At long last, the old count and his heirs were legally dead.
Long live the new count!
Elisabeth had planned a grand afternoon reception, at which she intended to make the formal announcement. She regretted that Paul would not be there, that he was still playing soldier in Africa. In fact she had had no word at all from Paul, although a month earlier the commandant of the garrison in Wargla had written to assure her that the lieutenant who was fast becoming a desert legend was still very much among the living, but that regrettably, he did not know where. She had known that much from the newspapers, which had reported enthusiastically about the second lieutenant crushing the Saharan uprising, the man who had repeatedly refused promotion and lived and traveled like a native. The story was captivating the press, and the fickle winds of public opinion had begun to shift in a favorable direction. To her delight her son was becoming famous.
She regretted his absence, but the reception would not wait a moment longer. Paul would understand. It was, after all, for him.
And then two telegrams brought glorious word. The first, delivered on a silver tray by the butler, made it seem to her as if God Himself had orchestrated the timing. It said simply:
I have resigned my commission. I am coming home.
Her heart raced at the wondrous omen. At last he had come to his senses! Elisabeth had never been happier. Yet less than an hour later her joy found new heights when the butler gave her a second telegram.
It is my sad burden to report to you the unfortunate death of Moussa, the Count deVries. I will soon present myself to you to express my most sincere condolences.
El Hussein
Paul’s carriage turned down the long tree-lined drive to the Château deVries. He listened to the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves on the cobblestone and reveled in the familiar sights. The air was crisp and the trees had lost their leaves. He smelled wood smoke from the chimney of the château. It was glorious to be in France.
He saw that the grounds and château were teeming with extra staff, and he permitted himself a little smile. Of course, his mother had planned a party; he should have guessed. It gave him an idea. He looked at his watch. There was still plenty of time. He would make his mother squirm a little before the real party began.
Elisabeth greeted him with her usual breathless cheer, as if he’d been gone but a week and written every day. She regarded his clothing with disdain, turning up her nose at the unsavory appearance of the new count, still dressed in his flannel desert wardrobe. “You really must freshen yourself,” she said. “Your guests are due to begin arriving.”
“My guests?”
“Of course! A celebration! Now come along for a moment, so that I can tell you why.” She drew him into the study and pulled the door closed. “Paul, it is the most wonderful thing,” she said. “A present for your homecoming. The court has declared you the new count. The papers are on their way here now.”
“Really,” he said.
“Is that all you can say? ‘Really’? I thought you’d be happy. In your telegram you said you were ready.”
“It’s difficult to be happy if it means Uncle Henri and Moussa are really dead.” He watched her face carefully for any reaction, but she was as smooth as ever.
“Of course it is, dearest. But we must accept it, and move along.”
“I wanted to talk to you about that,” he said. “On the train I was thinking.”
“Can’t it wait?” she asked. “Our guests will begin arriving any moment. You must change into something more appropriate.”
“Certainly it can wait, Mother,” he said obediently.
“Good,” she nodded, “we can discuss it later. Now if you don’t mind I—”
“It’s just that I don’t want to be count,” he said. “I’m going to renounce the title. Everything.”
She gasped, mortified. “You cannot! It is too late! And what of my friends? They are all coming for this!”
“I’m sorry, Mother, but I didn’t ask you to have a party. I don’t want it. If the title’s mine as you say I’ll give it away.” He thought his voice was masterfully indifferent, and hoped he wouldn’t give himself away by appearing to enjoy her obvious discomfort. He would let her panic for a while. He knew it was cruel, but he enjoyed it.
“This is utter nonsense. You’ve been too long in the sun! This is not the sort of thing one gives away. It is your duty to accept your station in life. Do that now, Paul. Afterward you will be free to do whatever you wish. Don’t you see?” Her eyes were wide with alarm.
“Too much happened in Africa. I’ve come to realize it means nothing to me.”
“Well, it means something to me!”
“Then be my guest, Mother. You take it.”
“You know I can’t!”
“I’m sorry, Mother. Neither can I.”
She was becoming truly alarmed. “You must! Your father would expect you to do it. He would tell you to do it for the honor of the deVrieses.”
“What would he care about this? He walked out on his family.”
“No, he didn’t!” Elisabeth railed. “His letter proved—!” She caught herself, knowing she’d made a terrible error, but she recovered with grace and there was barely an interruption in the flow of her words. “His career, his entire life, proved that he cared about honor. There was nothing more important to him than that.”
Paul looked sharply at her. “Letter? What letter? And what do you mean he didn’t walk out? You always told me he did.”
“Did I say letter? I was mistaken. You have me upset, that’s all. There was no letter. I meant—”
“You don’t make mistakes like that, Mother. You meant exactly what you said.” Her expression told him it was true. Paul hadn’t expected this, but wasn’t about to let go. “Show it to me now, or I’ll leave this instant and I’ll never come back.”
“I didn’t show it to you because you were too young then,” she sniffed. “It was just a note, that’s all. Rien.”
He started for the door. “Good-bye, Mother.”
