The Scapegoat (13 page)

‘What do you think, Gaston,’ said Marie-Noel, ‘Papa is giving
everybody presents, even my aunt Blanche. It is not in celebration of anything, it is just a sign of appreciation.’

I saw Gaston dart me a quick look, and I wondered why it should be so unusual a thing to do, to present gifts on returning home. Did he assume I had been drinking again? A moment or two later he flung open double doors at the end of the room, leading to what appeared to be a library, and said, ‘Madame la Comtesse is served.’ The little group which his action revealed might have been a conversation piece executed rather stiffly by an eighteenth-century painter. Françoise and Renée were seated in hard chairs some distance apart, the one reading, the other sewing, Paul was leaning on his wife’s chair, and the tall, thin figure of Blanche was silhouetted against the farther door. They looked up as the child and I advanced into the room.

‘Papa has a surprise for you all,’ Marie-Noel said, ‘but I am not going to tell you what it is.’

I wondered, had it been Jean de Gué himself who entered, whether he would have seen them as I did then, or whether, because they were his own family and he belonged to them, familiarity would have blunted perception, their pose seeming natural and without significance, merging into the background that he knew so well. As a stranger I was like a spectator at a play, but I was also in a sense producer too: circumstances were forcing them to follow my lead, and upon my actions would depend their own. I was Merlin, I was Prospero, and the child a sort of Ariel to do my bidding, an intermediary between two separate worlds. I saw, in that moment, apprehension on both Françoise’s face and Renée’s, but to a different degree, and surely from a different cause: the one expressed doubt, a fear of being hurt, and the other, more guarded, wary, seemed to imply misgiving. Paul, openly hostile, threw me a glance full of suspicion and dislike, and Blanche, by the door, betrayed no interest whatsoever. But I saw her figure stiffen, and she looked not at me but at the child.

‘What is it, Jean?’ said Françoise, rising to her feet.

‘Nothing,’ I replied. ‘Marie-Noel likes to be mysterious. It’s only that I have brought back a small present for everyone, and we put them on the table in the dining-room.’

The tension eased. Renée relaxed, Paul shrugged his shoulders, and Françoise smiled, fingering the locket which she wore pinned on to her jumper.

‘I’m afraid you spent too much money in Paris,’ she said. ‘If you continue giving me presents like this one, there’ll be nothing left at all.’

She passed by into the dining-room, and we followed her. I made a pretence of tying my shoe, allowing the others to sit, so as to make sure that I was right in assuming my place to be at the head of the table. This was correct, and I sat down. There was a momentary hush while Blanche said grace and we bowed our heads over our plates. I noticed Marie-Noel watch her aunt in fascination, and looking to the end of the table I saw that Blanche’s eyes were on the package beside her napkin. Her usual frozen immobility changed to incredulity. Had the package been a live snake she could not have expressed greater horror or disgust. Then her mouth tightened, she regained composure, and ignoring the package she took the napkin and placed it in her lap.

‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ said the child.

Blanche did not answer. She broke the bread beside her plate, and I saw then that the others were all looking at me with curiosity, as if something quite without precedent had occurred. For one second I wondered if my action in sitting down, the way I held myself, some involuntary gesture, had at last betrayed me, and they knew me for an impostor.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘what’s wrong? Why are you all staring at me?’

The child, my familiar spirit, gave me the answer. ‘Everyone is surprised because you have given a present to my aunt Blanche,’ she said.

So that was it. I had acted out of character. But I was still undiscovered.

‘I felt in a generous mood,’ I announced, and then, remembering the words of Jean de Gué in the bistro in Le Mans, and how his choice of gifts must have been deliberately chosen to suit the recipient, I added, ‘I hope I have given everybody what they needed most. It’s part of my system.’

‘Look,’ said Marie-Noel, ‘Papa has given me a life of
The Little Flower
. It was certainly what I wanted most. He can’t have given my aunt Blanche a life of St Thérèse of Avila because it’s the wrong shape. I could tell by the feel of it.’

‘Suppose you stop talking,’ I said, ‘and get on with your food. They can open their presents later.’

‘There’s only one present I want,’ said Paul, ‘and that’s the renewal of the Carvalet contract, and possibly a cheque for ten million francs. You haven’t been able to oblige, by any chance?’

