Paul looked sharply at her. “Letter? What letter? And what do you mean he didn’t walk out? You always told me he did.”
“Did I say letter? I was mistaken. You have me upset, that’s all. There was no letter. I meant—”
“You don’t make mistakes like that, Mother. You meant exactly what you said.” Her expression told him it was true. Paul hadn’t expected this, but wasn’t about to let go. “Show it to me now, or I’ll leave this instant and I’ll never come back.”
“I didn’t show it to you because you were too young then,” she sniffed. “It was just a note, that’s all. Rien.”
He started for the door. “Good-bye, Mother.”
“No, wait! Very well.” She went to the desk. She lifted the chain from around her neck and opened the drawer. He could see her rummaging through some papers, and then she withdrew an envelope. “As I said it is nothing, really. Read it if you wish. And then you’ll see – if you won’t do this for me, do it for your father. He would have wanted you to do it, for the family. Perhaps I should have—”
“Just give it to me.” She handed it to him. She could hear talking and laughter outside. The guests were beginning to arrive. She cursed the timing of this wretched confrontation.
Paul trembled as he stared at the envelope. He recognized the distinctive hand of his father in the word Paul written in large script on the front. The envelope showed signs of age and wear. Obviously his mother had read the letter more than once. He looked up at her, trying to control himself.
“How dare you keep this from me?”
Elisabeth had never before heard menace in her son’s quiet voice. For a brief moment she was almost afraid. But then she took the offensive. “Save your outrage for someone who hasn’t spent a lifetime protecting you,” she said huffily. “You have never appreciated the lengths to which I’ve gone in your interests.”
“Like hiding this?”
“Yes. Exactly like that. It was for your own good. You idolize your father but he was a miserable failure. I was protecting you from him. I was protecting you from his disgrace. After you’re through sniveling and you come to your senses you’ll see that. If you don’t like the disagreeable things that must happen in this world to make your way in it, you had better prepare yourself for a rude awakening. What seems painful today will be worth it tomorrow. The sooner you learn that—”
“Just leave, Mother.” Paul sat down at the desk and waved her away. “I want to be alone.”
She almost said something, but caught herself. Shaken, she was nonetheless recovering her aplomb. What could he do, after all? Jules had been dead ten years. Paul would be angry with her for a week, and then he would get over it. Life would go on, and someday he would appreciate her – for all of it.
“Very well,” she said, straightening herself. “When you are finished, kindly come into the party and start acting like the count you are. The guests are coming to see you.”
30 November 1870
My Dear Son –
I feel all of the world’s weight upon me this night, and I am not strong enough to hold it up. I cannot keep fighting. I have lost my honor. It wasn’t stolen from me, as you might someday be tempted to believe. I will not have you harboring false notions about your father. The truth is I let them take it; I surrendered it.
I have felt the hatred of my accuser, and of Paris and all France since the trial. I pride myself that I did not earn it, but that has not kept the poison from my blood. In my lifetime I have faced enemies whose weapons were deadly, but I have never faced an enemy like hatred. It was stronger than I am, and I yielded to it. And only when I yielded – not before – did I lose my honor. I realize now that the only place to find it again, and take it back, is on the Prussian lines outside the city.
I have fallen short in many things in my life, but I regret nothing more than that I have failed you as a father. My desire to serve my country, to do my duty, has always been paramount. Only tonight do I realize the magnitude of that error. I will never fully understand, and do not ask you to forgive, my treatment of you these past weeks. Such extremes are inexplicable to me, when no one on earth means more to me than you. It was never my intention to do you harm, yet I have done so horribly. I can never express my sorrow to you in such a way that you will feel it as deeply as I mean it.
I have no lesson to leave you, because I have lost my way and no longer know how to guide you. But you have excellent teachers in Henri and Serena. Be good to them, as they have been good to you.
Be strong for the family name.
You have always made me proud.