“No, wait! Very well.” She went to the desk. She lifted the chain from around her neck and opened the drawer. He could see her rummaging through some papers, and then she withdrew an envelope. “As I said it is nothing, really. Read it if you wish. And then you’ll see – if you won’t do this for me, do it for your father. He would have wanted you to do it, for the family. Perhaps I should have—”
“Just give it to me.” She handed it to him. She could hear talking and laughter outside. The guests were beginning to arrive. She cursed the timing of this wretched confrontation.
Paul trembled as he stared at the envelope. He recognized the distinctive hand of his father in the word Paul written in large script on the front. The envelope showed signs of age and wear. Obviously his mother had read the letter more than once. He looked up at her, trying to control himself.
“How dare you keep this from me?”
Elisabeth had never before heard menace in her son’s quiet voice. For a brief moment she was almost afraid. But then she took the offensive. “Save your outrage for someone who hasn’t spent a lifetime protecting you,” she said huffily. “You have never appreciated the lengths to which I’ve gone in your interests.”
“Like hiding this?”
“Yes. Exactly like that. It was for your own good. You idolize your father but he was a miserable failure. I was protecting you from him. I was protecting you from his disgrace. After you’re through sniveling and you come to your senses you’ll see that. If you don’t like the disagreeable things that must happen in this world to make your way in it, you had better prepare yourself for a rude awakening. What seems painful today will be worth it tomorrow. The sooner you learn that—”
“Just leave, Mother.” Paul sat down at the desk and waved her away. “I want to be alone.”
She almost said something, but caught herself. Shaken, she was nonetheless recovering her aplomb. What could he do, after all? Jules had been dead ten years. Paul would be angry with her for a week, and then he would get over it. Life would go on, and someday he would appreciate her – for all of it.
“Very well,” she said, straightening herself. “When you are finished, kindly come into the party and start acting like the count you are. The guests are coming to see you.”
30 November 1870
My Dear Son –
I feel all of the world’s weight upon me this night, and I am not strong enough to hold it up. I cannot keep fighting. I have lost my honor. It wasn’t stolen from me, as you might someday be tempted to believe. I will not have you harboring false notions about your father. The truth is I let them take it; I surrendered it.
I have felt the hatred of my accuser, and of Paris and all France since the trial. I pride myself that I did not earn it, but that has not kept the poison from my blood. In my lifetime I have faced enemies whose weapons were deadly, but I have never faced an enemy like hatred. It was stronger than I am, and I yielded to it. And only when I yielded – not before – did I lose my honor. I realize now that the only place to find it again, and take it back, is on the Prussian lines outside the city.
I have fallen short in many things in my life, but I regret nothing more than that I have failed you as a father. My desire to serve my country, to do my duty, has always been paramount. Only tonight do I realize the magnitude of that error. I will never fully understand, and do not ask you to forgive, my treatment of you these past weeks. Such extremes are inexplicable to me, when no one on earth means more to me than you. It was never my intention to do you harm, yet I have done so horribly. I can never express my sorrow to you in such a way that you will feel it as deeply as I mean it.
I have no lesson to leave you, because I have lost my way and no longer know how to guide you. But you have excellent teachers in Henri and Serena. Be good to them, as they have been good to you.
Be strong for the family name.
You have always made me proud.
Your loving father,
Jules deVries
Paul felt his throat burning. A tear streaked down his cheek. He wiped it away and looked out the window through unseeing eyes. Forgive me, Father. It wasn’t the way I thought. All these years, I thought you had left because of me.
He found himself staring at the drawer where she’d gotten the letter. He wondered what else she might have hidden there – in his best interests. For a moment he couldn’t decide. He pulled on the handle, but the drawer was locked. He yanked harder but the desk was old and sturdy and the drawer didn’t budge. He crossed to the fireplace and picked up an iron ash shovel. He pried gently at the corner of the drawer, trying not to damage it, but then he didn’t care anymore and put his force behind it. With a cracking sound the drawer front splintered and the lock gave way.
There were two bundles of letters inside. He flipped through one. Numbly, he realized they were his own letters to Moussa, dozens of them written over the years. They had all been opened. He set them down and slowly picked up the other bundle, knowing what he would find. He pulled one from the middle of the stack. September 1875. Moussa had been fifteen. Paul smiled as he read it, the letter full of a boy’s enthusiasm about a journey with a caravan. He laughed out loud over a passage about a goat, but then his laughter dissolved into anger and his expression went hard.
He thought he had seen the worst of her, in her plot against Moussa. But his mother was a woman of great depth when it came to deception. The memories surged back: he saw her cheating on his father, that night in the pantry. He heard her voice, telling him his father had walked out on them, that he didn’t care. He heard her saying Moussa and Serena were dead, when she knew they weren’t. A lifetime of lies.
He didn’t know which hurt more: the extent of her deceit, or the magnitude of his loss.
He lost track of time as he sat at the desk, reading the letters and thinking. There was a knock at the door and the butler stepped into the room. “Excuse me, Count, but madame has asked me to remind you. Your guests are waiting.”
