Matters of Honor (32 page)

If you do that, why not do the rest yourself? I asked. I’m not sure I see the reason.

It’s the good name of the firm, was his answer.

He added that, given the prominence of the Paris office, it wouldn’t do for Wiggins & O’Reilly to get tarred with the pitch of this transaction. He was prepared to ask the firm not to charge Hubert and the Sainte-Terre group any fee for the work he had done if Sainte-Terre went forward with counsel from some other firm.

There is one more thing that has to do with Hubert, he said after a moment. I’m not able to discuss it.

And what if they listen to you and drop the scheme? I asked.

Then I would have done my work perfectly, and naturally I should be paid, he answered.

I could see his logic, but I was still left with one simple question: Wasn’t telling Hubert that there was no way around the nationalization the simplest solution? Who has ever said that all problems can be solved? Was Henry White’s pride preventing his saying that he’d been defeated when in fact he hadn’t?

Henry said he had asked himself that same question more than once. But his conscience was clear. Whatever might be the urgings of his
amour propre,
in his opinion he had a professional duty to tell the client his findings. He couldn’t hide them for the client’s good, because in the end it was for the client to decide where his good lay. It was utterly irrelevant that this result indeed coincided with the urgings of his
amour propre.
But, he added, I can’t have that talk with Hubert without discussing it first with the firm’s senior committee. He didn’t think that could be done over the telephone. He had decided—in fact while we talked—to go to New York the next morning. It would be just a day trip, and he hoped I would forgive him for running out on me. He’d take the Concorde both ways.

One day stretched into three. We had dinner as soon as he had cleaned up from his supersonic ride. He was very solemn; the committee had not had an easy time coming to a decision. Wouldn’t Hubert resent Henry’s unwillingness to carry out his own scheme, and how was that going to affect the flow of business from Sainte-Terre? That had been the big question. But, in the end, approval was given, including, if necessary, not charging for the work, although several partners had implored him to get paid something, even if the fee was deeply discounted. All expressed the hope that a generous gesture would placate Hubert. He’d talk to Hubert the next day. As it happened, he was in Paris.

I was relieved that he didn’t seem to want to go on talking about l’Occident, but I asked whether he had spoken to Margot.

I can’t just now, he said. She has too many worries of her own. Ever since du Roc found out that Margot’s inheritance was tied up in a trust for the exclusive benefit of her and her children—with no distributions to Jean while she was alive, and nothing coming to him if he survived her—he’s put his mind, possibly to the detriment of his literary production, to using her money to buy major works of art (coals to Newcastle, considering the collection Margot has inherited but plans to leave to the Metropolitan Museum) and more very fancy real estate. He has gotten her to pay for another manor in Normandy and a magnificent town house in Versailles that once belonged to one of the ministers of Louis XIV. The game is painfully transparent: those assets, which are out of the trust, can potentially become his if Margot dies or in case of divorce if he negotiates a rich settlement. Margot’s feelings are hurt; this insult—that’s really what it is—may be the last straw.

And your hopes? I asked.

I have no hopes, he answered. Margot may have one though: an American moviemaker she has recently met through Jean, ten years her junior. She’s quite taken with him. I can always tell.

I told him I was sorry.

There was a message from Henry on my answering machine when I got home. He thought he should keep the next day open for Hubert. Could we have lunch the day after? I called back, said yes, and wished him luck.

