And, at that moment, Alain walked in.
Yvette didn’t move a muscle. “Monsieur Chevrier,” she said. “This is a ladies’ room.”
“So I see,” answered Alain. “I came to find out if Marianne is all right.”
“She is fine,” said Yvette, still not covering her nudity. “Go on now,” she said to Mary Ann, but with her eyes still fixed on Alain, like a bullfighter waiting for the charge. “They are waiting for you.”
As she walked out, Mary Ann once again tripped on the hem of her dress. Yvette shook her head. There was nothing more awkward than a woman wearing another woman’s clothes, she thought. Alain started to follow, reluctantly.
“Monsieur Chevrier,” she called to him. He turned. “You should be more careful to whom you give your jewelry.”
He started to answer, but at that moment the door opened and the Comtesse rushed in, muttering to herself. Then she looked up, saw Chevrier and Yvette together and cried “Mon Dieu!” She shut herself in a stall while they both laughed.
Back in the main ballroom, the ceremony had begun. The crowd hushed as President Auguste Pouchet mounted the platform between two ice sculptures of winged figures that had just been wheeled in.
Meurthe and Yvette followed him. From the podium Meurthe looked out over the Grand Foyer. It was the most magnificent room in the Opéra, with candelabra glittering from its 60-foot ceiling. Now it was packed with people, most of them unforgiving people. He prayed silently for a quick ceremony with no problems.
The plan was for all of the contestants to come to the stage and receive certificates from the President allowing them to fly over the city. The certificates were not entirely ceremonial; they would—hopefully—prevent the kind of incident that Alain had caused at the Palais de l’Elysée. A clause in the certificate said, quite pointedly, that no one was allowed to fly over military installations or government property.
Things went well at first. Chevrier even gave the semblance of a bow when Pouchet handed him the certificate. No one except the President heard him say: “Next time I’ll give you a 21-gun salute.” There was loud applause.
Maximilian proved to be a superb gentleman. After accepting the certificate, he bent at the waist and kissed Yvette’s hand. Ladies in the audience began to clap.
“So handsome,” one sighed as he took his place next to Chevrier. “Hard to tell them apart. Such a German could well capture me!”
Then Mary Ann tried to mount the platform. She negotiated the first two steps, and missed her footing on the third. Unable to use her knees, she fell forward on the stage.
There were titters of laughter from the audience. “Can’t walk—how can she fly?” shouted a heckler from the back.
Alain left his place on stage, walked over and lifted her to her feet. He signaled to the orchestra.
“Play!” he ordered.
“Play what?” asked the conductor.
“Play music!” Alain shouted.
The conductor’s baton cut a curlicue, and the band launched into a waltz.
“May I have this dance, Marianne?” he asked.
“I don’t dance,” she said.
“I don’t, either,” replied Alain. “But let’s make the best of it.”
He swept her across the floor and suddenly she was dancing, not knowing the steps, but as light on her feet as if she were in the air. She glimpsed people moving back, watching, some even applauding. The dress was no longer an obstacle. Alain held her so close that her feet barely touched the floor. She swirled back and forth across the Grand Foyer, the lights of the chandeliers glittering from above.
“If I never know happiness again,” she thought, “I’ve had this.” The opera house was beautiful and she was beautiful. And Alain had her in his arms.
Then, suddenly, it all went wrong.
* * *
As the dance ended, a waiter tapped Alain on the shoulder. “Monsieur Meurthe would like to see you in the small room over there,” he said.
Alain’s face betrayed not fear but concern. “What does ‘Merde’ want with me?”
“I don’t know, sir,” said the waiter. “Something to do with the Comtesse, I believe.”
Mary Ann followed Alain as he strode across the floor, but she couldn’t keep up. He was heading toward a small chamber at the side of the ballroom that she had passed through earlier, when she marveled at how its circular ceiling was painted to look like the night sky. When Mary Ann reached the door, she could see Meurthe inside with his back to Alain. Meurthe seemed to be watching the painted owls, their wings spread as they floated up the ceiling, surrounded by stars and crescent moons.
“Shut the door,” he ordered.