Paul was startled by the form of address. “Not now,” he said, starting to wave him off, but then he looked at the clock on the mantel. There was business to attend to. It was nearly time. “Oh, very well. I’ll be along in a moment.” He put his father’s letter in his coat pocket and the other letters back into the drawer. One by one he opened the other drawers, which weren’t locked. There was household correspondence, along with numerous invitations to social functions. Nothing of particular interest. Then he noticed the distinctive gray color of a telegram. He pulled it out and opened it up. There were actually two telegrams. One was his own message to his mother. The other was from El Hussein, announcing Moussa’s death. Startled, Paul read it twice. Then he thought he understood, and smiled with grim satisfaction. He put the telegrams back into the drawer and stood up.
He saw his reflection in the mirror. His face was as brown as his flannel and he needed a shave. His hair was long, wild, and nearly white, swept back as if he’d just gotten off a fast horse. He thought his eyes looked just as wild as all the rest. Much too scruffy to be a count, he thought, but it was time to join the party.
He opened the door and entered the ballroom. Elisabeth had been anxiously watching for him. When she saw him emerge she smiled grandly, acting as if nothing at all had happened. More guests were arriving and she moved quickly, wanting to show him off. She swept across the room and collected him on her arm. “I am glad you’ve come to your senses, Count,” she said, her face radiant. He didn’t reply and his look was cold, but she knew her son and she knew that look. He would glare for a few days, and then he would get over it. His very presence in the room was proof. He was coming along. She had won.
With Paul at her side she greeted a succession of guests, stopping to chat briefly with each one. “Ah, Baron!” she gushed happily. “You remember my son the count, of course?”
“Congratulations!” the old man said. “I understand you caught Tamrit. Well done, well done. Brilliant.” Paul said nothing. He was preoccupied and kept watching the door.
“Please,” Elisabeth prodded him as they moved away. “Do try to be civil, won’t you?”
“Of course, Mother.”
“Ah, the hero of Flatters,” gushed Baroness de Chabrillan, and Elisabeth beamed.
“There are no heroes of Flatters,” Paul replied with a frosty smile. “Most of them were butchered or poisoned. The rest of them ate each other.” The baroness blanched.
“Paul!” Elisabeth said, horrified. “I’m so terribly sorry, Celestine. He’s simply exhausted from traveling. He isn’t himself. Now, if you’ll please excuse us.”
She led him quickly away. “That was quite uncalled for.”
“I was just being polite, Mother. Your friend seemed so sensitive. I thought she wanted to talk about what really happened.”
“No one wants to do that, Paul. You’re making me – ah, Monsieur Jacquard! Paul, let me introduce you to the president of the central bank.” As she led him through a succession of guests, Paul marveled at her cool poise. Nothing fazed his mother. Nothing at all.
Waiters were circulating with trays of hors d’oeuvres and drinks. Music floated from the ballroom, and the house was filled to overflowing. At the door, the butler was still announcing guests, reading their names from calling cards presented by their coachmen. And what the butler was reading was a litany of official, noble, glittering Paris. “The minister of finance. Countess Greffuhle. Monsieur Jules Ferry. Monsieur le maire de Montmartre. Monsieur le prefect de police. General Georges Boulanger. The editor of Le Figaro. Le duc d’Aumale. Monsieur le maire de Paris.”
Elisabeth fairly soared through the room on the wings of her pride. The old days, when her efforts to fill such an affair with the first rank of society were a struggle, were gone forever. During the years in which she had headed the house deVries, she had thrown increasingly successful parties, attracting a succession of political, literary, and artistic guests. She had been lavish with her contributions to the arts. And now, whether they came to celebrate her, or her son, or whether they came merely to see each other and to be seen, they came. As even the most exalted of them greeted Elisabeth by her first name and she walked with the new count on her arm, she knew the world was hers.
She left Paul talking with General Boulanger and was going to speak with the chef when she heard another announcement from the entry, delivered not in the reserved and dignified tones of the butler, but by someone else.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” The new voice was deep and carried like a thunderclap across the room. She recognized it at once, although she hadn’t heard it in years.
Gascon! What on earth would he be doing here? Puzzled, she looked at Paul, who was still talking with the general. Paul glanced over the general’s shoulder, directly at her. He didn’t seem surprised. The voice boomed on.
“Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished guests, it is my great pleasure to present the Count and Countess deVries.”
The stunning announcement took an instant to register on her brain. She knew she couldn’t have heard properly. She quickly made her way through the room.
And then she saw. Her hand flew to her mouth, but not in time to cover her gasp. She nearly lost her balance and only the quick action of a passing waiter kept her from falling. No one noticed. All conversation had stopped. Everyone was staring at the door.
Standing in the entry was a tall man, dressed in the flowing robes of the Sahara. His presence was commanding, extraordinary. No man had so dominated the room since Henri himself had stood in it. Next to him stood a woman holding an infant wrapped in thick cloth. The woman wore a scarf over her hair, and was strikingly beautiful. While no one could see the man’s face, her countenance showed grace and dignity. Paul crossed quickly to them and conversation in the room gradually resumed, laughter blending with urgent gossip as speculation ran fast.
Out of breath and quite pale, Elisabeth made her way to a chair. She didn’t sit, but supported herself on the arm. She realized that Paul was leading Moussa straight to her, and did her best to regain her composure.
