Destiny

by Sally Beauman

  “So what happened about the land?” Jean-Paul interrupted her quickly.

  “I sold it, of course. To the oil consortium.” Louise gave a little smile. “For rather a lot of money. And substantial shareholdings in the consortium itself. Edouard has a fifteen percent share, I believe, and I have the same, which makes up thirty percent. Not a controlling interest then, but a powerful one. Do you see?”

  Jean-Paul saw. He took another choux pastry to console himself.

  “So Edouard has the investment capital he needs for his expansion program?”

  He knew it was hardly worth putting the question. Louise gave a light laugh.

  “Darling, really, you must try to keep up more. He had that six months ago, at least.”

  “You sold other stock?”

  “Well, Edouard advised it, darling. And I was going to consult you, but really, Algeria is a long way away, and you never seem to be in Paris…so, yes, I sold some rather boring stock that was as safe as Fort Knox and about as immobile, and invested in de Chavigny. It was a wise decision, Jean-Paul. Very wise. The company is diversifying, growing so fast it’s almost unbelievable. I shouldn’t think Edouard wants any further investment just now—but if he did, darling, if you have, you know, a little pin money, then you couldn’t be better advised than to—”

  “It’s my company.” Jean-Paul stood up, his face red with anger. “It’s my company; Edouard is employed by me. I just wish sometimes that someone, somewhere, would remember that.”

  He looked down at his mother, who appeared quite unflustered by his rage. She had always known which way the wind was blowing, he thought savagely. Always. His mother—whose preference for himself, devotion to himself, he had always taken for granted. Well, he wasn’t the favorite anymore, that much was obvious. Edouard had sneaked in behind his back. He hesitated, his anger subsiding quickly, as it always did, and leaving him feeling exhausted. He couldn’t fight Edouard, he knew that. He didn’t have the ability, and he didn’t have the strength. So he’d just damn well have to do what Edouard said, and go back to Algeria with his tail between his legs. His little brother.

  “Tell me something, Maman.” He spoke suddenly, the question rising up out of the confusion and indignation in his mind. “Tell me. Does Edouard frighten you sometimes?”

  “Frighten me?” Louise’s eyes widened.

  “Well, he’s so changed. I find him changed. So cold. Humorless. He doesn’t feel like my brother anymore. It’s like talking to a machine.”

  “A useful machine. A highly efficient one.”

  “Yes, but he’s my brother, damn it. We were always so close.”

  “Edouard is close to no one these days.”

  “Why not? What the hell’s wrong with him?”

  “Darling, how should I know? He prefers it that way. And I must confess, it makes things easier. He and I get along very well now. We talk about business, and he inquires after my health and remembers my birthday and so on…” She shrugged. “I always used to feel such demands from Edouard. Even when he was a very little boy. It was as if he always needed something—it was terribly exhausting. Now he makes no demands at all. No emotional demands. Really, it’s much better that way.”

  Jean-Paul hesitated; he had never reciprocated his mother’s old affection for him, and he now felt actual dislike. But he wanted to understand.

  “What about women?”

  “Ah, women.” Louise smiled a slow smile, and smoothed down the skirt of her dress. “Well, there are a lot of those, or so I hear. Edouard never discusses them with me.”

  “Is he going to get married?” He blurted out the question, and Louise shrugged.

  “Possibly. Someday. He’d like an heir. He has dynastic leanings, I think, just as your father did. And you’ve never married, Jean-Paul.”

  “Well—I never found the right woman. It doesn’t mean I won’t.” He shifted about anxiously from foot to foot. To his own surprise, all his anger against Edouard had evaporated. He was beginning to feel unhappy for his brother. Louise frowned, and stood up. “Of course, it is terribly important whom Edouard marries,” she began thoughtfully. “Terribly important. I think about it often.”

  “Why, Maman?”

  “Oh, darling, it’s obvious. Edouard is an obsessive—surely you can see that? He’s obsessed about his work—obsessed with building some kind of memorial to your father. He was totally obsessed with that dreadful little boy Grégoire—he even brought him to tea here, you know, and the child had no manners at all, he broke one of the Sèvres cups—Edouard said he was nervous…And so, if Edouard were to fall in love, to marry, he’d be equally obsessive then. His wife would be able to influence him, Jean-Paul, and—”

  “Influence him? Some woman?” Jean-Paul laughed. “You must be joking. No one influences Edouard.”