‘I would say your present also is the wrong shape,’ I answered, ‘and I dislike talking business when I am eating. On the other hand, I am perfectly willing to come with you to the
verrerie
this afternoon.’

My sense of power was unbounded. I knew nothing about the contract or the business, but I felt my bluff to be superb, and it must have worked, for they were all attacking their plates. My self-confidence mounting every moment, I signalled to Gaston to pour me out a glass of wine. I recalled my success with the mother the night before and began to tell the same tale again, the visit to the theatre in Paris, the meeting with old friends, and just as she had fed me with information then, so now I picked up here and there a clue. As the meal went on I learned that during the war Jean de Gué must have fought for the Resistance, that Paul had been a prisoner, that Jean de Gué and Françoise had met and married soon after the Liberation. Little scraps of family history fell on my ear before the conversation drifted to something else totally unconnected. What I gleaned would have to be sorted and sifted at leisure, and still I could not be absolutely sure of the relationship between Jean de Gué and Paul and Renée, except
that the last two were husband and wife, and Paul obviously directed, or helped to direct, the family business. The likeness that made the tie between Jean de Gué, his mother, and his child showed no trace in the colouring or features of the sister Blanche; while Paul and Renée, both being dark in hair and complexion, could have been blood relations had I not known the contrary.

Blanche took little part in the conversation, and never once addressed herself to me; and Françoise, surprisingly, proved my greatest source of help and information. The note of complaint had gone from her voice, she seemed happy, even gay, and I guessed that the locket she so constantly fingered was the cause of this. Renée, whom I had expected to dominate the table, was silent, even sullen, and when Blanche inquired after her migraine she replied briefly that it was as bad as ever.

‘Why don’t you take something for it?’ said Paul irritably. ‘Surely in these days somebody has invented a cure? I thought Dr Lebrun had given you some tablets.’

‘You know perfectly well they don’t touch it,’ she answered. ‘I shall lie down this afternoon and try to sleep. I had a wretched night.’

‘Perhaps aunt Renée is getting measles,’ said Marie-Noel. ‘They say that begins with a headache. But it wouldn’t hurt her if she was, because aunt Renée isn’t going to have a baby.’

The remark was unfortunate. Renée flushed and darted a look of venom at her niece, while Françoise, turning the subject rather too adroitly, asked Paul about one of the workmen at the
verrerie
who had burnt his arm in a furnace, at the same time frowning at the child.

‘If what we pay out in benefits and sickness could only go into the business, we should be in a better position to face the future,’ said Paul. ‘As it is, the men seize any excuse to be idle, knowing they will be kept at our expense. It was very different in my father’s day.’

‘Our father happened to have brains and integrity,’ said
Blanche, surprisingly. ‘His sons unfortunately have neither.’

Good for Blanche, I thought, looking towards her in astonishment. But Paul, thrusting out his chin and flushing as darkly as his wife, said swiftly, ‘Are you suggesting that
I
am dishonest?’

‘No,’ said Blanche, ‘misled.’

‘Oh, please,’ said Françoise wearily, ‘must we have this at the table? I thought for once we were going to keep off family affairs.’

‘My dear Françoise,’ said Paul, ‘if Jean cared to put into the business one quarter of what he spends on ridiculous trinkets like the brooch you are wearing, there wouldn’t be any need to discuss family affairs. No one would complain. Least of all myself.’

‘You know perfectly well it’s the first present he has given me for months,’ she said.

‘Possibly. But perhaps other people have been more fortunate.’

‘Such as whom?’

‘Don’t ask me. Jean is the traveller. I stay at home. That is the prerogative of the younger brother.’

Unpleasant innuendo, but I had it. He was also a de Gué, the
cadet
. And judging from his manner he resented his position. The jig-saw fitted into place, but I was not certain that Renée made a comfortable sister-in-law.

‘If you are trying to hint,’ said Françoise, ‘that Jean wastes money on other women …’

‘But he does,’ chipped in the child. ‘Papa has given a present both to aunt Renée and aunt Blanche, and I, for one, want to know what he has brought.’

‘Will you be quiet,’ said Françoise, turning to her, ‘or do you want me to send you from the table?’

The leg of mutton had been eaten and taken away, the vegetables served, and we were now at cheese and fruit. I felt it was time to ease the tension.

