- Format: Kindle Edition
- File Size: 1894 KB
- Print Length: 832 pages
- Publisher: Doubleday Canada (April 23 2013)
-
Sold by: Random House Canada, Incorp.
Book Description
From the grand master of the historical novel comes a dazzling epic
portrait of Paris that leaps through centuries as it weaves the tales of
families whose fates are forever entwined with the City of Lights.
As he did so brilliantly in
London: The Novel and
New York: The Novel, Edward Rutherfurd brings to life the most magical city in the world: Paris.
This
breathtaking multigenerational saga takes readers on a journey through
thousands of years of glorious Parisian history--from its founding under
the Romans to the timeless love story of Abelard and Heloise against
the backdrop of the building of Notre Dame; to the martyrdom of Joan of
Arc during the Hundred Years War; to the dangerous manipulations of
Cardinal Richelieu and the bloody religious conflicts between Catholics
and Protestants; to the gilded glories of Versailles; to the horrors of
the French Revolution and the conquests of Napoleon; to the beauty and
optimism of the belle epoque when Impressionism swept the world; to the
hotbed of cultural activity of the 1920s and '30s that included Picasso,
Salvador Dali, Ernest Hemingway, and the writers of the Lost
Generation; to the Nazi occupation and the incredible efforts of the
French Resistance.
Even more richly detailed, thrilling, and romantic then anything Rutherfurd has written before,
Paris: The Novel illuminates
thousands of years in the City of Lights through intimate and vivid
tales of characters both fictional and true, and with them, the sights,
scents, and tastes of Paris come to sumptuous life.
About the Author
EDWARD RUTHERFURD is the internationally bestselling author of seven novels, including the
New York Times bestsellers
New York,
London,
The Princes of Ireland, and
The Rebels of Ireland.
Exerpt
© Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One
1875
Paris. City of love. City of dreams. City of splendor. City of saints and scholars. City of gaiety.
Sink of iniquity.
In two thousand years, Paris had seen it all.
It
was Julius Caesar who had first seen the possibilities of the place
where the modest Parisii tribe made their home. The Mediterranean lands
of southern Gaul had already been Roman provinces for generations at
that time; but when Caesar decided to bring the troublesome Celtic
tribes of northern Gaul into the empire as well, it hadn’t taken him
long.
The Romans had quickly seen that this was a logical place
for a town. A collecting point for the produce of the huge fertile
plains of northern Gaul, the Parisian territory lay on the navigable
River Seine. From its headwaters farther south, there was an easy
portage to the huge River Rhône, which ran down to the busy ports of the
Mediterranean. Northward, the Seine led to the narrow sea across which
the island of Britannia lay. This was the great river system through
which the southern and northern worlds were joined. Greek and Phoenician
traders had been using it even before the birth of Rome. The site was
perfect. The Parisian heartland lay in a wide, shallow valley through
which the Seine made a series of graceful loops. In the center of the
valley, on a handsome east-west bend, the river widened and several big
mudflats and islands lay, like so many huge barges at anchor, in the
stream. On the northern bank, meadows and marshes stretched far and wide
until they came to the lip of low, enclosing ridges, from which several
small hills and promontories jutted out, some of them covered with
vineyards.
But it was on the southern bank--the left bank as one
went downstream--that the ground near the river swelled gently into a
low, flat hillock, like a table overlooking the water. And it was here
that the Romans had laid out their town, a large forum and the main
temple covering the top of the table with an amphitheater nearby, a grid
of streets all around, and a north-south road running straight through
the center, across the water to the largest island, which was now a
suburb with a fine temple to Jupiter, and over a farther bridge to the
northern bank. They had originally called the town Lutetia. But it was
also known, more grandly, as the city of the Parisii.
In
the Dark Ages after the Roman Empire fell, the German tribe of Franks
had conquered the territory in the Land of the Franks, as it came to be
called, or France. Its rich countryside had been invaded by Huns and
Viking Norsemen. But the island in the river, with its wooden defenses,
like some battered old ship, survived. In medieval times, she’d grown
into a great city, her maze of Gothic churches, tall timbered houses,
dangerous alleys and stinking cellars spread across both sides of the
Seine, enclosed by a high stone wall. Stately Notre Dame Cathedral
graced the island. Her university was respected all over Europe. Yet
even then, the English came and conquered her. And Paris might have been
English if Joan of Arc, the miraculous maid, hadn’t appeared and chased
them out.
Old Paris: City of bright colors and narrow streets, of carnival and plague.
And then there was new Paris.
The
change had come slowly. From the time of the Renaissance, lighter,
classical spaces began to appear in her dark medieval mass. Royal
palaces and noble squares created a new splendor. Broad boulevards began
to carve through the rotting old warrens. Ambitious rulers created
vistas worthy of ancient Rome.
Paris had altered her face to suit
the magnificence of Louis XIV, and the elegance of Louis XV. The Age of
Enlightenment and the new republic of the French Revolution had
encouraged classical simplicity, and the age of Napoleon bequeathed
imperial grandeur.
Recently, this process of change had been
accelerated by a new town planner. Baron Haussmann’s great network of
boulevards and long, straight streets lined with elegant office and
apartment blocks was so thorough that there were quarters of Paris now
where the rich mess of the Middle Ages was scarcely to be seen.
