Plot And Counterplot

4

Plot And Counterplot

    Maître Béjart had put forward several cogent and well-argued points. None of them appeared to please, and certainly not to satisfy, Gilles de Bellecourt. The lawyer looked at  the rigid face at the other side of his desk and sighed. He made one more effort.

    “Mon cher monsieur—” They were not on first-name terms. The Paris firm of Béjart et Labouchère had handled business matters, that was, everything that was not connected directly with the estate of La Rance or the various properties owned personally by the members of the family, since the present Comte had been a boy. The present senior Béjart, Henri, was a man of sixty-odd who had known Gilles de Bellecourt nearly all his life and for many years had been in weekly, sometimes almost daily, contact with him. But the Comte had never asked his Paris lawyer to call him by his first name and Henri Béjart had been careful never to propose it himself. He was very popular with his contemporaries and was on excellent and familiar terms with many of his other old clients, with whom, indeed, he shared not a few interests: racing and golf being only two. But not with the Comte de Bellecourt. It had never occurred to the genial Henri that the reason Gilles de Bellecourt did not wish for closer terms with him was not that he was a gentleman of the old school and a raging snob, but that he did not in fact particularly like the lawyer and found him extremely boring.

    Maître Béjart’s first point—first according to the chronology of events, but not, perhaps understandably, the first the horrified lawyer had made—was that ces Frazer would never be able to prove that the tontine money had founded Usines La Rance. He had been very pleased with this point but then had taken a look at his client’s rigid face and been less pleased. And in fact had hurriedly passed on to his second point.

    The second point was that Captain de Bellecourt had only ever appeared in the paperwork as co-purchaser of the first factory with his brother, Fernand. Therefore, if these Frazers had a claim, which Maître Béjart did not by any means concede and he must beg Monsieur le Comte not to concede it either, at this stage (ignoring the Comte’s awful scowl), if, then, they had a claim, it was not to eighty percent of the yield of the whole investment in the factory, but only to eighty percent of the Captain’s half-share.

    The Comte de Bellecourt had replied to the exposition of this second point only with: “Masterly, Béjart. Pray continue.” The lawyer had not found this a wholly satisfactory reply, by any means, but he had nevertheless continued.

    His third point was that these Frazers could not reasonably expect any proportion of what the ULR holdings were worth today, but only a proportion of what the amount of the tontine investment at the time of Captain de Bellecourt’s death—1923—would have yielded today if safely invested back then—1923—at the average rate of interest. He had been about to point out that this would produce a not inconsiderable sum, with which these Frazers ought to be more than satisfied, but the Comte had fixed him with a cold eye and asked: “Why, Béjart?” Henri Béjart had then attempted to justify his third point at length, but had not, judging by the expression on his client’s face, succeeded.

    His fourth point was that if the fate of this—eugh—Sneed was never satisfactorily determined, as seemed very likely, then these Frazers did not have a valid claim at all, since they could not prove old James Frazer had been the last surviving signatory to the tontine. And that therefore they would of course be prepared to settle out of court very reasonably.

    There had been a sufficiently long silence when he finished expounding this fourth point, and Maître Béjart had looked at his client very hopefully indeed.

    “Yes... That, is indeed a point. Have you ever been to Southampton, Béjart?”

    “Eugh—well, no, Monsieur le Comte; when I have to go to England I usually fly direct to London, or—or we did once take the ferry from Calais to Dover... Why, sir?” he asked limply.

    “Those southern English ports suffered very heavily during the War. Portsmouth, Southampton... Portsmouth even more so, was it not a naval base?”

    The ruddy-cheeked lawyer just stared at him, his wide-lipped mouth slightly open.

    The Comte shrugged slightly. “I would doubt of your point’s holding very much water before any judge with a modicum of common sense, Béjart. And if this Sneed is still alive at the age of ninety-nine, why have he, his representatives or his heirs never come forward with some enquiry about the tontine moneys?”

    “Eugh—well, there could be many explanations for that, monsieur.”

    “Indeed there could. Not sensible ones, I think.”

    “Monsieur, in law, there must still be a doubt!”

    “True. Well, pray continue.”

    Points two and four were by far the most telling of those that the lawyer had to put forward. The rest of his arguments, though he expounded them at length, really boiled down to offering a substantial sum in full settlement of all claims. With a lot of stress on points two and four, naturally, in case ces Frazer felt inclined to cavil at the amount.

    “Paltry,” said the Comte grimly as he ventured to suggest a figure.

    “That would be our first offer, of course...”

    “Béjart, do you have any idea how many millions the family is worth?”

    “I think I have a reasonable idea, yes,” he replied with dignity.

    “I should think you might, certainly. Your firm has served us excellently over the years,” he said without visible pleasure, or indeed, gratitude, evident on his face. “I can’t see any lawyer that these Frazers may see fit to hire being so stupid as to allow his clients to settle for that sort of sum when there is a considerable fortune involved.”

    Maître Béjart advanced two points in answer to this. –He had begun to feel strongly that his client was playing Devil’s Advocate, and also to ask himself desperately: Why?

    Firstly, he would venture to suggest that these Frazers would be unlikely to hire the best legal brains of France. Secondly, any lawyer that these Frazers did hire would undoubtedly be aware of the validity of his, Béjart’s, points one, two and four and would be very leery indeed of advising his clients to take the matter to court. The more so since—as Monsieur le Comte had discovered for himself—no documentary proof existed that the money Captain de Bellecourt had used to buy the factory was the tontine money. It would be impossible to prove anything: so many records had been swept away by the last War—well, by both wars: who was to say what the true state of the family finances might have been in late 1918?

    The Comte countered this with the remark that he would ignore that last, and would just like to remind him of the practice current in certain legal circles—deplorable, no doubt, and no doubt American in origin—of unscrupulous advocates’ hiring themselves out—er—on commission, he believed would put it politely. For a percentage of the eventual sum gained, Béjart, he clarified grimly. No result, no fee.

    “Monsieur le Comte, a French court—”

    “My dear Béjart, it will never reach a French court. Perhaps I should have stressed at the outset that my intention is to avoid at all costs having my family name bandied about in the Press.”

    “But we may have to go to court eventually!” he gasped.

    The Comte rose. “No, Many thanks for clarifying the legal position for me.”

    “Mais, mon cher monsieur, you will at least allow me to—”

    “I wish to think about it further.”

    “M. de Bellecourt, please be reasonable! The bulk of your family fortune may be at stake! Please don’t do anything rash! We must be prepared for any argument these Frazers may—”

    “I think you have discovered all the possible arguments, have you not? And as I said, I wish to think about it further. But there is the point that ces Frazer have not so far advanced any claim.”

    “Oui, mais… Their lawyers may be working on it.”

    “Indeed. Perhaps you would institute discreet—very discreet—enquiries in Australia?”

    “Certainly, monsieur.”

    The Comte held out his hand; then he hesitated. “There is one more thing.”

    “Yes, Monsieur le Comte?”

    “Will you discover for me, Maître,” he said slowly, “whether it is possible to remove someone’s name from the roll of the Légion d’honneur?”

    The burly lawyer’s jaw dropped. ‘‘Remove... You can’t mean— Not your grandfather?” he gasped.

     The long mouth tightened. “Yes,” he said grimly.

    “But your grandfather had an honourable career as a soldier of France, sir; this business has nothing to do—”

    “My grandfather did his best to swindle the children of his brother’s comrades-in-arms out of their inheritance.”

    “For God’s sake, Bellecourt!” he gasped.

    “Can you find out?” he demanded.

    “I— If you wish it, of course I could—I could institute enquiries... Have you considered that if word got about it would cause precisely the sort of scandal you wish to avoid?”

    “You’re right. Nevertheless, please do it.” He held out his hand. “Good-day.”

    “Good-day, Monsieur le Comte,” said Henri Béjart feebly, shaking it.

    When his client had gone he tottered over his drinks cabinet and poured himself a stiff whisky. “My God,” he muttered, sinking half of it in one swallow. He refilled the tumbler. “The man’s run mad!”

    He repeated this opinion ten minutes later when his younger brother came in. Michel Béjart, who was the junior partner in the firm, was a taller, slimmer version of the older Béjart and even more hail-fellow-well-met.

