Destiny (91 page)

"I'm done with Swann's Way." Christian peered at her once more over the top of the pages. "And now I am on to Balbec. And Albertine."

"Really?"

"Proust is quite wonderful on the subject of love, don't you think?" Again, Christian eyed her in a way Ghislaine did not quite like, and which made her uneasy. "Where was I? Ah, yes, here we are. Oh, this is a wonderful bit—I'm sure you'll remember it. Listen."

He cleared his throat, and began reading in that high-pitched drawling voice to which Ghislaine took such exception: ". . . I had guessed long ago, in the Champs-Elysees . . . I'll skip a bit here . . . That when we are in love with a woman, we simply project into her a state of our own soul, that the important thing is, therefore, not the worth of the woman, but the depth of the state. ..."

He paused, looked up, and smiled at her. "It goes on a lot more, of course, but there you have the nub of it, don't you agree? I often think of Edouard when I read that passage, though of course I should never say so to him."

Ghislaine gave him a cold glance. She had the distinct impression that Christian was trying to tell her something, and it was not something she wanted to hear.

"It is not very flattering to women," she said finally. "However, I suppose. Christian, that the same could be true the other way around. Women

DESTINY • 557

project onto men all sorts of ideas and fancies. ..." And she thought, with a certain contempt, of Louise.

"Do they?" Christian said with a little smile on his lips. "Do they, Ghislaine? Well, you would know, of course. I've never pretended to be an expert on women."

And with that he lifted the book in front of his face, sighed happily, and was silent. Ghislaine sat there, fuming and yet not quite knowing why, feeling that she had been given a hint, and not understanding it. . . . She flicked the pages of a magazine noisily. She smoked one, then another, cigarette. And at last, when she could bear it no longer, she walked out of the room without wishing Christian good night.

She had returned to her room, but she knew she would not sleep—not after a day like this! All the events of the past hours darted back and forth in her mind: seeing Edouard, on the beach, with Clara, and the terrible swooping jealousy she had felt when she saw them. Louise's summary dismissal; her humiliating remarks—oh, how Ghislaine had longed to answer her back, and how she would have, too, if Edouard had not been there.

She felt, quite suddenly, pacing back and forth, that if she did not see Edouard tonight, before she had to go back to Paris, she would go mad. Just to be in the same room with him, just to hear him talk; that, she told herself, would be quite enough, though her imagination instantly and vividly swept her on much further than that. He was disturbed, tense, on edge, just as she was, she told herself She could sense some crisis in him, some struggle; it was there, perceptible as electricity in the air before a thunderstorm—and she did not believe that it was entirely due to Louise, and whatever it was that had happened with Philippe de Belfort. . . .

She stopped. There it was—the perfect excuse. Surely it was not so surprising, given the circumstances, that she would want to ask Edouard about that?

I can't wait, she thought. I can't. In Paris, weeks could go by, and there would never be an opportunity like this. I have to see him. I have to talk to him.

She began to walk slowly along the terrace, in the direction of Edouard's room. As she did so, the oddest image came into her mind. She was fifteen years old again: overtall, broad-shouldered, a little clumsy. She was at a garden party at St. Cloud. It was 1930, and there was Xavier de Chavigny, and on his arm was his famous wife, in a pink Chanel dress: small, delicate, ravishingly pretty—all the things Ghislaine was not and would have liked to be. She had watched them across a space of lawn: Louise said something, inaudible to Ghislaine, and tilted her face up to her husband. He smiled; then—they were not aware that anyone was watching them—

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he slipped his arm around her waist and moved his hand, slowly, down over his wife's hip to the top of her thigh. He let it rest there a second, then they broke apart, and moved on.

The easiness, the familiarity, of the gesture conveyed to the fifteen-year-old Ghislaine a sharp sexuality. She knew nothing, then, of course; she hardly knew the facts of life. But she knew the meaning of that gesture, her own body conveyed it to her, immediately and agonizingly. She wanted Xavier de Chavigny with all her heart and her mind and her imagination, and she had gone on with this infatuation secretly, until her first marriage, when it fell away of its own accord.

