Paris: The Novel by Edward Rutherfurd Read Free Book Online Page A

in America.”
    This was met with protests.
    “Will you leave us all behind?” asked his mother.
    “I want you to come too,” said Luc. But nobody wanted to go.
    “America is a fine country. No question,” said Monsieur Gascon expansively. “They have everything there. Big cities—not like Paris, of course. But great lakes, and mountains and prairies as far as the eye can see. If your own country is not so good—if you are English, or German, or Italian—unless you’re rich … 
Alors
 … it’s probably better in America. But in France, we have everything. We have mountains—the Alps and the Pyrenees; we have great rivers like the Seine and the Rhône; we havehuge farmlands, and forests. We have cities, and cathedrals, and Roman ruins in the south. We have every kind of climate. We have the greatest wines in the world. And we have three hundred cheeses. What more do you want?”
    “We haven’t any deserts, Papa,” said Nicole.
    “
Mais oui
, my little one. We have.” Monsieur Gascon puffed his chest out as though he had accomplished the feat himself. “When I was your age, France went to Africa and conquered Algeria. We have all the desert we want, right there.”
    “This is true,” laughed Thomas.
    “But people don’t fight each other in America,” said Luc, with feeling.
    “What do you mean?” his father cried. “They’re always fighting in America. First they fought the English. Then the Indians. Then they fought each other. They’re worse than us.”
    “You stay here and be grateful,” said his mother affectionately.
    “As long as Thomas protects me,” said Luc.
    “Ah,” said Monsieur Gascon, looking proudly at his elder son, “let us all drink to that.” And they did.

    The next morning when Thomas got up, he went to his little brother.
    “You know,” he said, “you’re very funny. You should stick to that. Make people laugh. Then even the Dalou boys will like you.”
    When he got to work, the foreman was looking out for him.
    “You found your brother?”
    “Oui, monsieur.”
    The foreman stared at his eye for a moment.
    “Can you see to work?”
    “Oui, monsieur.”
    The foreman nodded. One didn’t ask questions when people came from the Maquis.
    So Thomas worked quietly all day. Monsieur Eiffel didn’t come by.

    On the following Saturday morning, Aunt Éloïse stood in the big open space known as the parvis of Notre Dame Cathedral, looked at the three Blanchard children standing in a row in front of her, and thought that her brother Jules and his wife had not done badly.
    Gérard, at sixteen the eldest, was a solid, determined fellow, with a square, hard face, who would undoubtedly become his father’s partner one day. She had to confess, she preferred his younger brother, Marc. He was going to be tall and handsome like his father, though of a more slender build, and being an intellectual and imaginative boy, he was closer to her in spirit. True, his schoolwork was a little erratic, and he was inclined to daydream. “But you shouldn’t worry about him,” she’d told Jules when he’d been concerned. “Thirteen-year-old boys are often a little dreamy. And who knows, perhaps he will do something in the arts or literature one day that will make our name famous.”
    And then there was little Marie. At eight years old, thought Aunt Éloïse, one could only say a little about her character. But she was sweet and kind—that was certain. And how was it possible not to love those blue eyes, and that mass of golden curls, and the charming plumpness that might easily turn, one day, into an excellent figure?
    Yet in one of the three children, it seemed to Aunt Éloïse that she had detected a character flaw. Not too serious, but concerning. She kept her own counsel about this, however. Even if she was right, it might be corrected. And besides, she reminded herself, nobody was perfect.
    Meanwhile, her own task in the family, as she saw it, was to bring them whatever gifts