XXXI

I
T WAS
the strangest meeting, Henry said. I’ve already reported to the firm. Yours will be an abbreviated version. I won’t ask you to keep it to yourself; I know you will. The fact that crowds out everything else is that, as soon as I began to explain the scheme to them, their eyes lit up. I thought Hubert was going to get up from the sofa—he’s never behind his desk when he receives you in his office—and dance a little jig. The effect on Jacques was as impressive, except that Jacques being Jacques it seemed more likely that he would merely levitate: remain in a seated position, arms crossed on his chest, floating down occasionally only to be lofted up again by his delight. After I had finished laying out the details, I launched into an impassioned speech about the political realities that dictate consigning my brilliant plan to the dustbin. I hadn’t gotten far before Hubert stopped me. Henry, he said, is the transaction we’ve been hearing about illegal? No, I said. Then Jacques asked: Do you mean that there is no legal risk in it for us if we carry it out? I said that the transaction posed no legal risk of liability for engaging in it and couldn’t be undone by government action on the counts, because it involved no violation of the law. But then I inventoried all the things that the French government could do if the prime minister or the minister of finance got mad enough, or the president expressed to them his displeasure. Of necessity, I repeated some of the points I had made before. Jacques looked bored and tried to shut me up, but Hubert said, Let him finish. They listened, but I knew I’d lost them. And then Hubert said very gently, because he is, after all, my friend and a gentleman: Look Henry, don’t you think that you should leave the assessment of French politics to Jacques, who is French as well as the chief executive of l’Occident? And let me worry about the broader consequences; it’s my money that’s at stake.

There was only one answer to that. I conceded as pleasantly as I knew how, adding only that there was another issue, which involved me and my firm. I could not assist in executing a transaction that in my professional judgment was against the long-term interests of my client and would bring down the wrath of the French government on everyone involved in it. As a practical matter, I added, if they wanted to disregard my advice and go ahead, they might engage for that purpose, instead of me, another lawyer—preferably Dutch but certainly not French. Faced with their stony silence I finally said that there would be no fee for the idea I had presented to them. I guess that Jacques had just about had enough of me, because he exclaimed that paying me was out of the question. Hubert jumped in and told him that was his decision to make, and he directed me to send the bill right away. Thereupon, without pause, Hubert and Jacques began discussing how to organize themselves for the transaction with the Banque Sainte-Terre’s usual Belgian lawyer—not a Dutch lawyer, Hubert said, because he wanted someone who would be right there at his side—and as they went on laying their plans I got the peculiar feeling that I had become invisible to them. I had ceased to exist. An odd feeling, don’t you think, for someone who had worked so long and so very hard on a client’s problems and had solved this one, which in my opinion would have defeated ninety-nine percent of lawyers. In any event, I stood up and, wishing them luck, undertook to shake Hubert’s hand. No, don’t leave that way, he cried out, Gilberte is in Paris with me, let’s have dinner at the Grand Véfour, this is an occasion to celebrate. Once we get the hard work behind us I think we’ll be grateful to Mitterrand. I never cared much for the French part of l’Occident. France is an overbanked, sclerotic environment. Then he asked Jacques whether he and his wife would join us, but Jacques said they were dining at his mother-in-law’s. And guess what, said Henry, shaking his head. I had a very pleasant dinner with Hubert and Gilberte. We didn’t talk about business for a moment—something that is unusual for him in any circumstances and made me wonder all at once whether he would ever again discuss with me anything concerning his affairs. When dessert came he gave me a present. A beautifully bound first edition of
Les illusions perdues.
He knows how much I like that novel; we’ve talked about it often. It’s a lovely thing to have and to hold in one’s hand, but I would have been even more grateful, since he always thinks this sort of thing through very carefully, if I hadn’t been certain that it was intended to set me to wonder who had lost his illusions: he or I or both of us.