Your loving father,
Jules deVries
Paul felt his throat burning. A tear streaked down his cheek. He wiped it away and looked out the window through unseeing eyes. Forgive me, Father. It wasn’t the way I thought. All these years, I thought you had left because of me.
He found himself staring at the drawer where she’d gotten the letter. He wondered what else she might have hidden there – in his best interests. For a moment he couldn’t decide. He pulled on the handle, but the drawer was locked. He yanked harder but the desk was old and sturdy and the drawer didn’t budge. He crossed to the fireplace and picked up an iron ash shovel. He pried gently at the corner of the drawer, trying not to damage it, but then he didn’t care anymore and put his force behind it. With a cracking sound the drawer front splintered and the lock gave way.
There were two bundles of letters inside. He flipped through one. Numbly, he realized they were his own letters to Moussa, dozens of them written over the years. They had all been opened. He set them down and slowly picked up the other bundle, knowing what he would find. He pulled one from the middle of the stack. September 1875. Moussa had been fifteen. Paul smiled as he read it, the letter full of a boy’s enthusiasm about a journey with a caravan. He laughed out loud over a passage about a goat, but then his laughter dissolved into anger and his expression went hard.
He thought he had seen the worst of her, in her plot against Moussa. But his mother was a woman of great depth when it came to deception. The memories surged back: he saw her cheating on his father, that night in the pantry. He heard her voice, telling him his father had walked out on them, that he didn’t care. He heard her saying Moussa and Serena were dead, when she knew they weren’t. A lifetime of lies.
He didn’t know which hurt more: the extent of her deceit, or the magnitude of his loss.
He lost track of time as he sat at the desk, reading the letters and thinking. There was a knock at the door and the butler stepped into the room. “Excuse me, Count, but madame has asked me to remind you. Your guests are waiting.”
Paul was startled by the form of address. “Not now,” he said, starting to wave him off, but then he looked at the clock on the mantel. There was business to attend to. It was nearly time. “Oh, very well. I’ll be along in a moment.” He put his father’s letter in his coat pocket and the other letters back into the drawer. One by one he opened the other drawers, which weren’t locked. There was household correspondence, along with numerous invitations to social functions. Nothing of particular interest. Then he noticed the distinctive gray color of a telegram. He pulled it out and opened it up. There were actually two telegrams. One was his own message to his mother. The other was from El Hussein, announcing Moussa’s death. Startled, Paul read it twice. Then he thought he understood, and smiled with grim satisfaction. He put the telegrams back into the drawer and stood up.
He saw his reflection in the mirror. His face was as brown as his flannel and he needed a shave. His hair was long, wild, and nearly white, swept back as if he’d just gotten off a fast horse. He thought his eyes looked just as wild as all the rest. Much too scruffy to be a count, he thought, but it was time to join the party.
He opened the door and entered the ballroom. Elisabeth had been anxiously watching for him. When she saw him emerge she smiled grandly, acting as if nothing at all had happened. More guests were arriving and sh
e moved quickly, wanting to show him off. She swept across the room and collected him on her arm. “I am glad you’ve come to your senses, Count,” she said, her face radiant. He didn’t reply and his look was cold, but she knew her son and she knew that look. He would glare for a few days, and then he would get over it. His very presence in the room was proof. He was coming along. She had won.
With Paul at her side she greeted a succession of guests, stopping to chat briefly with each one. “Ah, Baron!” she gushed happily. “You remember my son the count, of course?”
“Congratulations!” the old man said. “I understand you caught Tamrit. Well done, well done. Brilliant.” Paul said nothing. He was preoccupied and kept watching the door.
“Please,” Elisabeth prodded him as they moved away. “Do try to be civil, won’t you?”
“Of course, Mother.”
“Ah, the hero of Flatters,” gushed Baroness de Chabrillan, and Elisabeth beamed.