    “Has he?” he said cheerfully, helping himself uninvited to a glass of his brother’s Black Label. “Who?”

    Henri downed another slug, shuddering. “Bellecourt.”

    “Hein? Oh: old Bertrand!” he said with a laugh. “What’s he done now? Found another broken-down nag he’s convinced is going to walk away with the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe? Found another broken-down factory he’s convinced he can turn around in six months? Bought yet another pretty little place to pop yet another pretty little lady into?” He winked at him.

    “Not him. It was the Comte,” said Henri, shuddering.

    “Oh?”

    “I said: he’s run mad!”

    “You’d better tell me all about it, old boy,” he said soothingly, perching a hip on his brother’s desk.

    Henri glanced at the door. ”Yes. Well, between these four walls, then, Michel.”

    “What? Of course!” he said with an incredulous laugh.

    “I mean it.

    “Eugh—of course,” he said feebly. “Go on, old chap.”

    … “Merde!” he concluded, when his brother stopped, panting slightly.

    “It’s not the situation itself, so much, Michel—well, that’s horrifying enough. But Bellecourt’s got some crazy notion that—that these Frazers have a right!”

    Michel was reading Henri’s photocopy of the tontine agreement with great interest. “Never seen one of these before... Yes, well, apparently they do.”

    “That’s not the POINT!” his brother shouted. “He wants to give them the eighty percent! From what I can make out the man sees it as some damned point of honour!”

    “What?” he said feebly.

    “You heard.” Henri got up, scowling, and replenished his glass.

    Michel whistled. Then he said cautiously: “It is, I suppose.”

    “Is what?”

    “A point of honour.” He shrugged “Doubt if you’d find one other family in France to agree with him, though.”

    “I’m very sure you wouldn’t! Everything they’ve worked for, over more than seventy years? The man’s mad!” Scowling, Henri revealed the bit about the Légion d’honneur.

    Michel’s jaw dropped.

    “Tu vois?” said Henri grimly.

    “Ouais…” he admitted in a shaken voice. After a moment he ventured: “Sic old Bertrand onto him?”

    “Déconne pas,” replied Henri witheringly.

    “But surely if the family all get together...”

    Henri shrugged. “I dare say they will get together. But I doubt if they’ll make him change his mind. Well, I think he may be willing to settle for making a sizeable settlement, if these Frazers agree. Very sizeable.” He sighed. “Ferry tells me he’s thinking of selling the château.”

    “What?” he gasped.

    Henri shrugged, looking sour. “He didn’t mention it to me. And he has told Ferry to hold off on it for the time being.”

    “But how much is he thinking of offering these Whatsanames?”

    “Frazer. Eighty percent of his personal fortune, at the very least, I would say, Michel.”

    Michel tottered over to the whisky. “He can’t be serious!”

    “If that’s not serious, I hope never to meet a more serious man as long as I live!” replied Henri with feeling. “You can pour me another one of those, old fellow.”

    Michel obliged. He waited until Henri had swallowed and sighed; then he offered cautiously: “Don’t suppose he has gone a bit batty? You know: from the shock. Well, he thought a lot of the old Comte, didn’t he? Get onto the family: get old Bertrand and the Comtesse to have him certified?”

    “He’s sane, all right. Sane enough to make mincemeat of any claim that an insistence on morality and honour constitutes madness in the France of the 1990s!”

    “Ouch,” said Michel, grinning at him.

    Henri downed his whisky. “I’m just bloody glad it’s not my family. The man doesn’t appear to have given a thought to what will happen to his daughters! Well, I admit I didn’t have the guts to ask him about them,” he said, with a rueful grin. “Mais merde! Eighty percent!”

    “Ouais. –Good God, there’s old Bertrand’s grandkids, too, aren’t there? How many has he, again?”

    “Three boys. He only had the one son. –Legitimate son,” he said drily.

    Michel raised an eyebrow.

    Henri shrugged. “Nicole’s theory is that it’s all compensation for never having got up the Comte’s mother all these years.”

    “Hein?”

    “Well, she was widowed back during the War. And Bertrand’s wife died... I forget when, but it was ages ago. And there the two of ’em were with their families, all living at La Rance with the old Comte de Bellecourt, cosy as anything!”

    “Sans blague?” said Michel blandly.

    Henri shrugged again. “Well, Ferry reports there was never anything between them. And I hate to admit it,” he said, grinning, “but Nicole may have a point. Never heard of a man setting up so many mistresses with such—well, determination, really! Yes, determination, as old Bertrand de Bellecourt.”

    Grinning, Michel conceded that his brother’s wife might well have a point. “Determination appears to run in the family,” he then noted.

    Henri groaned. “Yes. The only faintly bright spot on the horizon seems to be that the Comte’s decided to sell up everything else rather than lose control of the company.”

    “Can’t be all bad, then! –Well, no fear of losing the family’s business, dear boy!” he said, laughing.

    Henri eyed him drily. “Crass commercial opportunism. The curse of modern France.”

    “He didn’t actually say that, did he?” he croaked.

    “No, but I could hear him thinking it.” Henri got up. “I’m going home. And you’ve got no idea where I am.”

    It was only half-past four, but Michel shrugged and said: “All right; I’ve got no idea where you are.”

    Henri went home and—once he got there, after the obligatory battle with the Paris traffic—refused to tell Nicole what the matter was, drank too much before dinner, drank too much with dinner, didn’t do the dinner justice, had another fight with Nicole, drank too much after dinner and fell into bed, very drunk. He did not pause to think that, if he felt as bad as that about it, what must Gilles de Bellecourt be feeling?

    Mathieu de Bellecourt put down his wine glass. “How many of these Frazers are there, again, Father?”

    Bertrand sighed and repeated without hope: “Four. Three girls and a boy.”

    “Only one thing for it,” he decided.

    His father, his wife and his three sons looked at him without hope.

    “Well, it’s been done before. Traditional, really,” he said.

    “Er—murder, Pop?” drawled his middle son, Jean-Paul, raising his eyebrows very high.

    Fabien, who at nearly nineteen had just started university the previous September, drawled in English: “‘In our house?’” and sniggered to himself.

    “Well, I dare say that in the Middle Ages or something— No!” said Mathieu hastily. “Don’t be silly! –You’re too young, I suppose,” he admitted mournfully, eyeing Fabien.

    “For what, Pop?” asked Jean-Paul. “To administer the fatal dose? To carry the bribe all the way to the South Seas?”

    “It isn’t the South Seas, it’s Australia, and stop interrupting me!” replied Mathieu huffily.

    “Mathieu,” said his father acidly, “if there is an idea in your head, which I take leave strongly to doubt, spit it out!”

    “Before we all go crazy,” agreed Mathieu’s wife, Pauline, acidly, removing his wine glass from before him.

    “Hey, I haven’t finished!” he spluttered.

    “Yes, you have, dear: remember your blood pressure.”

    Mathieu watched indignantly as Jean-Paul grabbed the burgundy bottle and proceeded to refill his grandfather’s and his own glasses from it.

    “Are we going to hear this idea, or shall we have the salad?” said Pauline with a sigh.

    “Salad,” said Jean-Paul definitely. He and Fabien collapsed in sniggers.

    Guy, who at twenty-six was the eldest of Mathieu’s children, had been leaning back in his chair looking very bored. However, now he said: “No, let’s hear it, Papa. This suspense is killing me.”

    “Eugh…” Mathieu looked wistfully at the burgundy.

    “Get on with it,” said his father brutally.

    “Eugh… Très bien. C’est simple. Marry them.”

    “What?” said Pauline faintly.

    “You heard!” he replied huffily. “Marry these damned Frazers! Keep it in the family!”

    “Brilliant,” said Guy faintly.

    “Merde, it is the Middle Ages, after all!” gasped Jean-Paul. He and Fabien collapsed in giggles.

    “Shut up— SHUT UP! I’m SERIOUS!” he bellowed. “Pack of idiots,” he muttered.

    Bertrand de Bellecourt looked with distaste at his two younger giggling grandsons. “There are still arranged marriages in France,” he said coldly.