V
ERY LATE THAT EVENING
the telephone rang. It was Greg Richardson. My mother was dead, of blood poisoning, the consequence of a puncture wound. She had stepped on a rusty nail walking barefoot in the yard where they had some construction going on. The doctors hadn’t realized how serious it was until the night before; he knew he should have called right away. Her wish had been to be cremated, and that was going to be done later in the day, but she had also asked to have the urn placed in the Standish family plot in Lenox. Did I see any obstacle? I said that there wasn’t any I knew. We agreed that I would get in touch with the church in Lenox and arrange for a memorial service in ten days’ time. He said he knew who her friends were and would notify them. I called Jack and May and George and Edie myself, and on the appointed morning followed what was left of my mother to the cemetery. I had been a fool to think that her removal to Hawaii had freed me; having allowed that ghoulish idea, irresponsibly encouraged by Madame Bernard, to take root had merely given me another reason to mourn. Not because I loved her. Probably I had when I was little, before the rancor, and before I had become what I was. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t remember, and was no longer certain that I knew, what love for her might have meant. Nor was I sure that Mr. Hibble’s revelation had been more than a shabby pretext for my hostility. I did see, however, that I had failed in one basic duty, the duty to treat with kindness a woman who thought she had a right to rely on me. That the duty had been derived from the legal process of adoption rather than an accident of birth didn’t lessen it. If anything, the bond of duty to her and my father should have been stronger, for hadn’t they given me a life almost certainly far better than the unwanted childhood that I might otherwise have had, stronger than any I would have owed to my natural parents, had I known them, for the poisoned gift of life they had bestowed? If there was a circle in hell reserved for such ingrates, Henry and I belonged there. We would have the company of many of our friends, I supposed.

Because I tried to make some reparation by helping out Greg, my stay in the U.S. lasted longer than I had expected. By the time I returned to Paris, the rape of l’Occident, as the French press called it, had been approved by the board of directors and the shareholders; and the prime minister, the minister of finance, as well as the minister of justice, and the governor of the Bank of France had all condemned the dastardly scheme, which, the government spokesman acknowledged, the authorities were powerless to prevent. The nationalization law was imperfect; the devilish advisers of Banque de Sainte-Terre had not scrupled to take advantage of it. All three ministers promised retribution. I supposed that Henry must be in seventh heaven: his scheme had worked, and it was indeed political poison. He had been remarkably prescient. I called him from the airport as soon as I had cleared customs. Having slept surprisingly well in the plane, I wasn’t tired and proposed we lunch in a couple of hours. He was all too free, he said, and asked me to meet him at a restaurant on rue de Belle-chasse, a few steps away from my apartment.

How does it feel to be right on all counts? I asked him.

Do you know, he said, even in my worst attacks of self-doubt I have never put in question my intelligence or my legal ability. But if you want to know whether I take any joy in this particular situation, the answer is no. Whether he now realizes it or not, Hubert is going to suffer, and that pains me. He still calls me all the time to ask whether they have done this or that right. I can’t answer the questions. Not specifically, in any event: I have to say things like if you have followed Jean-Louis Lièvre’s advice—he’s the Belgian lawyer—I’m sure you’ve done it right. Anything else and I couldn’t deny that I was representing them in this caper. Anyway I don’t like second-guessing colleagues. I couldn’t resist, though, pointing out the government’s humiliating acknowledgment that my scheme was unbeatable, and the government’s fury, which I had predicted.

Henry concentrated for a moment on his food and then continued. Not a week goes by when a new legal project isn’t taking form in the Holy Land, and there isn’t a day when Hubert doesn’t have five important questions demanding serious legal skills and common sense. That is what has kept me hopping since Hubert became a client. None of these projects or questions comes to me, and not a word of explanation has been given. You know me, I’ll never ask the reason. I’m too proud. Is Lièvre running so fast that he can handle the Occident transaction and everything else as well? It’s possible, although it’s a small firm—they must be up to their ears in l’Occident. Another American firm? I haven’t heard anything through the grapevine. Or maybe I have. A week ago, Blondet suggested we have dinner alone, and some time
entre la poire et le fromage
he asked me about the state of my relations with Hubert. I replied that I supposed they were excellent; I considered us to be close friends despite having agreed to disagree over l’Occident. Ah, said Blondet,
mon pauvre ami,
the friendship of princes, why it’s like trying to hold water in your cupped hands. Do you not ask yourself whether
cet excellent
Hubert hasn’t concluded that you’re no longer the loyal servant, that you left his side afraid to find yourself under fire?

