Empires of Sand

by Empires of Sand (retail) (epub)

  “I came here today expecting to discuss matters affecting this noble house with members of its family, in private. I did not know this gathering was being held here today, but when I discovered its purpose – to celebrate the Count deVries – I changed my mind immediately. I can see that I am among old friends, and there could be no better occasion on which to share the happy affairs of this noble house.” There was polite applause, the crowd growing expectant. “I am aware that even in a republic – especially in a republic – the obligations of a family whose roots are those of France herself, are not insignificant. The estate has grown during my absence and deserves to have its affairs properly administered, for the good of its land and tenants and the nation of which it is part. It is time for the count to take his place at the head of this household.”

  Elisabeth and her hopes sank deeper into the divan until she was nearly swallowed whole. “Are you all right, my dear?” whispered the Baroness de Chabrillan. “You look so pale!”

  “Yes, just… yes, I’m fine.”

  “Today,” Moussa continued, “on my way here, I visited with officials of the court. An inventory of the estate’s assets had been filed there by my aunt Elisabeth, who has so selflessly managed the affairs of the household since my departure ten years ago. I believe she, too, was seeking to settle these complicated matters through the courts, thinking me dead.” He raised his hands, palms upward. “Happily, as you can see, I am not.” Elisabeth squirmed inside at the words, but managed the appearance of laughter along with the guests.

  “She had made several errors, but all with the best of intentions, I’m sure; and with the assistance of Monsieur Oscar Bettencourt I trust I have corrected them.” Elisabeth stiffened. Oscar! Meeting with Moussa! Then Moussa knew of everything, even the properties acquired after Henri died. Why didn’t Oscar—

  Moussa indicated the box in the lawyer’s arms. “Monsieur Bettencourt was kind enough to assemble certain papers for me, including the very document declaring me deceased.” Oscar handed him the paper, and Moussa tore it up with a flourish. “Voilà. Moussa deVries breathes again,” he said. There was more laughter. “And now, having reviewed the affairs of the estate and satisfied that they are in order, I must say that I do not feel that my place is here any longer. My wife and I have decided not to make our home in France.” Elisabeth exhaled in relief.

  “Therefore, I am pleased to present to you the very man you came to celebrate today. Ladies and gentlemen, my cousin, Paul, Count deVries, to whom I have this day relinquished all right and title to the entire estate.” Oscar produced another paper, which Moussa presented to Paul amid applause and congratulations.

  Elisabeth ripped herself from her reverie as Moussa’s words penetrated her brain. His announcement was as shocking as his surprise appearance had been. The fool himself has made Paul the count! It doesn’t matter what he knows! El Hussein doesn’t matter! The courts don’t matter! There will be no fight! In her entire life things had never been laid quite so neady at her feet, and the wretched little heir himself had done it!

  It was Paul’s turn to speak, and Elisabeth thought he had never looked more noble, his shabby road clothing notwithstanding. No man, no court, would ever undo what Moussa had done. She was still feeling bewildered; events were moving much too quickly for her to absorb them all. But she found herself able to stand then, and to join in the applause, and she moved closer to where her son stood, to bask in the moment.

  “It is with great humility that I accept my cousin’s confidence and the deVries estate. I must confess that I am nothing but a simple lieutenant – no, a former lieutenant – in the army. I am afraid that the deVries estate is far too extensive for such a simple man to manage. Consequently I will share with you some decisions I have made, and then I will let you return to the truly important business of this gathering, the fine vintages of Bordeaux.”

  To more laughter Paul accepted another paper from the lawyer. Paul flashed his mother a brief smile, ignoring her quizzical look. “Ah yes, here it is. First, all of the property belonging to the estate in the city proper, I am placing into a perpetual trust. The proceeds from their sale and administration shall be used for the establishment of a university which shall be named after my uncle, Henri deVries, and which shall specialize, as he would have wished, in the furtherance of geographical and scientific knowledge.”

