
    “It’s true.” His father nodded. “And we killed a lot of Communards, too, you know. Thousands.”
    “But they were in the wrong.”
    “Probably.” He shook his head. “I dare say they thought they were fighting for Liberty, Equality and Fraternity.”
    “And disorder.”
    “That, too, no doubt.”
    “Did you kill many Communards?” Roland asked.
    There was a silence.
    “Let us speak of other things,” the vicomte said.
    The rue de Rivoli was long. After a mile and a quarter, it briefly changed its name before ending in the square where the old Bastille had stood. They passed the site of the old Grève market on their right, andRoland was just looking at some workmen refurbishing the huge Hôtel de Ville beside it when the phaeton made a crisp turn to the left and started up the rue du Temple.
    “You know how this street got its name?” his father inquired.
    “The Knights Templar lived up here.”
    “There’s hardly a trace of their buildings now, but did you know that for centuries after the Templars were destroyed, the tax exemptions on their land remained? Made it a popular place to live!”
    The street seemed to grow narrower as they went northward, until they reached a dark square. Just off the square was a small street.
    “Here we are,” said his father.
    The shop had a single window in which, before a dark brown velvet curtain, Roland saw a Louis XIV armchair that needed repair. It seemed a dingy sort of place. His father saw his face and smiled.
    “My friend is very discreet,” he remarked. “That chair, by the way, is a museum piece, and the sort of person who buys it will want to see it unrestored.”
    Realizing that this visit must be part of his education, Roland stared at the chair and said nothing.
    The door of the store was locked. His father rang the bell. And a few moments later, a small, middle-aged man, slightly stooped, dressed, despite the warm weather, in a tightly buttoned black frock coat, and wearing thick glasses, peered through the glass and then let them in.
    “Monsieur de Cygne.” The man made a quick bow. “It is a pleasure to see you.”
    “I received your summons, my dear Jacob, and came at once,” the vicomte answered easily. “This is my son, by the way. Roland, this is Monsieur Jacob.” And to his slight discomfort, Roland found himself shaking a small, proffered hand, aware of only one thing: that his father, an aristocrat and a good Catholic, had apparently answered the summons of a man who was, obviously, a Jew.
    The door closed behind them. While his father went through some brief inquiries about the owner’s family and general health, Roland allowed his eyes to roam around the long and narrow space. There was the usual clutter of eighteenth-century tables, classical heads and china that one might expect to find in any antique store. Behind this was an open space, and farther back, a door that probably led to a storeroom. There was not a lot of light. He felt confined. But above all, he felt uncomfortable.
    He remembered asking Father Xavier, once, what he thought about the Jews.
    “They gave us our God, the Old Testament and the prophets,” the priest answered carefully.
    “But they killed Christ,” Roland objected.
    “This cannot be denied,” Father Xavier agreed.
    “So they all go to hell,” Roland continued, because he wanted to get it right.
    But here Father Xavier had hesitated for a moment, as if considering what was just and proper.
    “We may suppose,” he said finally, “that in normal circumstances, it is unlikely that a Jew, or indeed a Protestant, will enter Heaven. But we cannot know the mind of God. And in His infinite wisdom, He may make exceptions.”
    Roland might have preferred something more definite, but it seemed enough to be going on with. Non-Catholics were in a lot of trouble. And when it came to all the things he heard people say about the Jews, at school and in the homes of his friends, he felt he could assume that most of the