An Improbable Pairing

by Gary Dickson

  Jean had taken a booth and already started a bottle of Bordeaux. As usual, he was the suave and debonair charmer, dressed in a French blue suit of impeccable cut, a blue shirt, and a Hermes tie. They embraced. It didn’t take Jean long. “Okay, tell me everything.”

  “I’m in love with the Countess de Rovere.” There; he had said it, out loud, in public, to someone other than Desirée.

  Jean whistled low. “That was quick,” he said.

  “I know it sounds crazy, even improbable, but I’ve been in love with her since I first met her in September.”

  “Improbable?” Jean said. “More like impossible.”

  “What does that mean?” Scott asked. “You think it’s impossible that Desirée is in love with me?”

  “No, that’s improbable,” Jean said. “The Countess de Rovere is one of the most sought-after women in Geneva and in Paris. My mother knows her mother quite well. She attended the countess’s wedding some years ago in Paris at the church of Saint Sulpice. Although I had never met her, I had thought of calling on her myself, but I presumed that she was looking for an older man. Then, you arrive on the scene, and in a few months, the two of you are seen everywhere together.”

  “Did I mention she’s in love with me?” Scott said.

  “Perfect. I’m jealous, but I’m happy for you too,” Jean said. “Can I be both?”

  “I hope you can, because I’ve never been happier.”

  “You told me that you had broken up with Marlyse because you thought she wanted to get married and you didn’t,” Jean said. “And now, you sound really serious. But you should be careful, my friend.”

  Jean began a rambling account, filling in many of the personal blanks that Scott had been too discreet to ask Desirée about directly. The de Roveres dated back to the Doges, the rulers of Venice, and the family was currently involved in Venetian real estate, shipping, and finance. Stefano was only tangentially involved in these holdings (more about that in a minute); he spent most of his time in the various watering holes inhabited by the rich playboys of France and Italy. Jean was unsure how Desirée had met the count but remembered reading in the tabloids that they’d had a flash romance that ended at the altar some six months later.

  At the time, both families had approved of the marriage, and they held a high-mass wedding in one of Paris’ oldest and most prestigious churches. The reception was held at the Allied Club in the rue de Faubourg Saint-Honoré, and it was the society event of the season. Their marriage, however, lasted a little over a year, and Jean mused that perhaps Stefano had not discussed his view that wedding vows were not to be an impediment to his boulevardier ways. And, as Scott knew from Desirée’s own accounts, Stefano had not realized that his new wife would not stand being neglected or made the subject of derision and rumor about the status of her marriage. Stefano had forgotten that the countess, while French, was also Swiss.

  When telling photographs of the count and various Italian cinema starlets began to appear in the shoddy press so addicted to gossip and innuendo, the countess was furious. One story dealt with a popular singer (a very vulgar woman by most accounts, Jean said with a knowing look). Reportedly, she and the count had abandoned the dance floor of a well-known nightclub in Venice and taken a water taxi to the Cipriani Hotel, only to be photographed as they left together, several hours later, disheveled and in an embrace suggesting something more than friendship. The article had also listed a chronology of the count’s previous escapades and speculated whether the count’s new wife knew of his nocturnal trysts.

  Although he couldn’t vouch for the rumor’s validity, Jean had heard that the count was also an inveterate gambler who bet on everything from horses to baccarat—and mostly lost. The count’s father had set a strict allowance; he’d paid off his son’s gambling debt too many times, and people in the know said Stefano was banned from working in the family businesses. If prevailing gossip was to be trusted, the count had used Desirée’s money to extricate himself from staggering debt. That, coupled with prurient tabloid stories, had provided the coup de grace to the relationship.

  As Jean remembered, the couple had been residing in a palazzo in Venice when the countess left in the middle of the night, fleeing in her father’s car to Paris and her mother’s apartment in the 16th arrondissement. Everyone heard, Jean said, how furious the count was when he returned home after his all-night fling and found the palazzo abandoned—without even a note.