  There was enthusiastic applause. “Bravo! Magnifique!” Elisabeth nodded blankly at the congratulations people were showering on her, her face frozen in a vacant smile as she ran the figures in her mind. This was preposterous! Out of the question. Her son had no idea! The Paris properties! He was talking about millions of francs, tens of millions. She would have to undo this folly later, in private with her son.

  But then he went on.

  “And I wish to announce the grant of twelve million francs to the Société Géographique… two and one-half to the national theater… two million to the ballet… three million to the Louvre, for the restoration of works damaged during the war…” At each new figure the crowd gasped, while at each new height Elisabeth came closer to crumpling altogether. The amounts were staggering.

  But he went on.

  “There are twenty valiant men who fought with me in the Sahara, when we chased the rebels Tamrit and Mahdi. Most of them died in that effort. To each of their families I had promised a hundred thousand francs…”

  And he went on. The vineyards in Burgundy, the holdings in Provence, the lands in the Midi, the securities in the Bourse… And on… “And I must not forget the farms that have belonged to the house deVries for hundreds of years. Those farms, and their animals and tools, are all granted to the families who have worked them…” For ten minutes the guests stood absorbing news of the most prodigious shower of wealth that had rained on charities and causes and individuals in the memory of anyone present.

  As Paul read from the paper Oscar Bettencourt studiously avoided meeting Elisabeth’s gaze. Paul and Moussa had arrived in Paris several days earlier and had appeared unannounced in his offices. It was a great shock to Oscar when he realized it was Moussa himself, the rightful Count deVries, who stood in his foyer. Even so he refused to cooperate at first, telling the two men somewhat pedantically that Elisabeth was his client, not the estate.

  “You’re quite correct,” Moussa had said. “I suppose the first thing I’ll need to do once I’ve retained a new lawyer is to examine your conduct of the affairs of my estate during my absence.” Oscar had instantly seized the opportunity to become more helpful.

  The results were breathtaking, and now as Paul summarized their efforts there was disbelief and awe at the scale of it all, at the extraordinary generosity – the sheer lunacy, many thought – of the new count. The editor of Le Figaro was busily scribbling notes like a novice reporter, trying to capture details for the huge story that would stun all France the next morning.

  “What remains of the estate,” Paul concluded, “besides the château and its forests, which I intend to retain, are the seven farms granted to Comte Auguste deVries by Louis IX for services rendered to the king during the seventh Crusade. These farms have always represented the foundation of the strength of the estate.” Paul heard his mother give a little moan at his mention of the last of the holdings. “I give them in free title to a man who served Count Henri deVries with equal distinction, Gascon Villiers.”

  Gascon stood anonymously and proudly in the back of the room, eyes glistening.

  Paul smiled at Moussa. Their work was nearly complete. They had dismantled it all. As much as Elisabeth sought to mask her feelings, the look on her face bore clear witness to what a devastating stroke it had been. But Paul needed to finish it. There was something left, something he hadn’t discussed with Moussa. Something just for her.

  “In closing, I have saved the most important announcement for last.” The crowd hushed, wondering what could possibly be more momentous than what had already transpired. “I cannot overlook my mother, a woman we
ll known to you all.” Elisabeth forced a brave smile to acknowledge the polite applause, wondering what pittance he’d left for her, after his charitable insanity.

  “I announce that Elisabeth deVries is disinherited from the estate and its remaining assets. She is banned from its grounds. She may take whatever clothing and personal effects she can carry in a calèche, and nothing more. She is never to return.” Paul’s face showed no emotion as he said the words.

  There were gasps of disbelief as the astonished guests looked from son to mother and back to son again, to see if this had been some enormous joke. But the face of the Count deVries was set like stone, and Elisabeth’s had lost all color. Slowly the whispers faded into a dead silence. Elisabeth took a few unsteady steps toward her son.

  “Paul!” Her voice fluttered weakly. Her self-assurance had vanished along with her dreams. “Stop this! You must stop this horrid little charade at once! It isn’t amusing, not at all! Tell them – tell everyone this is just—” But as she tried to touch him, he drew back from her, his eyes cold.