“There are no heroes of Flatters,” Paul replied with a frosty smile. “Most of them were butchered or poisoned. The rest of them ate each other.” The baroness blanched.
“Paul!” Elisabeth said, horrified. “I’m so terribly sorry, Celestine. He’s simply exhausted from traveling. He isn’t himself. Now, if you’ll please excuse us.”
She led him quickly away. “That was quite uncalled for.”
“I was just being polite, Mother. Your friend seemed so sensitive. I thought she wanted to talk about what really happened.”
“No one wants to do that, Paul. You’re making me – ah, Monsieur Jacquard! Paul, let me introduce you to the president of the central bank.” As she led him through a succession of guests, Paul marveled at her cool poise. Nothing fazed his mother. Nothing at all.
Waiters were circulating with trays of hors d’oeuvres and drinks. Music floated from the ballroom, and the house was filled to overflowing. At the door, the butler was still announcing guests, reading their names from calling cards presented by their coachmen. And what the butler was reading was a litany of official, noble, glittering Paris. “The minister of finance. Countess Greffuhle. Monsieur Jules Ferry. Monsieur le maire de Montmartre. Monsieur le prefect de police. General Georges Boulanger. The editor of Le Figaro. Le duc d’Aumale. Monsieur le maire de Paris.”
Elisabeth fairly soared through the room on the wings of her pride. The old days, when her efforts to fill such an affair with the first rank of society were a struggle, were gone forever. During the years in which she had headed the house deVries, she had thrown increasingly successful parties, attracting a succession of political, literary, and artistic guests. She had been lavish with her contributions to the arts. And now, whether they came to celebrate her, or her son, or whether they came merely to see each other and to be seen, they came. As even the most exalted of them greeted Elisabeth by her first name and she walked with the new count on her arm, she knew the world was hers.
She left Paul talking with General Boulanger and was going to speak with the chef when she heard another announcement from the entry, delivered not in the reserved and dignified tones of the butler, but by someone else.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” The new voice was deep and carried like a thunderclap across the room. She recognized it at once, although she hadn’t heard it in years.
Gascon! What on earth would he be doing here? Puzzled, she looked at Paul, who was still talking with the general. Paul glanced over the general’s shoulder, directly at her. He didn’t seem surprised. The voice boomed on.
“Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished guests, it is my great pleasure to present the Count and Countess deVries.”
The stunning announcement took an instant to register on her brain. She knew she couldn’t have heard properly. She quickly made her way through the room.
And then she saw. Her hand flew to her mouth, but not in time to cover her gasp. She nearly lost her balance and only the quick action of a passing waiter kept her from falling. No one noticed. All conversation had stopped. Everyone was staring at the door.
Standing in the entry was a tall man, dressed in the flowing robes of the Sahara. His presence was commanding, extraordinary. No man had so dominated the room since Henri himself had stood in it. Next to him stood a woman holding an infant wrapped in thick cloth. The woman wore a scarf over her hair, and was strikingly beautiful. While no one could see the man’s face, her countenance showed grace and dignity. Paul crossed quickly to them and conversation in the room gradually resumed, laughter blending with urgent gossip as speculation ran fast.
Out of breath and quite pale, Elisabeth made her way to a chair. She didn’t sit, but supported herself on the arm. She realized that Paul was leading Moussa straight to her, and did her best to regain her composure.
Paul had been watching her from the moment he heard Gascon’s voice, thoroughly enjoying the effect Moussa’s entrance had had upon her. Now he smiled broadly. “Isn’t it wonderful, Mother?” he said. “Moussa is alive!”
She nearly croaked her greeting, instead of pouring it out as she intended.
“Moussa! Is it… is that… can you… under there? I thought you were… you look so… so well,” she said, doing her best not to unravel, and trying to read the eyes behind the veil. “What an… interesting disguise. So… interesting. How very practical of you.” At first her smile looked as if it had been pasted on her face, but gradually she felt herself recovering. “But I am so happy to see you.”