  “Not yet.” Louise turned away. “But that may change. You don’t understand your brother, Jean-Paul. He’s not a machine, you see. Underneath, underneath he’s a very passionate man.”

  Jean-Paul thought of what their mother had said when he had his farewell interview with his brother. He had given in about the purchase of the land, of course. Edouard had made no acknowledgment of his capitulation. Jean-Paul looked at the man behind the desk. The eyes were like flint. He felt a terrible impotent welling up of affection. “My plane doesn’t leave till nine. We’ve got time to go out. Get a drink. Have dinner even. What d’you say, Edouard? I hate talking in offices. Can’t relax in them. Never could.”

  “I’m sorry.” Edouard glanced down at his thin gold de Chavigny watch. “I have appointments all evening. I can’t break them.”

  “Damn it—you can cancel. Come on, Edouard—I’ve hardly seen you in years. I could do with a drink.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m behind schedule as it is.”

  Jean-Paul rose awkwardly to his feet. “Oh, all right then. It’s a pity. Maybe you’ll be coming out to Algeria soon? Yes? I’d like that…”

  “It’s possible.” Edouard paused. “If the political situation were to worsen.”

  “Yes. Fine. Well, let me know. You call me, though—not some goddamn secretary. Is that a deal?”

  Edouard looked up, and smiled for the first time. “It’s a deal.”

  They shook hands. At the door Edouard pressed a small file into Jean-Paul’s hands.

  “Something that might interest you,” he said shortly. “Read it on the plane. Or when you get back…”

  Jean-Paul was traveling first class. He started on the martinis before takeoff. Halfway across the Mediterranean, when the stewardess seemed oddly unresponsive to his overtures, he idly opened the file.

  It contained the details of the funding of a new pediatric clinic outside Paris, to be built with a donation from the de Chavigny company and funded annually from the company’s charity portfolio. Jean-Paul flicked the pages; he couldn’t see why Edouard had given him this. De Chavigny now had a number of such projects—as tax deductions, he imagined.

  Then he turned the page. The infectious diseases wing was being personally funded by his brother. Jean-Paul stared at the figure. Ten million dollars down the drain sounded like rather a lot. Then he understood. The wing was to be named in memory of his son, Grégoire.

  In the spring of the following year, 1957, Marie-Aude Roussain, Edouard de Chavigny’s senior secretary, a young woman of considerable ability and renowned for the fact that she never became flustered, called Edouard in his office. She was very flustered indeed.

  “I’m extremely sorry, Monsieur de Chavigny, but I have someone on the line who wants to speak to you personally. She—er—she won’t go away. I told her you were unavailable, but…”

  “Who is it?”

  “She says she is the Contessa Sforza-Bellini, sir.”

  “Get rid of her. I’ve never heard of her in my life.”

  Edouard moved to flick the switch on his intercom. Then he stopped. “Wait a minute. Does she sound English?”

  “Yes, Monsi
eur de Chavigny. Very.”

  “Put her on at once. And cancel all my appointments for this evening.”

  There was a startled silence from the outer office.

  “Cancel them, Monsieur de Chavigny? But you have a reception at the Saudi-Arabian ambassador’s at seven, a meeting with the U.S. Undersecretary of the Interior about the Little Big Inch Pipeline at eight; Simon Scher is meeting with you at St. Cloud at nine, and you are due at the Duchesse de Quinsac-Plessan’s reception at ten…”

  “I said cancel them. And put me through.”

  “Yes, Monsieur de Chavigny.”

  Marie-Aude stared at her telephone with dislike. Who the hell was this woman?

  “I’m putting you through now, Contessa.”

  In his office, Edouard picked up the telephone. “Isobel! Where are you? The Ritz? I’m on my way now.”

  Among the grand Paris hotels, the Ritz has one incomparable advantage: it is located in the Place Vendôme, and the Place Vendôme is adjacent to one of the most tempting shopping streets in the world, the Rue du Faubourg St.-Honoré.

