The next day school broke up at noon. When Roland returned home, his father was absent, but had left a message that he’d be returning after lunch and that they were going out.
When his father duly arrived to collect him, however, and Roland asked where they were going, he was only told, “To see a friend of mine,” which made him rather curious.
Was this friend a man, he asked himself, or might this be a lady?
He’d often wondered about his father’s romantic life. Though the Vicomte de Cygne was devoted to the memory of his late wife, whom he’d adored, he was no hermit. A good height, elegant, quite rich and certainly aristocratic, his father kept his military bearing and mustache, but he always moved gracefully and knew how to make charming conversation. He must surely, Roland guessed, be attractive to women.
Like most aristocrats, the vicomte would have considered it beneath him to be an intellectual, but it wasn’t unfashionable to keep up with the goings-on of the literary and artistic worlds, and he would often go to exhibitions and occasionally put in an appearance at one of the salons where writers and artists could be encountered. A few months ago Roland had found a copy of Les Fleurs du mal on his father’s library table. He’d heard at school that these poems of Baudelaire were pagan, and indecent. But when he nervously asked his father about them, the vicomte seemed quite unconcerned.
“Baudelaire is a bit of a dandy. But some of his poems are exquisite. Have you heard of the composer Duparc? No? Well, his setting of Baudelaire’s ‘L’Invitation au voyage’ is one of the loveliest things one ever heard. He has perfectly captured the sensuousness of France.”
Such conversations hinted to Roland that there were aspects of his father’s life that might be hidden from him. His father’s occasional absences, the fact that his nanny would say approvingly, “The vicomte is a proper man,” his father’s jaunty manner, sometimes, when he went out, had made Roland wonder if he kept a mistress somewhere. He understood that his father would never bring his mistress, even if she were a fashionable and aristocratic lady, into the home where his son was living and which was still sacred to the memory of his late wife.
But was it possible, Roland wondered, that his father had decided he was now old enough to encounter such a person? Was this the friend they were going to see? It was a prospect that filled him with curiosity and some excitement.
Or was there another, more serious possibility? Was his father taking him to meet someone he meant to marry? A stepmother? What might that mean for his future?
When they left the house, the vicomte had still given him no clue. And knowing that his father liked to tease him a little, he knew that it was quite useless to ask him for any further information.
The Vicomte de Cygne’s favorite coach was a fast, light, covered phaeton. It was drawn by two gray carriage horses—the family had always used grays since the eighteenth century, he assured his son. It was driven by the family’s old coachman who, though always immaculately turned out, liked to wear an old-fashioned tricorn hat. It was an equipage combining sportiness, fashion and tradition; and Roland always felt proud to accompany his father on these excursions.
Soon the phaeton’s large wheels were bowling along the boulevard Saint-Germain up toward the river. Coming out on the Quai d’Orsay, Roland had only a moment to admire the classical portico of the National Assembly and the handsome Foreign Ministry beyond, before the phaeton was briskly crossing the broad bridge that led across the river to the great open space of the Place de la Concorde.
Roland had been ten years old before his father had told him why his family had no love for that huge square.
“They call it the Place de la Concorde now,” he’d explained, “but during the Revolution, it was one of the main sites of the guillotine. That’s where my own grandfather lost his head.”
Hardly knowing they did so, both father and son now averted their eyes toward the Tuileries Gardens, on their right, rather than survey the tragic place.
Straight ahead, just a short distance back from the square’s northern side, lay the Roman columns and wide pediment of La Madeleine. For some reason, the handsome church always seemed cheerful to Roland.
“Did you know,” his father remarked, “that centuries ago there was a Jewish synagogue on that site?” He smiled. “Then the Church took it over. It was Napoléon who built the structure you see now, as a sort of pagan temple for his army. And now it’s a church again.” He glanced at Roland. “So you see, nothing is permanent, my son.”
Roland loved and admired his father. For all the rites of passage and initiation for which every father should prepare his son, he knew he could rely on him completely. His father had taught him to ride, and how to hunt. How to behave, how to dress properly. How to kiss a lady’s hand. He’d taken him to the races, and taught him how to place his bets. All the things a young man of his class should know to begin his life. And this trust in his father brought him a sense of warmth and comfort. But sometimes, when it came to larger matters, in ways that he could not clearly formulate, he sensed that his father was failing him. It was as if, at times, his father did not believe in things the way he should.
And Roland wanted certainty. Perhaps it was the loss of his mother, or his age, or more likely some innate part of his character, but he needed to believe. Things should be right, or wrong, good, or bad. For if not, how was one to know how to act? What certainty could there be in the world?
And though of course he could not love Father Xavier in the same way that he loved his father, he sometimes preferred the priest’s advice. Father Xavier was clever, certainly. Yet even if he could not follow the many turnings of the priest’s subtle mind, he always sensed that behind everything Father Xavier said and thought, there lay an absolute certainty. The rules by which the priest lived were fixed and eternal. He might consider carefully how best to make a journey, but at the end of the day, he knew exactly where he was going, and why he was going there. In short, the priest knew the truth. This was the strength of Holy Church.
Roland longed so much for his father to be like that.
The phaeton turned right into the rue de Rivoli. Roland loved that long street’s grandeur. On one side lay the Tuileries Gardens and the Louvre Palace. On the other, a seemingly endless line of sonorous, arcaded buildings, begun by Napoléon, with fashionable stores behind the arcades on the street level, and apartments fit for princes on the floors above.
“Did you know that the original Louvre was just a small medieval fort guarding the river, in the corner of the present palace?” his father inquired casually.
“Yes,” Roland replied. “It was just outside the old city wall of King Philippe Auguste.”
“Good.” His father smiled. “Glad they teach you something at school.”