“I thought you might say ‘surprised.’”
“Yes, of course, but what a marvelous surprise! And this?” she said, nodding toward Daia with faint condescension. “This would be your—”
“This would be the countess,” he said, and Elisabeth flinched at the word. “My wife, Daia, and daughter, Tashi. A pity Daia does not speak French; I know how much she would enjoy a conversation with you.” Elisabeth couldn’t quite make out his tone: was he mocking her, beneath that silly veil? “I must also apologize,” Moussa continued, “that I was unable to have a special guest here today. A friend of yours, I believe. El Hussein, from Timimoun.”
Moussa saw the color drain from his aunt’s face. She sat down so quickly it was as if she’d been dropped. She was having difficulty breathing. “I… I don’t believe I know the name, Moussa.”
“Really. I must have been misinformed. It’s just as well; I was unable to locate him anyway. Now, if you’ll pardon me, I have some minor business to attend to.” Elisabeth watched him walk off, her mind in turmoil. Why didn’t Paul tell me? Does he know, too, of El Hussein? What is Moussa planning? If Paul knew Moussa was alive then what is all this about being count? The questions shrieked at her. She wondered where her lawyer, Oscar Bettencourt, had gotten to. The judge had assured her that the decision would be entered that morning, and Oscar was to have personally brought the papers to her before the party, which the judge himself would be attending. Of course he would; he’d wanted to sleep with her for months, and knew only those papers would turn back the covers of her bed.
Whatever Moussa was up to, she knew all was not lost. If the court had already declared Paul the rightful heir, then she had what she needed for a fight, and a fight there would be. She waved at the butler.
“Madame?”
“Take my calèche; and the fastest horses,” she said. “Go to the offices of Oscar Bettencourt, on the rue Madeleine.” She would feel better with the papers in her possession.
“At once, madame,” the butler said, but before he had even turned to go, Oscar Bettencourt himself appeared in the entryway, carrying a heavy box. Relieved, Elisabeth rushed to meet him. “Oscar!” she said, but to her astonishment he waved her off. “Not now, madame,” he said.
“Madame?” Elisabeth said. “Oscar, what are you doing? Talk to me this instant!” But he was already across the room, falling in behind Moussa and Paul.
“You didn’t tell me we would be doing this at a party before all these people,” Moussa whispered to Paul as they worked their way throug
h the crowd.
“I didn’t know,” Paul said, “but I could have guessed. She’s holding it to honor the new count, naturally. We’ll have to improvise.”
“With pleasure.”
As Moussa moved through the crowd he stopped and greeted people politely, exhibiting at least a measure of his father’s flair. People shook hands somewhat tentatively, trying to decide what to make of the apparition behind the veil.
When they reached the stairway Moussa showed Daia to a chair, where she sat with Tashi. Moussa had explained what was happening to her, but the lights and the candles and the guests were overwhelming, and she kept her eyes on her husband.
Paul and Moussa ascended a few steps, and turned to overlook the crowded room. The noise subsided as Paul called for their attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is with great pleasure that I introduce to you my cousin, Moussa, the Count deVries.” There was polite applause, most of the guests still uncertain how to react. Their hostess was no guide. Elisabeth had moved closer to the stairway and sat on an overstuffed divan. Her face was a study in neutrality.
Moussa spoke in a rich voice, the guests riveted by the perfect French coming from beneath the litham of the Targui nobleman. “It is a great pleasure to see you all,” he began. “For years I have wondered about many of you, as I know you have wondered about my family. I regret to tell you that my father, the Count Henri deVries, died in 1870.”
A shock wave of whispers swept through the room. Many of those present had known Henri, while all had heard the stories.
“I have lived away from France for these many years, and in recent months the thought of returning to this beautiful château and forest – and, of course, to the city of Paris – has occupied my thoughts.”
Elisabeth closed her eyes. A fight then. After all my work, it is still not done.
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