An Improbable Pairing

by Gary Dickson

  “Madame, I see you have quite a number of books in English,” Scott commented. “I wouldn’t have expected this.”

  “Those are from the house in Geneva. During the Second World War, when Desirée was nine, we sheltered Allied pilots whose planes had crash-landed. Many of the families along the lake took in these American and British pilots until the end of the war. During that period, Bertrand and I often had anywhere from six to twelve guests at one time, so we built a kind of barracks adjoining the work sheds. There was little for them to do, so Bertrand scoured Switzerland to find books in English for them to read,” she explained. Glancing at the book in Scott’s hands, she smiled. “I see you have found something of interest. Some of the subjects are fairly exotic, I fear.”

  “Madame, your family constantly amazes me. How very generous. I can see where Desirée gets her charitable impulses.”

  “At the time, it seemed like very little. As you know, I am French, and—not that I am complaining, mind you—it was very difficult knowing we were safe in Switzerland with such rampant privation in Paris. My family home near the Bois de Boulogne was commandeered by a general in the Wehrmacht, my parents were confined to two rooms in their own home and then later relocated to a run-down apartment in the 17th arrondissement.” Madame de Bellecourt seemed far away, lost in the memory of those difficult days.

  “My father had two brothers; they were in different corps, but both landed at Normandy,” Scott said softly. “One entered Paris on the day of its liberation. I have seen photos of him on a tank, surrounded by several beautiful and very happy young French girls, who are smiling. He’s smiling, too, by the way.”

  She laughed warmly. “We will never forget the Americans and what they did for France.” Just as Scott began to congratulate himself on finding a chip in Desirée’s mother’s formidable armor, her expression hardened. “But of course, Mr. Stoddard,” she said sternly, “my gratitude has its limits.”

  THE THREE OF THEM VENTURED INTO MOUGINS THAT EVEning, choosing the restaurant Le Relais de Mougins, a one-star Michelin establishment on the main square, for dinner. Like her daughter, Madame de Bellecourt was well known wherever she went and commanded the best in service. They were seated at a table for four against the wall, and Le Relais’s simple furnishings created an atmosphere of dining in an undiscovered part of the South of France. They shared a giant bouillabaisse and Madame insisted that Scott try a Calvados of 1928, and the light mood at the table was a pleasant change from lunch’s tenuous air.

  EASTER WAS OBSERVED WITH HIGH MASS AT THE NOON HOUR. St. Jacques le Majeur was packed but as was the family habit, Desirée and her mother marched to their customary front pew, Scott in tow. He noticed that, unlike her usual practice, Desirée did not receive communion, and Scott assumed this was in deference to her mother. (She was, according to Madame and the church, “living in sin.”) Surrounded by rituals and observing mother and daughter, Scott understood that his Baptist upbringing and personal lack of faith would pose a significant problem if he and Desirée ever contemplated marriage. Celine had warned him.

  SCOTT AND DESIRÉE WERE SCHEDULED TO CATCH A FLIGHT to Geneva on Monday afternoon. Before leaving for the airport, they ended up where the weekend had begun, on the veranda.

  “Maman, it was so good of you to have us,” Desirée said. “I love you and thank you.”

  “I love you too, darling,” she replied fondly. There was a moment when all three enjoyed the sound of leaves rustling in the spring air, and then Madame de Bellecourt turned to Scott. “And Mr. Stoddard, I am glad to have met you. Regarding our list making—for the present, I will take your advice and review my list to determine if it is as important as I think. Perhaps I will find a way for us to become good friends.”

  “Madame, nothing could make me happier,” Scott said.

  twenty-eight

  SCOTT STOPPED BY HIS APARTMENT IN GENEVA TO PICK up his mail. It was a lonely, empty place; he went by intermittently now. Moving into Desirée’s house on the lake had been a gradual process. At first, he took a few changes of clothes for when he’d stay the night. Next, he gathered up his school books (those he still needed to read and the ones he was supposed to be reading) and his favorite records—the Beatles, Dusty Springfield, and Petula Clark. As Scott’s things made their slow migration, Desirée made room, pushing aside things and clearing a few drawers, shelves, and racks for him. Little by little, he filled in the space until one day, there was nothing of his in the little furnished apartment he’d rented.