Alain slammed it. The closing door would have hit Mary Ann if Harding hadn’t yanked her back.
“You have something unimportant to tell me?” Alain asked.
“I am told that you have been seen with my daughter in a compromising position,” Meurthe answered, turning toward Alain with a look that would have made any other man cringe.
“What if it’s true?” Alain retorted. He thought for just a second of giving an explanation, and then rejected the idea. Meurthe didn’t deserve one. “Is she better than other women because she’s your daughter?” he challenged. “Is she too good for me?”
“I want you to stay away from her. I forbid you to see her. I have put up with your petty insults and your pranks. I have shielded you from those who would have destroyed you. But I will not let you near my daughter.”
“I know your kind,” Alain sneered. “You treat your women the way you treat your dogs. You keep your bitches locked in the kennel because if they go into heat they might mate with a mongrel like me. People like me are useful to keep around, but only to do your dirty work, right?”
Meurthe shook his head. Suddenly he seemed sadder, and older. “Your problem, Alain, is that you are an all-knowing fool. You may be able to do trigonometry in your head, but you know nothing about people, and less than nothing about me.”
“If I’m a fool, then find another fool to win your prize!”
Mary Ann could hear the shouting, but she couldn’t tell what was being said. She started to open the door, and saw Meurthe and Chevrier standing nose to nose. Harding pulled her away.
“Stay out of there,” he told her.
“But Alain’s in there.”
“And so is Meurthe. One of them will kill the other, and I’m not taking any bets.”
Just then Alain stormed out, nearly knocking her over.
She heard Meurthe call after him: “You have a chance for glory—for yourself and for France—and you are throwing it away!”
“A chance for your glory,” retorted Alain. “I’m not your altar boy...and you’re far from being a priest!”
Waiters were still moving through the crowd, carrying champagne glasses on silver trays. With a bow, one offered a glass to Alain.
For Alain, who believed that all men were equal, it was the ultimate embarrassment. He upended the tray with one sweep of his hand, drenching the waiter. Then he stalked over to the grand piano at the far side of the room opposite the orchestra and began to hammer out “The Internationale,” the song of the workers that Mary Ann had first heard that night at the Place de Grève.
The dancing stopped. Gowns ceased to swirl. Men shook their heads in amazement. The orchestra lost its place, flagged and stopped; flutes, clarinets, and lastly, cello.
Meurthe came out of the room with the owls and saw instantly how Alain had taken control. Meurthe walked across the ballroom, his jaw set. He spoke to the orchestra leader, pulled out his watch and gestured. The maestro nodded, raised his baton, and the band played:
“Rise up, children of our country,
The day of glory has arrived.”
It was “La Marseillaise,” France’s national anthem. Meurthe began to sing, and after him his friends, and then everyone. Alain’s song was drowned out by their voices, for the clock had just struck 12, and t
his was Independence Day.
Alain rose from the piano. From across the room, Mary Ann saw Meurthe make a short, graceful bow in Alain’s direction. Was it a gesture of respect for a worthy adversary, she wondered, or just one of contempt for a beaten foe?
But there was no doubt about the way that Alain took it. He stared at Meurthe for a second, looking as if he would kill him, then strode out. Mary Ann heard his footsteps, sounding like a drumbeat on the double-sided marble stairway of the opera house.
Above on the balcony, Yvette watched as Alain, the only man who dared defy her father, stormed down the Grand Escalier toward the street. Then she ran after him quietly, her slippers making no noise as she followed him discretely down the other side of the stairway and through the front door.
Outside the noise and smoke were everywhere. Boys were throwing firecrackers under the carriage horses’ feet and being chased away by the angry valets. Fireworks were still going off; lighting up the night sky with long bursts of red, yellow and blue that unfolded like flower petals in the darkness. Trailers made white flashes and whistling noises ended with hollow, reverberating booms that shook the air in her lungs. She came up behind him just as he reached the street.
“Monsieur Chevrier,” she called. “Alain!”
He turned. “Well, Mademoiselle Meurthe,” he said. “Aren’t you afraid of your father like everyone else?”