Paul had been watching her from the moment he heard Gascon’s voice, thoroughly enjoying the effect Moussa’s entrance had had upon her. Now he smiled broadly. “Isn’t it wonderful, Mother?” he said. “Moussa is alive!”
She nearly croaked her greeting, instead of pouring it out as she intended.
“Moussa! Is it… is that… can you… under there? I thought you were… you look so… so well,” she said, doing her best not to unravel, and trying to read the eyes behind the veil. “What an… interesting disguise. So… interesting. How very practical of you.” At first her smile looked as if it had been pasted on her face, but gradually she felt herself recovering. “But I am so happy to see you.”
“I thought you might say ‘surprised.’”
“Yes, of course, but what a marvelous surprise! And this?” she said, nodding toward Daia with faint condescension. “This would be your—”
“This would be the countess,” he said, and Elisabeth flinched at the word. “My wife, Daia, and daughter, Tashi. A pity Daia does not speak French; I know how much she would enjoy a conversation with you.” Elisabeth couldn’t quite make out his tone: was he mocking her, beneath that silly veil? “I must also apologize,” Moussa continued, “that I was unable to have a special guest here today. A friend of yours, I believe. El Hussein, from Timimoun.”
Moussa saw the color drain from his aunt’s face. She sat down so quickly it was as if she’d been dropped. She was having difficulty breathing. “I… I don’t believe I know the name, Moussa.”
“Really. I must have been misinformed. It’s just as well; I was unable to locate him anyway. Now, if you’ll pardon me, I have some minor business to attend to.” Elisabeth watched him walk off, her mind in turmoil. Why didn’t Paul tell me? Does he know, too, of El Hussein? What is Moussa planning? If Paul knew Moussa was alive then what is all this about being count? The questions shrieked at her. She wondered where her lawyer, Oscar Bettencourt, had gotten to. The judge had assured her that the decision would be entered that morning, and Oscar was to have personally brought the papers to her before the party, which the judge himself would be attending. Of course he would; he’d wanted to sleep with her for months, and knew only those papers would turn back the covers of her bed.
Whatever Moussa was up to, she knew all was not lost. If the court had already declared Paul the rightful heir, then she had what she needed for a fight, and a fight there would be. She waved at the butler.
“Madame?”
“Take my calèche; and the fastest horses,” she said. “Go to the offices of Oscar Bettencourt, on the rue Madeleine.” She would feel better with the papers in her possession.
“At once, madame,” the butler said, but before he had even turned to go, Oscar Bettencourt himself appeared in the entryway, carrying a heavy box. Relieved, Elisabeth rushed to meet him. “Oscar!” she said, but to her astonishment he waved her off. “Not now, madame,” he said.
“Madame?” Elisabeth said. “Oscar, what are you doing? Talk to me this instant!” But he was already across the room, falling in behind Moussa and Paul.
“You didn’t tell me we would be doing this at a party before all these people,” Moussa whispered to Paul as they worked their way through the crowd.
“I didn’t know,” Paul said, “but I could have guessed. She’s holding it to honor the new count, naturally. We’ll have to improvise.”
“With pleasure.”
As Moussa moved through the crowd he stopped and greeted people politely, exhibiting at least a measure of his father’s flair. People shook hands somewhat tentatively, trying to decide what to make of the apparition behind the veil.
When they reached the stairway Moussa showed Daia to a chair, where she sat with Tashi. Moussa had explained what was happening to her, but the lights and the candles and the guests were overwhelming, and she kept her eyes on her husband.
Paul and Moussa ascended a few steps, and turned to overlook the crowded room. The noise subsided as Paul called for their attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is with great pleasure that I introduce to you my cousin, Moussa, the Count deVries.” There was polite applause, most of the guests still uncertain how to react. Their hostess was no guide. Elisabeth had moved closer to the stairway and sat on an overstuffed divan. Her face was a study in neutrality.
Moussa spoke in a rich voice, the guests riveted by the perfect French coming from beneath the litham of the Targui nobleman. “It is a great pleasure to see you all,” he began. “For years I have wondered about many of you, as I know you have wondered about my family. I regret to tell you that my father, the Count Henri deVries, died in 1870.”
A shock wave of whispers swept through the room. Many of those present had known Henri, while all had heard the stories.
“I have lived away from France for these many years, and in recent months the thought of returning to this beautiful château and forest – and, of course, to the city of Paris – has occupied my thoughts.”
Elisabeth closed her eyes. A fight then. After all my work, it is still not done.
“I came here today expecting to discuss matters affecting this noble house with members of its family, in private. I did not know this gathering was being held here today, but when I discovered its purpose – to celebrate the Count deVries – I changed my mind immediately. I can see that I am among old friends, and there could be no better occasion on which to share the happy affairs of this noble house.” There was polite applause, the crowd growing expectant. “I am aware that even in a republic – especially in a republic – the obligations of a family whose roots are those of France herself, are not insignificant. The estate has grown during my absence and deserves to have its affairs properly administered, for the good of its land and tenants and the nation of which it is part. It is time for the count to take his place at the head of this household.”
Elisabeth and her hopes sank deeper into the divan until she was nearly swallowed whole. “Are you all right, my dear?” whispered the Baroness de Chabrillan. “You look so pale!”