    “You have one, then, Grandpère,” offered Jean-Paul brilliantly. He and Fabien collapsed in giggles again.

    “Isn’t one of them the wrong sex, Pop?” drawled Guy.

    Very red, Mathieu said crossly: “Thought of that! Young Annie can have him! Well, Marie-Claire’s a bit too old.”

    “Besides, you and Grandpère have her lined up for me, haven’t you?” drawled Guy.

    From red, Mathieu went immediately to puce. “Nonsense!” he spluttered.

    “Don’t lie, Papa: you have neither the complexion nor the intelligence to sustain it.”

    “That’s ENOUGH!” shouted Bertrand angrily. “You can apologize to your father immediately!”

    Guy shrugged faintly. “I beg your pardon, Papa,” he said politely.

    “Whatever put such an extraordinary idea into your head?” asked Pauline, staring at her spouse.

    “He got it in the Middle Ages, Maman,” said Jean-Paul politely. Fabien went into a further spluttering fit.

    “That’ll do,” said Pauline, not bothering to look at either of them. “Honestly, Mathieu! Marrying the boys off to some strange Australian girls that we’ve never even met?”

    Inexplicably, at this point Guy went into a positive paroxysm of splutters.

    Bertrand had to bite his lip, but he said with a creditable appearance of composure: “It’s hardly relevant where he got it from, my dear. But actually, I don’t see why it wouldn’t work.”

    Guy raised his eyebrows very high. “Setting aside one or two possible physiological factors which I won’t go into at Maman’s lunch table, sir,”—Jean-Paul and Fabien were in ecstasies—”what makes you imagine that ces Frazer would be willing to marry us in order to save our family fortunes?”

    Bertrand eyed him grimly. “The Bellecourts aren’t nobody, you know. And you’ll be head of the family one day: I dare say a simple little Australian girl off a farm might well fancy herself as the Comtesse de Bellecourt.”

    “Little? Aren’t they all two metres tall with shoulders like all-in wrestlers?”

    “Those ones that were in the Olympics were,“ agreed Fabien, sniggering.

    Bertrand’s ice-blue glance just flickered over him. “I was not addressing you, I believe.”

    Fabien went bright red and glared at his grandfather resentfully, but muttered: “Sorry.”

    “Papa, perhaps we could leave this discussion until after we’ve eaten,” suggested Pauline firmly.

    “Very well. But I’ll talk to you later,” Bertrand said grimly to his eldest grandson.

    Guy raised his eyebrows but replied politely: “Very well, Grandpère.”

    ... “He’s mad,” concluded Fabien glumly as the two younger Bellecourt brothers wandered disconsolately outside after lunch—ostensibly to walk the dogs but actually to get away from Bertrand.

    “Qui ça: le bon vieux ‘Pop’? We’ve known that for years!”

    Fabien grinned but warned him: “You’d better not call him that again today in front of Grandpère, I could see him coming to the boil over it. –No, but it is a potty idea, surely—in this day and age! I mean, nobody has arranged marriages any more! Um, well, apart from the British Royals, I suppose,” he added uncertainly.

    “Ouais; and they appear to be becoming unstuck,” agreed Jean-Paul drily.

    Fabien made a face. “Tarts,” he said.

    Jean-Paul also made a face—looking, as he did so, remarkably like old Bertrand de Bellecourt. He had the same thin, oval face and the same high-bridged nose. And the same ice-blue eyes. “Quite.”

    They wandered on. Occasionally Fabien called in a half-hearted way to Flopsey and Charley but the spaniels ignored him. Jean-Paul ignored them: he didn’t care for dogs.

    “It wouldn’t have to be arranged, exactly, I suppose,” murmured Jean-Paul at last.

    His little brother goggled at him. “Hein?”

    “Well... Suppose one gave a reasonable facsimile of falling hopelessly in love with one of these Australian female wrestlers? –They all have huge teeth, like horses, too,” he noted.

    “Ugh. Um—could you?” he said feebly.

    “Try me!” replied Jean-Paul with a laugh.

    Fabien swallowed. “You wouldn’t really, would you? Not—not make the poor girl fall in love with you?”

    “Pourquoi pas?” he said airily. “It’s an idea, at all events!”

    Fabien’s jaw sagged. “Oncle Gilles’d kill you!” he gasped.

    “Bof! Why should he interfere in the course of true love?” returned Jean-Paul, rolling his eyes terrifically and clasping his hands above his heart.

    Fabien gave an uncertain giggle.

    “I could do it, you know,” he said thoughtfully. “I made Jeanne-Marie Lavallois fall hopelessly in love with me.”

    “She was fifteen and you were sixteen!” he gasped. “And you only did it to get hold of her moped!”

    “Précisément.” Jean-Paul’s ice-blue eyes narrowed. “And the family fortune is worth a bit more than a moped, you have to admit.”

    “You couldn’t,” he said feebly.

    “How much do you bet?”

    “No—not that,” said Fabien, going very red. “I mean, you—it—eugh—it wouldn’t be honourable!” he gasped.

    “Mon Dieu, you sound just like Oncle Gilles,” said Jean-Paul, raising his eyebrows and looking down his nose at him.

    Tears started to Fabien’s nice brown eyes. “Yes, and you sound just like Guy!” he cried.

    Jean-Paul’s eyes narrowed again. “Do I? –I tell you what, I bet him and Grandpère  are sitting in the study right now discussing ways and means.”

    “Des conneries,” said Fabien sulkily, without conviction.

    “I wouldn’t put anything past Guy, actually,” he said thoughtfully. “And especially when Oncle Gilles’s fortune and the château are at stake.”

    “He couldn’t,” said Fabien faintly.

    His sibling replied with huge scorn: “Of course he could, grand con! And what’s more, he’d enjoy every minute of it!”

    Fabien gulped.

    “Anyway, it wouldn’t be so bad for the horse-faced Australian. Decent house, decent clothes, few bits of jewellery. Dare say Guy’d father a few kids on her, too, if she wanted that. All of the ‘nice people’, of course,” he said in their mother’s phrase, wrinkling his nose, “would look down on her, but why should she care? Possibly she could take up—eugh—skiing. Like Di.” He eyed him mockingly. “Or water sports. Like Fergie,” he said pointedly.

    “Well, she’d have to, with all those cows that Maman takes tea with looking down their stupid blue-blooded noses at her, poor little thing!” said Fabien vigorously. “And who could blame her!”

    “I have a feeling Guy might. Holds on to his own, does Guy,” he said thoughtfully, “Besides, I thought we’d agreed she won’t be little? Large and horse-faced.”

    “Yes, you’re as bad as him! I can just see it, he’d immure her in his beastly maison de campagne!”

    “The château,” Jean-Paul corrected solemnly. “Dear Oncle Gilles would be dead of the shock of it all by then. Well: family honour already down the drain, family blood about to be contaminated by the blood of the Australian peasantry, the boys selling their souls for filthy lucre—?” He raised his eyebrows mockingly.

    “Ta gueule! T’es un SALAUD, Jean-Paul!” shouted Fabien.

    “Bah, mais dis-donc: so I gather I won’t have any competition for the hand of Meess Bar-ba-ra Müller?” he said carefully.

    “Va te faire FOUTRE! You’re not funny!” shouted Fabien. He walked on very fast. The two spaniels pottered after him in a desultory manner.

    Jean-Paul shrugged. He hesitated, looking after his little brother stomping along in the rutted country lane near their father’s maison de campagne, muffled up in an anorak and heavy woollen slacks with a thick scarf at his neck. Then he shrugged, shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his own anorak, and turned back for the house. It would be interesting to find out what Grandpère was actually saying to Guy. Not to say what Guy wasn’t saying to the old man.

    To give him his due, nothing like Jean-Paul’s scheme had entered Mathieu’s head. A straightforward agreement with settlements, like in the old days, was what he proposed. Or preferably four.

    “Oui; be quiet, Mathieu,” said his father wearily when he’d explained it for the third time—apparently under the impression that he’d been invited to form one of the study party.

    “Which one should I choose, Grandpère?” asked Guy meekly.

    Bertrand gave him a jaundiced look. “You won’t choose.”

