Destiny

by Sally Beauman

  Louise looked at her with a malice which she was at pains to conceal.

  Poor Ghislaine, she thought with acid amusement. So she has reached the menopause—she always lied about her age, one could never be certain…She would be kind, Louise resolved, and ignore Ghislaine’s obvious humiliation.

  “So tell me, darling Ghislaine. Will you still do it for me? Can it be done in time?”

  Even then, when she could not think for the rush of excitement she felt, Ghislaine managed to keep some of her wits about her. She pretended an impossible schedule of work, she pleaded prior commissions, until Louise—who always wanted something more if she felt she might not get it—was forced to become pressing. Then, and only then, did Ghislaine capitulate.

  “For you, my dear,” she said with a smile. “Very well.”

  Louise was an impossible client. She changed her mind a million times a minute, she haggled over prices like an Arab street vendor; Ghislaine did not care. She had the perfect entrée, the perfect opportunity. She could easily manage to remain at the villa until Edouard arrived—she checked the dates and made sure of it. Meanwhile, she threw herself into her work with new energy; it would be beautiful, spectacular, the best thing she had ever done. She was doing it, she felt, for Edouard, not for his fool of a mother—and when he saw it, and admired it, ah, then, what then? She was not sure, except that it might be the beginning.

  She worked confidently, surely, for a week. In that time, she lost weight, bought new clothes, had her hair cut, changed the scent she wore. She began to feel like a new woman.

  She had little impulses, and she gave in to them: once she rang Edouard’s number at St. Cloud, in the hope of hearing his voice, but his manservant answered. Another time, she drove past his offices. She took to lunching at a restaurant he frequented, and one day glimpsed him in the distance. She found she took great delight in speaking of him to her friends: just to say his name gave her pleasure—and of course, there was an additional benefit: her friends all confirmed what she herself had suspected—Edouard was unattached. Edouard—always so sought after, and always so alone.

  In seven days she felt she had lived through a year; there had been so many advances in her mind in that time that it was difficult to believe that nothing had actually happened. Ghislaine felt that it had, and that just as she had been transformed, so Edouard could be—once he began to perceive her differently. They were old friends—that was something to build on. He respected her work; he admired her taste; now that she looked back on it, she felt that, yes, there had perhaps always been something special in his manner toward her, an indefinable something…Ah, Edouard!

  And then, just when she felt twenty years younger, on the crest of a wonderful wave, it happened. She was walking home from work one beautiful evening, and stopped dead suddenly, in the middle of the sidewalk. Across the street there was a movie theater, and outside the theater was a series of posters. They were photographs of a girl, a very beautiful girl, in a white dress.

  Level brows, short dark hair, a wide mouth, a defiant modern stance. The color of the hair, and the shortness of it, confused Ghislaine, just for an instant.

  Then she recognized her. The girl from the Loire; the girl in the Givenchy; the girl wearing Edouard’s diamond ring. The girl she had first seen coming out of a little disreputable hotel, on Edouard’s arm, at nine o’clock in the morning.

  Ghislaine stood very still. Then she began to walk again, continuing her walk home, more slowly. Quite suddenly, the evening, the past week, everything, was spoiled.

  Halfway down the Boulevard St. Germain, there was a line of the posters, a solid phalanx of them, each eight feet high. From these posters, Edouard averted his eyes. Short Cut, a Thaddeus Angelini film, he read, in huge black letters over the entrance of the theater nearby. There was a line of people outside, waiting for the early evening performance; it stretched past the theater and well down the street. Edouard leaned forward, opened the partition, and asked his driver to hurry. He leaned back again on the leather seats and closed his eyes.

  He had just been in New York: the city had been plastered with her image. Now it was all over Paris, everywhere he looked. And it would get worse. Once she arrived in Cannes for the film festival, there would be blanket coverage: every newspaper, every magazine; she would be on television, on billboards…

  That odd moment had been reached when a name became, almost overnight, and by some curious alchemy, a household word. When it happened, it was always with astonishing rapidity. One moment someone was known only to the few, was being tipped, perhaps, for success and fame, but no more; the next, that person’s name was on everyone’s lips, familiar to everyone from presidents to fishmongers, public property, part of the common currency of thought.

  Edouard had no doubt that Hélène would win the award at Cannes. He thought it would not be very long before she received an Academy Award. He had seen Short Cut, of course, long before Christian, long before its release; its almost insolent assurance had filled him with an angry admiration. Annoyingly, Angelini actually possessed some of the genius he had claimed. Hélène, just as Angelini had predicted, possessed, on film, an extraordinary and innocent eroticism. Images from that film, mixed with images from his past, haunted him.

  Now there was this new project, Ellis, for which Angelini was seeking major backing from Sphere. He planned to make the movie the following year, and a copy of Angelini’s screenplay now lay on the desk in Edouard’s study at St. Cloud. That evening, Edouard must decide whether to authorize the funding for the film, or not. He had already read the screenplay; tonight, he would read it again.