  Scott’s attendance at the university was sporadic at best, and why his interest had waned was no longer a secret. News of the American student’s relationship with the countess was common knowledge among his fellow students, and he was certain his professors were probably following their comings and goings in the press, too. Ever since the Sleigh Ball in Gstaad, papers in Geneva and Paris published photographs and reports of the events they attended, such as the St. Moritz Bal de Neige, in their society sections. Scott and Desirée were often highlighted, as these reports generally concentrated on the finery of dress and jewelry and the august list of attendees at these regal events.

  Those society papers also included bits of gossip. Whenever possible, the Count de Rovere added to the couple’s notoriety by making pronouncements regarding Scott’s motives, commentary on the countess’s foolishness, and predictions on the relationship’s longevity, veiling his calumny in hypothetical terms so as to never quite reach the limits of libel. All this was a world away from the cloistered academic lives of both students and professors; Scott wasn’t sure if he were considered a celebrity or a pariah. Regardless, his professors didn’t call on him any more than they had pre-Desirée, and when they did, Scott managed to squeeze out an acceptable, appropriate answer.

  But Scott wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all himself. He estimated he spent only about a third of the time he would have devoted to studying before becoming involved with Desirée. The studying he did was not his usual reading-with-focus, but rather a cursory review; there were too many interruptions for him to fully concentrate. This failure—to responsibility, to himself, to his parents—weighed on Scott’s conscience. At some point, his dereliction would become clear to his parents, and a confession would be in order. They were still threatening to come to Europe (he knew the visit would happen sooner rather than later), but he kept putting them off.

  Also weighing on his conscience was his failure to come clean about Desirée. He chastised himself for not confiding in them; all those phone calls, and he only once revealed his casual interest in Desirée. At this late date, announcing the seriousness of their relationship would appear suspicious. They’d assume it had happened overnight or that his intentions were less than honorable. If he told them he’d begun seeing Desirée much sooner upon his arrival in Geneva, it would beg the question: Why hadn’t he told them earlier? It wouldn’t matter to them, particularly to his mother, that Desirée was a countess; they would concentrate on her age and the interruption of their plans for Scott’s future. And she was Catholic. While Scott was not religious, his mother maintained the family’s connection to church, and it wasn’t the Catholic kind. With exasperation, Scott thought, Madame de Bellecourt did not have a franchise on objecting to their relationship—the two grand dames would probably see eye to eye on many things.

  Scott had had girlfriends and suffered through at least one serious breakup, but his blossoming relationship with Desirée was beyond anything he’d ever experienced. Handling his parents and soliciting their support would be much more complicated than navigating those past young loves. He was sure his parents wouldn’t understand or approve. So, how to break the news?

  A letter, not a phone call, was the best medium, Scott decided. He started breezily, talking about school, before mentioning his travels to the South of France over Easter break with his girlfriend, the one who was French and Swiss and lived in Geneva. He wrote matter-of-factly that he was awfully fond of Desirée (finall
y, he gave her a name).

  He knew the abbreviated information would generate all the questions he wasn’t eager to answer. His mother, reading the phrase “awfully fond of ” and knowing how understated Scott could be in matters of the heart, would want to know everything. Could he dribble out the information in such a timeline and fashion to minimize the shock of it all? Could he describe for his parents their age differential, her title and wealth—in fact, address the exact list of objections that Madame de Bellecourt outlined—and somehow gain approval for their love?

  Scott anticipated that the letter would be delivered, his mother would read it several times, and then accost his father as soon as he arrived home from work. Mrs. Stoddard would lay her opinions out in detail and persuade her husband that they needed to telephone Scott to determine exactly what was going on. Since Scott was living at Desirée’s, there would be no answer when they called. They would try several times, at different hours of the day, which would ratchet their anxiety to an unacceptable level. It might even generate an immediate flight to Geneva.