Thirty-two years ago: so why did she have this strange feeling, as she walked quietly along the terrace in her red dress, that she was keeping an appointment made then?

Edouard's room was at the other end of the house. Like her own bedroom, it had long French windows overlooking the sea. The outer shutters were open, the inner shutters closed but not latched—presumably to keep out the moths and other insects, for the curtains were not drawn, and the lights were still on.

Ghislaine stood outside, at a little distance. She did not have quite the courage yet to do anything more. She certainly didn't intend to creep around the corridors of the house and knock on his door.

She stood there perhaps ten or fifteen minutes. Edouard did not emerge. Her dress was thin silk, and she began to feel a little cold. She saw a shadow move against the louvres of the shutters, and she had just decided, almost decided, to risk it and call out to him, when she heard Edouard say something inaudible, to which Christian Glendinning replied. She did not hesitate at all then. She walked carefully and quietly toward the shuttered window, and when she was close enough, began to listen.

Inside the room. Christian was standing in the doorway, the Proust under his arm. Edouard was sitting at a table stacked with work papers, their neat piles untouched. Christian looked from the papers to his friend. He shook his head. "I knew you wouldn't be asleep. And I'll bet you haven't done any work. Dear God! What an evening! I thought you might need cheering up."

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"You want a brandy, in other words. All right. Sit down and I'll get you one."

Christian sat; he stretched out his legs, which were very long, crossed his ankles, and folded his arms behind his head.

"God. It'll be better when the scorpion has gone, anyway. Maybe we'll be able to relax a bit then. Tonight it was a bit Uke dinner with the Borgias, didn't you think? Whatever's the matter with Louise?"

"A number of things." Edouard shrugged. "None of them new. You'll just have to be patient. And kind. If you could manage it."

"Oh, God. All right. I'll make an effort." Christian accepted the glass Edouard held out to him. He looked up at his friend and pulled a wry face. "You do know what's wrong, I suppose? With you, I mean. It came to me this morning. You know she's in France, that's the thing, isn't it? And not just in France, but very close—an hour's drive along the coast—less if you were doing the driving. You're here, and she's in Cannes, and that makes it worse. And it's no good looking like that, and frowning, because I'm not going to take any notice. I'm fortified with claret and Proust, and I shan't be put off."

"It isn't just that." Edouard sat down opposite Christian. "It's other things as well. Time passing perhaps. Things people say—innumerable things. I'm sorry, Christian. I know I'm not very good company."

"No. You're not," Christian agreed cheerfully. "And you know why not? Because you can't bear inertia—you never could. It's unnatural to you. You've forced yourself into it—for reasons I don't pretend to understand—and now you're sick of it. You're losing faith—Proust is terribly good on faith, by the way, you ought to reread it. Anyway—" he sat up, and leaned forward—"I think you should forget all that. Either you should just make up your mind and admit it's over, or do something positive. Get in that beastly black car of yours, drive over to Cannes, or wherever she is, and go in, and say: 'Helene. Here I am. Are you coming with me, or are you staying?' " Christian smiled. "Don't you think that's a good scenario?"

Despite himself, Edouard smiled too.

"It has its attractions, I admit that. There's a certain recklessness and flamboyance about it which I like. ..."

"Of course you do. Because you are reckless and flamboyant. Well, reckless anyway. When you want to be. And you want to be now—so why not?"

"Because I decided not to. That's all. It has to be her choice. And anyway. You're forgetting one or two small details."

"The husband, you mean?" Christian made a dismissive gesture. "So what for the husband?"

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"Christian—stop this. I know you're trying to help—but I'd rather you didn't. Just leave it alone. I don't want to talk about it."

"Which is half the trouble."

Christian took a swallow of his brandy. He lit one of his Black Russian cigarettes, and they sat for a while in silence. Finally, Christian looked up, and in a different voice, a less flippant voice, he said, "Are you losing faith, Edouard? Or hope—or whatever it is that you've had all this time. Are you?"

Edouard stood up abruptly and turned away. He walked toward the window and then turned back.

