Destiny (33 page)

"What are you thinking about, Gregoire?"

"Of you. And of me." The child hesitated. "I call you 'uncle,' but I wish sometimes ..."

"Wish what? Tell me."

"I wish I could call you Papa." Gregoire raised his dark eyes to Edouard's face. "Just when we are alone. I understand that."

Edouard drew in his horse. He dismounted and lifted Gregoire down beside him. He put his arms around him.

"I wish you were my son," he said very gently. "I wish it very much.

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And I feel as if you were. That's the most important thing, don't you think, Gregoire? Names don't really matter. Not between us."

"Je vous aime. " Gregoire slipped one small hand around Edouard's neck and planted a loud kiss on his brow.

"Et je t'aime aussi, tu sais. ..."

"Beaucoup?"

"Bien sur. Beaucoup. "

It was the first time they had ever spoken of the affection they felt. It made Edouard alive with happiness.

When they returned to Paris, however, he discovered that his relationship with Gregoire, so simple to him, was less simple to others. His mother summoned him; she made it clear that she wished to see him alone.

She gave him tea; she chatted of this and that. Edouard waited. He had been aware from the first that Louise disapproved of Gregoire, and disapproved of this informal adoption. She had previously limited her expression of that disapproval to hints, and to glancing remarks; now, clearly, she had decided the time had come to be more open. She was cautious though, and Edouard, watching her, realized that his relationship with his mother was changing yet again—that it had, perhaps, been altering over a period of time.

Louise had still not agreed to divert any of her capital into the de Chavigny companies, and Edouard, biding his time, had not pressed her. But she no longer treated him with the old irritable dismissiveness; she knew of Edouard's reputation as a businessman, and obviously had heard his abilities praised, for she now regarded him warily, as if trying to decide whether, after all, she might have been wrong, and her younger son might be of use to her. There was a certain speculativeness in her glance now when she looked at him; she listened when he advised her on her investment portfolio, and—increasingly—she took his advice. She spoke of some of those investments now, in particular some of her land investments in Texas, which her American advisors were counseling her to sell.

What she said was of interest to Edouard, but he could see that it was by way of a preamble. His mother wanted his help; she, also, he felt more and more certain, wanted to attack him on the question of Gregoire. In the past she would have done so at once; not now. Now she was cautious, and Edouard—to his surprise—realized she was weighing the risk of offending him.

"Dearest Edouard," she said at last, finally coming to the point. "I did just want to raise the question of that boy. . . ."

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"Gr^goire?"

"Yes. Gregoire." Her mouth tightened a httle. "People do talk, you know, Edouard. They say such wicked and wounding things. ..."

"It's of no concern to me. Let them say what they like."

"Of course. Of course." Louise attempted to sound soothing. "I realize you're in a very difficult position. Really, it is Jean-Paul's responsibiUty. And you will step in, Edouard ..."

"Someone had to."

"I fail to see why. And to take things this far ..." Louise gave a small toss of her head. "Having the boy live with you. Treating him as if he were your own son, your legitimate son. It's unfair to him, Edouard, to take him out of his station in that way. He'll never be totally accepted, you know that. And he won't be able to return home. He'll fit in nowhere—he'll be neither fish nor fowl. . . ."

Edouard turned away. He was angered, and for a moment was tempted to reply that Louise herself had managed to fit in to French society despite her origins and her antecedents, but he curbed himself.

"He fits in with me," he answered stubbornly. "At the moment that is all that concerns me."

"But Edouard, how can he?" Louise was now quivering with indignation. "Obviously, you're fond of him, but surely you can see? His accent, Edouard. You'll never ehminate it altogether, you know. And he looks so surly, so shifty—he won't meet my eyes. ..."

"That's because you make him shy and self-conscious, that's all." Edouard sighed. "Look, why don't you make an effort? Let me bring him here. Try to talk to him. You'll see then—when he relaxes, he's delightful. Maman, he's your grandchild, surely you can overcome your prejudices for once. ..."

There was a small silence. Louise looked at him, a long speculative glance. He could see her deciding whether to agree or disagree; he could see her weigh the advantages and the possible disadvantages. The moment when he knew his mother finally acknowledged that she needed him was then, when she lowered her eyes, and gave a small resigned sigh of agreement.

