Destiny (84 page)

Madeleine had written, in French:

Little Cat is two. Cassie and I measured her today. She is two feet and eight inches tall. She is exactly twenty-seven pounds in weight, perhaps a little thin, but she grows very fast. I have lost count of the number of words she knows, because they increase every day. A month ago, Cassie and I thought it was one hundred and ninety-seven, but it is much more now. She knows five words of French: Bonjour; Bonne nuit; Merci beaucoup. For her birthday, I am knitting her a little sweater, in blue, which is her favorite color. It is almost finished, there are just the sleeves to do. Cassie has sewn her a skirt, with a very pretty blue border. She is sleeping much better now, and has a very good appetite. She had a cough, in February, but it cleared up very quickly.

Three words were then crossed out, so they were indecipherable. Underneath, Madeleine had finished:

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This is Cassie and me in the photograph: Cassie is the housekeeper now, and sometimes cooks. Catharine likes her cakes. She came here when we moved to this house, last June. We are good friends, I think. Assuring you. Monsieur le Baron, of my enduring service and respect.

The letter, or note, was then signed. As an afterthought, Madeleine had written: All is well.

Edouard reread the words several times; he looked at the photograph for a long time. Then he slipped it back into the envelope, and put the envelope back in his drawer. Under it was one other, sent by Madeleine on the same date in May the previous year. He had given her strict instructions that this was to be the limit of their correspondence, and Madeleine obeyed him, of course.

Madeleine was not in that household as an informer; that possibihty, which seemed to Edouard deeply dishonorable, had been ruled out. It had embarrassed him to spell it out to Madeleine, but he had done so. There was to be no reference, he had said, to other members of the household; no reference to activities that took place, nor to events or conversations that occurred. Madeleine was there for one reason, and one reason only: to ensure that his daughter was safe, and secure, in good hands, and in good health. "Once a year, on her birthday, if you could send me a small photograph," he had said, finding the request very difficult. Madeleine had bent her head; the httle notes, which told him everything, and nothing, had been her idea, he assumed, since he had not requested them. Now he did not have the heart to tell her not to write.

He had given the instructions curtly, as he always did when he wished to disguise strong emotion. His mind had blazed with all the things he knew he would want to know. Was Catharine happy? Was her mother happy? What did she do? How did she pass the hours of her day? What did she think? What did she say? What did she feel? Did she love her husband? Did Catharine love him? Did she call Lewis Sinclair Father?

He still wanted to know the answers to those questions, and to a million others, and—proudly—he despised himself for the need, and never spoke of it. He had elected to take this course; insofar as he was able, he would do so without deviating from the iron rails of his personal code.

All is well. He knew why Madeleine had added that postscript. What if she had written the opposite—all is not well, everything is wrong, painful, chaotic, Catharine is suffering. . . . What would he have done then? He bent his head wearily in his hands. He was, above all things, thorough and methodical. He had consulted a lawyer, and discussed—as if in the ab-

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stract—certain points. The man had looked at him carefully, perhaps pitying him. Then he had folded his hands.

"In the circumstances you describe, Monsieur le Baron, the law is perfectly clear." He paused. "The term applicable i^ putative father. The putative father in a case such as the one you describe, is without legal rights. Or claims," he had added gently.

"Entirely?"

"Entirely, Monsieur le Baron."

Edouard stood up. He locked the drawer of his desk and put the key in his pocket. He left the room, and the house, took one of his cars—the black Aston-Martin—from the garage, and drove, fast, around the city of Paris for one hour. It was dark, and he drove fast; while he drove he listened to some Beethoven piano pieces—Seven Bagatelles, recorded originally by Schnabel in 1938. It was a recording he particularly liked, and played often at home. The music was sometimes melancholy, abruptly gentle, finally, and assertively, wild. Joyous, too, he supposed.

When he returned to the house, he rang for his servant, George, and asked for Armagnac. It was brought him, George left, and—picking up the screenplay of the film Ellis —Edouard began once more to read.