  “If you do not leave now,” replied the voice of ice, “I myself will call upon the prefect to remove you.”

  He could not have stricken a deadlier blow with a weapon.

  Moussa remembered a time when, as a boy, he had left a man to die in the desert, a Shamba raider who had tried to harm his mother. He remembered the man’s cry as he understood his fate. He thought it was nothing compared to what he heard then, from his own aunt.

  * * *

  Half an hour later most of the guests had departed, embarrassed, thrilled, and titillated by the afternoon’s events. Drinks were abandoned, food left untouched. Paul and Moussa were in the study, with the last of the guests.

  Elisabeth walked in. She seemed to have aged years. Her hair was disheveled, her eyes vacant from shock. She was surprised to see guests, and dreaded approaching Paul while they remained in the house. But she felt she had no choice; she had to try once more.

  When she saw that Paul was talking to the editor of Le Figaro, their heads bowed in earnest conversation, she knew that the whole sordid story was going to come out. And Moussa was talking with the prefect of police. Moussa looked her way and said something to the prefect, who stared at her coldly. She felt herself dying inside. Was that to be next, then? The police? She could not believe the treachery of her own flesh and blood. Paul glanced up at her. “You are not welcome here, Mother,” he said, and the cruelty in him stunned her anew.

  “We must talk, Paul,” she said, and for the first time in his life he heard utter defeat in her voice. He almost felt sorry for her. “Please,” she whispered. “You owe me that much.”

  “I owe you nothing,” he said. “There is nothing to discuss.”

  “But one simply doesn’t—”

  At that moment Moussa approached. “Paul,” he said in a voice just loud enough that she heard, “the prefect wishes to know whether we want to press charges.” Paul drew him away a few steps, and they turned so that their words couldn’t be overheard.

  “Of course not,” Paul said. “I just want her to stew a little.”

  “He didn’t ask me that at all,” Moussa said. “It was the best I could think of for your mother’s benefit.” He nodded toward the editor of Le Figaro. “What’s he want?”

  “To talk about Africa.”

  “Your mother thinks you’re talking about her.”

  “Good. I probably should be.”

  Certain that the morning’s headlines would scream scandal, convinced that her own arrest was imminent, Elisabeth turned and did her best to make a dignified exit from the room.

  * * *

  It was near dusk when Gascon brought a carriage to the front of the château. Elisabeth watched from her bedroom window. She saw Moussa and Daia, with the baby, climb into the carriage, followed a few moments later by Paul, who was carrying a travel bag. The butler had told her that Paul was going to the train station. He was leaving immediately, but the butler didn’t know where.

  Now the château was empty except for herself and the butler, who had been instructed by Paul to see her out of the château and to then escort her wherever she wished to go in the city. Elisabeth had delayed her departure with one excuse or another, as she waited for everyone to leave. There was an unfinished piece of business. She hoped she would encounter no trouble from the butler, who had reported the count’s instructions with what she thought was thinly disguised enthusiasm. Whatever his orders, she knew she could bribe him if need be.

  When she saw the carriage pull away and disappear at the end of the drive, she hurried down the back stairs, carrying a large leather bag. She hesitated, listening for the butler. She heard him in the kitchen. No doubt stealing the wine.

  She entered the drawing room next to the study and crossed to the wall safe. She fumbled twice, but managed to get it open, and began stuffing its contents into the bag. There were securities and cash and jewelry, and even a few deeds. As she hurried to pack it all in, she felt a glimmer of bitter satisfaction. He might throw her out, but he had not succeeded in stealing everything that belonged to her. There was more than enough in the safe to enable her to leave Paris and avoid poverty.

  It wasn’t what she deserved, but it was something.

  * * *

  They stood on the platform in the gare, waiting for the train to depart for Marseilles. Paul’s bag was slung over his shoulder. Other passengers were gawking at Moussa in his flowing robes, and at Daia, radiant with her sleeping baby.

