De Potter's Grand Tour

by Joanna Scott

  At Sea

  HE IS AS BLANDLY INOFFENSIVE as the pea soup at dinner. He agrees with the vicar’s wife that the beef is overdone, the wine is too sweet, the silverware needs polishing. He is cordial to the banker and doesn’t correct him when he attributes the Theogony to Pindar. When the stewardess wheels over the dessert cart, Armand pretends to be interested in the lemon cake. After the meal he refolds his napkin beside his plate and follows the vicar out on deck for a smoke.

  The challenge for him now is to convey a mood of serene confidence. If he has failed so far in his interactions with others on board, at least he has resisted revealing his true feelings. It is safe to assume that no one has any inkling of his troubles. He must maintain the façade right up to the end, until he is alone, if his plan is to succeed. Once there is no one to watch him, he may do as he pleases.

  But his patience has been tested through the day—first with the steward and stewardess, who took his money as if it were dirty laundry, and then with the banker, who wouldn’t accept a gift at all. Now the vicar is beside him looking utterly absorbed in his own satisfaction as he pats his ample belly.

  Armand is prepared to entertain the vicar with small talk, but the vicar preempts him. Wasn’t the dinner splendid, he says, and isn’t it a comfortable ship? And could he beg a pinch from Armand to fill his pipe, since the Turks confiscated his own bag of tobacco when he passed through customs on his arrival in Constantinople?

  “Why, of course,” Armand replies, adding, as he shakes out the tobacco from his pouch, “There’s a trick to it, you know.”

  “A trick?” The vicar has a round and ruddy face, his bowler is perched on his bald head, his mustache is curled in round tips, and the stem of his neck pokes up from the circle of his collar. His spectacles are round, and behind them his eyes widen, as if he doesn’t understand the meaning of anything that involves deceit.

  “I mean the trick to passing through customs. The technique varies widely from country to country. Sometimes baksheesh is expected. Other times you need to keep certain items on your person.”

  “You sound like an experienced traveler, sir.”

  “I should be. It has been my profession for more than twenty years.” Armand hands the vicar his business card.

  “‘De Potter Tours,’” the vicar reads aloud. He squints at the figure of Puck standing on a jumble of luggage in the advertising emblem. He reads the slogan: “‘I’ll put a girdle round the earth.’” He starts to return the card, but Armand invites him to keep it. “I once played Oberon in an amateur production,” the vicar says as he fishes a matchbook from his pocket. He strikes a match, offering the light to Armand before lighting his own pipe. He continues studying Armand’s card as he coughs with the first puff of smoke. He clears his throat and recites:

  Fetch me that flower, the herb I showed thee once:

  The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid

  Will make a man or woman madly dote

  Upon the next live creature that it sees.

  Armand doesn’t know how to respond to the vicar’s recitation. What else is there to do but say “Bravo!”—a ridiculous response for such a minor feat, but still the vicar’s round pillow of a face crinkles with his smile. How easily pleased with himself he is. He looks as proud as a young boy praised for drawing in the sand with a stick. Armand wants to admire the vicar for his good nature. Instead he is beginning to understand why the vicar’s wife is perpetually annoyed. What a trial it must be for her to be stuck with a husband who is always content. The vicar meanders happily through life, as ignorant as a fattened lamb munching in a pasture on a lovely summer day.

  But Armand is a gentleman, and a gentleman does not stand on the deck of a ship thinking ill of a vicar with whom he is sharing a smoke. He returns the vicar’s smile with his own, sucks on his pipe, and gestures toward the sunset. He is about to say Che bellisima, but instead says simply, “How beautiful.”

  “Ah, yes,” the vicar murmurs. “It reminds me of the bloom of shepherd’s purse.”

  “God the artist,” Armand says in an effort to impress this man of the church with his piety.

  “Indeed,” replies the vicar mildly. After a moment he asks, “Did you know that the lowest blossoms on a sprig of shepherd’s purse always open first?”

  Armand says, “Of course,” though in truth he’s never thought about it.

  “And the order of blossoming is always ascending, from bottom to top?”

  The questions are beginning to confuse Armand, and the confusion makes him wary.

