"Fine," George said. "Please go on."
"My friend the professor believes, as I do, that America and France are sisters in freedom. General Lafayette helped win your independence. Now America stands as an important beacon of liberty and human rights at a time when" — Levie squinted along the terrace like a conspirator — "France is grievously troubled."
At last George had a political orientation. His visitor was a liberal, and probably not a partisan of Emperor Napoleon III.
Levie rushed on. "What my friend proposes, and our group seconds, is a symbolic gift to your country. A monument or statue of some kind, representing mutual friendship and faith in freedom."
"Ah," George said. "Who would finance such a gift?"
"The French people. Through a public subscription, perhaps. The details are hazy as yet. But our goal is clear. We want to complete and present the monument in time for your country's one hundredth anniversary. Several years away, I grant you, but a project of this magnitude will not be brought to completion quickly."
"Are you talking about some kind of statue for a park, Monsieur Levie?"
"Oh, grander, much grander. On the night the idea was conceived, a young sculptor was present for another purpose entirely. An Alsatian. Bartholdi. Talented fellow. The conception of the monument will be his."
"Then what do you want from me?"
"The same things we request from any important American we hear of and contact on the Continent. An endorsement of the idea. A pledge of future support."
George was in such a fine mood because of the direction the new day had taken that he said, "I should think I could give you that without qualification."
"Splendid! That would be a noteworthy coup for us. What we are also trying to gauge, less successfully, is whether such a gift would be welcomed by the American government and the American people."
George lit a cigar and strolled to the balustrade. "You're very shrewd to ask the question, Monsieur Levie. Right off, you would expect that it would be welcome, but Americans can be a contrary lot. I receive newspapers from home regularly. What I glean from them is this. All that's foreign is suspect." He rolled the cigar between his fingers, thoughtful. "That would be especially true of a gift proposed by a country torn by strife between the right and the left, and ready to plunge into war with Prussia." He took a puff. "Such is my guess, anyway."
Downcast, the journalist said, "It confirms what Edouard has been told by members of the Philadelphia Union League."
George pointed with the cigar. "That's where I've heard his name. He's on our roster."
"That is so, although he has never been privileged to visit your country."
They discussed the European political climate for a while. Levie was vituperative about the Prussian premier, Otto von Bismarck, and his chief of the general staff, Moltke. "They are clearly bent on exacerbating tensions to the point of war. Bismarck dreams of reunification of the Germanic states — a new empire, if you will. Unfortunately our own so-called emperor is lulled by his conceits. He thinks he has built an invincible army. He has not. Further, Moltke has powerful breech-loading field guns, a superb spy system, and Bismarck to goad him. It will come out badly for France. I hope it will not come out badly for our scheme too."
"I'm familiar with General von Moltke," George said. "Two of his staff officers called here last month. They want to negotiate with my company for certain ordnance castings. Back in Pennsylvania, my general manager is working up figures. I've reached no decision on it yet."
Levie became less friendly. "You are saying the possibility exists that you might work for France on the one hand and against her on the other?"
"Unfortunately that's the iron trade, Monsieur Levie. Men in my profession are inevitably represented on both sides of battles."
Levie's hostility moderated. He squinted at his host. "You are forthright, anyway."
"And I'll say just as forthrightly that I'll do everything I can to support and promote your scheme if it develops along the lines you suggest. You can consider me one of your group, if you wish."
It was said before he quite knew he was going to. A gull swooped by and dove down toward the lake. A steamer whistle hooted. The sensations delighted his eye and heart. Everything was different.
After a moment, the journalist said, "Most certainly. You can be an important conduit for estimates of American reaction and opinion. Professor Laboulaye will be overjoyed."
He didn't say he was overjoyed, but they shook hands nonetheless. That evening, over a light supper at home of veal medallions and new beans — no pastries or heavy wines at night; his weight was becoming a visible problem, especially at the waist — George realized he had a new cause. Something not connected with the past, but instead, something that looked forward to the great celebration planned for 1876.
He finished his meal quickly, called his staff together, and announced that he was going home.
George sent a message to Jupiter Smith by the transatlantic cable and sailed from Liverpool on the Cunarder Persia. She was larger and more lavish than Mr. Cunard's earlier oceangoing vessels, whose austere cabins had earned the scorn of Charles Dickens. Persia advertised "Oriental luxury" and promised a quick ten-day crossing by means of her great forty-foot side paddles, assisted by sails when necessary.
The first night out, George drank too much champagne, waltzed with a young Polish countess, and surprised himself by spending the night with her. She was a charming, ardent companion, interested in the moment, not the future. He was pleased to discover his manhood had not atrophied. Yet the very detachment with which the young woman welcomed him to her stateroom and her bed only renewed his sense of love for Constance, and the attendant loss.
His mood was imperiled even more on the third day, when the huge steamship encountered heavy weather and began to roll and pitch like a toy. Though warned by the purser's men to stay off the decks, George wouldn't. He was drawn to the vistas of impenetrable gray murk with great fans of white water rising up to smash the funnels and sway the lifeboats and swirl around his feet as he gripped the teak rail. It was noon, and nearly as dark as night. Images of Constance, Orry, Bent flickered in his thoughts. The past ten years seemed to trail across his memory like a ribbon of mourning crepe. He lost the feeling of renewal from Lausanne and plunged backward again.
Something in him rebelled, and he sought to escape the bleakness by discovering its cause, by answering, if he could, certain questions that haunted him. Why was there so much pain? Where did it come from? The answers always eluded him.'
In the storm's murk, he glimpsed Constance again. He saw his best friend Orry. A set of conclusions came neatly out of the box of his mind.
The pain comes from more than the facts of circumstance, or the deeds of others. It comes from within. From understanding what we've lost.
It comes from knowing how foolish we were — vain, arrogant children — when we thought ourselves happy.
It comes from knowing how fragile and doomed the old ways were, just when we thought them, and ourselves, secure.
The pain comes from knowing we have never been safe, and therefore will never be safe again. It comes from knowing we can never be so ignorant again. It comes from knowing we can never be children again.
Losing innocence. Remembering heaven.
That was the essence of hell.