Attached to the script were various reports and memoranda from script consultants and production executives now employed at Sphere: some were for the project, others against. Edouard pushed these aside, and looked only at the words of the screenplay itself. It was long, and would make a film of more than usual duration; it took him nearly two hours to read, for he read it carefully, making occasional notes.

It began on Ellis Island, in 1912; it then traced, and interwove, the stories of three families—one Jewish-Hungarian, one Irish, and one German by origin—as they became American. The birth of a nation: the comparison with D. W. Griffith would probably be made, Edouard thought, and would, no doubt, amuse Thaddeus Angelini.

The film concentrated most closely on the younger generation of the families, and in particular on Lise, a young German orphan, aged fourteen when the film began. This part would be played by Helene—it had been written for her, of that Edouard had no doubt. It was that part which—he felt certain of it—would win her an Academy Award.

When he had finished reading, he closed the covers of the screenplay, and sat quietly, his hands folded. He knew Angelini's ability as a director. The screenplay moved him; of its stature, he was in no doubt.

If he did not authorize the funding of the film by Sphere, there were other companies only too eager to step into the breach, he knew that. Angelini's reputation was growing fast; Helene Harte's participation promised commercial success. One studio or another would step in, the

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film would Still be made—though possibly with more interference than if it were funded by Sphere.

He hesitated. He was aware that if he signed this authorization, he was possibly signing away Helene. The success this would bring her would be absolute; it was not an achievement from which he could envision her walking away. It was, this document, a kind of death warrant for his hopes.

He paused, then picked up his platinum pen and signed his name.

"Mi

y dear Louise, I do so see what you mean! Impossible, quite .impossible ..."

They had completed their tour of the house, and had now returned to the salon overlooking the sea. Louise was sitting, rather quietly for once, and Ghislaine was standing in the center of the room; as she spoke, she accompanied her words with a suitably extravagant gesture.

"All those httle touches of yours, Louise, quite charming. But the rest of it! Such a heavy hand—no, as I thought, we shall have to start from scratch. Everything must go, my dear—absolutely everything."

"Do you think so, Ghislaine? Well, I shall be guided by you, naturally. ..."

Louise sounded hardly interested. Ghislaine looked at her sharply. Was she losing interest? Was she about to change her mind? Abandon the whole project? It was possible, Ghislaine thought; Louise was capable of changing her mind fifteen times in as many minutes.

She hesitated, looking around her. The villa was exquisite, of course. Magnificently positioned, set high on a hillside some twelve kilometers from St. Tropez itself. Its rooms were large, and light, there was the most glorious terrace, forty hectares of land to ensure total seclusion. . . . And the interior, well, had the house been hers, Ghislaine knew perfectly well that she would have been tempted to keep it exactly as it was. The English designer responsible for it, a flamboyant homosexual, was a man Ghislaine particularly disliked. But his eye was brilliant, she had to admit that. The use of color, the sense of form, the quality of the curtains, the carpets— they alone must have cost a small fortune.

However, it was Louise's house, not hers, and Ghislaine naturally had no intention of telling Louise what she truly thought. But Louise's indifference was worrying her: she had expected opposition, she had expected quibbles. So far there had been none. Ghislaine began to think that there was indeed something seriously wrong.

They were to have lunch on the terrace. Over lunch, Ghislaine returned

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to the attack; Louise sat there sipping her wine, her eyes on the sea beyond. Ghislaine, feehng her audience sUpping away from her, began to feel desperate.

"Simple," she said. "I see it, my dear, as terribly terribly simple. Audaciously simple. In simplicity is elegance—but you know that, you are the very embodiment of it. ..."

She paused hopefully. Louise acknowledged the flattery with a dreamy smile.

"Cool cool colors," Ghislaine went on, warming to her theme. "Those wonderful creams and off-whites darhng Syrie used so well, the old monster. Some blue, to remind us of the sea. That deUcious gray-green—the color of rosemary."

"Green? I've always rather dishked green. Any shade of green," Louise said ruminatively.

Ghislaine, who was wearing a green dress, drew a deep breath. "Well, perhaps not green," she said hastily. "Dare we use some pink, do you think? I would so love to. That very pale rose pink, shell pink—if we used it terribly carefully. Nothing too obviously feminine. No ghastly frills and furbelows. Everything rather calm and understated. And for the furniture, nothing in the least grand. Wouldn't that be amusing? Louise?"