Edouard looked at her bitterly. When, as a child, he had been desperate for her love, and had offered his own, she had always turned away from him. Now, because she needed something from him, she was prepared to give in. Not that she wanted his love even now; she did not—just his advice, just his financial acumen. Well, it was a bargain of sorts, he thought coldly.

"Very well, Edouard. Bring him here for tea next week. I'll try, for your sake."

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So she signaled her capitulation, recognized the alteration in the balance of power between them. Edouard, watching her, wondered if she had any idea that it was too late.

Gregoire did not want to visit Louise. He opposed the expedition to the Faubourg Saint-Germain with an obstinacy and a truculence that surprised Edouard.

"She doesn't like me," he said in a small flat voice. "I know she doesn't. I don't want to go."

Nothing Edouard said could overcome this opposition. When the day came, Gregoire was carefully prepared: he was given a new haircut; George himself supervised his washing procedure, which was inclined to be haphazard. The boy was arrayed in a neat gray flannel suit, with a tie, a white shirt, and beautifully polished shoes. In the back of the car taking them in to Paris, he sat with his hands clasped on his bare knees, and a tight, closed expression on his face. Edouard tried very hard to persuade him to talk, and to relax; Gregoire would not say one word.

When they arrived at Louise's house, Gregoire raised a small pinched face to Edouard's, and Edouard took his hand and pressed it.

"Half an hour, Gregoire. That's all. There's nothing to be afraid of."

Gregoire marched into the house like a small marionette. In the drawing room he took a great deal of persuading to sit down, and then, when Louise finally joined them, drifting in in her rose silk dress, Gregoire seemed so overcome that he forgot to rise. He remembered, but too late, and then stumbled to his feet too quickly, almost knocking over the tiny wine table that stood by his side.

"Gregoire—how lovely that you could come. Do sit down again. . . ."

Louise straightened the table a little too ostentatiously. Gregoire crimsoned, and slowly sat down.

"Now, Gregoire. I'm so longing to hear. You must tell me everything you've been doing. Do you like it at St. Cloud? How are your lessons coming along? Do you work hard at them? Edouard always did—^but then, darling Edouard was such a clever little boy. ..."

So she began, and so she went on. Edouard sat to one side, helplessly, while Louise bombarded Gregoire with questions, and Gregoire stammered increasingly brief replies.

The tea was brought in by two of Louise's housemaids. Gregoire sat on the extreme edge of his chair. Louise poured tea from a silver pot into cups of Sevres porcelain.

"Edouard, if you'd pass that to Gregoire—on the little table there—yes,

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that's right. And then—I thought—perhaps one of these?" She indicated a silver dish on which were cucumber sandwiches one inch square. "Or those?" Another dish, with exquisitely decorated little biscuits. A third, with elegant little mouthfuls oi patisserie. "An English tea. Edouard always adored that when we stayed in London. And httle boys are always so hungry, aren't they? Now, Gregoire, which would you hke? I chose them specially for you. ..."

"None, thank you, Madame. . . ."

Gregoire raised his small face; his lips were set.

"None?" Louise's eyes rounded. "You're sure? Well, of course, perhaps you're not used . . . Edouard, won't you have one of these?"

Edouard took one of the tiny sandwiches, and sat down again grimly. Gregoire was now hemmed in by the tiny precarious wine table. Balanced upon it were a Sevres plate, a Sevres cup and saucer. Gregoire was sitting with his legs tucked firmly back, his elbows pressed against his sides.

"So, tell me Gregoire," Louise went on brightly after a pause. "If you don't hke Latin, and you don't like arithmetic, what do you like? There must be something, I suppose?"

"Gregoire is very clever with his hands," Edouard put in quickly. "He can take a clock apart and put it back together again. And a car engine too —Frangois has been helping him, hasn't he, Gregoire?"

"Sometimes." Gregoire looked sullenly down at the floor.

"I don't need him now. I can do it on my own." He raised his eyes to Louise's face. "I worked on a Porsche last week, all on my own. And one day Uncle Edouard said he might let me work on the Aston-Martin. It's my favorite car."

This was the longest speech he had made. Edouard could see the pleading expression come into his eyes, and the desperation for approval. Perhaps Louise saw it, too, for she gave a little laugh.

"Gregoire, how charming! But that wasn't quite what I meant. I'm sure Edouard doesn't need another mechanic. . . .Oh! You've finished your tea —how quickly you drink! Here, let me pour you another cup. ..."

