Destiny (89 page)

"Oh, I should have thought that would be obvious." Again there was a faint chilly smile. "I don't have that kind of capital, and your mother does. . . ."

And — because she is my mother, Edouard thought instinctively.

"We came to an agreement, obviously." De Belfort sounded almost bored. "A sixty-forty spht on the profits. Sixty to me, forty to Louise. She wasn't inclined to haggle."

Edouard could have hit him then. The desire to step forward, grab de Belfort by the collar, and slam him back against the wall, was almost insuperable. He might have done it, too, had he not suspected de Belfort would have enjoyed it very much. Edouard had been standing; now he returned to his desk. He looked down at the papers there, then up.

"And you knew there was a strong possibility of a counterbid, I imagine, so the stock was hkely to go even higher?"

"Oh, yes. I knew that. I have a friend at Matheson De Vere. They were all set to go. When we delayed, I suppose they got cold feet. The word must have spread. That's why the shares started falling."

"I see." Edouard's hps tightened. He stared at de Belfort. Even now, he found it incomprehensible, unbelievable, that any man in his position should have behaved as de Belfort had. The man's calm was incredible to him; he seemed, if anything, smug.

"You do understand what you've done?" he said at last. "You have

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compromised my company. You have compromised my mother, and me. You have also—irrevocably—compromised yourself. You realize that you are now unemployable—not just here, anywhere?"

"I don't quite see it like that." De Belfort regarded him with a bland obstinacy. "Not everyone shares your absolute standards. Other people in this company don't. I have my supporters, you know. Besides, I'm not the first person to do what I did. Insider trading isn't even against the law in England. ..."

"For God's sake." Edouard pushed his papers aside in exasperation. "The whole point is that there is no law against this kind of exploitation. The financial world operates on trust. I don't have to explain that to you, surely? If you exploit that trust, you betray it. You undermine everything."

He stopped. De Belfort had begun to smile.

"Ah, yes. A gentleman's word is his bond—that kind of thing, you mean? Yes, well, they talk about that a lot in the City of London, just as they talk about trust. Personally, I never believe any of them. And I don't believe in trust. I never build it into my contracts. ..."

"I trusted j;c>«." Edouard looked up at him directly. "I never liked you, as perhaps you knew. But I damn well bent over backward to help you, because I could see you were able, I could see you had promise. You've been promoted. You've been well paid. You were put in a position of considerable responsibility and influence—did it never occur to you that you owed something to this company, to the people you work with here, to me? It's beyond my imagination that someone in your position could do this."

"It probably is." Again that small smile flickered across de Belfort's face. "An honorable imagination is a severe disability. Your particular Achilles heel, I would have said."

He made the remark flatly; it stung Edouard to the quick. He looked away. An imagination limited by its inability to understand the dishonorable—yes, he could see the truth in that particular gibe. His mother, he thought, would probably say precisely the same thing.

He stared down at the columns of figures on the paper in front of him, figures which added up to fraud. And he thought, with a sense of despair, not of de Belfort, but of Helene. He had placed his trust in her; he had placed his trust in his love for her; he saw that action, for a moment, from de Belfort's cynical point of view. An illogical, an unlikely and an obstinate trust. He saw it, just then, in the light of common day—an illusory thing, in which he had unswervingly believed.

He knew de Belfort was watching him, eager to see if his words had struck home. He did not intend to give him that satisfaction. He moved the papers across his desk, aligned them with its edge, and stood up.

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"I have canceled our bid for the Rolfson Hotels Group, obviously. After this, we cannot proceed. I imagine I don't need to tell you that you're dismissed."

"You can't prosecute." De Belfort hfted his heavy-lidded eyes to Edouard's face.

"No, I can't prosecute. Unfortunately."

De Belfort sighed. "I wonder what your mother will have to say about this."

"What my mother says or does not say is no concern of yours. You will not see my mother again."

"It seems to me that's her decision. Not yours."

For the very first time, there was a flicker of anger in de Belfort's face. He shrugged. "You may enjoy ordering people around, but you can't order Louise. And you can't order me. I don't work for you anymore, remember?"