  That scenario simply wasn’t acceptable; Scott couldn’t risk that. No, he would give the letter time enough to arrive and be read, and then he would make a preemptive phone call. If his timing were right, he could eliminate that heightened anxiety and postpone the inevitable visit.

  AFTER POSTING THE LETTER, SCOTT’S NEXT CHORE WAS informing Desirée of his plan (well, maybe not the entire plan, but the acceptable part of the plan).

  The skies were clear, but the weather was damp and cold. Bundled up in heavy double cashmere parkas and scarves, they marveled at the two spikes, Les Dents de Midi, rising against the Alps in the south, across the lake, as they enjoyed an afternoon walk around the property.

  “I wrote my parents today,” Scott told her tentatively, anxious to see her reaction. “I told them about you,” he said.

  “Did you tell them you were in love?” Desirée asked, her eyes as calm and clear as the blue water of the lake.

  Scott hedged. “I didn’t put it quite like that, but my mother will decode and realize I’m serious.” Desirée said nothing, leaving Scott to decipher her reaction to his “declaration.”

  Scott waited a week before calling his parents. With the six-hour time difference, he could call during his afternoon in Geneva, which would be before his father left for work in Charleston. His mother answered on the first ring; she sang out that Scott was on the phone, and his father picked up the other receiver. Scott was not surprised when Mr. Stoddard said gruffly, “We called several times yesterday, and there was no answer.”

  “I must have been out,” Scott said.

  Predictably, his mother homed in on the romance: “Your letter was very short. I was disappointed not to have more news. And this is the same girl, right? The fund-raiser?”

  “Sorry, I’ve been really busy since Easter,” he said. “Yes, the same one I told you about. A friend introduced us.”

  “You wrote that she lives nearby? Who is she?” His mother didn’t let up.

  “No, she lives outside Geneva, in her family’s home; she did go to school, but now, as I told you, she works in charity.”

  “If you went away together, this girl must be more than a friend,” his mother said.

  “Yes, I like Desirée a lot,” Scott said. “She’s pretty, she’s intelligent, and she’s kind. She’s very nice, really nice, to everyone. You’d like her, Mother,” Scott said.

  His mother continued to pump Scott for information, asking about school and his classes, his friends, and “the girl,” but he withheld more specific details about Desirée, figuring that giving only small doses was the best path forward, in this case.

  The conversation went well, and all things considered, the Stoddards’ level of dissatisfaction appeared tolerable. His father listened and said little, a quiet, solid presence on the other end, a counterbalance to Scott’s mother’s chatty inquisition. But Scott knew that in the months to come, there would be a reckoning. Afterward, Scott felt better—at least his parents were aware that he was involved in a serious relationship. How serious was the question, but knowledge of Desirée’s existence in his life was a beginning. Looking ahead to the future, Scott knew he would need to guard against outright lies and slippery truths as the Stoddards learned more of the world he inhabited with the countess.

  THAT CONVERSATION WITH HIS PARENTS TRIGGERED A BOUT of conscience regarding Scott’s neglect of his studies. For the first time in his life, he couldn’t seem to make a coherent and disciplined study plan. Oh, Scott formulated plenty of well-intentioned schedules, but he rarely followed through, and when he did, it was in a half-hearted fashion. Exams, eight to ten months in the future, would be exhaustive; written as well as oral, these examinations were open to the public. A candidate who had not attended class or taken exacting notes, who had not read the thorough bibliography associated with each course, would find himself hard-pressed to pass.

  Scott was dreading those exams. Most people would say—hell, he told himself—that to succeed in school, he had to learn to achieve more balance. Academia was a job he’d been sent to Geneva to complete, and he needed to make the proper time and opportunity, if for no other reason than his parents expected it. His negligence wasn’t Desirée’s doing; she was supportive when he voiced his intentions. But he found it easier and easier to fall into the ebb and flow of her lifestyle, one unencumbered by responsibility or financial concerns. One that people like his parents, people with a strong work ethic and specific goals, would frown upon.