  The count made numerous trips to Paris to try to change Desirée’s mind, but she was firm. The more Stefano tried, the more humiliating the situation became; the tabloids were having a field day. Even his friends were unable to dissuade him. Finally, Stefano and a coterie of friends retreated to Rome, where he attempted to distract himself from Desirée through the usual but ineffective means.

  Through various channels of influence and with the family priest’s (Father Kohler, Scott recalled) intercession, Desirée had obtained an annulment. While she could have demanded and without question received a large financial settlement, everyone was surprised to hear that she’d ended the relationship and the marriage without conditions or terms pertaining to the de Rovere family trust. Well, after all, as Jean explained, Desirée was wealthy in her own right; her grandfather on her father’s side had been a banker in Geneva (ah, thought Scott, that explains the reaction when I opened my account), and her father, Bertrand de Bellecourt, had inherited. Her mother, Francoise, was also from a privileged family; together, their union created a formidable fortune, and Desirée de Bellecourt was brought up in luxury. Her parents eventually parted to live separate lives, and in the early fifties, her father moved to California, where he had made another fortune in real estate. A year after the annulment, her father was dead. Desirée was heartbroken.

  When the estate was settled, Desirée was left the de Bellecourt family home in Switzerland, an apartment in Paris, and a huge trust fund. Once again and despite the sordid affairs of her ex-husband, Desirée became one of society’s most eligible and desirable catches. Two years had passed, and Desirée had filled her time in Geneva and Gstaad with galas and balls, hosting one must-attend event after another. There were seasonal sightings in Cap d’Antibes and Paris. But to Jean’s quite extensive knowledge of gossip, though she had been seen with suitable escorts at various functions, Desirée had not been linked romantically with any one person since her annulment.

  “So, my dear Scott,” Jean said, “now perhaps you see why originally I thought it might be both improbable and impossible.”

  “Maybe my timing was right,” Scott said.

  “Right?” Jean said. “Dear God, more like perfect. And, if we’re being honest, completely lucky. But Scott, some friendly advice. The Count de Rovere is an Italian aristocrat. His pride has been deeply offended. I’m not saying he’s dangerous, but he’s probably angry and vengeful, and at times, he curries a rough crowd. I’d be careful if I were you.”

  WHEN THEY LEFT THE RESTAURANT, THEIR FRIENDSHIP HAD been reaffirmed. Jean seemed satisfied that Scott’s previous neglect was based in good reason rather than through a lack of caring. And Scott appreciated his friend’s interest as solicitous, not nosy. To be frank, Jean’s version of Desirée’s story made him uneasy. It wasn’t merely Jean’s melodramatic concerns about the count; if Jean, who knew Scott as a friend, thought he was just lucky, then others might be interpreting the relationship similarly. Without money or social standing, it seemed Scott didn’t really count for anything in this world. Perhaps Desirée would be influenced by what her friends thought and begin thinking of the improbability of their relationship. Though he knew her to be strong minded and independent, Scott couldn’t help but reflect on how quickly Stefano had found himself on the outside of the proverbial castle, moat filled, and drawbridge up. One day, Scott feared, he might very well find himself banished, too.

  When he got back to his apartment, it was late, and he forgot to give the place a thorough inspection. But the next morning, it appeared tha
t the contents of his dresser’s top drawer might have been rifled through. Scott couldn’t be sure, though; in the lateness of the hour (and after a lot of wine), he might have rummaged around in that drawer without remembering. Lurking in the back of his mind was Jean’s comment about Stefano, but he quickly pushed it away. Stop it, he told himself.

  twenty-two

  MARLYSE APPROACHED SCOTT AFTER CLASS AND asked him to have a coffee with her. They went to the café where they had first spent time together. She was dressed conservatively, Scott noticed; her gray below-the-knee skirt that flared at the bottom, white blouse, and black cardigan signaled serious intent. The place was empty, the morning rush over. Coffee mugs and croissant bits still littered some of the tables, and a smoky haze hung in the air. They chose a corner table where they could talk, ordered, and then sat in silence until Marlyse said, “I thought you were in love with me.”