"Very well." Edouard sat down once more. He looked at de Belfort coldly. "I'll spell it out to you. You will never work in any position of seniority or trust in any reputable company—I shall personally ensure that. But if you attempt to see my mother after tonight—if you so much as communicate with her in any way—I shall go further than that." He leaned forward. "I will take you apart—do you understand that? Your financial affairs, your investments, the income you have declared to the tax authorities, and the income you have no doubt concealed, the expenses you have claimed, the cash transactions, the offshore dealings. I will have you investigated step by step, piece by piece. I shall turn you inside out, until I find whatever it takes to finish you off. However long it takes, I will do it." He paused. "I think you know me well enough to believe that. I hope for your sake that you do. Because I can assure you I will do it, and without hesitation. And you'll go where you belong. For a very long time."

There was a silence. De Belfort let out a long slow sigh. "Oh, I'm sure you would. I don't doubt it for a second. I've seen you do similar things before. No doubt you'd enjoy it, in my case, very much."

"You think so?" Edouard looked at him contemptuously. "Oddly enough, you're wrong. I might have once. Not now. And you are not a special case—you glamorize yourself too much."

De Belfort's mouth tightened; that angered him. He rose. "Very well. I shall leave the country in any case. As you say, I have no illusions about my chances here."

He turned away and moved to the door at a leisurely pace. At the door, he turned back, and looked around him with his pale heavy-lidded gaze. He looked at the furniture, the sculptures, the paintings. He looked at

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Edouard; no sign of hatred, no sign of resentment, no sign of any emotion at all.

"All this." He lifted one heavy hand and gestured at the room. "All these paintings. Houses. Offices. Companies. Subsidiaries. Shareholdings. All this work. And you have no children." He paused. "None of it will outlast you—I suppose you realize that? Don't you ever think, Edouard, what fun people will have when you're dead—picking over the spoils? No, maybe you don't." He began to smile. "Maybe that's beyond your imagination too. What a pity. I'd like to think you thought about that—just occasionally." He opened the door. "Give my regards to your mother— will you do that?"

I hat godawful overpainted bitch is after you, Edouard," Christian X remarked in a conversational manner. He lit a cigarette, put his feet up, and leaned back in his chair. They sat on the terrace of Louise's villa on the first day of what was supposed to be a holiday. Christian had been invited, by Edouard, at the very last moment. He was still undecided whether he was glad that he had come. There was a glass of excellent Montrachet at Christian's elbow; the sun shone; he was prepared to enjoy himself When Edouard made no response to his sortie. Christian sighed. He knew why he had been invited, knew why he was here. He was here because Edouard was in a state of black depression, and he was to play the court jester. Sometimes this role amused him, sometimes he was resentful of it. Today he was not sure quite which.

He glanced across at his friend; Edouard gave no indication that he had even heard him. From one of the rooms beyond the terrace, Ghislaine's voice floated out to them, sharp on the still air. She was directing the moving of various heavy pieces of furniture, now here, now there. Every so often her commanding tones were interrupted by a softer voice, that of Clara Delluc, who was supervising the hanging of sixty sets of curtains.

"Even Ghislaine can't spin it out much longer," Christian went on, determined not to give up. "She could have left days ago. She's deliberately delaying. A crisis is approaching, Edouard—be warned."

"Christian—leave it, will you? I'm not interested," Edouard said. He, too, was leaning back in his chair; he was staring out at the sea.

"Well, obviously you're not interested," Christian persisted waspishly, deliberately misunderstanding him. "That won't stop her, however. She's so vain she doesn't notice, and you're so blind to your own attractions that you can't see. Honestly, Edouard, she's in a kind of fury of sexual excitement. Anyone but you would see it right away. It's quite terrifying. Do

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you think it can be her age that accounts for it? She positively trembles with it, Edouard, an awful black lust. I can see it burning in her eyes every time she looks at you. As if she wanted to devour you. Or possibly be saved by you. I'm not quite sure which."

"You exaggerate—as usual. And what you say is not very kind."

"Oh, for God's sake. Why should I be kind? I can't stand her, and I never could. ..."