  “And shepherd’s purse can keep producing lateral flowers one after another the whole summer long?”

  “You don’t say…” He swallows loudly. The vicar looks at him with a new expression of understanding, as if he’s figured out the purpose of that “trick” Armand referred to a moment ago.

  Still the vicar presses on: “There is no terminal flower if the stem continues to grow, which means that the summit can never be reached, at least not until the frost.”

  Could the vicar know what Armand is intending? Has he guessed his secrets? Is he cannier than he pretends?

  The sky is darkening. The two men stand at the rail, smoking their pipes. Armand waits tensely for the vicar to speak. What is he going to say?

  He’s going to say that if Professor de Potter is ever escorting a party through the Cotswolds, he must come visit him in Swindon. Then he is going to yawn. And then he is going to find his wife, who will be eager to begin their nightly game of pinochle.

  Grand Bois

  AMID ALL THE BUSINESS Aimée had to attend to in the aftermath of her husband’s disappearance at sea, there was Gertrude, dear, sweet Gertrude, who had more needs than poor Victor did. At the beginning of the new year, Victor announced that he wanted to return to school to be with his friends. He stayed there for the rest of the term, while Gertrude gave up her French lessons altogether. She had no scruples about borrowing money from her aunt to pay for things she couldn’t afford—a new bathing costume, a dress for spring, new shoes. When the lace maker from Alençon was going door-to-door in the neighborhood and arrived at Grand Bois, Gertrude wanted to buy every tray cloth and handkerchief she was selling. During tea at Gallia’s, she started talking too loudly while the orchestra was playing the “Ode to St. Cecilia” and needed to be hushed. She needed social engagements where she could meet young men. She wouldn’t wear mourning, yet she needed comfort nearly every evening, when she’d drink too much wine with dinner and begin weeping over her uncle’s death.

  One springlike day in February, Aimée and Gertrude took the train to Vallauris and walked the full ten miles back to Cannes along the canal. The air was delicious with the sweet fragrances of heather and pine, and the sun was warm. While Gertrude chattered about a hat she’d seen in a shop window in Nice, Aimée could think of nothing but her accumulating expenses. Lawyers representing the travelers affected by the Jaffa accident were hounding her. Bartlett was demanding the next installment of his payment.

  As she walked along, she hardly listened to Gertrude, who rambled on about the hat in Nice and plucked tufts of the wild grass growing along the sides of the path. Aimée was paying so little attention that she didn’t hear when Gertrude changed the subject from the hat to her uncle. She didn’t know what caused the girl to stop in her tracks all of a sudden, leading Aimée to think that she’d dropped something behind her on the path, until Gertrude finished the sentence she’d begun: “… and when Robert said that about Uncle Armand, I didn’t believe him. I didn’t want to believe him.”

  “Said what?”

  “I told him he was out of line. I told him he was cruel and rude and I never wanted to see him again. And I haven’t seen him, it’s been three weeks and I haven’t answered his—”

  “Gertrude, please, what did Robert say to you?”

  “I told you, Auntie.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “I don’t know why you want me to repeat it. It’s too a
wful. By the way, did you hear that the Drexils have left for Tunis? I wonder if we’ll ever be invited to join them on their yacht? What if they asked us to sail to Tunis with them? Would we do it, Auntie? But I’d rather go to Venice. I still haven’t been to Venice, you know.”

  What a vexing, rattlebrained girl she was, yet Aimée could tell that Gertrude was trying to change the subject. What did Robert say? Aimée had to ask, though she could make an educated guess. Somehow the truth had gotten out among the high society of the Côte d’Azur, and Robert was just repeating what he’d been told about Armand de Potter’s supposedly accidental death at sea.

  “Tell me what Robert said,” Aimée insisted, though she was thinking, Don’t tell me.

  “Auntie…”

  “I want to know what people are saying about Armand.” They were saying that he killed himself so his wife could cash in on the indemnity from Mutual Life. Somehow they knew about the last two letters from him that she’d burned in Toblach.