  The black Rolls pulled up outside the de Chavigny showrooms in the Rue du Faubourg St. Honoré. The uniformed doorman advanced, bowing. Edouard entered by his private entrance, and went, as arranged, straight to the vaults.

  There, on a special table in a room set apart from the strongrooms, the pieces he had requested be ready for him to inspect had been laid out. A dozen leather jewelcases, exquisitely tooled, their design and decoration redolent of their different periods. Some de Chavigny, some Cartier, one from Wartski’s in London, another from Bulgari, one from Van Cleef and Arpels.

  Edouard asked to be alone, and then began opening the jewelcases one by one. He was choosing his daughter’s birthday present, which, when chosen, would be put back in the special safe in the de Chavigny vaults, until…until she was older, Edouard told himself.

  Two presents already lay in that safe. One, a necklace of pearls, and superb rose and briolette-cut diamonds, had been the prize of Wyspianski’s first collection; it had been placed there to mark Catharine’s birth. The second, marking her first birthday, was a tiara designed for the firm of Cartier in 1914: an exquisite circlet of black onyx and circular cut diamonds, surmounted by a ring of pearls. It was—unlike many tiaras—light. He thought Catharine would find it pleasurable to wear it.

  Now he moved slowly along the line of boxes, opening them one by one. From Cartier again: a diamond aigrette, commissioned from them by Prince Gortchakov in 1912, a delicate spray plume above a pear-shaped diamond weighing some twenty carats. From de Chavigny: a necklace of sapphire and emerald beads with diamond rondelles, designed by Vlacek for his father in the 1920s. Not emeralds, Edouard thought, and turned to the next box.

  A serious ring, a very serious ring: a square-cut canary diamond of nearly thirty carats, which Edouard did not greatly like, though the value of the stone was great. A little gold vanity case, enameled and inlaid with lapis lazuli the color of his daughter’s eyes. A unique watch, a collector’s piece, with works by the celebrated Jean Vergely, mounted on a silk cord, designed in 1925 in the art deco manner, gold and lapis again, with two tiny ruby studs to mark the extremity of the hours. A carved coral necklace, made in China in the eighteenth century, its carved flowers spilling little clusters of onyx, diamonds, and black pearls. A ruby and diamond stomacher brooch, designed for one of the Romanovs; a diamond résille necklace, ma
de by de Chavigny in 1903, copied from a necklace once worn by Marie Antoinette, and bought by the courtesan, la Belle Otéro…

  Edouard looked at each piece once. Some of them had a sad history, and these he pushed aside. He hesitated; there was a pair of matching bracelets surmounted with cabochon rubies that had once belonged to the Maharaja of Mysore—Isobel would have adored those, he thought sadly—they, indeed, were superbly pagan. In the end he chose the piece whose value lay in its workmanship, not its stones: the Chinese necklace. It was put in the safe; Edouard left for St. Cloud.

  He stared out the windows of the car with blank eyes, seeing nothing of his surroundings. Two and a half years. Sometimes, in his blackest moments, he felt that the certitude and hope he still occasionally experienced were nothing more than a fabrication, a perverse and destructive obsession to which he clung in the midst of the bleakness and pointlessness of his life. At other times, he felt the opposite. He had ceased now to argue with himself. The two opposing possibilities coexisted all the time, like twin poles—the north and south of his mind. The constant oscillation of his spirit between them, he now accepted. If he had had to describe his state of mind he would have said, wryly, that he was resigned.

  At St. Cloud he ate a solitary meal, formally served. He then returned to his study, which was unchanged. The same Turner watercolors still hung on the walls; the same rugs lay on the floor, and he thought momentarily of Isobel, sitting there, twisting her face up to him, with that self-mocking emerald glance, telling him about her marriage, about living with a man who wanted to die.

  Edouard sat down at his desk. In one of the drawers, which he unlocked, was a plain envelope with an American air mail stamp. It had arrived the previous day, which had been his daughter’s birthday.

  He opened it once more, and drew out the photograph, and the small sheet of paper attached to it, on which were written a few sentences in Madeleine’s handwriting.

  The photograph showed a little girl wearing a hand-smocked blue dress; she had bare legs and wore sandals. Her black hair was simply cut, in a straight bob to the shoulders. She was looking directly at the camera, with her dark blue eyes; she was not smiling.

  She was standing in a garden, and behind her—just visible—were the walls and windows of a house. Slightly to one side of the child, looking at her proudly, were two women: one was Madeleine, wearing the pale brown Norland College uniform; the other was an older woman, plump, with gray hair.

  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:

  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 possibility, 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 little 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 abstract—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 is 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 Hélène—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; Hélène Harte’s participation promised commercial success. One studio or another would step in, the 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 Hélène. 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.

  “My 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 little 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.