“Yes, just… yes, I’m fine.”
“Today,” Moussa continued, “on my way here, I visited with officials of the court. An inventory of the estate’s assets had been filed there by my aunt Elisabeth, who has so selflessly managed the affairs of the household since my departure ten years ago. I believe she, too, was seeking to settle these complicated matters through the courts, thinking me dead.” He raised his hands, palms upward. “Happily, as you can see, I am not.” Elisabeth squirmed inside at the words, but managed the appearance of laughter along with the guests.
“She had made several errors, but all with the best of intentions, I’m sure; and with the assistance of Monsieur Oscar Bettencourt I trust I have corrected them.” Elisabeth stiffened. Oscar! Meeting with Moussa! Then Moussa knew of everything, even the properties acquired after Henri died. Why didn’t Oscar—
Moussa indicated the box in the lawyer’s arms. “Monsieur Bettencourt was kind enough to assemble certain papers for me, including the very document declaring me deceased.” Oscar handed him the paper, and Moussa tore it up with a flourish. “Voilà. Moussa deVries breathes again,” he said. There was more laughter. “And now, having reviewed the affairs of the estate and satisfied that they are in order, I must say that I do not feel that my place is here any longer. My wife and I have decided not to make our home in France.” Elisabeth exhaled in relief.
“Therefore, I am pleased to present to you the very man you came to celebrate today. Ladies and gentlemen, my cousin, Paul, Count deVries, to whom I have this day relinquished all right and title to the entire estate.” Oscar produced another paper, which Moussa presented to Paul amid applause and congratulations.
Elisabeth ripped herself from her reverie as Moussa’s words penetrated her brain. His announcement was as shocking as his surprise appearance had been. The fool himself has made Paul the count! It doesn’t matter what he knows! El Hussein doesn’t matter! The courts don’t matter! There will be no fight! In her entire life things had never been laid quite so neady at her feet, and the wretched little heir himself had done it!
It was Paul’s turn to speak, and Elisabeth thought he had never looked more noble, his shabby road clothing notwithstanding. No man, no court, would ever undo what Moussa had done. She was still feeling bewildered; events were moving much too quickly for her to absorb them all. But she found herself able to stand then, and to join in the applause, and she moved closer to where her son stood, to bask in the moment.
“It is with great humility that I accept my cousin’s confidence and the deVries estate. I must confess that I am nothing but a simple lieutenant – no, a former lieutenant – in the army. I am afraid that the deVries estate is far too extensive for such a simple man to manage. Consequently I will share with you some decisions I have made, and then I will let you return to the truly important business of this gathering, the fine vintages of Bordeaux.”
To more laughter Paul accepted another paper from the lawyer. Paul flashed his mother a brief smile, ignoring her quizzical look. “Ah yes, here it is. First, all of the property belonging to the estate in the city proper, I am placing into a perpetual trust. The proceeds from their sale and administration shall be used for the establishment of a university which shall be named after my uncle, Henri deVries, and which shall specialize, as he would have wished, in the furtherance of geographical and scientific knowledge.”
There was enthusiastic applause. “Bravo! Magnifique!” Elisabeth nodded blankly at the congratulations people were showering on her, her face frozen in a vacant smile as she ran the figures in her mind. This was preposterous! Out of the question. Her son had no idea! The Paris properties! He was talking about millions of francs, tens of millions. She would have to undo this folly later, in private with her son.
But then he went on.
“And I wish to announce the grant of twelve million francs to the Société Géographique… two and one-half to the national theater… two million to the ballet… three million to the Louvre, for the restoration of works damaged during the war…” At each new figure the crowd gasped, while at each new height Elisabeth came closer to crumpling altogether. The amounts were staggering.
But he went on.
“There are twenty valiant men who fought with me in the Sahara, when we chased the rebels Tamrit and Mahdi. Most of them died in that effort. To each of their families I had promised a hundred thousand francs…”
And he went on. The vineyards in Burgundy, the holdings in Provence, the lands in the Midi, the securities in the Bourse… And on… “And I must not forget the farms that have belonged to the house deVries for hundreds of years. Those farms, and their animals and tools, are all granted to the families who have worked them…” For ten minutes the guests stood absorbing news of the most prodigious shower of wealth that had rained on charities and causes and individuals in the memory of anyone present.
As Paul read from the paper Oscar Bettencourt studiously avoided meeting Elisabeth’s gaze. Paul and Moussa had arrived in Paris several days earlier and had appeared unannounced in his offices. It was a great shock to Oscar when he realized it was Moussa himself, the rightful Count deVries, who stood in his foyer. Even so he refused to cooperate at first, telling the two men somewhat pedantically that Elisabeth was his client, not the estate.
“You’re quite correct,” Moussa had said. “I suppose the first thing I’ll need to do once I’ve retained a new lawyer is to examine your conduct of the affairs of my estate during my absence.” Oscar had instantly seized the opportunity to become more helpful.