This was so overtly rude that Edouard was about to intervene; but before he could speak, Gregoire rose to his feet. He hfted the Sevres cup and saucer from the table in front of him, and advanced toward Louise, who was sitting there smiling at him, silver teapot poised.

When he was perhaps one foot away from her, Gregoire dropped the cup. It fell to the floor and instantly smashed. Louise gave an exclamation of displeasure, and Edouard rose to his feet; Gregoire remained absolutely still, looking down at the smashed cup. Had it been deliberate? Edouard hesitated, unsure; it had happened so quickly that it was difficult to know.

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Gregoire raised his eyes from the floor to Louise's face: "rm sorry," he said in a flat voice. "It's broken. That was clumsy of me."

The defiance in his tone was masked, but it was there. Louise heard it and flushed. Edouard heard it, too, and it was then that he became almost certain that the dropping of the cup had been no accident.

The episode was passed over; shortly afterward Edouard and Gregoire left. In the car, returning home, Gregoire was very quiet. As they reached St. Cloud, he turned to Edouard with a sudden anxiousness in his face.

"I don't think I'll be asked to go there again. Not after breaking that cup, do you think?"

The hope that this might indeed be the case was transparent in his face —so transparent that Edouard suppressed a smile.

"I'm sure my mother will not mind—it was only a cup. But perhaps we might not go there again—for a while anyway." He paused. "Gregoire, did you mean to do it? Tell me truthfully now."

A small frown appeared on Gregoire's face. Edouard saw a brief struggle take place.

"She doesn't like me," Gregoire said at last in a small stubborn voice. "I told you she didn't. I told you I didn't want to go there."

It was no answer, and it was a complete answer; Edouard, recognizing something of Jean-Paul in the implacability of the reply, hearing in it, too, that note of bland stubbornness with which some of his workmen in the Loire would resist argument and change with an age-old peasant resilience, sighed and decided it might be wiser to leave the subject there.

The episode was better forgotten, he thought; he would not risk exposing Gregoire to Louise's unkindness again. Days passed; weeks passed. Once Gregoire was certain that he was reprieved from all further visits to the Faubourg Saint-Germain, his nature became open and sunny once again.

In the spring of that year, 1955, not long after this meeting, the tutor Edouard had hired for Gregoire left to take up an appointment elsewhere. Edouard, searching around for a replacement, hit on the idea of Hugo Glendinning.

He had seen Hugo from time to time in the intervening years; he knew from Hugo's cousin Christian that his former tutor had fallen on hard times. A prestigious teaching post at Winchester had been terminated abruptly some years before, and Hugo had failed to hold another since. The regimen of the major public schools did not suit him. Christian explained. He was too individualistic, too eccentric. Christian was sure he

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would be delighted to go to France and work for Edouard. Private tutors in England were less in demand these days, Christian said with a smile; times were changing.

Edouard was a httle uncertain about the decision. He would have preferred Gregoire to go to school and mix with other children. But the Uttle boy, having missed so many years of schoohng, was backward in his lessons, and Edouard feared that he would be teased. He would wait another couple of years, he told himself, until Gregoire had had a chance to catch up, and was more confident. He thought of Hugo, who had revolutionized his own thinking, who had made him challenge and question for the first time. He thought of Hugo's ability to excite interest, to stimulate thought. He reminded himself of Hugo's dedication, his wisdom, his kindness, and his wit. He heard Hugo's voice saying lines of poetry to him that remained with him still: he came to a decision, and wrote to him. It was his first major mistake.

Hugo had never suffered fools gladly. Edouard, not a fool, and possessed of a quick and nimble mind, had forgotten that side of his nature, which he, in any case, had rarely seen. Also, time had passed, and Hugo had changed. A youthful tendency to impatience had, over the years, modulated into a marked irascibility. Hugo looked at his contemporaries, less clever than himself, and saw them outstrip him. He blamed pohtical bias, but when he had stood as a Labor candidate in the 1945 elections in which the Sociahsts swept to postwar victory, Hugo had not won his seat. He was in his fifties, unmarried, and out of touch with postwar educational methods. He had never taught boys who were less than well grounded in traditional academic subjects. He and Gregoire met, and it was almost instant dislike.