relief at such an unexpected way out of his troubles, Roland spoke the words that, for the rest of his life, would cause his villagers behind his back to call him the Black de Cygne:
“Thank God!” he cried.
The letter from the priest explained the details. His brother had suffered a fall from his horse onto a gatepost, had punctured his lungs and died within the hour. The priest urged Roland to do his father’s bidding and return at once, since his presence was greatly needed.
He well knew, the priest wrote, what a sacrifice it would be to give up his studies at the university, and the religious life. And indeed, Roland thought, he might have felt some reluctance to leave Paris, had it not been for this trouble over Martine with the merchant. But, the priest went on, it was not for us to question providence. One must simply bow one’s head and do one’s duty. It was clearly a sign, the priest explained, that God had decided that Roland should serve Him in another calling.
Roland made the arrangements that very day. He told his teachers that his father required him urgently to go into Normandy, but that he hoped soon to return. He told his friends that he was secretly hoping to study in Italy, at the University of Bologna. To Martine, he sent no message at all. And having, he hoped, left enough confusion to throw her uncle off his track, he spent the night at the house of the kindly old priest and departed the next morning for his home in the valley of the Loire.
Since he made no inquiries, he never knew that, six months later, Martine was married to a merchant named Renard. But had he known, he would have been glad.
Chapter Four
• 1885 •
Thomas Gascon found his true love on the first day of June, in the morning. It had rained the day before, and gray clouds were still passing across the open sky above the Arc de Triomphe. But the horse chestnut trees were in their full, white blossom, and the promise of summer was in the air, as the huge crowds gathered.
He had come for a funeral.
Writers were honored in France. And now that Victor Hugo—beloved author of
Les Misérables, The Hunchback of Notre-Dame
and a score of other tales—had died at the age of eighty-three, France was giving him a state funeral.
The entire legislature, senators, deputies, judges and officers of state; the leaders of the universities, the academies and the arts, had arrived at the Arc de Triomphe, where the author had been lying in state. More than two million people lined the route the funeral cortege would take, down the Champs-Élysées to Concorde, over the bridge to the Left Bank and along the boulevard Saint-Germain until, at last, it would climb to the summit of the old Roman hill in the Latin Quarter where the mausoleum of the Panthéon now stood, ready to receive the greatest sons of France.
Paris had never seen such a crowd—not in the days of the Sun King, not during the Revolution, not even under the emperor Napoléon.
And all for a novelist.
Thomas had arrived at dawn to get a good view. Some people had camped out in the street the night before to get a good position, but Thomas had been more cunning. He had inspected the place previouslyand chosen a spot near the top of the Champs-Élysées, on its southern side, with his back resting against a building.
As the huge avenue rapidly filled, his view was soon blocked, but he didn’t mind. He waited patiently until everything was in place, the police and soldiers all busy lining the roadway and the crowd around him so thick that it was impossible to move.
First, he reached down to the rope tied around his waist and unwound the loose end, to which he’d attached a small hook. Just behind him, at shoulder height, a narrow ledge ran along the stone facade of the building, and above that was a window protected on the outside by a metal grille. Skillfully, he tossed the rope up so that the hook caught in the grille.
Then, suddenly grabbing the shoulders of the
“Thank God!” he cried.
The letter from the priest explained the details. His brother had suffered a fall from his horse onto a gatepost, had punctured his lungs and died within the hour. The priest urged Roland to do his father’s bidding and return at once, since his presence was greatly needed.
He well knew, the priest wrote, what a sacrifice it would be to give up his studies at the university, and the religious life. And indeed, Roland thought, he might have felt some reluctance to leave Paris, had it not been for this trouble over Martine with the merchant. But, the priest went on, it was not for us to question providence. One must simply bow one’s head and do one’s duty. It was clearly a sign, the priest explained, that God had decided that Roland should serve Him in another calling.
Roland made the arrangements that very day. He told his teachers that his father required him urgently to go into Normandy, but that he hoped soon to return. He told his friends that he was secretly hoping to study in Italy, at the University of Bologna. To Martine, he sent no message at all. And having, he hoped, left enough confusion to throw her uncle off his track, he spent the night at the house of the kindly old priest and departed the next morning for his home in the valley of the Loire.
Since he made no inquiries, he never knew that, six months later, Martine was married to a merchant named Renard. But had he known, he would have been glad.
Chapter Four
• 1885 •
Thomas Gascon found his true love on the first day of June, in the morning. It had rained the day before, and gray clouds were still passing across the open sky above the Arc de Triomphe. But the horse chestnut trees were in their full, white blossom, and the promise of summer was in the air, as the huge crowds gathered.
He had come for a funeral.
Writers were honored in France. And now that Victor Hugo—beloved author of
Les Misérables, The Hunchback of Notre-Dame
and a score of other tales—had died at the age of eighty-three, France was giving him a state funeral.
The entire legislature, senators, deputies, judges and officers of state; the leaders of the universities, the academies and the arts, had arrived at the Arc de Triomphe, where the author had been lying in state. More than two million people lined the route the funeral cortege would take, down the Champs-Élysées to Concorde, over the bridge to the Left Bank and along the boulevard Saint-Germain until, at last, it would climb to the summit of the old Roman hill in the Latin Quarter where the mausoleum of the Panthéon now stood, ready to receive the greatest sons of France.
Paris had never seen such a crowd—not in the days of the Sun King, not during the Revolution, not even under the emperor Napoléon.
And all for a novelist.
Thomas had arrived at dawn to get a good view. Some people had camped out in the street the night before to get a good position, but Thomas had been more cunning. He had inspected the place previouslyand chosen a spot near the top of the Champs-Élysées, on its southern side, with his back resting against a building.
As the huge avenue rapidly filled, his view was soon blocked, but he didn’t mind. He waited patiently until everything was in place, the police and soldiers all busy lining the roadway and the crowd around him so thick that it was impossible to move.
First, he reached down to the rope tied around his waist and unwound the loose end, to which he’d attached a small hook. Just behind him, at shoulder height, a narrow ledge ran along the stone facade of the building, and above that was a window protected on the outside by a metal grille. Skillfully, he tossed the rope up so that the hook caught in the grille.
Then, suddenly grabbing the shoulders of the
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