I got hot under the collar, Henry continued, and told Blondet that such a view would be pure nonsense. I had been vindicated on every point: the flawlessness of the scheme and its prohibitive political cost to Hubert and everyone associated with it, and the ability of any good lawyer to whom my solution was given to carry it out. All that, I said, has turned out to be exactly true. Being right isn’t everything, said Blondet, although it would have been truly disastrous if you had been wrong about the legal aspect. Just accept the possibility that what Hubert might have liked even more than your brilliant idea was a show of your willingness to fall on your sword. And what can I do about that, I asked, short of hanging myself or borrowing a sword somewhere or other and trying the Roman maneuver? Oh no, said Blondet, that would be useless. When a bowl shatters you can’t put it back together. Of course princes do have to be practical—at times—and they can pretend they don’t see the shards on the marble floor. As you can imagine, we didn’t linger at table. In the meantime, in spite of this nasty twaddle, invitations to dinner in Paris and Brussels continue at the old pace; Gilberte has been talking to me about Christmas and all the other usual stuff. I am at my wits’ end.

He did look distraught, and when he apologized for having carried on about himself before saying a word about my mother, I was able to tell him sincerely that I understood and had not minded. Then I asked about Margot. Henry said she was in Paris; he had been to dinner at her house, with both Jean and the moviemaker. It was possible that Jean didn’t know, and equally possible that he didn’t care, so long as Margot didn’t rock the boat.

And what happens now? I asked.

Between me and Hubert? With Margot? Or on some other front?

All three, I said.

A tall order, he said, but as I am underemployed, why not? The Occident transaction closes in ten days. That’s when the other shoe will drop. Perhaps I will find an opportunity to see Hubert alone and test the truth of Blondet’s insinuations. I don’t like the game he’s playing. Other than that, I’ll sit tight and attend to such work as I have. Margot? I really meant it when I told you last time: she and I have missed the boat. Why don’t you look her up yourself? A third front? There isn’t one. As you know I like women and I like sex. Nowadays in Paris, if I go to a cocktail party or some business reception with unaccompanied women in attendance, and that happens often enough, my batting average is quite impressive. And if she proves any good the first night, I’ll have her come back until we get bored with each other. None of them expect anything more and I don’t either.

Pretty decadent, I said.

Really, he answered, I thought that you of all people would understand.

A couple of days later, following Henry’s suggestion, I had lunch with Margot at her apartment. She showed me photographs of little Henry, who didn’t look so little in the recent ones. He was attending a school in Gstaad, the name of which was familiar to me as that of an incubator for future playboys. Naturally, I told her that I had seen big Henry as soon as I arrived in Paris. Really, she said. Did he tell you that there is a good deal of talk about him? I shook my head. Yes, she continued, it hasn’t hit the papers yet, except for a tiny squib in the
Canard,
but people know—certainly the government knows—that he masterminded the hijacking of l’Occident. The deal hasn’t gone through yet. I saw a commentator on television who claimed that the minister of finance is still hammering at Hubert de Sainte-Terre and that pompous man who works for him in Paris, trying to get them to back off. But no one thinks anything will come of that, and soon the fat will be in the fire.

I admitted that Henry had not mentioned being the subject of news and asked whether she thought he was at any risk personally. She made a face and said, If you play with fire….

Henry had called it right.

The foreign business of l’Occident was sold to the Sainte-Terre subsidiary on a Tuesday. That night Hubert gave a celebratory dinner at the Grand Véfour, apparently his favorite restaurant—unless he chose it tauntingly for its location, a mere stone’s throw from the Ministry of Finance. Grands-Echézeaux ’71 followed by La Tâche ’62 and Krug ’75 flowed like Stella d’Artois. Henry and I were at Hubert’s table. It was his idea to invite you, Henry told me. He said that since you witnessed my first triumphs you should likewise be present at this most recent one. I can’t imagine what he’s talking about.