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

of the spirit she could. That was why this morning, on their visit to the Île de la Cité, she had first taken them to the exquisite Sainte-Chapelle.

    Marc liked his aunt’s tall elegance, and the fact that she knew so many things. They had stood in the high, painted chapel, bathed in the warm light from its great windows, gazed up at the tall Gothic vaults of blue and gold and he had felt moved by the beauty of the place.
    “It’s like a jeweled casket, isn’t it?” said Aunt Éloïse quietly. “That’s because when King Louis IX, whom we call Saint Louis, went on crusade six hundred years ago, the emperor in Byzantium—who you can be sure needed the money—sold him some of the most important relics in Christendom, including a piece of the Cross, and the Crown of Thorns itself. Then Saint Louis built this chapel, like a great reliquary, to house these sacred treasures. Cathedrals like Notre Dame, as you know, often took centuries to build, but the Sainte-Chapelle was finished in just five years, all in one style. That’s why it is so perfect.”
    “What were the other relics?” Marc had asked.
    “A nail from the Cross, a miraculous robe worn by the infant Jesus, the spear that pierced His side, some drops of His blood, some milk from the Blessed Virgin Mary. And also the rod of Moses.”
    “You think they were genuine?”
    “I couldn’t say. But the chapel was the most beautiful in the world.” She had paused for a moment. “However,” she continued, “I am sorry to say that at the Revolution this wonderful place was completely destroyed. The revolutionaries—who were not at all religious—stripped it bare … The Sainte-Chapelle was absolutely ruined. There are many things about the Revolution that were fine, but the destruction of this chapel was not one of them.” She had turned to Marc and held up her finger. “This is why, Marc, it is important that—especially at times of war and upheaval—there should be people of culture and humanity to protect our heritage.”
    Why did she always address these remarks to him, and not to his brother? He’d seen Gérard turn his eyes up to the sky in boredom. But his brother wasn’t really bored, Marc thought. He was jealous that Aunt Éloïse so clearly had a higher opinion of Marc than she did of him.
    Aunt Éloïse was in full flood.
    “Fortunately, things of beauty are not so easily destroyed—at least, not in France. And Viollet-le-Duc, the architect, completely restored the Sainte-Chapelle to its former glory, as we see it now. It’s wonderful, almost a miracle.” She looked approvingly at Marc again. “So you see, my dear Marc, no matter how bad things seem, we must never give up. As long as there are artists and architects, and patrons—you might be any of these—even miracles can be accomplished.”

    And now they were standing in front of the mighty towers of Notre Dame. Beside them was a huge equestrian statue of the emperor Charlemagne. Aunt Éloïse, feeling she hadn’t paid enough attention to Gérard in the Sainte-Chapelle, remarked that it was only just before his own birth that the medieval buildings of old Paris had been swept away from the place. “Until then, Gérard, Notre Dame was surrounded with gabled houses and dark alleys—just like in
The Hunchback of Notre-Dame
,” she added pleasantly.
    “I’m glad they were destroyed,” he said in a surly voice.
    Aunt Éloïse considered. Was there something challenging in his tone? Did he imagine she must be in love with every picturesque reminder of the Middle Ages? Was he letting her know that he’d be happy to smash down her own sensibilities, like Baron Haussmann with his demolition gangs?
    “I quite agree with you, Gérard,” she said, with a charming smile. “First of all, there was only a tiny space in front of the cathedral, and that was filled with disreputable stalls. And second, by the time they were demolished, the old houses were rotting where they stood, and