The widow Le Sourd stopped speaking now for a few moments. They had come to the southeastern corner of the cemetery now, where the path rose more steeply as it curved to the left up the central hill. To the right of the cobbled walk, down a slope, stood the blank stone face of the graveyard’s outer wall, with a small, empty triangle of ground in front of it. It was a nondescript little corner of the place that had never been given any dignity or name.

“In the end,” the widow went on quietly, “the last area to hold out was the poor quarter of Belleville just nearby. Some of our people were fighting up there.” She gestured to the tombs on the crown of the hill behind them. “Finally, it was over. The last hundred or so of the Communards were captured. One of them was your father.”

“You mean, they took him to prison?”

“No. There was an officer in charge of the troops. He ordered them to take the prisoners down there.” She pointed to the blank stretch of wall. “Then he lined up his troops and ordered them to shoot the prisoners. Just like that. So this is where your father died, and that is how. Now you know.”

Then the tall, gaunt widow Le Sourd suddenly started to weep. And her son watched. But she soon corrected herself and gazed stonily, for a minute or so, at the blank wall where her marriage ended.

“Let us go now,” she said. And they began to walk back.

They were nearly in sight of the entrance to the cemetery when Jacques interrupted her thoughts.

“What happened to the officer who had them shot like that?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“You know this? You know who it was?”

“I discovered. He is an aristocrat, as you might expect. There are still plenty of them in the army. His name is the Vicomte de Cygne.” She shrugged. “He has a son, younger than you, called Roland.”

Jacques Le Sourd was silent for a minute.

“Then one day I shall kill his son.” It was said quietly, but it was final.

His mother did not respond. She walked on a dozen paces. Was she going to tell him not to think of vengeance? Not at all. Her love had been passionate, and passion takes no prisoners. The righteous strike down their enemies. It is their destiny.

“Have patience, Jacques,” she answered. “Wait until the time is right.”

“I shall wait,” the boy said. “But Roland de Cygne will die.”

Chapter Two

•  1883  •

The day started badly. His little brother Luc had disappeared.