    Guy shrugged. Though in features he somewhat resembled the cousin of his grandfather’s for whom he had been named—although there had always been a Guy in the Bellecourt family—there the resemblance ended. Guy was neither always laughing nor honest as the day was long. He could be a charming companion and certainly he could rouse those around him to laughter, if he chose—but it might well be malicious laughter at the expense of some unfortunate butt of less wit than he. His dishonesty was not particularly apparent—perhaps because so far in his privileged life he had had little need of it—but both his brothers were aware of it. Guy would always put Guy first and he would never care what means he used to do it. However, he might well be careful how he went about it: though it was true he had a certain contempt for appearances, this went only so far and no further.

    Bertrand de Bellecourt, though he had not expressed it to himself in so many words, knew very well that Guy was as proud of the family’s ancient name and place in society as he was himself, and would do all that lay in his power to preserve them. And to preserve the fortune that helped to maintain the Bellecourts at the top of the social tree.

    “Three... Well, one of them is married already,” Bertrand now said on a regretful note. “And the youngest is too young, I think. Sixteen... No, I don’t think we want to wait a year or two. It will have to be the eldest.”

    “Thirty, is she?” said Guy in a bored voice.

    “Twenty-seven.”

    “Not much difference; elle a coiffé Sainte Catherine,” he noted.

    As expected, his grandfather didn’t register that the use of this extremely outdated expression was a hit at him, and merely replied on a grim note: “All the better, she’ll be more interested in our offer.”

    “Grandpère, I’m sorry to have to say this, but I really fear that you as well as Papa are living in the Middle Ages. This Australian peasant girl won’t be interested in a proposal of marriage designed merely to keep the family fortune in our hands.”

    “She—”

    “If the alternative is to take us to court for the lot, why bother with marriage? With or without the prospect of becoming a comtesse. And may I remind you, sir, that Oncle Gilles is not strictly in his dotage as yet. –Though I grant he gives the impression of it,” he murmured.

    “Gilles won’t marry again!” said Mathieu confidently. “Once bitten, twice shy!”

    “I do so agree that Tante Isabelle is enough to put anyone off matrimony for life—yes,” he sighed. “Nevertheless he isn’t utterly past it. And fond though he is of myself, do you know, there is still just the possibility that he may prefer to father a son of his own.”

    “He couldn’t father one as damned irritating as you are, Guy, that’s certain!” said his own father crossly.

    “Well, quite,” he murmured.

    “He’s nearly fifty. He won’t marry again,” said Bertrand.

    “Euqh—we do know that the delightful Henriette Verdeuil offers him all the home comforts, sir, but is it enough?” said Guy earnestly.

    Bertrand looked at his eldest grandson’s smoothly handsome, tanned face with its mocking blue eyes and experienced a strong desire to knock the perfect teeth down Guy’s strong throat for him. “That’s enough. We’re not discussing Gilles.”

    “But isn’t that precisely the point, sir? We can’t just dismiss him, if the Australienne is to be bribed with the offer of becoming Madame la Comtesse de Bellecourt.”

    “I suppose Gilles could always marry her,” said Mathieu thoughtfully.

    His father choked, and Guy gave a delighted yelp.

    “Why not?” said Mathieu indignantly. “You’ve just said yourself, he isn’t past it!”

    “Stop—it—Pop!” choked Guy.

    “That’s enough, Guy. This is serious,” said Bertrand grimly. “It’s eighty percent of everything, you know. Not just your shares in ULR but everything the family money’s bought you.”

    Guy held out a foot and looked at it dubiously. “Oh. That might be difficult.”

    Bertrand cast a jaundiced look at the foot, which was clad in a heavy cream suede desert boot, but didn’t rise to the bait. Guy had seen fit to grace his mother’s house for Easter in a cream outfit in which Jean-Paul had already informed him he looked poetic, Fabien had already informed him he looked like un grand con, and his father had already informed him he looked like un sacré pédé. The cream corduroy slacks were very pleated as to the waist and very draped as to the leg. The cream Aran-knit sweater was very loose and very Aran and frankly not in need of the shoulder pads which had already incensed both his father and grandfather: Guy had a fine pair of shoulders. The cream-faced watch on a cream suede strap was there in the hopes that his father would notice it and throw a fit. So was the heavy ivory bangle on the other wrist. The sweater was vee-necked and the vee came down very low over Guy’s chest but, sadly, neither the weather nor the house was warm enough for him to wear it with the chest-hair showing to the bottom of the breast-bone, which would have infuriated his father and horrified his mother. So instead he wore a skin-tight knitted garment under it which was possibly designed to be worn under skiing gear. Or based on something that had been designed for that purpose. It was ribbed but also featured a pattern of small holes and sat right at the base of Guy’s strong, tanned neck in a way which several besotted ladies had told him was “très sex-appeal”, but which hadn’t appealed to his family.

    And neither Bertrand nor Mathieu had been impressed by the small shark’s tooth which dangled round the neck on a gold chain. There was also a long cream silk scarf, draped negligently over the shoulders. Mathieu had already asked him what he was wearing it for if he didn’t intend to wrap it round his neck and Fabien, giggling, had already offered to wrap it round his neck for Papa—very tightly.

    Guy had started off the day with one small pearl earring but this had caused his father to go into near-apoplexy over the breakfast table, so he’d admitted it was only a joke, and replaced it with a gold keeper. Bad enough, as Mathieu had not failed to note. Even Fabien had been forced to point out at this point that everyone wore earrings, Pop! Mathieu had retorted that adult men didn’t and what was that on his son’s right wrist? Guy had displayed the large ivory bangle without speaking. Until Fabien had gasped and said: “That’s real ivory!”—at which point he had drawled: “Ouais: and an elephant suffered in its manufacture.”

    At that Fabien, who was a keen Greenie, had tried to hit him and had been sent from the table for his pains.

    The family had long since commented unflatteringly on the fact that Guy had had his light brown curls just slightly frosted at the front, so this weekend they didn’t bother. Fabien, in fact, even looked at them enviously and debated asking Guy where he had his hair cut: it was very short at the back and sides, only not overdone, unlike Jean-Paul’s—but decided he wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

    Such, then, was Guy Bertrand Louis-Marie Honoré de Bellecourt, aged twenty-six, unmarried, company director. It might have been supposed that he would not have bothered to dress to annoy his boring family over a boring Easter weekend but, quite apart from the fact that he liked clothes and enjoyed choosing outfits that made the most of his male beauty, Guy was like that.

    Bertrand, with a certain amount of hindrance from Mathieu, attempted to convince Guy that the Australienne would leap at a proposal of marriage incorporating the prospect of becoming Madame la Comtesse and mistress of the château. Guy advised him languidly not to make a fool of himself by making the offer. Bertrand replied tightly that he would speak to Gilles. Guy laughed unflatteringly. Bertrand reiterated his point of view, more forcefully. Guy became more languid. It went on for some time.

    By the time Jean-Paul came in looking hopeful, Bertrand had been reduced to red-faced, scowling silence, Mathieu had been reduced to bewildered silence, and Guy was leaning back on the couch, looking languid.

    “Ah! Another prospect!” he said on seeing his brother. “Do explain to Jean-Paul how marrying him will give the youngest of these three Australiennes the prospect of becoming Madame la Comtesse de Bellecourt, Grandpère.”

    “You’d have to die first. Couldn’t be all bad,” said Jean-Paul thoughtfully.

    “That is quite enough,” said Bertrand tightly. “But while we’re on the subject—stop fidgeting, boy!” he snapped.

    Jean-Paul, who of course was twenty-three, sat down looking very mild.

    “While we’re on the subject, there is no reason why you shouldn’t make an offer for one of them,” he said grimly.

    “‘Make an offer!’” repeated Jean-Paul delightedly. “Grandpère, how perfectly Second Empire you are!”

    Bertrand looked down his aquiline nose at him; Jean-Paul, besides having the nose himself, was far more impervious to looks from Bertrand than was naïve young Fabien; he merely said placidly: “Well, all right, then. Which one do I make this offer for?”

    “It’ll have to be the sixteen-year-old,” said Mathieu. “Well, the other one’s married.”

    “Oh, that’s no problem, Pop, I’ll get her away from a lump of an Australian husband!” he said cheerfully.