  “Marlyse . . . when I told you I wasn’t ready for marriage, you told me we were over, if you remember?” Scott said, with a defeated attitude. Why were they rehashing this?

  “People sometimes say things they don’t mean just to influence the other person, to make them realize what they might lose.”

  “Well, I believed you. I can’t retrace my steps and go back to where I was.”

  “Then I don’t think you really loved me. I think you were looking for a way out.”

  He couldn’t deny that she might be right. “Marlyse, I never intended to hurt you. I guess I have, but I can’t help it, and I can’t change it. I’m sorry.”

  “For God’s sake, Scott, I don’t think you know what you want.” She reflected for a moment, before asking, “Are you in love with the countess?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Is she in love with you?”

  “She says she is.”

  “Now I’ve heard it all. Do you have any idea who she is?” Realizing this was a rhetorical question, Scott remained silent. Marlyse continued angrily. “Forget it, Scott! You’ll have your heart broken, just like you’ve broken mine, you bastard. I give it to the end of the ski season. Yes, by March, that should do it—that woman will have completely lost interest in you. Goodbye and good riddance!” With that, she stormed out of the café, and she didn’t look back.

  When Scott arrived at his last class of the day, the professor handed him a note; his student counselor would like to see him that afternoon, if possible. This couldn’t be good, Scott thought; it was the end of the session, and no tests or grades had been assigned. He couldn’t imagine why the counselor wanted to see him.

  The university’s administration offices were in one of the old town’s oldest buildings. Minimalist in decoration, the three stories of granite and mortar, punctuated with large windows, halls, and stairs of stone were purely functional in appointments. Scott stopped before Dr. Eric Hochstadt’s closed door, rang the buzzer, and was approved for entry by a green sign that lit up announcing, “Entrez.”

  “Monsieur Stoddard, thank you for coming so promptly; please sit down,” the counselor said, gesturing toward one of the two uncomfortable chairs in front of his desk. “It has come to my attention that, for the past two or three weeks, you have been absent from your classes quite a lot—notably each Thursday, Friday, and Monday. Although not required, attendance is beneficial to successfully navigate the courses in your field of study, and this is especially true for our foreign students.” Dr. Hochstadt hardly took a breath. “You arrived here with the highest marks and recommendations, and in the beginning, you seemed to be a very serious student. After the holidays, however, this new and troubling pattern has arisen. Your professors and I were wondering why, what could be the reason? Then it became clear.” As though he were presenting evidence in a trial, Dr. Hochstadt pushed a folded newspaper across his desk.

  Scott was shocked—prominently displayed on the society page of the Tribune de Genève was a large photo of him and Desirée in a telling embrace. The caption: “Who is the mystery admirer of the Countess de Rovere at the Gstaad Palace Sleigh Ball?” Inwardly, he groaned.

  “It seems we may have underestimated the full scope of your assimilative abilities, Monsieur Stoddard,” Dr. Hochstadt said wryly. “We here at the university often worry about the integration of our foreign students, hoping they will find friends in Geneva, and so forth. It appears our concern here was misplaced. You seem to be managing very well on your own.”

  Scott listened carefully, certain Dr. Hochstadt would ultimately be positing the very question he’d been debating with himself.

  “But do you think Monsieur Stoddard that your friendship with the Countess de Rovere is detracting from your studies? I ask this question not to pry but to give guidance, as your counselor.”

  “Yes sir, I believe it very well could,” Scott answered. “As you have noted, I’m finding it difficult to be in class these days. Studying is problematic, given the choices dictated by the countess’s lifestyle.”

  “I admire your honesty, young man, however unsettling, and I pray that this distraction is worth it.”

  “I hope so, too,” Scott said. “It’s early, so I don’t know. I don’t have any sort of plan; I’m playing this relationship by ear. My schooling, however, is definitely important to me.”