Yet
old Paris was still there, around almost every corner, with her
memories of centuries past, and of lives relived. Memories as haunting
as an old, half-forgotten tune that, when played again--in another age,
in another key, whether on harp or hurdy-gurdy--is still the same. This
was her enduring grace.
Was Paris now at peace with herself? She
had suffered and survived, seen empires rise and fall. Chaos and
dictatorship, monarchy and republic: Paris had tried them all. And which
did she like best? Ah, there was a question . . . For all her age and
grace, it seemed she did not know.
Recently, she had suffered
another terrible crisis. Four years ago, her people had been eating
rats. Humiliated first, starving next. Then they had turned upon each
other. It had not been long since the bodies had been buried, the smell
of death been dispersed by the wind and the echo of the firing squads
departed over the horizon.
Now, in the year 1875, she was recovering. But many great issues remained still to be resolved.
The
little boy was only three. A fair-haired, blue-eyed child. Some things
he knew already. Others were still kept from him. And then there were
the secrets.
Father Xavier gazed at him. How like his mother the
child looked. Father Xavier was a priest, but he was in love with a
woman, the mother of this child. He admitted his passion to himself, but
his self-discipline was complete. No one would have guessed his love.
As for the little boy, God surely had a plan for him.
Perhaps that he should be sacrificed.
It
was a sunny day in the fashionable Tuileries Gardens in front of the
Louvre, where nannies watched their children play, and Father Xavier was
taking him for a walk. Father Xavier: family confessor, friend in need,
priest.
“What are your names?” he playfully asked the child.
“Roland, D’Artagnan, Dieudonne de Cygne.” He knew them all by heart.
“Bravo,
young man.” Father Xavier Parle-Doux was a small, wiry man in his
forties. Long ago he’d been a soldier. A fall from a horse had left him
with a stabbing pain in his back ever since--though only a handful of
people were aware of it.
But his days as a soldier had marked him
in another way. He had done his duty. He’d seen killing. He had seen
things worse than killing. And in the end, it had seemed to him that
there must be something better than this, something more sacred, an
undying flame of light and love in the terrible darkness of the world.
He’d found it in the heart of Holy Church.
Also, he was a monarchist.
He’d
known the child’s family all his life, and now he looked down at him
with affection, but also with pity. Roland had no brother or sister. His
mother, that beautiful soul, the woman he himself would have liked to
marry had he not chosen another calling, suffered with delicate health.
The future of the family might rest on little Roland alone: a heavy
burden for a boy to bear.
But he knew that as a priest, he must
take a larger view. What was it the Jesuits said? “Give us a boy till
he’s seven, and he’s ours for life.” Whatever God’s plan for this child,
whether that service led to happiness or not, Father Xavier would lead
him toward it.
“And who was Roland?”
“Roland was a hero.”
The little boy looked up for approval. “My mother read me the story. He
was my ancestor,” he added solemnly.
The priest smiled. The
famous Song of Roland was a haunting, romantic tale, from a thousand
years ago, about how the emperor Charlemagne’s friend was cut off as the
army crossed the mountains. How Roland blew on his horn for help, to no
avail. How the Saracens slew him, and how the emperor wept for the loss
of his friend. The de Cygne family’s claim to this ancestor was
fanciful, but charming.
“Others of your ancestors were crusading
knights.” Father Xavier nodded encouragingly. “But this is natural. You
are of noble birth.” He paused. “And who was D’Artagnan?”
“The famous Musketeer. He was my ancestor.”
As
it happened, the hero of The Three Musketeers had been based upon a
real man. And Roland’s family had married a noblewoman of the same name
back in the time of Louis XIV--though whether they had taken much
interest in this connection before the novel made the name famous, the
priest rather doubted.
“You have the blood of the D’Artagnans in your veins. They were soldiers who served their king.”
“And Dieudonne?” the child asked.
Hardly
were the words out before Father Xavier checked himself. He must be
careful. Could the child have any idea of the horror of the guillotine
that lay behind the last of his names?
“Your grandfather’s name
is beautiful, you know,” he replied. “It means ‘the gift of God.’ ” He
thought for a moment. “The birth of your grandfather was--I do not say a
miracle--but a sign. And remember one thing, Roland,” the priest
continued. “Do you know the motto of your family? It is very important.
‘Selon la volonte de Dieu’--According to God’s Will.”
Father
Xavier turned his eyes up to survey the landscape all around. To the
north rose the hill of Montmartre, where Saint Denis had been martyred
by pagan Romans, sixteen centuries ago. To the southwest, behind the
towers of Notre Dame, rose the slope above the Left Bank where, as the
old Roman Empire was crumbling, the indefatigable Saint Genevieve had
asked God to turn Attila and his Huns away from the city--and her
prayers had been answered.
Time and again, thought the priest, God had protected France in her hour of need.
My Review
Ever since Sarum, Edward Rutherfurd has always been a favorite of mine. He has a special talent for blending superior storytelling skills with the rich history of a particular location. In this case it is the beautiful city of Paris.
Most people think of Paris as a delightful city full of love and good taste. How many visitors know the incredible history of the different eras it has endured and triumphed over. This is an excellent way to start to really understand Paris. How it came be and why its people are such survivors.
An excellent read. Perfect for lovers of great writing, fascinating stories with the history of one of the world's most enticing cities to learn and ponder.