    “That’s not amusing. And don’t use that absurd American term when referring to your father, please,” said Bertrand. “I dare say this girl may be nearly seventeen. Possibly turned seventeen, it is April, after all. And eighteen’s not too young to be engaged.”

    “Masterly,” sighed Guy. “You can see where Pop gets it from.”

    At this Jean-Paul turned puce, tried to stop himself, failed, and went into a strangled sniggering fit.

    “That’s ENOUGH!” shouted Bertrand at the top of his voice. “Stop that, Jean-Paul!”

    Possibly it was just as well that at that moment Pauline came in, wearing a padded anorak and woolly scarf. “Papa, you can hear you all over the house. –I’m just going for a little walk. Mathieu, you ought to come, the exercise’ll do you good.”

    “We’re busy, dear.”

    Pauline was not in the habit of being dismissed in this way by her husband but on the other hand she wasn’t in the habit of arguing with him in front of her father-in-law, either. “Very well.” She crossed the room and went out of the French windows.

    After a moment Guy said: “Well, please go on, Grandpère. Explain to Jean-Paul what tactics he should use to capture this sixteen-year-old paysanne australienne.”

    “This two-metre, sixteen-year-old Australian female wrestler,” Jean-Paul corrected. “Me and Fabian have decided she’s definitely got teeth like a horse, as well.”

    Guy choked.

    Jean-Paul looked at him sideways. “On the other hand, I think I may have sufficient charms to—er—ensnare her affections without Grandpère’s guidance—qu‘en penses-tu?”

    “Ah... I’ll introduce you to my hairdresser,” he decided.

    “But I’m not interested in his affections.”

    They sniggered.

    “That’s enough,” said Bertrand tightly. “We are not talking about ensnaring the affections of these Frazer girls.”

    Guy got up. “Non? How disappointing. Well, I’ve already said it, but I’ll repeat it for Jean-Paul’s benefit. In the year of grace 1992 I don’t think an offer to share the bed and honourable name of a Bellecourt is going to go over very big with an Australian farmer’s daughter.” He went over to the door. “Possibly if you could arrange Gilles’s demise at an early date it might help matters, sir,” he said to his grandfather. “But I doubt it. No, there must be a better way, I feel. Don’t you, Jean-Paul?”

    Jean-Paul got up quickly. “Ouais. Eugh—sorry, Grandpère!” He hurried out in his brother’s wake.

    Bertrand de Bellecourt swore fluently.

    “I suppose it was a stupid idea,” said Mathieu sadly.

    His father frowned awfully and didn’t reply.

    Then there was a short silence, during which Bertrand sat there scowling and thinking and Mathieu sat there looking sadly at him. Finally Mathieu ventured: “I suppose Gilles could still marry one…”

    Bertrand returned acidly: “Indeed? Clearly it hasn’t dawned on your sparkling intelligence, mon cher fils, that Gilles, alone of us all, appears to retain some notion of what is due to the family name. Offer his hand in marriage to a dirty little nobody of an Australian farm girl?” He gave a short bark of unamused laughter.

    “No—um—no... But—” fumbled Mathieu in bewilderment.

    “Oh, shut up,” said Bertrand tiredly, walking out on him. Mathieu just sat there sadly.

    Some half an hour later Bertrand walked into Guy’s room without knocking. “Turn that damned racket off!” he said loudly.

    Jean-Paul had been sprawled on the bed. He got up and turned off the African music that Guy had brought along for the weekend to annoy his parents.

    Guy was in a large armchair by the fireplace, apparently immersed in a book. He looked up languidly. “Was there something?”

    Bertrand de Bellecourt overlooked the impertinence. “Listen to me,” he said tensely. “We’ll have to have ces Frazer down to the château—invite them over on the pretext of discussing ways of coming to an arrangement!”

    “Yes; I had got that far, sir,” agreed Guy.

    “You never mentioned it to me,” said Jean-Paul immediately. “That’s a great idea, Grandpère!”

    “Of course,” said Guy as if his brother hadn’t spoken: “I had then also taken the next logical step: who is to put this charming proposal to Oncle Gilles?”

    There was a short silence.

    “I fear, as senior officer, you are deputed, sir,” said Guy politely to his grandfather.

    “Yes. Only don’t tell him that—” Jean-Paul broke off.

    “Don’t tell him that we mean to seduce les petites Frazer,” drawled Guy.

    “No: marry them,” objected Jean-Paul.

    “Imbécile!”

    “Oh,” he said sheepishly. “I see. Not literally.”

    “Well, it would probably be safer to do it literally as well, in these liberated days, dear boy—”

    “That’ll do,” said Bertrand. “I’ll put it to him. And just be ready to play your parts!” he ordered grimly. “And listen to me, Jean-Paul: there is no need to discuss the matter further with your father!”

    “Our fates are sealed,” said Jean-Paul limply as the door closed behind the old gentleman.

    “Ouais. Well, would you rather live on your share of the income from twenty percent of what’s left after these Frazers have stripped us clean?”

    “No. But Oncle Gilles may come to some agreement with them.”

    Guy made a rude noise. “I intend to marry the eldest one. Whatever sort of a hag she is. At the worst that’s another twenty percent back safely in the family.”

    “Eugh—ouais.”

    “Look, wake up, Jean-Paul!” he said angrily. “We bring these damned Frazers into the family, or we lose everything we’ve got! I mean it! And just in case you were thinking Oncle Gilles may not victimize the younger generation,”—he eyed him sardonically; Jean-Paul went very red—“let me spell it out for you. If it comes to court it won’t be up to him. The Frazers apparently have a legal right to anything the family’s made from ULR. And that includes your shares and my shares, as well as Papa’s and Grandpère’s. Waltzing in when you feel like it to that damned newspaper office you and your idiot friends play around with won’t bring in the income to support your sort of lifestyle, you know. Or even pay for the sort of gear you drape yourself in!” He eyed him with disfavour.

    Jean-Paul was in dark blue denim. Designer denim. The heavy wool sweater (denim blue) under the zippered and pocketed denim jacket had come from the same expensive little boutique as had the rest of the gear.

    Jean-Paul returned sulkily: “There might be enough for—”

    “There won’t be ENOUGH!” he shouted. “What sort of cretin are you?”

    Jean-Paul gulped.

    “What do you think pays the rent of that rat-hole you and that tart infest?”

    “She isn’t—” He broke off, pouting.

    “That’ll have to go. And my flat,” said Guy, frowning. “I dare say the cars as well. Well, they’re—what was the charming phrase? Property derived from the investment?”

    “But I own my car!”

    “ULR money paid for your car, you bloody fool,” he said grimly. “Can’t you get it through your thick head? Nothing we’ve been living off since 1923 is rightfully ours!”

    Jean-Paul swallowed. “Got it,” he muttered.

    There was silence in Guy’s warm room, tastefully done out by Pauline in the latest approved maison de campagne style from the glossies. Most of the rooms now featured “un chesterfield anglais” but fortunately Guy’s bedroom was too small to fit one in. She had, however, done her best with a mixture of tartan checks, as to the small sofa, and floral linens as to the cushions. And lots of bows. Round the entire sofa, as well.

    Guy stared grimly into the fire. His brother watched him anxiously.

    “So—so you’re really going to do it, then?” ventured Jean-Paul at last.

    Guy had a firm, wide mouth, a little like Gilles’s. It tightened. All he eventually said was: “Oui.” Nevertheless Jean-Paul quailed in his smart hand-made leather boots at the sound of it. There was no doubt he meant it. Pity the poor paysanne australienne, thought Jean-Paul involuntarily.

    The fire crackled in the grate of the little downstairs sitting-room of the Château de La Rance. Outside a biting wind whipped the struggling young leaves on the trees into a frenzy and tore at the lilacs near the house. In the warm sitting-room the scent of lilacs was strong on the air. The Comte himself did not dislike lilacs but he found the scent too cloying indoors; he knew, however, that his mother loved them, and so had not objected to their presence. He himself preferred violets, and on the desk in his study at this moment stood a little glass of them, placed there by old Bernadette, the cook, who fondly imagined that Monsieur le Comte’s partiality for these flowers was a secret between herself and him.