  Isobel had taken advantage of this proximity. She had already visited the de Chavigny showrooms there, and because she was feeling nervous, she had been more than usually extravagant. She sat waiting for Edouard at a table in the beautiful jardin intérieur. She was wearing her favorite Dior, a narrow dress of violette de Parme silk crêpe, and a de Chavigny collar of amethysts and diamonds. Her thin leather elbow-length gloves had been dyed to match the dress, and she had intended to wear her most devastating hat, with a black lace veil. She had put it on and taken it off three times; it now lay on the chair beside her. Her thick hair was consequently a little disarranged; it flamed against the light. She was extremely pleased to note that every man in the room was staring at her. It was her thirty-sixth birthday, and on such a day the stares were reassuring.

  She saw Edouard first—she had positioned herself so that she would be able to. A tall dark man in a very dark suit, striding across the room.

  Then he was beside her, and looking down at her, and Isobel for a second was taken aback. She knew he had changed, that he was a man of thirty-two now, a successful man, a powerful man—probably quite different from the young man she had known. She had read about him in the newspapers, seen him once or twice on television, seen photographs of him in magazines. Still, she was unprepared.

  The gentleness had gone from his face. That vulnerability which she remembered—there was no trace. The man who looked down at her was startlingly good-looking—the moment his tall lithe figure entered the room every woman in the place had looked up—but he was also a little frightening. There were lines now from nose to mouth; the lips were stern; she had seen him take in the room, who was there, with whom, in one cold appraising glance as he entered. She thought: Oh, God, I’ve done the wrong thing. And then, slowly, he smiled, and the smile lit the dark blue eyes and transformed the face, and she knew it was all right; she hadn’t done the wrong thing after all.

  “Darling Edouard,” she said. He took her hand and raised it to his lips, his eyes never leaving her face. She felt a moment’s self-consciousness and doubt, because she knew she had changed, too, that there were lines around the emerald eyes that hadn’t been there the last time he saw her.

  “It’s eight years. Almost eight.” She hesitated, and Edouard thought, she’s changed; she never hesitated before; she’s more beautiful than ever.

  “They just vanished,” he said, and, still holding her hand, sat down beside her.

  “Two martinis.” The hovering waiter sped away. Edouard never turned his head. He looked at Isobel. She knew he was remembering the last time they had drunk martinis together, and what she had said to him then. She saw the amusement in his eyes, the question which he was delicately careful not to put.

  “Actually, yes,” she said. “And this time they haven’t even arrived.”

  They talked, easily at first, then a little less spontaneously. Isobel, watching him, watching the mobile, expressive features, the charm for which he was celebrated, thought: He has changed; there is a guard there that he cannot drop. She wondered if he ever dropped it; she could sense that however fluently he talked, however intently he listened—and he listened very intently—his mind was at the same time pursuing some other parallel track. Eventually, refusing another drink, she rested her hand on his arm.

  “Darling Edouard. This is very selfish of me. I’m sure I’m keeping you from a million other appointments.”

  He looked genuinely surprised. “No. Of course not. I’m taking you out to dinner.” He paused. “That is, of course, if I’m not keeping you from a million other engagements.”

  “No. None.”

  They smiled at each other, and he stood up and drew back her chair. “Good. Shall we go? Where would you like? We could go to Maxim’s. The Grand Vefour. You choose…”

  “Nowhere grand.” Isobel tossed back the red-gold hair and picked up her hat. “Somewhere different. Somewhere simple. Where we won’t meet anyone we know. Take me somewhere I’ve never been before. Surprise me…”

  “Very well.” She saw the corners of his mouth lift. He led her out into the huge marble-floored foyer. Just as they approached the doors, he stopped as if he had suddenly come to a decision.

  “After dinner I want you to come back to St. Cloud. I’d like you to see the house.”

  “Darling Edouard—I should love that.”

  “Perhaps…” He hesitated. “Perhaps you ought to inform your maid?”

  Isobel stared at him, then laughed, drew her arm through his, and pulled him toward the door.

  “Darling Edouard, you are a sweet idiot. I haven’t traveled with a maid for years. You are looking at a woman who has survived Europe, South America, and East Africa—entirely without a maid. Now, aren’t you impressed?”

  “Deeply.” He helped her into the seat of the Bentley Continental he was driving. As he pulled away, he turned to her with a smile.

  “East Africa? What were you doing there?”