  If exams were lurking ahead, what of their relationship’s longer-term prospects? Desirée and Scott had remained silent on the subject; neither had voiced any ideas about the future to the other. Scott brooded. If Desirée didn’t exist, he would be at school working on his degree, as he should—at least, in theory—for hadn’t Marlyse pulled him away as well? Perhaps his heart was not truly in international business. But what kind of man would he be if he ended his relationship with the countess in favor of a degree? Or to please his parents? He was starting to believe that he simply wasn’t that kind of man.

  twenty-nine

  ON FRIDAY, SCOTT AND DESIRÉE FLEW TO PARIS TO attend a special evening to benefit the ballet at the Palais Garnier, where Desirée was a patron. A car met them at the airport and transferred them to the expensive residential area of Avenue Foch. Desirée’s apartment, which had been left to her upon her father’s death, occupied the entire top floor of a beautiful Haussmann palace; in the foyer, public spaces, and grand staircase, floors and walls of pristine marble gleamed. Scott delighted in the antique lift; big enough for six passengers, it consisted of a cage with brass controls and two ostrich leather seats, one on each side of the car.

  The apartment itself overlooked the Foch gardens situated in the median of the grand boulevard that runs from the L’Etoile to the Bois de Boulogne. Large mirrors hung above matching chests on each side of the foyer, and ornate French doors opened onto a grand salon and dining room that seated twelve. There was a professional kitchen, a breakfast room, and three bedrooms, including Desirée’s large master suite, which spanned the entire length of the building’s south side. Three sets of French doors led to balconies overlooking the park next door, and fresh-cut flowers adorned every room in anticipation of Desirée’s arrival.

  The furnishings, an eclectic selection of period French furniture with modern touches of sculpture and paintings, made the rooms come to life. Bright fuchsia and lime green, animal prints, and bold black and white stripes harkened of Art Deco influences. Scott thought the décor reflected Desirée well—it was a home for living and entertaining, both comfortable and relaxed.

  Scott gave Desirée’s bedroom an admiring once-over. Decorated in a soft yellow and silver gray, he imagined many happy hours in the painted bed. Other custom-created pieces blended with the drapery, upholstery, and bed coverings. Large, carved lamps on the French consoles provided a golden glow, and a working fireplace was laid, ready
for the match. Scott opened the closet and ran his hand across the soft fabric of Desirée’s clothes. As usual, her effects had been sent ahead; Desirée’s personal maid, Marie Claire, had already cleaned, pressed, and put away her garments from their trip. There was also a cook, Madame Tissot.

  Desirée had reserved a table at Le Grand Vefour, one of the oldest and best gourmet restaurants in Paris. They were treated to a fivecourse meal of crab salad Louis, pike quenelles, a hen from Bresse, cheese selection, mille-feuille, and the ever-present Krug champagne. They dined slowly, trying to savor the fine food (and even better company), but Desirée had her well-wishers; the other diners stopped by to say hello, and she introduced Scott to each acquaintance. She provided no specificity, however, about their relationship. They could speculate about the handsome young man’s status as they wished.

  Afterward, they were driven to the St. Germain des Prés area, the 6th arrondissement, to a private club. Chez Castel was a restaurant and nightclub whose clientele were mostly French and included young royals and cinema actors. Music and dancing occurred in the intimate and close lower level (a real jewel box of luxuriously padded red velvet), and by half past eleven, when Desirée and Scott arrived, it was packed. It would remain that way until the early hours of Saturday. Scott and Desirée secured a table not too close to the small dance floor and joined in the fun.

  Desirée loved to dance, and Scott liked nothing better than to take her dancing. When she moved to the music, she was at her most sensuous. Despite the crowd, the two lovers were in a beautiful bubble; her attention was focused solely on him and his on her.