    Roma de Bellecourt laid down the papers her son had given her to read and looked at him limply. “Gilles, this is dreadful! The poor little things! Both their parents, and poor little Rose’s husband as well!”

    “Yes—well, very sad, certainly,” he allowed calmly.

    She looked at him doubtfully. The long, hard face was expressionless. She sighed a little, turned back to the papers and said: “And the grandmother’s dead, too?”

    “Mm? Oh—Ferry’s Tante Lisette? Yes. Well, she was an elderly woman, Maman: I suppose the shock of the car accident was too much for her. She died... The dates are there; I think it was last month.”

    “Yes: March. Dreadful. The children would scarcely have got over the shock of the car accident before their grandmother went.”

    “Yes. Well, the boy was still in hospital, I think. Eugh—darling Maman, of course it’s very sad, but I believe there are relatives on the other side of the family—the father’s side. And I think Lisette Frazer had one or two other children, though I don’t know why James Frazer excluded them from his will. They would not have been entirely without support.”

    “No, but...” Roma looked down at the papers again. “Poor little Rose,” she said through trembling lips. “They had only been married—what? Three years? A little more, perhaps. –Dearest, I suppose there could be no mistake?” she said, looking up at him.

    Gilles saw there were tears in her eyes. He sighed a little, not unaware that she must be comparing Rose Bayley’s situation, widowed with a young child after only a few years of marriage, with her own when his father had died in the fighting after the Normandy invasion. “No, Maman, no mistake. Béjart’s man wasn’t relying on reports in the media.”—His lips curled a little, unconsciously.—“He actually went to this place and confirmed the deaths of Leonard and Marion Müller and the Bayley fellow. To this—eugh—Adélaïde, non?” he said in the French that they usually spoke when alone together.

    “Adelaide,” said his mother in English, smiling at him. “It’s prettier in French, isn’t it?” she added, switching back to that language. “She was the wife of William IV, dear. How did it happen? They were all travelling together, is that right?”

    “Not exactly. There were two cars. It appears from the coroner’s report that they were going down this—eugh… Oui, that one, Maman,” he said, as she pulled out a paper and looked at it dubiously.

    “Yes,” he said, taking it off her: “they were heading home after a visit to James Frazer’s farm, travelling down this ‘Sturt Highway’ at night, and the long-distance lorry swerved off its side of the highway, and hit the leading car. The lorry jack-knifed and the car behind drove into— I’m sorry, Maman,” he said quickly as she shuddered.

    There was a short silence. Roma looked into the fire, frowning. Gilles looked at her anxiously.

    “So the four children survived,” she said at last.

    “Yes. Béjart’s man—er... Pullen?” he said, pronouncing it “Pou-lenne”, the accent very much on the second syllable.

    “Pullen, dear,” said his mother in English, smiling at him. “Your English is deteriorating.”

    “I don’t enjoy speaking it,” he said in French, frowning. “Hé bien, Maman: this Pullen reports that they’ve sold their father’s farm—well, strictly speaking it was not a farm, it was a cherry orchard,” he said on a dry note. “Très Tchekhov, non?”

    “Darling, I don’t think this is a time for levity,” she murmured.

    “No. At all events, they have sold it; not for very much, there were two mortgages on it, but the father’s insurance paid— Well, Maman, I’m just trying to reassure you that the children aren’t destitute,” he said as she winced.

    “No. So where are they living now, dear?”

    “At Rose Bayley’s house. In Adelaide,” he said with a little smile.

    “Alone?”

    “Eugh... Well, the four children, yes, so it would appear,” he said on a dubious note. “And the baby. Pullen reports that various relatives seem to have stayed with them for a little, but no-one who—um—” He bit his lip.

    “No-one who could have advised them on what to do about the tontine claim?” she suggested coldly.

    “Well, yes. –Maman, the man put it in his report, I didn’t ask him to express an opinion on the matter!”

    “But Maître Béjart did, I suppose?”

    “Undoubtedly. He’s still convinced that I mean to fight them in the courts,” he said with a sigh.

    Roma looked at him doubtfully.

    “Mais non, of course I don’t!” he said angrily. “How could you possibly—”

    “I’m sorry, darling. Of course you won’t. The poor children...” she said softly.

    The Comte took a deep breath. “Whether or not they are poor children, Maman, is beside the point. I had no intention of disputing their claim in any case.”

    “No, I know that, Gilles. –Darling, come and sit beside me,” she said, patting her sofa.

    Looking mildly surprized, he got came and sat beside her. Roma took his hand. She stroked it gently and sighed.

    “What?” he murmured.

    “Your hands are so like Guy’s, I— Well, I’m being silly!” she said with a determined little laugh.

    The Comte looked at her dubiously.

    “Gilles,” she said, drawing a deep breath, “I think we must have the Frazer children over here. I would have suggested it anyway: I don’t feel that it would be at all appropriate to discuss the matter at long distance, but now—”

    “Oui, mais… What did you have in mind, precisely?”

    Roma looked at him in bewilderment. “Well, darling, if they’re going to inherit most of the Bellecourt money, someone will have to—to explain things to them and—and help them to understand how we do things here, and—well, help them to find their feet here.”

    “I see,” he said with a strange little smile.

    “What is it, darling?”

    “Nothing. –They may prefer to sell up, you know, and return to this—eugh—Adélaïde.”

    “I suppose that’s possible... But the factories are doing so well: it wouldn’t be sensible, would it? –Gilles, I was thinking: if you and Bertrand between you retain control of fifty-one percent of the company, would you be able to raise the rest of the eighty percent for the Frazer children from our other assets?”

    “Darling Maman,” he said, kissing her hand, “I would try to. But you must remember that our other assets have largely been bought with ULR funds. Eighty percent of them belongs to the Frazers, too.”

    “I see.”

    The Comte swallowed. “I think La Rance will have to be sold.”

    “No!” she cried in anguish.

    “I’ve heard you call it a draughty barracks, times innumerable,” he murmured.

    “Only when the wind’s in the east. –Darling, we can’t! It’s your home! And—and—well, what about the future?” She swallowed.

    Gilles’s hand unconsciously tightened on hers. Roma winced, but said nothing.

    “The future,” he said. “Yes. Do you know that my charming heir came to see me just after Easter to discuss that very point?”

    “Guy did?”

    “Yes.” The long mouth closed grimly.

    “Oh, dear,” said Roma to herself in English.

    “He put several points to me,” said Gilles in a hard voice.

    “What?” she asked faintly.

    He shrugged slightly. “Possibly the most telling was that I was about to whistle his inheritance down the wind for a mere scruple.”

    “Did he call it that?” she gulped.

    “Yes. As conscienceless as the rest of them, apparently,” he noted sourly.

    “No, that isn’t true, Gilles: dear little Fabien drove over just the other day—you were still in Paris, dear—and he was very upset about it all. He feels just the same as you do, darling.” She squeezed his hand hard.

    “Really? I’m very glad to hear it,” he said in some surprize.

    “He’s definitely the best of Mathieu’s boys.”

    “So it would appear,” he agreed. “Well, shall we say that my delightful heir is as conscienceless as my grandfather, my great-grandfather, my great-uncle, my father’s cousin— No, I’m sorry, Maman.”

    “No, it’s true,” said Roma faintly. “Go on, dear, what else did Guy say?”

    “He urged me—eugh—in the strongest terms, I suppose you’d say—to offer these Frazers an acceptable sum and get them to sign—well, whatever the dupes do sign in such circumstances.”

    “I suppose that was to be expected.”

    “Certainly. He also brought up the point that I’d be beggaring his nearest and dearest, but as he’s never given a fig for any of them in his life, I took leave to tell him I found that less than convincing.”

    “No. But it is a point to think about, darling.”

    “Maman, none of them will starve. Pauline and Mathieu will even be able to keep the house: half of the equity in it’s hers anyway, and she’s got more than enough to buy his share. And the boys are all young and fit: why the Devil shouldn’t they work for their livings like the rest of the population? –And the same goes for Marie-Claire and Annie, before you say anything!” he added angrily.

    Roma sighed. “Annie’s very keen on standing on her own two feet in any case, darling, you know that.”