They had gone far along the rue de Rivoli when his father called to the coachman to stop, and Roland saw that they were outside the Hôtel Meurice. He knew that this was where the English travelers liked to stay, and immediately wondered with alarm: Was his father going to marry an Englishwoman?
But it was only to leave a letter for a sporting English friend of his father’s who was about to arrive in Paris. And Roland was still no wiser about where they were going.
So he told his father about the old soldier he had met at Napoléon’s tomb. On the one hand, he had admired the man’s simple dignity. Yet he had dedicated his life to serving an evil master. What did his father think?
The vicomte considered.
“A soldier’s duty is simple,” he replied. “It is to obey orders and to serve his country. And that is what the old man did. As for Napoléon, I dare say his soldiers thought they fought for liberty and for France.”
Roland was not very satisfied with this answer.
“But people like us cannot be friends with the followers of the emperor, can we? The priests at the lycée say that Napoléon was a monster, and he didn’t really support the Church at all.”
His father sighed.
/> “We may have different views, but we don’t have to be enemies, you know. In any case, it’s not always so simple.” He paused. “Do you follow politics at all, my son?”
“A little.”
“What would you say of the present government of the Republic?”
“It’s not very strong. It’s not popular.”
“Correct. After the disaster of the Commune, most of the elected deputies, certainly most of rural France, wanted the monarchy restored. They wanted stability, really. And peace. They thought a constitutional monarch, something like the British monarchy, would provide it. And there would have been a restoration, I’ve little doubt, if the then head of the royal family hadn’t insisted that any monarch must have sweeping powers.” The vicomte shook his head. “Obstinate to the last. So a temporary constitution was made, with a president and legislature. And as time has passed without war or catastrophe, the monarchist cause has grown less popular.
“But I can’t say the government has been impressive. And the present crowd are both mediocre and corrupt. There are many people who would still like a monarchy or a dictatorship. Whether that would be any better is open to doubt, perhaps, but that is what they want. And at present those parties have a hero. Who is it?”
“General Boulanger, I suppose.”
“Indeed. He was minister of war until recently. He was able to embarrass the Germans a couple of times. He was fired the other day, but he has a big political following. If there’s ever a crisis in the Republic, which is possible, he might be the man to rule France. What do they say in the lycée?”
“That he is a bad man. He does not believe in God.”
“Well, he may, or he may not. But because he said he didn’t believe in God, the Republican politicians of France thought he couldn’t be a monarchist, and so they trusted him, and made him a minister. Now they have discovered not only that he has a big public following, but he has the backing of both the monarchists, including important members of the royal family, and of the Bonapartists, including members of the emperor’s family. So the Catholic monarchists and the followers of Napoléon are all on the same side supporting a man who may or may not believe in God. What do you make of that?”
“I don’t know.”
His father smiled.
“Well, nor do I, my boy. I wonder what Father Xavier thinks. We must ask him.” And this thought seemed to amuse the vicomte even more, for he burst out laughing.
Roland wished his father wouldn’t mix things up in this way. He tried to get back to something with a simpler answer.
“The old man said we should avenge the dishonor of 1870,” he said. “Do you agree with that?”
“The War of 1870 was an act of stupidity,” his father answered. “It was we who started it. Napoléon III was a fool, and the Germans took advantage of it.”
“But shouldn’t we avenge our dishonor?”
“Who knows? Probably not.”
Roland gave up. He would never get a simple answer out of his father. At least, not in his present mood. They had passed the Louvre now, and were approaching the old Châtelet. Yet there was something he still wanted to know. Something he’d often wondered, but never asked before.
“Papa,” he said, “can I ask you a question?”
“Certainly.”
“Why did you leave the army?”
And this time, he could see, his father was not so comfortable answering.
“I’d served for years. And someone had to look after the estate. It needed my care.” He was silent again for a little while. “The War of 1870 was terrible, you know.”
“You mean, 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, and Roland 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 wh
en 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 evil tales must be based upon something.
He looked at Monsieur Jacob with suspicion, therefore, and wondered why his father was treating him in such a friendly manner.
“So what would you like me to see?” his father was asking.
“A moment, monsieur.” Jacob disappeared through the door at the back, returning shortly with what looked like a rug, which he proceeded to unroll. “A moment more,” he said, as he lit several lamps around it. “Voilà, Monsieur de Cygne, and young Monsieur Roland. Here it is.”
They stepped forward. And his father gasped.
“Where the devil did you find it?” he cried.
“On a friend’s recommendation, I bid blind on the entire contents of a house in Rouen,” the dealer explained. “A month later, to my surprise they told me I’d won the auction. When I went to clear the place out, I found this wrapped up in the basement.” He smiled. “Then I thought, this might belong in Monsieur de Cygne’s château down in the Loire valley. It’s the right period. But if it should not be of any interest to you, then I will show it to other customers.”
“My dear Jacob …” The vicomte turned to his son. “Do you know what this is, Roland?”
The tapestry at which Roland was gazing was remarkable in many ways. In the first place, it had no border, and every inch of its luminous blue-green background seemed to be covered in magical flowers and plants, from which birds, animals and humans were emerging. The whole tone of the picture, as well as the dress of the knights and ladies, suggested that it was medieval.
“Because they are so sprinkled with plants, these tapestries are known as mille fleurs, a thousand flowers,” his father said.
“It looks magical,” Roland said.
“The glow,” Monsieur Jacob explained—he had a soft voice so that Roland had to strain to listen, which irritated him—“comes from the fact that the background color is dark blue, to which the green is added.” He turned to the vicomte. “As you see, there is a little wear and tear on one corner. This can be repaired if you wish. There is also a little discoloration from damp near the bottom. It may be treatable, or it may not. Overall, however, it is in remarkable condition.”