  “They are saying that he didn’t really come from Belgian nobility. There are people out there who say Uncle made it all up and he was really a peasant. Oh, I’m sorry, please forgive me for telling you!” Gertrude hadn’t had a single sip of wine that day, and still she shook with sobs and buried her face against her aunt’s shoulder as she begged for forgiveness.

  At one time in her life Aimée would have been insulted. Now, though, she was relieved that people weren’t whispering about her husband’s suicide. She linked arms with Gertrude, who dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief from the Alençon lace maker. “It’s just stupid gossip, saying Uncle Armand was a peasant!”

  Aimée said firmly, “Nothing could be further from the truth.”

  * * *

  As she understood it, Louis de Potter was to blame for denying his heirs the status that should have been their due. She knew from reading about him that he’d been rebellious as a young man and had refused to assume his inherited title. But Aimée could prove that Armand was indeed his grandson, for she had at least a dozen books with Louis de Potter’s handwritten notes in the margins.

  A few of the books dated back to the fifteenth century, and though they were worm-eaten, a book dealer took an interest in them. She made arrangements to meet with him on March 12, a gray day with wind and intermittent drizzle. But just as she was heading out the door, Gertrude appeared and asked if she could come along and then took so long to get ready that they missed the ten o’clock train and had to wait for the later one. By the time they arrived at the bookshop in Nice, the owner had already closed for lunch.

  They had half an hour before they were supposed to meet their friends the Manques and Durands at the Cosmopolitan. The rain had let up, and they decided to stroll along the promenade des Anglais.

  As they walked, Gertrude commented on everyone they passed. She approved of a woman’s blue jacket with black velvet buttons. And wasn’t that yellow dress cinched at the waist with a wide red ribbon lovely! Wherever did that woman find such a purse, covered with the hide of a giraffe? Was it real giraffe? she wondered aloud. And look at the heels on those boots! And the ivory handle of that gentleman’s umbrella, carved in the shape of a mermaid—wasn’t it something!

  Aimée murmured in agreement without giving the umbrella a glance. She was asking herself if they had time for a short walk through the public garden behind the Hôtel de France. She decided that a ten-minute detour wouldn’t make them late.

  As she steered Gertrude toward the gates of the garden, she heard a man calling, “Madame de Potter, bonjour, hello!”

  Roland Berg hurried in an effort to catch up with them. He was the American with the furniture shop in Nice. Armand knew him through his affiliation with the French Oriental Society. Aimée had sold him the Stevens chairs earlier in the year, using the pretense that Grand Bois was too cluttered and she had no room for them. “I thought it was you,” he said. He had his coat slung over his arm and his hat in his hand. “And this lovely lady is…”

  “My niece, Gertrude. Gertrude, this is Mr. Berg.”

  “Mademoiselle.”

  “A pleasure, Mr. Berg.”

  “Mr. Berg has a shop in the rue Droite. Have you sold the Stevens chairs, Mr. Berg?”

  Either he didn’t hear or he didn’t care to answer the question. “I’m glad I ran into you, madame. There’s a matter concerning your late husband…” He glanced nervously at Gertrude. Aimée invited him to continue. “I thought you should know. Gelat has been talking.…” He hesitated. Aimée wished he’d do more than hesitate and leave her alone. Why was everyone always talking? “I’m just back from Jerusalem, where I met Gelat—you know Mr. Gelat, who works at the embassy—”

  A pony pulling a cart full of flowers trotted out through the gates of the garden, clip-clop, clip-clop. Aimée felt a drop on her cheek—it was drizzling again. She considered opening her umbrella but decided she wanted only to hear what Mr. Berg had to tell her and continue on her way.

  “Gelat says…” Mr. Berg paused to wait for a tram to clatter past along the boulevard.

  Gelat had been Armand’s dragoman on tours through the Holy Land. The last time Aimée had seen him was in a hotel in Jerusalem. She remembered that Gelat had been trying to drum up investors for a new venture to export water from the river Jordan to America, and Armand had declined. The next time De Potter Tours needed a dragoman in Jerusalem, Gelat made himself unavailable, leaving the party’s guide, the inexperienced Turgel, to manage on his own. And then the boat capsized at Jaffa.