    Annie’s father also sighed. “Yes. And Isabelle’s pretty comfortable; I suppose Marie-Claire will merely live off her until she decides which one of her wealthy suitors to honour with her hand.”

    “That’s a bit hard, darling. She—she just hasn’t fallen in love with any of them, yet.”

    “I doubt if she knows the meaning of the word. –Takes after her mother,” he muttered.

    There was a short silence.

    “Was that all Guy said?” ventured Roma.

    “Oh, far from it! He threatened to have me locked up, would you believe?”

    “Locked— Gilles!” she gasped. “Committed?”

    “Well, he’d lost his temper, by that stage,” he admitted. “But before that he put a really charming proposition to me. Eugh—on second thoughts, I don’t think you’ll want to hear it, darling.”

    “If it was that bad, I think I need to hear it,” replied Roma calmly.

    The Comte pulled a hideous face. “He suggested that I sign a paper to the effect that I won’t produce any male heirs to supplant him—”

    “What?” she gasped.

    He held up his hand. “Wait: it gets better. And that in return, he would guarantee to seduce one of the Frazers into marriage with his gracious self. I don’t think he expressed a preference—”

    “Gilles! You’re not serious!”

    He nodded. “Thus getting back for the family, at the worst, twenty percent of the family fortunes, and at the best talking this gullible Frazer girl into getting her siblings to sign their rights away.”

    His mother retorted strongly: “She’d have to be blind as well as besotted to do that!”

    “He appeared to think she would be. And I have to admit that so far he’s never had any trouble in getting any woman he wanted.”

    She swallowed. “No. Gilles, how—how dreadfully cold-blooded,” she said in a low voice.

    He shrugged. “Oh, absolutely. –Interestingly enough, I got the impression that he hadn’t wanted to disclose the scheme to me at all. But as he appeared to believe there was a real danger of my producing an heir to supplant him at any moment—” He gave another shrug. “Flattering, really.”

    His mother looked at him uncertainly.

    “No, Maman,” he said tiredly. “Not with one of your English upper-class cows who appear to think that a marriage ring is a licence to sleep with all of her husband’s ‘huntin’, shootin’ and fishin’ friends,’” he said in English, “and not with one of our highly educated, charming French ladies who take it for granted that marriage is a contract whereby two persons live in the same house, eat at the same table and sleep in whatever beds they choose; and certainly not with any of those painted little tarts that my misguided elder daughter keeps throwing at my head! Mon Dieu, one would think they’re actually in a competition to see who can sleep with the greatest number of racing-car drivers and film stars and pop singers before they’re twenty-five!”

    “They probably are, dear. Though not all of Marie-Claire’s friends are like that,” she murmured.

    “True. The ones that aren’t are the English horse-faced type. A headscarf under one arm and a lover on the other.”

    “A very telling turn of phrase, Gilles,” said his mother weakly.

    “They’re all so—” He broke off, grimacing in distaste. Finally he admitted with a sigh: “I think I was born out of my time. Well, let’s just say I’m not liberated.”

    “Darling, there are still decent marriages that—that work! Well, I know you don’t care for Pauline, but you must admit—”

    “I must admit she’d never dream of betraying Mathieu and that not only is she one of the most capable women on God’s earth, she’s also one of the most boring.” He sighed.

    “So—so that’s Guy’s plan is it, darling?” she ventured.

    “What? Oh—yes. More or less. He also represented the great good sense of siphoning off our liquid assets while there’s still time and shoving them into a numbered account in Zurich, but I’d already had that one from Ferry, Béjart and Bertrand, so I wasn’t entirely surprised. –Mon Dieu, I’d like to produce a son, just to cut the smug-faced little bastard out!” He laughed harshly.

    Roma’s eyes filled with tears. She patted his hand and didn’t speak.

    “Maman?” he said uncertainly. “Ah, merde: don’t cry!”

    “I’m not crying,” lied Roma, sniffing.

    “I’ve tried marriage once,” he reminded her, biting his lip. “Isabelle would be enough to put any man off it for life.”

    “Darling, you’re not past it: you’re only forty-nine! I want to see you happy!” she cried, frankly bursting into tears.

    Gilles put his arm round her. “Don’t cry,” he repeated with a sigh. “I have to admit,” he added after a moment, “that Guy’s performance makes the idea of trying to salvage the château from the mess seems less urgent.”

    Roma sniffed vigorously and felt for her handkerchief. The Comte gave her his and she blew her nose hard. “I should just think so!” she said strongly. “But if only you had a son of your own, darling, it would all be different!”

    “Would it? Well, in any case,” he said with a sigh, “I refused to provide documentary evidence for Guy that I wouldn’t produce one.”

    “Good!” said Roma viciously.

    He gave a startled little laugh. “Don’t go getting your hopes up on the strength of that!”

    “No. –I’d rather have you sell the château than see him lording it here!” she said fiercely. “It was your father’s home!”

    “Hé bien, within his lights, I suppose he’s doing his best to save it,” said Gilles with a sour shrug. “Not that Bertrand hadn’t already suggested something very like it.”

    “Comment?” she gasped.

    “Ouais…” he drawled, eyeing her mockingly. “But his plan is somewhat less underhand, I have to admit. It’s true that it’s also based on premises that date from approximately the last century—but that doesn’t appear to have dawned on him. Eugh—well,” he said as she stared at him, “his suggestion is that we contact ces Frazer and propose lawful matrimony with the heir to La Rance, the payoff for the Frazers being that the product of the union will inherit all, not merely eighty percent, of what we now own. Plus a reasonable sum for the siblings who miss out on this magnificent opportunity to better themselves.”

    “Good grief! –Not the last century, dear, the century before that!”

    “Yes: it is the sort of idea that would occur to the brain of a Marie Antoinette, isn’t it?” he discovered.

    Roma swallowed, nodding. “Though I must admit, darling,” she said cautiously, “that thinking of our neighbours—well, and many of Bertrand’s friends, too—it is the sort of idea that would occur to not a few old French families.”

    “Bien sûr. I’m afraid I was naughty enough to point out to Bertrand that there was no guarantee I wouldn’t invalidate the agreement by going off the rails and marrying a chorus girl or a pop singer and producing lawful offspring. Well, it had been a trying day,” he said on an apologetic note.

    She patted his hand, laughing a little. “Oh, dear!”

    “I suppose there is a chance—an outside chance—that it could work,” he said dubiously. “Are young Australian girls dynastically inclined? And likely to be swayed by the prospect of becoming grand ladies and—eugh—lording it in a château? Well, I suppose if they wanted to cut a figure in what passes for high society,” he said, grimacing, “marrying a Bellecourt might be a shortcut to doing so.”

    Roma thought it over. “Maybe. Well, given that attitudes haven’t changed much amongst the upper classes—well, the old families, dear—since I was a girl; and remembering how hard they made it for me when I first came here...” She sighed a little. “My French wasn’t very good in those days: that didn’t help,” she recalled. “But your grandfather was wonderfully kind: entirely supportive. I think I would have run away without his help, Gilles.”

    “Really?” he said, a little startled. “Even though Papa wished me to be brought up at his home? Was it that bad?”

    She nodded. “Dreadful. Especially the women. They’d come to tea, and say things like ‘Of course you know so-and-so— Oh, no, silly me!’ And they’d mention—well, not just families and personalities, but episodes—politics and so on... And then, their educations were all so—well, Francophile, darling, is the only word, and mine was so English: we—we looked at the world in different ways, I suppose... Well, these days it wouldn’t be so bad: I suppose the horrid television’s more or less the same all over the world. The younger people would have that in common, at least.”

    “This is why you want these Frazer children to come to visit us, it is? So as you can make it easier for them with the local snobs?”

    “Well, partly, dear—yes.”

    He sighed. “Darling, they may be hard-boiled little brats. Common.”

    “I think we have to give them a chance, Gilles.”

    “Oui...” He looked at her suspiciously. “Is that all there is to it?”

    “Well, Gilles, if they do turn out to be nice, don’t you think they may agree to—to settle for half?”

    He sighed. “Not you, too?”

    “Gilles, anyone would think you wanted to throw your inheritance away!” she cried.

