“Yes, Monsieur Eiffel,” said Thomas.

Eiffel smiled at him. Bartholdi smiled at him. Even the foreman smiled, and Thomas Gascon felt very happy.

Just then he saw his sister Nicole standing by the doorway.

She was trying to catch his attention, yet was afraid to come in. She was going through that phase when her legs looked thin as stalks, and with her pale face and her large eyes, she seemed very vulnerable. If their mother had sent her all the way here, it could only mean that Luc was lost. Or worse.

But what a moment to arrive. If she would just wait until the foreman and the visitors were gone. He saw her eyes pleading as he tried to ignore her.

But the foreman missed nothing. Seeing Thomas’s momentary distraction, he immediately turned and stared at Nicole.

“Who’s that?”

“My sister, sir.” It was no use lying.

“Why is she interrupting you?”

“My little brother vanished this morning, sir. I think he must be … I don’t know.”

The foreman was not pleased. Staring at Nicole, he motioned her to approach him.

“Well,” he said abruptly. “What is it?”

“My mother sent me to find Thomas, monsieur. My brother Luc is nowhere to be found. They are fetching the police.”

“Then they have no need of Thomas.” He motioned her to go away.

The little girl’s mouth fell open. Involuntarily, Thomas started to move toward her, then checked himself.

He couldn’t lose his job. The foreman might be harsh, but he was quite logical. Perhaps if the matter had been brought to him privately … But not with Monsieur Bartholdi and Monsieur Eiffel watching. He had to keep discipline.

If only Nicole would go now. Quickly. But she didn’t. Her face started to pucker. Was she going to cry? She turned to him.

“What shall I tell Mother?”

And he was just about to say, “You must go now, Nicole,” when the voice of Monsieur Eiffel interrupted.

“I think that, upon this occasion—and this occasion only—our young friend should go and find his brother. But tomorrow morning, Monsieur Gascon, we shall expect you here to complete this great work.” He turned to the foreman. “Would you agree?”

The foreman shrugged, but nodded.

“Go,” the foreman said to Thomas, who would have thanked him properly, except that his sister had already fled.

Seen from a distance, the hill of Montmartre hadn’t changed so much since Roman times. For centuries old vines had grown there, tended by local nuns in the Middle Ages, though the vineyards nowadays had either been built upon, or lapsed into waste ground. But one pleasant change had occurred. A number of wooden windmills had gathered near the summit, their lumbering sails turning in the wind, giving the hill a picturesque appearance.