  Isobel stretched luxuriously, and tossed her devastating black hat onto the jump seat behind her.

  “Buying lions,” she said negligently.

  He took her to a tiny café in the industrial suburbs, an area of Paris that Isobel had never visited before. She assumed he had chosen the place, the Café Unic, arbitrarily. But to her surprise, the patron and his very large, round-faced wife greeted him like a long-lost son. They kissed Edouard on both cheeks, they patted him on the back, they looked at Isobel hard and long, and they seemed to approve of what they saw.

  The café was empty. They were seated at a small table with a red-checked cloth surmounted by a clean one of starched white linen, with two glass beakers, two knives, and two forks, and a basket of the most delicious freshly baked bread. The wine, which arrived in a carafe, was a strong excellent vin ordinaire. The meal that accompanied it was a feast, cooked and served by the patron with justifiable pride: tiny moules marinière that tasted as if they had been cut from the rocks that morning; bifteck, brown and crisp on the outside, perfectly rare within; a platter of thin crisp sizzling-hot pommes frites; an excellent salad served in a plain white bowl. The best Camembert that Isobel had ever tasted, which the patron said proudly had come from his brother’s farm in the Auge region of Normandy—the only Camemberts worth buying, he assured them, came from there.

  They both ate hungrily, and when they had finished, and were sipping their cafés noirs and the tiny glasses of wonderful rough marc de bourgogne, Isobel leaned back with a smile.

  “That was the most wonderful meal I have ever had. Much better than Maxim’s. Thank you, Edouard.”

  “I thought you would like it. Now—tell me about the lions.”

  Isobel hesitated. “Well,” she began carefully, “I was widowed two years ago—you know that. You wrote to me.”

  “Yes.” The dark blue eyes looked up, met hers.

  “And then—I was rather at a loss, I suppose.
I’d been leading such a rackety life—Edouard, you can’t imagine. Rushing about from one racetrack to another, always on planes or trains. Then, very suddenly, it was over. All that time, all those years. I’d been so busy, I’d had no time to think. Just the next ticket, the next hotel. I preferred not to think, perhaps. I don’t know. Anyway, suddenly it was over, and I thought—”

  She broke off and reached for his hand. “Darling Edouard. I know you’ll understand. I thought I wanted to do something useful. Be useful. To someone. Something.” She looked away. “And that was difficult. I wasn’t brought up to be useful. I had a stupid girls’ education. No training of any sort. Even in the war—now I look back—when lots of other women were doing sensible things…driving ambulances, joining the army, being land-girls…I never did anything like that.” She shrugged. “I suppose I felt guilty—ten years too late.”

  “So—what did you do—to be useful?” He put the question gently, and Isobel sighed.

  “I went home. To England. To Papa. Oh, Edouard—I can’t tell you how sad it was. I’d hardly been back for years—only briefly, when Mama died. This time…well, they’d sold the London place years before. It’s been pulled down—now it’s a hotel. That kept the wolf from the door for a little while, I think. But not long enough. So—anyway—I went to the country. And there Papa was, all alone in that great place, hundreds of rooms, not enough servants, missing Mama—terribly lonely. William is always in London—he’s in the City now—do you remember Will, my eldest brother? So there he was, in a merchant bank, desperately trying to restore the family fortunes. And there was Papa in this great mausoleum, worrying about bills.” She shrugged. “It really is the most impossible place. No matter what you do, it’s never enough. There are one hundred and seventy-five rooms, two acres of roof—can you imagine? Well, of course you can. But in this case most of it hadn’t been touched since 1934, and part of it had been requisitioned for troops during the war. So, in short, it was a total mess. Papa didn’t know what to do, and then he got talking to some of his cronies, and he decided on a ‘grand scheme.’ Open the house. Paying visitors. They could troop round and look at the Rubenses and the Gainsboroughs—the ones that are left. Papa had to sell some of the best ones. They could go into the chapel, and the Adam library, and the red drawing room, and with a bit of luck they’d be so busy looking at the Chippendale and the Hepplewhite, they wouldn’t notice the holes in the rugs.” She sighed. “It was a good idea. But it didn’t really work. It costs five shillings and sixpence to go round, and you need an awful lot of those to mend two acres of roof. So. Papa decided to have a game park.”