    The Comte got up. “Perhaps I do. Well, for God’s sake, look at what I’ve got to leave it to!” He gave a hard laugh, and went over to the door. “Oh, by the way, just in case you were beginning to have doubts about the true natures of Bertrand and his descendants, I told them about the Müller family’s frightful accident when I dropped in on them at Easter. Their reactions were identical—well, Bertrand’s, Guy’s, Jean-Paul’s and Pauline’s were: Mathieu didn’t say anything, and Fabien was staying with a friend. They said—”

    Roma interrupted anxiously: “Please, darling—”

    “They said: ‘What a pity it wasn’t the Müller children that were killed,’” he quoted in a very nasty voice indeed.

    Tears sprang to his mother’s eyes. “Gilles—”

    “Ils me DÉGOUTENT!” he shouted. ‘‘TOUS!” He walked out, slamming the door.

    Roma burst into tears. She sobbed for some time. Not because she felt any disillusionment at the discovery of the feet of clay on Bertrand’s side of the family—she was after all, an old lady, and she’d known the Bellecourts for very nearly fifty years, now. Nor, really, because she didn’t wish Gilles to lose the château. No, it was because she could see her son was very unhappy, and she didn’t have the slightest idea how to go about helping him.

    In his study the Comte sat heavily at his desk and buried his head in his hands. He remained like that for some time.

    Gradually, the scent of the violets that old Bernadette had placed on the desk penetrated to his consciousness, and he looked up and smiled at the flowers a little ruefully, and touched their silk-soft petals with a cautious finger. “Merde, what’ll become of Bernadette if we have to sell La Rance?” he muttered. “Mon Dieu, I wish I was—” He didn’t finish the sentence, though the thought was just there on the surface of his mind: his upbringing had not encouraged Gilles de Bellecourt to think of suicide as anything but the coward’s way out. And in fact his temperament inclined him to fight rather than run. Only in this case honour forbade the fight.

    He stared into space for a long time. Eventually his eyes focussed: a tiny smile softened the hard features for a moment and he got up, and carefully divided the little bunch of violets in two.

    The big desk was set in the middle of the room, but at an angle, and the wall it faced was bare apart from one large painting and a little occasional table below it. The Comte went over to this painting with half of the violets, and stood there looking at it silently.

    It was a portrait of a lady. Its official title was “Adélaïde Antoinette Marie-Hélène de la Rance, on the occasion of her marriage to Gilles de Bellecourt”—more or less—but to the family it was known as “La petite dame en gris.”

    La petite dame en gris predated the re-founding of the family fortunes: she was, in fact, a Second Empire little grey lady. But although the artist had conscientiously represented every fold and billow of her big crinoline, and although she wore the hairstyle of the age, very flat at the forehead and pulled back neatly into big bunches of ringlets at the side of the face, she was not very typically Second Empire; and he had not, blessedly, made any attempt to make her appear so. She was a slender little lady, sitting on a sofa of dark green brocade, very little of which showed under her spreading skirt. Behind her hung a dark green curtain. As was the fashion of the day, she had been painted in evening dress. Had it been her own choice, her maman’s, or even the painter’s? The Comte would very much liked to have known: whoever had chosen the dress had had exquisite taste: nothing could have suited the little lady better. It was a great drift of palest grey—a very soft, floating fabric. Muslin, according to Roma. The bodice was, in the fashion of the time, very tight and very low-cut, while the sleeves were two large, soft puffs. The slender pale shoulders and soft, rounded bosom of the little lady emerged from a delicate frill of lace: the total effect was rather as if the little lady was about to step naked from behind a cloud. One elegant little arm was draped on the back of the sofa, dangling a single violet. At her other side, the posy of violets lay abandoned on the sofa. Here and there the big skirt was caught up with tiny bunches of violets—not purple, as in the posy, but white violets with purple and gold centres, which the artist had painted in painstaking detail. She wore no jewellery except for a large emerald ring, which must have been her engagement ring, on the hand on the sofa back. And her elegant little head was quite bare of the usual lace rosettes, bows, ribbons and artificial flowers so popular at the time. Possibly the artist had insisted, for the hair—if he had rendered it correctly—was a most unusual shade: a pale bronze, with green-gold lights in it.

    The little lady’s face was heart-shaped and very sweet: her pose turned the torso a little away, but her head was just turned on the slender neck and she looked straight at the viewer out of large hazel eyes.

    As her surname indicated, La petite dame en gris had been a daughter of the family which originally owned the château and lands of La Rance. Adélaïde was the last of the line, and the property had come through her to the Bellecourts. They also were an old French family, but their property had been lost in the Revolution. The Gilles of the day had been an astute businessman who had done well under the Second Empire. Very likely marrying the last of the La Rances had been just another of his astute moves: at any rate the present Gilles was of that opinion. His portrait, painted at the same time, also existed, but Gilles didn’t hang it in his study: the man had looked horribly like Bertrand. Nevertheless la petite dame en gris had apparently been happy with him: the family had her journals, and they were full of pretty little sketches and amusing little tales of the doings of her family and friends and the local people.

    There was a much later group portrait in which she appeared as a grandmother, still slim and, this time, smiling under a black silk hat trimmed with ostrich feathers. But again with violets: a large bunch pinned to the bosom. She had, of course, been the present Comte’s several greats-grandmother, and he had sometimes wondered if that was where he had got his love of the flowers from, or if the fact that Adélaïde appeared in both portraits with his favourite flowers was merely coincidence.

    After staring at La petite dame en gris for some time, Gilles murmured: “Adélaïde? Weird coincidence!” and shook his head.

    He had just removed the withered flowers in the little vase that stood on the table under the portrait and was replacing them with his little bunch of violets when his mother came in.

    “Goodness, Gilles, is it you who looks after La petite dame en gris’s vase?” she said with a gurgle of laughter. “I always thought it was Bernadette!”

    “No,” he said, flushing. “I usually do it.”

    Roma came over to him and took his arm. “Isn’t she sweet?” she said, smiling up at the portrait. “And clearly from the journals she was good as she was beautiful!”

    “Yes. Well, possibly she never had the chance to be otherwise,” he said in a hard voice.

    “Darling!” she said in astonishment.

    “What: should I apologise at once to La petite dame en gris, Maman?” he said with a wry smile.

    “Well, I rather think you should, Gilles! The woman who wrote those journals was quite clearly incapable of a base thought.”

    “Yes, I suppose you’re right. –It died out, didn’t it?” he noted sourly.

    “Don’t be silly. You’re as good and as honest as she was. And so was your father. And so is little Fabien, of course! And Mathieu may not be clever, but there’s nothing underhand about him.”

    “‘As good and as honest,’” he said weakly. “Well, I hope I’m honest, Maman, but I don’t know that I’d characterize myself as ‘good’.”

    “Sois pas bête,” she murmured, hugging his arm. She looked up at the little lady in grey. “You can see it in her face, can’t you?”

    “Well, perhaps. If it isn’t largely the artist’s imagination. –Non, non: I mean the face, Maman, not the goodness and honesty!” he said hurriedly.

    “I don’t think it could have been his imagination. She doesn’t simper. Most of those Second Empire portraits do—horribly.”

    “That’s true. Very well, Maman,” he said with an effort at lightness: “find me another petite dame en gris—with her goodness and honesty, of course—and I’ll marry her on the spot! And cut out that salaud, Guy. –No, all right, you don’t have to say it,” he said, glancing at her face: “they don’t breed them like that, these days.”

    “No,” said Roma with a sigh: “perhaps they don’t.”

    He looked up at the portrait again. His mother looked up at him anxiously. But he didn’t come out with any more bitter or disillusioned remarks: in fact, as he looked at his Petite dame en gris his face seemed calmer and less tense. Roma de Bellecourt felt at that moment that she’d give up the château and everything they owned very willingly, if in return her son could have a petite dame en gris.

    They were, of course, both totally unaware that the Comte’s Petite dame en gris bore a quite astounding resemblance to the eldest Australian female wrestler whom the other branch of the family was proposing to marry off to the heir presumptive to La Rance.

Next chapter:

https://frazerinheritance1-adelaidesdaughters.blogspot.com/2024/06/coping.html