  “Where are you going next?” Paul asked.

  “Austria,” Moussa said. “We’ll stay in Paris a few days, and then I promised Daia the mountains. After that I must have my djemaa.” A locomotive shrilled its steam whistle, startling Daia, whose eyes went wide, and waking Tashi, who screeched like a hawk. Moussa took her gently into his arms and shielded her face with his cloak. He rocked her back and forth, and soon she was quiet. “I still think you ought to stay a few days,” Moussa said, “to put things in order. Your mother will be up to no good if no one’s there to watch.”

  Paul shrugged, feeling an odd mixture of elation and depression at the events of the day. He had enjoyed himself and hated himself at the same time. Now he was drained, and didn’t care what his mother did. “I have no doubt she will. But it doesn’t really matter now. Almost everything is done. And Gascon will be there. He’s going to pick up his things tonight and he’s moving back into the château until I return. Besides, Wargla won’t wait. I’ve been away too long already.” Paul had watched Moussa with Daia for a month. He saw the tenderness between them, and it had fueled his longing.

  Moussa nodded. “I understand. Until September, then.”

  “I’ll be there.” They had agreed to meet in Algiers in nine months. Paul turned to Daia and took her hands in his own. “Ehentaúded,” he said. “Good-bye. When I see you again I’ll know enough Tamashek and you’ll know enough French that we can both laugh at Moussa in the same language for a change.” Moussa translated and Daia smiled. “Ar essaret,” she said, kissing him on both cheeks. “One needs no language for such laughter. Fare well in Wargla.”

  Moussa carefully handed Tashi to her. He shook hands with his cousin, and they embraced. Paul was stepping up onto the platform when he had a thought. He turned. “That telegram was a nice touch, by the way.”

  “Telegram?”

  “From El Hussein, telling Mother you were dead. It doubled her shock when she saw you. That wasn’t part of our plan. You forgot to tell me you did that.”

  Moussa stared at him blankly. “But I didn’t.”

  * * *

  El Hussain bent over the music box, a porcelain treasure from the palace of the czar in St. Petersburg, and turned the little handle. The figure on top, a Cossack mounted on a white horse standing on hind legs, spun around to the music of Tchaikovsky tinkling from within the base. It was magic! He clapped his hands with pleasure. The house was filled with such treasures, tapestries and jewels and si
lks, more riches than he could imagine. He put the music box carefully into the carton with the other things, on the floor next to the bag in which pile after pile of new franc notes were stacked. He hadn’t taken the time to count. It was well over a million francs: he knew it without counting. Enough to keep him quite well for a considerable period of time.

  He turned and stepped over the body. He had not wished to do her harm, not at all. She was far too beautiful, a treasure as exquisite as the objects that filled the château. It was most unfortunate. But alas, what was one to do? Upon arriving in Paris he had come directly there, intending to deceive the countess into thinking that her nephew was dead. To accomplish his end he had brought a piece of skin from the leg of an unfortunate slave whose coloring was similar to Moussa’s. The skin bore an old scar. El Hussein doubted the woman would know the difference.

  He had seen the carriages assembled for the grand party, and had hidden in the woods, watching and waiting for his opportunity. Then had come the great shock of seeing Moussa himself leaving the château. He had never expected that; he thought the Targui would have stayed in the deep desert after escaping from Timimoun. Of course, his plan to deceive Elisabeth was ruined now. The only thing left was to steal what he could from the house.

  He stayed hidden until the carriage was gone. The house appeared deserted. He broke in through a garden window where he could not be seen from the drive. He had found her there, emptying the safe. She had screamed when she saw him, and the fireplace poker had been the only weapon at hand. Now it lay between Elisabeth and her manservant, who had rushed into the room upon hearing her cries. The poker was matted with blood and hair. It was all most unpleasant. El Hussein was not a violent man.

  When he finished he led a horse from the stables and harnessed it to a calèche in the carriage house. It took four trips to load everything. There had been more, much more, but he didn’t want to be greedy. Greed was a sin.