  The counselor shuffled a few papers on this desk. From the rather pointless stacking and restacking, Scott was certain he was merely taking a moment to regroup before expressing an unpleasant thought. “Monsieur Stoddard, these courses are difficult. I will be surprised if you can manage both. But I can’t tell you what to do. I only hope you know the risk you’re taking.”

  After dinner that evening, Scott decided he couldn’t postpone reading his mother’s letters. How could the day get any worse? The envelope with the oldest postmark, containing a four pager, was where he started reading. It was the usual communication—his mother wondered how he was doing and asked how school was coming along; had he made any friends? Was he lonely? Did he miss home? She scolded him for not writing or phoning; they had called several times at different hours two weekends ago, but he hadn’t picked up.

  The second letter carried some of the same questions and complaints. She’d written it only a few days ago, Scott noted. She hadn’t even allowed time for a transatlantic post to reach home, he thought, shaking his head. Sighing, he picked up the last letter. This one made his jaw drop in surprise.

  The Stoddards had made plans to visit Geneva during Scott’s summer vacation, which was still five months away. They wanted to see for themselves where he lived and went to school. Then, he could come home during the summer and work at his father’s building supply business. His mother liked to plan.

  Scott dropped his head into his hands. That wouldn’t work. He had no intention of leaving Desirée for the summer, under any circumstance. If his parents decided to travel to Geneva . . . he couldn’t stop them.

  The jangling sound of the telephone broke Scott’s thoughts. “Good evening, my darling. Were you too glad to be back in class instead of being here with me?”

  He told Desirée about the photo and being summoned by his counselor who’d recognized him in the Tribune de Genève. Desirée tsk tsked nonchalantly; paparazzi photos in society pages were like mosquitoes in summer—bothersome but completely expected.

  “I know; my mother called early this morning. She had seen the same photo and some others in Le Figaro; it’s the hot topic in Paris. Aren’t you excited that everyone is wondering who you are?”

  “I’m positively beside myself with glee. My professors believe I’m neglecting my studies, the counselor questions my judgement, my best friend thinks I’m an improbable suitor, my parents—they’re threatening to come to Geneva to check up on me—and this weekend, I’ll be cheek to jowl with your ex. Yes, I am so very excited,” he said with an uncharacteristic bit of biting sarcasm.

  “My prince, don’t let these things trouble you. You’re already a winner. You’ve got me.”

  Scott was without words. Was she
really dismissing all his concerns?

  “My darling, are you there? Did you hear what I just said?”

  His normal reaction would have been to argue with anyone who presented such an easy solution, but Scott felt in his heart that Desirée was right. Her impossibly positive attitude was difficult to challenge, and he didn’t want her to think he was petty or petulant. They would face his problems together. “Yes,” he said. “You make it sound so easy. I want to trust your judgment.”

  “Everything is going to be fine,” the countess soothed. “Now, can you be here in the early afternoon on Thursday? There’s a benefit that evening for Father Kohler’s church, and I need to be there, or he’ll imagine we are angry with him.”

  twenty-three

  ON THURSDAY MORNING, SCOTT ATTENDED CLASS. BY ten o’clock, he was on the road to Gstaad. The sun shone brilliantly against a blue cloudless sky, and the roads were clear. He was making good time, and the beautiful scenery was postcard-perfect. Passing through small villages, he saw trails of smoke rising from chimneys. Fanatical skiers were everywhere, carrying skis and poles on their shoulders, and heading toward the slopes, covered with fresh snow and still glazed by the overnight freeze.

  Despite everything that was beautiful and right about the morning, Scott felt dread. The closer he got to Gstaad, the nearer his meeting Stefano. He had no delusions—after what Desirée and Jean had told him, Stefano would surely find a way to engage Desirée. Scott’s worry was that this rejected lover might also attempt to embarrass him in some show of bravado or act of revenge. Because the count was older and a man of prominent social standing, Scott was certain they would not sink to the level of physical altercation (although the younger man would not have shrunk from a fight; he’d boxed in college and wasn’t a pushover).