Paris: The Novel

monsieur.”
    “Then comes something rather special. I have to make sure that the platform is absolutely, and perfectly, level. How to do that, young Monsieur Gascon? Give it a shove?”
    “I don’t know, monsieur.”
    “Then I will tell you.” He pointed to one of the tower’s four great feet. “Under each foot is a system of pistons, operated by compressed water, which allows me to make minute and subtle adjustments to the height and angle of each leg in three dimensions. Surveyors will take the most careful measurements.” He gave a broad grin. “Then I’ll go up and check with a spirit level.”
    “
Oui
, Monsieur Eiffel.”
    “Any other questions?”
    “I have one, monsieur.” Thomas pointed to the great cranes that hoisted the girders up into position. “Those cranes will go only so high. Nowhere near the height to which we’re building. When we get to the height of the cranes, what happens after that?”
    “Bravo, young man! Excellent question.”
    Thomas politely waited.
    “You’ll see,” the great man said.

    It was already growing dark as he crossed the Pont d’Iéna to the Right Bank. Ahead of him, on the slope overlooking the bridge, stood the strange, moorish-looking Trocadéro concert hall, built a decade ago for the last World’s Fair.
    Thomas smiled to himself as he passed this exotic palace. Ten minuteslater he was at his lodgings. But he didn’t go in. He was feeling hungry. If he walked for another five minutes up the rue de la Pompe to where it crossed Victor Hugo, there was a little bar where he could get a steak and some haricots verts. He’d earned it.
    Still feeling rather cheerful, he trudged contentedly along. On his right he came to the railings of the Lycée Janson de Sailly, and this made him smile again.
    All Paris knew the story of the grand new school that had recently opened on the rue de la Pompe. The rich lawyer whose name it bore had discovered his wife had a lover. His revenge had been sweet. He had disinherited her, and left his entire fortune, down to the last sou, to build a school—for boys only! Though the lycée had only just opened, it was already fashionable. Thomas wondered cheerfully what had become of the widow.
    There was still a glow of gaslights coming through the windows. No doubt the cleaners were finishing their work. As he watched, he saw the lights starting to go out. He paused.
    Why did he pause? There was no reason at all, really. Just idle curiosity, to see the cleaners come out.
    A moment later they did. Two women, one old, one younger, though he couldn’t see their faces. The older one crossed the street. The younger turned up it. He continued walking. He came level as she reached a lamp outside a doorway. He glanced at her. And stopped dead in his tracks.
    It was the girl from the funeral. It had been so long since their brief encounter that he’d almost put her out of his mind. He’d wondered if he’d even recognize her. Yet now that he saw her, even in the lamplight, he hadn’t the slightest doubt. He’d looked all over Paris for her, and here she was, hardly a mile from where he’d first seen her.
    She was a few paces in front of him now. He drew level again. She looked across sharply.
    “Have you been following me?”
    “No. I was walking up the street when you came out of the lycée.”
    “Keep walking, then.”
    “In that case, you will be following me,” he said cleverly.
    “I don’t think so.”
    “I will do as you ask, but first I have to tell you something. We have met before.”
    “No we haven’t.”
    “You were at the funeral of Victor Hugo.”
    She shrugged.
    “And …?”
    “You were in the front row, on the Champs-Élysées. A soldier made you move.” He paused. She gave no reaction. “Do you remember a man hanging out from the railings of the building behind?”
    “No.”
    “That was me.”
    “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” But she was thinking. “I remember a crazy man. He was saying vulgar things to a man below him.”
    “That’s right.” He smiled. “That was me.”
    “You’re disgusting. Get away from me.”
    “I went looking for you.”
    “So now you’ve found me. Fuck off.”
    “You don’t understand. I went back to the same place in the Champs-Élysées for weeks. Did you ever go there again?”
    “No.”
    “Then I went from district to district, all over Paris, for over a year, in the hope of finding you. My little brother came with me sometimes. I