Then, suddenly grabbing the shoulders of the two people in front of him, he levered himself up quickly. They hardly had time to protest before he was scrambling up their backs, and a moment later, with a foot resting on the head of one of them, he got his other heel firmly on the ledge, reached up, pulled the hook through the grille and tied the rope off. The two men below were now cursing volubly, and one of them tried to punch him, but the crowd was so close that it was hard for the man to get a decent swing. And after Thomas made a motion as though to kick him in the head with his workman’s boot, he contented himself with a contemptuous “Cochon!” and turned away.

Thanks to this arrangement, tethered safely to the grille behind by the rope around his waist, Thomas could lean out to left or right as he pleased and watch everything over the heads of the people in front of him.

Across the avenue, the balconies were crammed with people; there were heads at every window. Some of these folk had paid large sums of money for these vantage points. But he had a view as good as theirs, for free.

To his left, the wide space around the Arc de Triomphe had been cleared for the dignitaries who were all in deepest mourning dress, or uniform. The great arch itself was an extraordinary sight. Three years ago, a huge sculpture of the goddess Victory in her chariot had been placed on top, making it even more dramatic than before. An enormous drape hung like a scooped curtain over one side of the monument; long banners hung from its corners. And taking up most of the great central arch was the ornate and massive catafalque, sixty feet high, in which Victor Hugo had been lying in state.

It was more than a funeral. It was an apotheosis.

The crowds were all in black. The better-off men wore top hats. Thomas himself had put on a short coat that was dark enough, but he wore a blue workingman’s cap. He supposed Victor Hugo wouldn’t mind.

He was staring toward the arch, where the funeral orations were beginning, when he saw the girl.

She was standing about fifteen yards away, in the front row. He could see only the back of her head, and there was nothing special about that. There was really no reason he should have felt drawn toward this particular head in the sea of people all around. But for some reason it seemed to him to be special.

He could see that she had frizzy brown hair. The skin on the back of her neck looked pale. He couldn’t tell what she was wearing, but he thought that she probably belonged to the poorer classes, like himself. He wondered if she would turn round.