  Gelat had been set against Armand ever since he refused to invest in the river Jordan venture. Now he was probably telling people that Armand de Potter was a poor businessman who was being pursued by his creditors. He was saying that Madame de Potter would have to sell everything to pay her late husband’s debts, and Mr. Berg, recalling his purchase of the Stevens chairs, was going to concur.

  No, he wasn’t. He was going to say that Gelat was telling people that De Potter Tours was in the habit of overcrowding boats and carriages for the sake of convenience. “Gelat blames the accident at Jaffa on your husband.”

  “Why, that’s ridiculous!”

  “Of course it’s ridiculous! To hold a man responsible after his death—pardon my directness, Madame de Potter—for an accident that occurred in his absence.”

  “Gelat was upset because my husband wanted nothing to do with that silly river Jordan business.”

  “I’ve never trusted Gelat, and I can only hope that others share my view. But I thought you should know that he’s set on damaging the reputation of your husband’s agency. You might want to inform the office in Paris.”

  “I appreciate your candor, Mr. Berg. And, yes, I’ll let Edmond Gastineau know what Gelat is saying. He’ll come up with a good counteroffensive, I guarantee.” She began unfolding her umbrella. “My husband always spoke your name with admiration, Mr. Berg.”

  “Let me add that your husband was much missed at last week’s meeting of the Oriental Society.”

  Aimée made a show of stepping away from him to make room for the umbrella. “We must run now. Come along, Gertrude. Au revoir, Mr. Berg.”

  Off they went in the direction of the Cosmopolitan. “We don’t have time for the garden,” she said, grabbing Gertrude’s arm and tugging her along. She thought the girl would be full of questions and was preparing to answer them. She would want to hear all about the accident at Jaffa. She would ask whether it had upset her uncle. She might begin to put the pieces together and understand better her uncle’s state of mind when he left on his last tour.

  In fact, Gertrude didn’t speak at all the whole way to the Cosmopolitan. Only when she followed her niece through the revolving door to the restaurant did Aimée notice through the glass divider how pale her niece was. She must have been troubled by the conversation with Mr. Berg, but they couldn’t speak of it then, since the Durands were already waiting to greet them. And after Gertrude perked up during lunch, Aimée didn’t bother to retur
n to the subject later.

  * * *

  For the next few weeks she was able to avoid speaking with Gertrude about Jaffa. The girl grew steadily more cheerful and spent most of her time with her friends. She still became sentimental from the wine at dinner, but she no longer cried over her uncle’s death. When Sara Wilberry asked her at the last minute to join her on a day trip to the beach at Agay, she was quick to accept.

  Victor was home from school for the weekend and helped his mother sort books in the library all afternoon. At nine in the evening, Mrs. Wilberry came by car from her hotel in the center of town to tell Aimée that the girls had telephoned the hotel—they had missed their train and would be home late.

  Aimée was still awake in her room when she heard Gertrude return shortly after midnight. She heard the noise as the girl bumped against the mail table in the front hall. She heard her walking up and down the cellar steps and poking about in a cupboard in the kitchen. When she heard the pop of a cork, she went downstairs to order Gertrude to bed.

  But Gertrude didn’t want to go to bed. Gertrude was holding a glass she’d filled with champagne, and she was enjoying her solitary party, standing in the kitchen with her back to the door as she swayed to a silent tune, holding the glass in one hand and the bottle in the other. She didn’t notice when her aunt appeared in the doorway. She didn’t guess that as she took a gulp of champagne, her aunt was trying to come up with the appropriate words to express her fury.

  “How dare you!” Aimée blurted, lunging for the glass in Gertrude’s hand. Gertrude drew backward, splashing champagne on the floor. “That’s Armand’s Montagland champagne. You’re not to help yourself!”

  Instead of responding with the appropriate contriteness, Gertrude raised the glass in a toast and took another gulp. “Might as well finish it off.” Her voice was husky, her words slurred. “Uncle wouldn’t mind. He always said, live, live as if it’s your last day on earth. Live, Gertie, make every second count. So why would a man who loved life as much as Uncle Armand did want to do himself in?”