The results were breathtaking, and now as Paul summarized their efforts there was disbelief and awe at the scale of it all, at the extraordinary generosity – the sheer lunacy, many thought – of the new count. The editor of Le Figaro was busily scribbling notes like a novice reporter, trying to capture details for the huge story that would stun all France the next morning.
“What remains of the estate,” Paul concluded, “besides the château and its forests, which I intend to retain, are the seven farms granted to Comte Auguste deVries by Louis IX for services rendered to the king during the seventh Crusade. These farms have always represented the foundation of the strength of the estate.” Paul heard his mother give a little moan at his mention of the last of the holdings. “I give them in free title to a man who served Count Henri deVries with equal distinction, Gascon Villiers.”
Gascon stood anonymously and proudly in the back of the room, eyes glistening.
Paul smiled at Moussa. Their work was nearly complete. They had dismantled it all. As much as Elisabeth sought to mask her feelings, the look on her face bore clear witness to what a devastating stroke it had been. But Paul needed to finish it. There was something left, something he hadn’t discussed with Moussa. Something just for her.
“In closing, I have saved the most important announcement for last.” The crowd hushed, wondering what could possibly be more momentous than what had already transpired. “I cannot overlook my mother, a woman well known to you all.” Elisabeth forced a brave smile to acknowledge the polite applause, wondering what pittance he’d left for her, after his charitable insanity.
“I announce that Elisabeth deVries is disinherited from the estate and its remaining assets. She is banned from its grounds. She may take whatever clothing and personal effects she can carry in a calèche, and nothing more. She is never to return.” Paul’s face showed no emotion as he said the words.
There were gasps of disbelief as the astonished guests looked from son to mother and back to son again, to see if this had been some enormous joke. But the face of the Count deVries was set like stone, and Elisabeth’s had lost all color. Slowly the whispers faded into a dead silence. Elisabeth took a few unsteady steps toward her son.
“Paul!” Her voice fluttered weakly. Her self-assurance had vanished along with her dreams. “Stop this! You must stop this horrid little charade at once! It isn’t amusing, not at all! Tell them – tell everyone this is just—” But as she tried to touch him, he drew back from her, his eyes cold.
“If you do not leave now,” replied the voice of ice, “I myself will call upon the prefect to remove you.”
He could not have stricken a deadlier blow with a weapon.
Moussa remembered a time when, as a boy, he had left a man to die in the desert, a Shamba raider who had tried to harm his mother. He remembered the man’s cry as he understood his fate. He thought it was nothing compared to what he heard then, from his own aunt.
Half an hour later most of the guests had departed, embarrassed, thrilled, and titillated by the afternoon’s events. Drinks were abandoned, food left untouched. Paul and Moussa were in the study, with the last of the guests.
Elisabeth walked in. She seemed to have aged years. Her hair was disheveled, her eyes vacant from shock. She was surprised to see guests, and dreaded approaching Paul while they remained in the house. But she felt she had no choice; she had to try once more.
When she saw that Paul was talking to the editor of Le Figaro, their heads bowed in earnest conversation, she knew that the whole sordid story was going to come out. And Moussa was talking with the prefect of police. Moussa looked her way and said something to the prefect, who stared at her coldly. She felt herself dying inside. Was that to be next, then? The police? She could not believe the treachery of her own flesh and blood. Paul glanced up at her. “You are not welcome here, Mother,” he said, and the cruelty in him stunned her anew.
“We must talk, Paul,” she said, and for the first time in his life he heard utter defeat in her voice. He almost felt sorry for her. “Please,” she whispered. “You owe me that much.”
“I owe you nothing,” he said. “There is nothing to discuss.”
“But one simply doesn’t—”
At that moment Moussa approached. “Paul,” he said in a voice just loud enough that she heard, “the prefect wishes to know whether we want to press charges.” Paul drew him away a few steps, and they turned so that their words couldn’t be overheard.
“Of course not,” Paul said. “I just want her to stew a little.”
“He didn’t ask me that at all,” Moussa said. “It was the best I could think of for your mother’s benefit.” He nodded toward the editor of Le Figaro. “What’s he want?”
“To talk about Africa.”
“Your mother thinks you’re talking about her.”
“Good. I probably should be.”
Certain that the morning’s headlines would scream scandal, convinced that her own arrest was imminent, Elisabeth turned and did her best to make a dignified exit from the room.
It was near dusk when Gascon brought a carriage to the front of the château. Elisabeth watched from her bedroom window. She saw Moussa and Daia, with the baby, climb into the carriage, followed a few moments later by Paul, who was carrying a travel bag. The butler had told her that Paul was going to the train station. He was leaving immediately, but the butler didn’t know where.
Now the château was empty except for herself and the butler, who had been instructed by Paul to see her out of the château and to then escort her wherever she wished to go in the city. Elisabeth had delayed her departure with one excuse or another, as she waited for everyone to leave. There was an unfinished piece of business. She hoped she would encounter no trouble from the butler, who had reported the count’s instructions with what she thought was thinly disguised enthusiasm. Whatever his orders, she knew she could bribe him if need be.
When she saw the carriage pull away and disappear at the end of the drive, she hurried down the back stairs, carrying a large leather bag. She hesitated, listening for the butler. She heard him in the kitchen. No doubt stealing the wine.