"Sometimes," he said. "Yes. Sometimes I am. It's not very easy to go on believing in something when you have nothing to urge you on. Except memories. And obstinacy of course . . ."He smiled at Christian sadly, and then returned to his chair.

"But you don't give up?" Christian said quietly.

Edouard shook his head. "No—I don't give up. I can't perhaps. It would be like—well, it would be like giving myself up. That's all. I can't explain it better than that."

They looked at each other, and after a pause. Christian sighed.

"Oh, well," he said. "I do understand. In a way. Except—I was never very good at constancy. As you know. Such a butterfly . . ."

"You're constant in your own way," Edouard answered, and Christian, robustly, a little too quickly, because he was very English, and was becoming embarrassed, said, "Oh, balls. Well—maybe."

He stubbed out his cigarette, finished his brandy, and stood up. "Anyway. Enough of this. I've been uplifting enough for one evening. I shall go to bed." He looked at his wristwatch. "Past midnight. I should think you'll be safe from Ghislaine now, wouldn't you? She was looking quite mad after dinner, you know, the very picture of menopausal lust. It was quite frightening. But I shouldn't think nighttime visitations were quite her style, though you can never be sure, can you?"

"Christian ..."

"Oh, and by the way—what is going on between you and her? I saw that look you exchanged, this afternoon, when Louise had swept out. You and Ghislaine. Quite conspiratorial. If I hadn't been certain that even your once catholic taste didn't extend to over-made-up predators d'un certain age, I should have been quite suspicious. ..."

"Christian—mind your own business, will you? I've known Ghislaine a long time, we've worked together, and as it happens she was very helpful to me recently, in a matter that relates to my mother, and not you."

"Oh, I see. That's the mystery. Well, just as long as you're aware that she has designs on you ..."

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"Christian—don't be ridiculous."

"You may find it ridiculous," Christian responded smari;ly. "She doesn't."

"I'm sure you're wrong. You underestimate Ghislaine. She may be many things, but she isn't stupid. You know perfectly well I've never given her the slightest reason to imagine—"

"Who needs reasons to imagine? And you, my dear Edouard, while not stupid, can be quite extraordinarily obtuse."

There was a silence. The two men looked at each other, and then Christian started to laugh. Edouard's mouth twitched shghtly.

"Well, I sincerely hope you're wrong. That's all."

"I'm not wrong. I never am. I have an infallible instinct in such matters." Christian moved to the door. At the door, he paused and looked at Edouard mischievously.

"And you have to admit that whatever her reasons, Louise was right about the house—don't you think? Ghastly good taste—and don't pretend. I could see you blanching. ..."

"All right. Ghastly," Edouard said. "And now, for God's sake, go to bed. ..."

A door shut. Edouard sat down. He looked at the papers in front of him, and then bent his head and rested it in his hands.

Outside on the terrace, Ghislaine crept away. She wanted to be sick. She did not make a sound.

She dressed for breakfast carefully. A severe black and white linen suit. Less makeup than usual; she looked in her glass, and heard Christian's voice: Overmade-up. Menopausal. Horrible, twisted little queer—how she loathed him. And how she loathed Edouard de Chavigny, the ever-polite, the ever-gallant Edouard, who had not said one word in her defense that did not hurt her even more than Christian's comments; Edouard, who had laughed at her.

Breakfast was served on the terrace. Ghislaine was there first, and she stayed there, waiting. Louise would be safely in bed; she never rose before noon. Nothing was going to make Ghislaine move, until she had seen Edouard, until she had said the sentences she had been rehearsing to herself half the night. She toyed with a croissant; she drank two cups of coffee, and eventually, to her delight, she saw both Edouard and Christian come strolling across the terrace. In front of his friend, she thought—even better.

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They joined her at the table. Edouard was wearing a cream hnen suit; he looked tanned, handsome, much less tired than he had the night before.

"Good morning, Ghislaine. ..."

"Such a day ..." Christian sat down. He lifted his face to the sun. Ghislaine waited, smiling at them, the hurt and the spite rising.

She took another croissant, broke off a little piece, began to spread it with honey as Edouard spoke.

"We could go and watch a game of boules. Have lunch. Drive up into the hills ..."