‘How about opening the presents?’ I said cheerfully. ‘I agree
with Françoise. Let’s stop discussing family. Come on, Renée, a gift to chase the migraine.’

Marie-Noel asked my permission to get down, and then ran round the table to stand beside her aunt. Reluctantly, I noticed, Renée untied the ribbon. The fancy paper was laid aside, and the layers of tissue. I caught a glimpse of lace, and Renée paused and said hurriedly, ‘I’ll open it upstairs. I might spill something on it here.’

‘But what is it?’ said Françoise. ‘A blouse?’

The child forestalled the covering hand of her aunt, and drew from the folded tissue the flimsiest of nightgowns, gossamer light, a frivolity for brides on midsummer eve.

‘How pretty,’ said Françoise. But her tone lacked warmth.

Renée had taken the piece of nonsense away from Marie-Noel and was folding it back again between the concealing paper. She did not thank me. It was only then that I realized I had made a faux pas. The gift was not intended for public display. The child had been right when she told me that presents were personal things, and that people liked to open them in privacy. Too late to make amends. Paul was staring moodily at his wife, and Françoise wore the false, bright smile of someone who tries to pretend that all is well. On Blanche’s face was nothing but contempt. Marie-Noel was the only one delighted.

‘You will have to keep that for best, aunt Renée,’ she said. ‘The pity of it is that only uncle Paul will see you wearing it.’

She darted round to his side of the table. ‘I wonder what Papa has given you?’ she said.

He shrugged his shoulders. His wife’s gift had taken the edge off expectation. ‘I’ve no idea. You had better open it,’ he said.

Excitedly she snipped the string with a knife, while I sought to make excuses for Jean de Gué. I thought back to the past evening, and my encounter downstairs, and I believed I knew now what had been expected of me. Tête-à-tête, with Paul absent, the frivolous gift might have come apropos. But it hardly belonged in the dining-room with the cheese. At least, I decided,
the blunder might be rectified by the fact that Jean de Gué had brought a present for his brother too. But I was wrong. Worse was to come. The child, with puzzled face, drew forth a small bottle from corrugated wrapping.

‘It’s medicine,’ she said. ‘It’s called Elixir.’ And looking at the printed folder enclosed with it she read aloud, ‘To tone the organs. A hormone preparation to counteract impotence … What does impotence mean, Papa?’

Paul snatched the bottle from her to prevent further reading from the folder. ‘Give that thing here and be quiet,’ he said, stuffing the bottle in his jacket and turning to me in fury. ‘If that’s your idea of a joke, I don’t see it.’

He got up and went out of the room. The silence was appalling, and this time I could find no excuses for Jean for such a wanton piece of cruelty.

‘What a shame,’ said Marie-Noel reproachfully. ‘Uncle Paul was disappointed, and I don’t blame him.’

I felt Gaston’s gaze on me from the sideboard, and lowered my eyes to my plate. Hostility surrounded me on all sides. I dared not look at Renée, and Françoise’s deprecating cough warned me that I could expect no sympathy from her. Jean de Gué, in all the glory of his cups, could not have made so fabulous a botch as I had done. Apology was useless. ‘For what we have received may the Lord make us truly thankful,’ said Blanche, and rose from her seat. Françoise and Renée followed her, and I was left sitting at the table.

‘Aunt Blanche,’ called the child, ‘you haven’t taken your present.’ She ran after the others, holding the third package in her hands.

Gaston came with a tray and brush to sweep the crumbs. ‘If Monsieur le Comte is going to the
verrerie
the car is outside,’ he said.

I met his eyes and saw reproach. And this upset me, because his devotion gave me confidence.

‘What happened just then,’ I said, ‘was not intentional.’

‘No, Monsieur le Comte.’

‘It was, in fact, an error. I had forgotten the contents of the packages.’

‘Evidently, Monsieur le Comte.’

There was no more to say. I went out of the dining-room to the hall, and so to the terrace, and drawn up below the steps was the Renault, and Paul waiting by the open door.

T
here was no escaping him. The situation was my responsibility. Whatever Jean de Gué may have intended to do, discreetly and in private, I had now wrecked with brash and false bonhomie.

‘All right, get in. You drive,’ I said curtly, and as I climbed in beside Paul I realized that in assuming the personality and presence of the other I must also make amends for the faults I committed in his name. In a strange way it seemed a point of honour.