She entered the drawing room next to the study and crossed to the wall safe. She fumbled twice, but managed to get it open, and began stuffing its contents into the bag. There were securities and cash and jewelry, and even a few deeds. As she hurried to pack it all in, she felt a glimmer of bitter satisfaction. He might throw her out, but he had not succeeded in stealing everything that belonged to her. There was more than enough in the safe to enable her to leave Paris and avoid poverty.
It wasn’t what she deserved, but it was something.
They stood on the platform in the gare, waiting for the train to depart for Marseilles. Paul’s bag was slung over his shoulder. Other passengers were gawking at Moussa in his flowing robes, and at Daia, radiant with her sleeping baby.
“Where are you going next?” Paul asked.
“Austria,” Moussa said. “We’ll stay in Paris a few days, and then I promised Daia the mountains. After that I must have my djemaa.” A locomotive shrilled its steam whistle, startling Daia, whose eyes went wide, and waking Tashi, who screeched like a hawk. Moussa took her gently into his arms and shielded her face with his cloak. He rocked her back and forth, and soon she was quiet. “I still think you ought to stay a few days,” Moussa said, “to put things in order. Your mother will be up to no good if no one’s there to watch.”
Paul shrugged, feeling an odd mixture of elation and depression at the events of the day. He had enjoyed himself and hated himself at the same time. Now he was drained, and didn’t care what his mother did. “I have no doubt she will. But it doesn’t really matter now. Almost everything is done. And Gascon will be there. He’s going to pick up his things tonight and he’s moving back into the château until I return. Besides, Wargla won’t wait. I’ve been away too long already.” Paul had watched Moussa with Daia for a month. He saw the tenderness between them, and it had fueled his longing.
Moussa nodded. “I understand. Until September, then.”
“I’ll be there.” They had agreed to meet in Algiers in nine months. Paul turned to Daia and took her hands in his own. “Ehentaúded,” he said. “Good-bye. When I see you again I’ll know enough Tamashek and you’ll know enough French that we can both laugh at Moussa in the same language for a change.” Moussa translated and Daia smiled. “Ar essaret,” she said, kissing him on both cheeks. “One needs no language for such laughter. Fare well in Wargla.”
Moussa carefully handed Tashi to her. He shook hands with his cousin, and they embraced. Paul was stepping up onto the platform when he had a thought. He turned. “That telegram was a nice touch, by the way.”
“Telegram?”
“From El Hussein, telling Mother you were dead. It doubled her shock when she saw you. That wasn’t part of our plan. You forgot to tell me you did that.”
Moussa stared at him blankly. “But I didn’t.”
El Hussain bent over the music box, a porcelain treasure from the palace of the czar in St. Petersburg, and turned the little handle. The figure on top, a Cossack mounted on a white horse standing on hind legs, spun around to the music of Tchaikovsky tinkling from within the base. It was magic! He clapped his hands with pleasure. The house was filled with such treasures, tapestries and jewels and silks, more riches than he could imagine. He put the music box carefully into the carton with the other things, on the floor next to the bag in which pile after pile of new franc notes were stacked. He hadn’t taken the time to count. It was well over a million francs: he knew it without counting. Enough to keep him quite well for a considerable period of time.
He turned and stepped over the body. He had not wished to do her harm, not at all. She was far too beautiful, a treasure as exquisite as the objects that filled the château. It was most unfortunate. But alas, what was one to do? Upon arriving in Paris he had come directly there, intending to deceive the countess into thinking that her nephew was dead. To accomplish his end he had brought a piece of skin from the leg of an unfortunate slave whose coloring was similar to Moussa’s. The skin bore an old scar. El Hussein doubted the woman would know the difference.
He had seen the carriages assembled for the grand party, and had hidden in the woods, watching and waiting for his opportunity. Then had come the great shock of seeing Moussa himself leaving the château. He had never expected that; he thought the Targui would have stayed in the deep desert after escaping from Timimoun. Of course, his plan to deceive Elisabeth was ruined now. The only thing left was to steal what he could from the house.
He stayed hidden until the carriage was gone. The house appeared deserted. He broke in through a garden window where he could not be seen from the drive. He had found her there, emptying the safe. She had screamed when she saw him, and the fireplace poker had been the only weapon at hand. Now it lay between Elisabeth and her manservant, who had rushed into the room upon hearing her cries. The poker was matted with blood and hair. It was all most unpleasant. El Hussein was not a violent man.
When he finished he led a horse from the stables and harnessed it to a calèche in the carriage house. It took four trips to load everything. There had been more, much more, but he didn’t want to be greedy. Greed was a sin.
El Hussein climbed into the carriage, and set off down the drive.
She was standing in the garden, helping Father Jean to right a small peach tree that had leaned too far in the wind. She was tying a cord around the trunk when she saw him. He stood on the far side of the wall, watching, just distant enough that she couldn’t see his face clearly, but close enough that there was no question who he was. She recognized his posture and the color of his hair in the sun. She felt an awful sick feeling in her stomach, and her knees sagged. She had to steady herself against the tree. Father Jean saw him then. He looked at Melika and excused himself quickly and disappeared into the chapel.