"Simple things?" Louise smiled vaguely. "Oh, yes. That sounds perfectly charming."

"Some interesting paint treatments," Ghislaine went on doggedly. "All that dreadful wallpaper must come off—it's quite inappropriate in a house hke this. And the windows—now we must emphasize those marvelous windows. I wonder—maybe we should bring in Clara Delluc. Let her work on a textile scheme for the whole house—she really is so marvelously original. Dear Clara! I adore her. ..."

Louise gave a little sigh. She pushed aside her wineglass with just the smallest suggestion of irritation.

"Of course. Of course. I've already told you, Ghislaine—your ideas sound delightful, quite delightful. I'm happy to leave all the details to you. I really don't have the time, and when you get excited, Ghislaine, well, you do rather bombard one, you know. ..."

Ghislaine gave her a glance of pure dislike, which Louise fortunately did not see; she intended, she thought, to charge Louise the earth. . . .

"Very well," she said crisply. "But it's going to be a great rush, you know. The preliminary work's been done, of course, and everyone is standing by. I'll pull out all the stops, my dear—since it's for you. ..."

Louise did not bother to thank her. Her face was dreamy once more. "It's such a woman's house at the moment, don't you think, Ghislaine? That's what's wrong, perhaps. That terrible pansy who did it before, I

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can't think why I asked him. I was driven to distraction, Ghislaine—he would nag. But you've such a wonderfully masculine imagination, I've always thought. So I know you'll do it beautifully. I'd like ..." She paused. "I'd like it to be the kind of house in which a man felt comfortable —yes, that's what I want. I see it now."

Ghislaine looked at her narrowly. Of course, she thought: it was perfectly simple. Louise could never manage to think about two things at once. It wasn't that she lacked interest, she was simply too busy thinking about Philippe de Belfort.

When they boarded Edouard's plane, which was to fly them back to Paris, Louise's spirits rose. She behaved as if she had been absent several months rather than a few hours. She was being met at the airport, she confided to Ghislaine, with a coquettish glance; Ghislaine smiled ingenuously.

"By Edouard? He's just back from New York, isn't he?"

"Edouard? Goodness no, Ghislaine. By Philippe de Belfort ..."

Louise was, at that point, halfway up the steps to the aircraft. On the top step, she turned, sighed, took a deep breath of carbon monoxide fumes, lifted her face to the sun, and smiled radiantly.

"Isn't it the most wonderful day? You know, Ghislaine, I feel positively young. ..."

Once they had taken oflF, Louise asked for champagne. She and Ghislaine both smoked and drank, and the mood between them became quite confidential. Ghislaine was almost enjoying herself, and she knew Louise was too. They talked about dresses, and hats, and the virtues of this vendeuse as opposed to that one. They discussed the taste of the many acquaintances and friends they had in common, and agreed it was execrable. Though neither, essentially, liked the other very much, there were links between them, and on such an occasion, warmed by champagne, it was almost possible to feel, if not friendship exactly, then some kind of warm alliance.

"I adore Balenciaga." Louise sighed. "Such a genius. But I can't wear his clothes. I simply can't. I'm not tall enough. Now on you, Ghislaine, they are perfect. Absolutely perfect."

"Ah, yes. But you can wear Chanel, my dear, which doesn't suit me at all. Do you know, I remember you in a Chanel dress, in the great days. I can still see it so clearly. It was pink—you were with Xavier, and I remember thinking how exquisite you looked. Goodness, what an age ago. It must have been 1930, somewhere around then. . . ."

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Ghislaine had been about to add that she had been fifteen at the time; she just managed to stop herself.

"Ah, yes! I remember it, Ghislaine—quite distinctly!" She gave a sigh. "How young we were!"

On another occasion this bracketing, as if they were the same age, would have annoyed Ghislaine so much that she would have felt bound to make some sharp rebuke. But not now. The champagne was making her benevolent; she did not want the mood spoiled.