Jeffrey Archer - Paths Of Glory

“Slip back out?” mumbled George.

“Yes,” said Guy, happily taking the lead for a change. “What’s the point of coming to Paris if we don’t visit the Moulin Rouge?”

George continued to unbutton his shirt. “I promised my mother…”

“I’m sure you did,” mocked Guy. “And you’re now asking me to believe that the man who plans to conquer the heights of Mont Blanc isn’t willing to plumb the depths of Parisian nightlife?”

George reluctantly rebuttoned his shirt as Guy switched off the light, opened the bedroom door, and peeked out. Satisfied that Mr. Irving was safely tucked up in bed with his copy of Three Men in a Boat , he stepped out into the corridor. George reluctantly followed, closing the door quietly behind him.

Once they had reached the lobby, Guy slipped out onto the street. He’d hailed a hansom cab before George had time for second thoughts.

“The Moulin Rouge,” Guy said with a confidence he hadn’t shown on the slopes of any mountain. The driver set off at a brisk pace. “If only Mr. Irving could see us now,” said Guy as he opened a silver cigarette case George had never seen before.

Their journey took them across the Seine to Montmartre, a mountain that hadn’t been part of Mr. Irving’s itinerary. When they came to a halt outside the Moulin Rouge, George wondered if they would even be allowed into the glamorous nightclub when he saw how smartly dressed most of the revelers were-some even wearing dinner jackets. Once again Guy took the lead. After paying the driver, he extracted a ten-franc note from his wallet and handed it to the doorman, who gave the two young men a doubtful look but still pocketed the money and allowed them to enter.

Once they were inside, the maître d’ treated the two young men with a similar lack of enthusiasm, despite Guy producing another ten-franc note. A young waiter led them to a tiny table at the back of the room before offering them a menu. While George couldn’t take his eyes off the cigarette girl’s legs, Guy, aware of his dwindling finances, selected the second cheapest bottle on the wine list. The waiter returned moments later, and poured each of them a glass of Sémillon just as the lights went down.

George sat bolt upright as a dozen girls dressed in flamboyant red costumes revealing layers of white petticoats performed what was described in the program as the cancan. Whenever they kicked their black-stockinged legs in the air they were greeted by raucous cheers and cries of “Magnifique!” from the mainly male audience. Although George had been brought up with two sisters, he had never seen that much bare flesh before, even when they were bathing at St. Bees. Guy called for a second bottle of wine, and George began to suspect that this was not his close friend’s first experience of a nightclub; but then, Guy had been raised in Chelsea, not Cheshire.

The moment the curtain fell and the lights came up, the waiter reappeared and presented them with a bill that bore no resemblance to the prices on the wine list. Guy emptied his wallet, but it wasn’t enough, so George ended up parting with his emergency five-pound note. The waiter frowned when he saw the alien currency, but still pocketed the large white banknote without any suggestion of change-so much for Mr. Balfour’s entente cordiale .

“Oh my God,” said Guy.

“I agree,” said George. “I had no idea that a couple of bottles of wine could cost that much.”

“No, no,” said Guy, not looking at his friend. “I wasn’t referring to the bill.” He pointed to a table by the stage.

George was just as astonished when he spotted their housemaster sitting next to a scantily dressed woman, an arm draped around her shoulder.

“I think the time has come for us to beat a tactical retreat,” said Guy.

“Agreed,” said George. They rose from their places and walked toward the door, not looking back until they were out in the street.

As they stepped onto the pavement, a woman wearing an even shorter skirt than the waitresses selling cigarettes in the Moulin Rouge strolled across to join them.

“Messieurs?” she whispered. “Besoin de compagnie?”

“Non, merci, madame,” said George.

“Ah, Anglais,” she said. “Juste prix pour tous les deux?”

“In normal circumstances I would be happy to oblige,” chipped in Guy, “but unfortunately we’ve already been fleeced by your countrymen.”

The woman gave him a quizzical look, until George translated his friend’s words. She shrugged her shoulders before moving away to offer her wares to other men who were spilling out of the nightclub.

“I hope you know your way back to the hotel,” said Guy, appearing a little unsteady on his feet. “Because I’ve no money left for a hansom.”

“Haven’t a clue,” said George, “but when in doubt, identify a landmark you know, and it will act as a pointer to your destination.” He set off at a brisk pace.

“Yes, of course it will,” said Guy as he hurried after him.

George began to sober up as they made their way back across the river, his eyes rarely leaving his chosen point of reference. Guy followed in his wake, and didn’t speak until forty minutes later when they came to a halt at the base of a monument many Parisians claimed to detest, and wished to see dismantled bolt by bolt, girder by girder, as soon as its twenty-year permit had expired.

“I think our hotel’s somewhere over there,” said Guy, pointing toward a narrow side street. He turned back to see George staring up at the Eiffel Tower, a look of sheer adoration in his eyes.

“So much more of a challenge by night,” George said, not diverting his gaze.

“You can’t be serious,” said Guy, as his friend headed off in the direction of one of the four triangular feet at the base of the tower.

Guy ran after him, protesting, but by the time he’d caught up, George had already leaped onto the frame and begun climbing. Although Guy continued to shout at the top of his voice, he could do no more than stand and watch as his friend moved deftly from girder to girder. George never once looked down, but had he done so he would have seen that a small group of night owls had gathered below, eagerly following his every move.

George must have been about halfway up when Guy heard the whistles. He swung around to see a police vehicle drive onto the concourse, coming to a halt at the base of the tower. Half a dozen uniformed officers leaped out and ran toward an official Guy hadn’t noticed until then, but who was clearly waiting for them. The official led them quickly to the elevator door and pulled open the iron gates. The crowd watched as the elevator made its slow journey upward.

Guy looked up to check on George’s progress. He was only a couple of hundred feet from the top, and seemed entirely unaware of his pursuers. Moments later the elevator came to a stuttering halt by his side. The gates were pulled open and one of the policemen took a tentative step out onto the nearest girder. After a second step, he thought better of it and quickly leaped back inside. The senior officer began pleading with the miscreant, who pretended not to understand his words.

George was still determined to reach the top, but after ignoring some reasoned words, followed by some harsh expletives that could have been understood in any language, he reluctantly joined the officers in the elevator. Once the police had returned to the ground with their quarry, the watching crowd formed a gangway to the waiting vehicle, applauding the young man all the way.

“Chapeau, jeune homme.”

“Dommage.”

“Bravo!”

“Magnifique!”

It was the second time that night that George had heard a crowd crying, “Magnifique!”

He spotted Guy just as the police were about to bundle him into the van and drive off to heaven knows where. “Find Mr. Irving!” he shouted. “He’ll know what to do.”