Melika did not move to greet Paul. She turned away from him, kneeling to clear one of the little channels that carried water through the gardens. While she worked all the anger and the hurt welled up, and she told herself that she must not weaken. She prayed that he would just leave.
But he didn’t leave, and soon he stood behind her. “Melika,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. It sent a shiver through her and she dug more deeply in the channel.
“Go away,” she said without looking at him. She wiped her cheek. “I didn’t want you to come back. I have nothing to say to you.”
“I know—” Before he could finish she stood and hurried down the path, and disappeared inside the mission.
He returned the next day, forlorn but determined. She had thought it over through a long sleepless night, and this time when she saw him her anger flared. “How could you come back now? How could you? Just go away,” she said. “I do not want to feel that way again.”
“Melika, please, if you’ll just let me explain. I am sorry I hurt you before. I’m not here to hurt you now. I want all the hurt to be gone.”
“So easily as that! It will never be gone, Lieutenant deVries.” She fled again, leaving him standing alone in the garden.
He made a little camp outside of town, in the garden of a palmerie where he could sit in the shade and listen to the birds and ruin simple meals on a fire. He avoided the garrison and wandered the souks of the town, where he looked for gifts. He bought a djellaba from Morocco and a silver necklace from Tunis. He wrote a note and left it with the gifts on the low stone wall near her room. The next day he saw the gifts were still there. The note had fallen into one of the water channels and all the ink had run. She hadn’t read it.
Every day he came back to the mission. Once he thought he saw her looking at him through a window, but then she was gone. The next day he rode a horse into the compound, leading another behind him, wanting to take her for a ride. She loved horses. She sent him away.
Paul had expected her to be angry, but he had expected her to soften. Now his own pain was just beginning to teach him how deeply he had hurt her. He went to see Father Jean. “I know I have no right to ask,” he said to the priest. “But I must. Please talk to her for me, Father. Please help her. Please help me.”
Father Jean agreed to try. But she waved him away too.
“Perhaps with more time,” Father Jean told Paul. “Pray, my son.”
Paul felt his desperation mounting. He waited a few days without visiting the mission, trying to give her time. Finally when he could stand it no longer he tried once more. He brought a picnic basket and knocked at the gate. The look on his face tore at Melika’s heart. His eyes beseeched her. But she could not bring herself to relent. Her memory of the ache was too strong, and the ache had come from allowing herself to feel something for the man who now stood before her. She wanted him to go.
“Please,” she said, looking into his eyes. “Do you care for me, at all?”
“Yes,” he whispered.
“Then you will honor my wish and leave me alone. Go back to France, Paul deVries.”
Her words crushed him. There was nothing left to do. Defeated, dejected, he left the mission. He opened a bottle of brandy, intending to drink it all. But he poured it into the sand.
He started another note that soon became a letter.
Melika—
I cannot hurt you further and will honor your wish. I am leaving in the morning. Nothing in my life has been as hard as this. But I cannot leave without telling you the whole of what happened, why I had to leave when I did. I am not certain I know how to explain, but I must try.
He dipped his pen into the ink reservoir and poured himself into his words, holding nothing back. He had brought only six sheets of paper and soon filled both sides. He went to the souk to find a letter writer’s stall, where he bought more. When he finished it was late afternoon and he delivered his letter to the mission. She wasn’t there. He found Father Jean, and put the letter into his hands. “I haven’t sealed it, Father. If it’s already open maybe she’ll feel more inclined to read it. Give it to her for me.”
“I’ll place it in her hands myself,” he promised.
Paul turned to leave when he stopped. “I almost forgot, Father,” he said, taking a thick envelope from his pack. “I won’t be back again. After I’m gone, open this.”
The priest took the envelope, a look of curiosity on his face. “What is it?”
“Something for the mission from someone who didn’t need it anymore.” Father Jean would never again want for supplies or medicine.
Paul took a blanket from his camp and spent the night on the dune that overlooked the vast desert beyond Wargla. The December wind blew cold off the Sahara. As he drew the blanket around his shoulders he realized it had been a year since he had first stood there, with Remy and Floop. Nearly six months had passed since he had stood there again, with Melika. Now they had all gone from his life and he stood there alone, defeated.
How the world has changed in a year.
He burrowed a niche into the dune where he could sit and rest his back and spend the night watching the stars. The cold deepened with the darkness and he heard the sand sighing softly in the wind. He didn’t sleep. When the dawn light was bright enough he pulled his father’s letter from his pocket. He opened it carefully. The paper was already beginning to tear along the creases, and the corners were fraying. He read it through and his eyes lingered on the same haunting lines that they always did. I have never faced an enemy like hatred. It was stronger than I am, and I yielded to it. And only when I yielded – not before – did I lose my honor.
He had met the same enemy, and like his father he had yielded. They had both paid an awful price.
He could stand it no more. Prolonging things only made the hurt worse. It was time to go. He didn’t know where, or to what. For now he would return to the north, and decide when he reached the sea.
He stood and shook the sand from his clothes and the cold from his soul. He took one long last look at the desert. He picked up his blanket and turned to begin the long journey home.
And he saw her, walking up the dune to meet him.