Christian stood up restlessly. "Look, why don't we escape for a bit? What do you say? We could drive into St. Tropez—go to Senequier's— have a marvelous boozy lunch." He paused. "Forget women—all women —for once."

"Christian, I'm sorry—I can't. My mother's arriving any moment and —I ought to be here when she arrives, that's all." He hesitated shghtly, then shrugged. "Also, I have work I should do. ..."

"This is supposed to be a holiday." Christian looked at him sternly. "I know you never have them, but you ought to learn. Lotus-eating. It grows on one, you know. ..."

He paused, but Edouard only shook his head. Christian shrugged. The atmosphere in the house was beginning to get on his nerves, and it would only be made worse by the arrival of Louise, whom Christian had never liked. Too many bloody women, he thought; Clara would be leaving later that morning; Louise would probably give Ghislaine short shrift—then things might improve somewhat. Except for the fact that Helene Harte was not only in the country right now, she was close by—less than a hundred kilometers along the coast. Was that why Edouard was in this impossible mood?

He had had enough of moods, he decided; he lifted his hand in a gentle salute.

"I'll see you later then. I might watch a game of boules in the Place des Lices. Drop into the museum, perhaps. I'd like to look at their Vuillard again—and they have a quite perfect Seurat. I'll be back this afternoon. . . ." He hesitated, and then smiled wickedly. "And if Ghislaine makes a move, I want to hear all about it. Every disgusting detail—do you swear?"

"Christian—stop this, will you? If you're going, go. ..."

"Oh, all right." Christian sighed once more. "Sometimes, Edouard," he added as he drifted away, "sometimes your probity wears me out. . . ."

Edouard watched him leave: a tall thin figure in a crumpled but elegant linen suit, a straw hat that had seen better days shading his face from the sun. The trousers were belted with his old school tie, and there was a bandanna handkerchief, of bright red silk, in his top pocket. He disappeared from view. Edouard sat alone a little longer on the terrace, looking

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out at the sea. One white-sailed yacht lay on the horizon, becalmed. The air smelled clean and salty.

After a while, abruptly, he rose, and took the path down to the beach. It was bordered by bushes of wild thyme, rosemary, and lavender. As he walked, he caught their scent, strong in the sun: aromatic, sharp, the fragrance of Provence.

On the deserted beach, Edouard walked back and forth for a while, kicking at the pale sand with his feet. Philippe de Belfort's parting remarks had been in his mind all week; they returned to him now. You have no children. It was as good as true. He had a daughter whom he could not acknowledge, a daughter who had never known him. He loved a woman who now led her own life, and would never return to him. And he had an empty obsession which he had allowed to dominate his thoughts for almost three years. He turned away, angrily, to an outcrop of rocks, and sat there looking out at the still sea.

He should marry again, perhaps. There were other reasons for marriage besides love, after all. He was thinking this when he heard footsteps crunch on the sand, and, looking up, saw that it was Clara.

He watched her approach, walking a little awkwardly on the sand, lifting her hand to shield her eyes from the sun. As she came closer, she began to smile, and Edouard stood up.

"I've come to say good-bye," she called to him when she was still a short distance away. She drew level with him, and stopped, a Httle out of breath.

"It's finally finished. My part of it anyway. I just wanted to see you before I left—there's a car coming for me in a minute. ..."

"You should have let me drive you ..."

"No—why should you? Louise is arriving any minute. It's all arranged. And besides, it's easier this way. ..." She stopped suddenly. "Edouard— is there something wrong?"

"No. Nothing. Here, come and sit down for a while—I had an unrealistic thought, that's all. It's gone now. . . ."He spoke lightly, smiling at her, holding out his hand. Clara took it, and he drew her down beside him. They sat in silence for a while; Clara leaned back a little on her arms, so that she could look at him. He was staring out at the sea again now, as he had been when she saw him from the terrace above. There was a slight breeze from the water, and it lifted the dark hair from his forehead. He looked tired, she thought with a rush of affection for him; tired, and also bleak—and she thought for a moment of the young Edouard, back in