“I am afraid of no one,” she said proudly.
He paused. “You know. I almost believe that.”
“Will I see you again?”
Alain laughed. “Of course you’ll see me. When I’m ready—in my time and not your father’s—you and the rest of Paris will see me.” He gestured toward the exploding sky. “I’ll be up there.” And he walked away into the night.
Yvette watched him go. “Oh, no, Monsieur Chevrier,” she whispered to herself. “I’ll see you much sooner than that.”
Chapter Eighteen: The City of Light—July 14
Now it begins. And, from the heights of Belleville to the Valley of Gold, the city waits. From
Montmartre to Montparnasse, people go to their slender iron balconies, hoping for a glimpse of a balloon, an airship, or a more exotic flying machine, perhaps even one with wings? The poor, who can’t afford balconies, prop open the small square windows of their steamy rooftop garrets and chase the children away so they can watch.
At the racetracks of Longchamp and Auteuil, more money is being wagered on the flyers than on the horses. The betting favors the Germans. At the Buffalo Bill Vélodrome, where lean cyclists sprint their laps around the hardwood oval, a spotter is placed on the roof where he has a clear view of the Tower.
The city waits. In the Bois de Boulogne, boys climb oak trees, listening for the pop-popping sound of a motor overhead. At the other side of the forest, kings and princes, counts and marquises take their wives and mistresses for the ritual 4 p.m. carriage ride, peering through their opera glasses at the “Tour Eiffel.”
The city waits. Along the Canal Saint-Martin boatmen rest their weary mules and ask the fishermen for news of les hommes oiseaux, the “bird men.” At Notre-Dame a mass is interrupted when a young boy rushes in and yells, “He’s coming! He’s overhead!” Everyone runs outside and in the crush of people the prankster escapes, with three priests in pursuit.
The city waits. One Parisian theater, famous for its spectacle, designs a fake dirigible held up only by wires, seeming to vanish into the sky. Dancing girls, dressed in gossamer, climb on board, singing, “When I Am in the Air,” until they rise to the rafters. But the mechanism breaks and they come crashing to the stage, offering paying customers in the front row a good view of bare legs and garter belts.
The city waits. And, in the presidential palace, behind his cordon of guards, President Pouchet waits too. More than any other, he has reason to fear. If the Germans win, it could doom his Republic. There are many who wish to replace him with a new Napoleon.
The German Kaiser, that haunted man with a withered arm, sits far away in his dark palace at Potsdam and waits too, nursing his dreams. A great nation must show itself to the world, and Germany is a great nation—perhaps the greatest. But has he overstepped himself? Maximilian has told him he will win. So Maximilian must win.
And the Eiffel Tower waits too, like the pointer on a giant sundial, counting out the hours of a summer day. It is the tallest structure in the world, and nothing of this earth can rise above it. It is waiting for someone to measure himself against it.
* * *
On the Bethanie, still moored at its dock on the Seine, Mary Ann waited too. Every last bolt had been tightened, every last wire strung, and now there was nothing to do but wait. The tension grew as the heat beat down on the plywood boards, making the boat’s interior almost unbearable.
In late afternoon, Neville Bishop came back from his private rail car with the mail. He was waving a telegram and, for the first time in weeks, he looked happy. “Reece will be here on the 17th,” he told Mary Ann.
He started to go below, then turned and stared at her.
“You saw the letter from my bank, didn’t you? Don’t deny it. I saw how it was ripped.” He drew a deep breath, as if he were on the witness stand about to make a confession. “I have deep financial problems. Very deep.”
Bishop held up his silver-headed riding crop. “Do you know what this is?” he said, pointing to the design.
“No, sir.”
He regarded her contemptuously, as if she should have known. “It’s a wolf. And do you know why I carry it?”
Mary Ann shook her head.
“I keep it to remind me that the wolf is always at the door. Those men who are backing me, Edison, Graham Bell, do you think that they are kind men?”
“I don’t know.”
Neville Bishop looked at her with disgust. “They are not. To the public they are legends, heroes. But they’re wolves, like myself. Like me, they will not tolerate failure. To fail is to be torn apart by the other wolves...”
“Mr. Bishop, what happens if we don’t win?” she asked.
“We must win!” And, for one moment, she caught a glimpse of the old Bishop, the arrogant, determined man who let nothing stand in his way. “If I can’t go home a gentleman, with my debts paid, I won’t go home at all...” Then, his voice trailed off and he looked at her as if he had just noticed her. “As for you, you’ll have to fend for yourself.”
Mary Ann started to speak, but Bishop silenced her with a raised hand. “Fortunately this stupid feud between Chevrier and Meurthe has bought us some time. We must make use of it.” Then he went below.
Would Reece come in time? she wondered. Or would Meurthe and Chevrier settle their quarrel and would Alain fly? Part of her, she admitted, wanted Alain to win.
But what would happen to her and Harding if they lost? Would Bishop abandon them on the dock the way he had the barge captain and his wife? Leave them stranded in Paris? He was capable of that. And would Alain remember his promise that they work together when this was over?
Just then Harding came up the gangplank, carrying a rolled-up blue cylinder called a “petit bleu” that came through pneumatic tubes beneath the streets.
“It’s a message from Meurthe,” he said.
“What does he want?” she asked.
“Not Henri...Yvette,” said Harding as he unrolled it.
“Yvette!” said Mary Ann. It was the first happy news that she’d had today. She remembered how Yvette had befriended her the night before. Perhaps she had been wrong to think Yvette a flirt.
“It’s an invitation to a soiree, and it’s tonight,” said Harding as he read. “A famous Egyptologist is going to unwrap...a mummy. Do you want to go?” It was obvious by his tone that he hoped she’d say no.
“Yes, of course,” she said.
“Mary Ann, this isn’t your kind of party.”
“And what is my kind of party? The kind of place where you hang out, bars like ‘Cabinet of Assassins’ and ‘The
Devil’s Revenge?’ And I’ll need a dress, a real one, not that undertaker’s thing.”
“I’ll find one,” he said, grimacing. “I’ll put it under ‘petty expenses.’”
“Tell me,” she asked, looking toward Neuilly where the Meurthes lived. “What do you think of Yvette? Isn’t she beautiful?”
Harding stared at the far shore, stared hard before he answered: “She is so beautiful one would never dare to love her.”
* * *
At the German workshop in Montparnasse, Maximilian lectured his men as they worked on the skin of the huge dirigible. There would be no weekends, no time off until it was done, he told them, and they would eat on the job.
“A working man’s week has seven days,” he said. “A lazy man’s, seven tomorrows.”
“Macht mir die eier kaput (You bust my balls),” muttered a voice from the other end of the workshop.
Maximilian knew who it was. He lined up all the workmen for an inspection and walked down the line. When he reached that man, he simply pivoted on his left foot, not saying a word, and hit him between the eyes. The man fell on his back with a thump as his head hit the cement. Maximilian didn’t even bother to see if he had killed him.
“Get back to work!” he barked.
“What do we do about him?” asked a sergeant.
“Leave him,” ordered Maximilian. “He’ll be an inspiration to the rest of you.”
Then he left. He knew now what he would have to do.
* * *
As the holiday wore on, crowds of sightseers passed by Alain’s workshop in Saint-Cloud. Children would run up and peek through the huge double doors, open to catch the breeze. Their parents would yank them away and then look themselves, marveling at the huge blue aerodynamic shape floating 20 feet above the floor, ready now for the voyage to the Tower.
But was Alain ready? He stood in the open gun-metal colored cabin just below the balloon, checking and rechecking the wheel that steered the rudder at the back, and the crank that adjusted the weights along the keel that would move the airship up or down. He would stop occasionally to laugh at the children or wave at passersby. He’s wasting time, Guillaume LeRond thought. But why?
The day grew more and more frustrating for Guillaume, who stood by Alain’s side in the cabin. Guillaume could feel pools of sweat forming under his armpits, and he kept glancing at his pocket watch. He was due to meet Maximilian shortly, but he was worried that if he left now his absence would be noticed. He prayed that something would divert Alain’s attention and allow him to slip away.