Matters of Honor

by Louis Begley

  Because I tried to make some reparation by helping out Greg, my stay in the U.S. lasted longer than I had expected. By the time I returned to Paris, the rape of l’Occident, as the French press called it, had been approved by the board of directors and the shareholders; and the prime minister, the minister of finance, as well as the minister of justice, and the governor of the Bank of France had all condemned the dastardly scheme, which, the government spokesman acknowledged, the authorities were powerless to prevent. The nationalization law was imperfect; the devilish advisers of Banque de Sainte-Terre had not scrupled to take advantage of it. All three ministers promised retribution. I supposed that Henry must be in seventh heaven: his scheme had worked, and it was indeed political poison. He had been remarkably prescient. I called him from the airport as soon as I had cleared customs. Having slept surprisingly well in the plane, I wasn’t tired and proposed we lunch in a couple of hours. He was all too free, he said, and asked me to meet him at a restaurant on rue de Belle-chasse, a few steps away from my apartment.

  How does it feel to be right on all counts? I asked him.

  Do you know, he said, even in my worst attacks of self-doubt I have never put in question my intelligence or my legal ability. But if you want to know whether I take any joy in this particular situation, the answer is no. Whether he now realizes it or not, Hubert is going to suffer, and that pains me. He still calls me all the time to ask whether they have done this or that right. I can’t answer the questions. Not specifically, in any event: I have to say things like if you have followed Jean-Louis Lièvre’s advice—he’s the Belgian lawyer—I’m sure you’ve done it right. Anything else and I couldn’t deny that I was representing them in this caper. Anyway I don’t like second-guessing colleagues. I couldn’t resist, though, pointing out the government’s humiliating acknowledgment that my scheme was unbeatable, and the government’s fury, which I had predicted.

  Henry concentrated for a moment on his food and then continued. Not a week goes by when a new legal project isn’t taking form in the Holy Land, and there isn’t a day when Hubert doesn’t have five important questions demanding serious legal skills and common sense. That is what has kept me hopping since Hubert became a client. None of these projects or questions comes to me, and not a word of explanation has been given. You know me, I’ll never ask the reason. I’m too proud. Is Lièvre running so fast that he can handle the Occident transaction and everything else as well? It’s possible, although it’s a small firm—they must be up to their ears in l’Occident. Another American firm? I haven’t heard anything through the grapevine. Or maybe I have. A week ago, Blondet suggested we have dinner alone, and some time entre la poire et le fromage he asked me about the state of my relations with Hubert. I replied that I supposed they were excellent; I considered us to be close friends despite having agreed to disagree over l’Occident. Ah, said Blondet, mon pauvre ami, the friendship of princes, why it’s like trying to hold water in your cupped hands. Do you not ask yourself whether cet excellent Hubert hasn’t concluded that you’re no longer the loyal servant, that you left his side afraid to find yourself under fire?

  I got hot under the collar, Henry continued, and told Blondet that such a view would be pure nonsense. I had been vindicated on every point: the flawlessness of the scheme and its prohibitive political cost to Hubert and everyone associated with it, and the ability of any good lawyer to whom my solution was given to carry it out. All that, I said, has turned out to be exactly true. Being right isn’t everything, said Blondet, although it would have been truly disastrous if you had been wrong about the legal aspect. Just accept the possibility that what Hubert might have liked even more than your brilliant idea was a show of your willingness to fall on your sword. And what can I do about that, I asked, short of hanging myself or borrowing a sword somewhere or other and trying the Roman maneuver? Oh no, said Blondet, that would be useless. When a bowl shatters you can’t put it back together. Of course princes do have to be practical—at times—and they can pretend they don’t see the shards on the marble floor. As you can imagine, we didn’t linger at table. In the meantime, in spite of this nasty twaddle, invitations to dinner in Paris and Brussels continue at the old pace; Gilberte has been talking to me about Christmas and all the other usual stuff. I am at my wits’ end.

  He did look distraught, and when he apologized for having carried on about himself before saying a word about my mother, I was able to tell him sincerely that I understood and had not minded. Then I asked about Margot. Henry said she was in Paris; he had been to dinner at her house, with both Jean and the moviemaker. It was possible that Jean didn’t know, and equally possible that he didn’t care, so long as Margot didn’t rock the boat.

  And what happens now? I asked.

  Between me and Hubert? With Margot? Or on some other front?

  All three, I said.

  A tall order, he said, but as I am underemployed, why not? The Occident transaction closes in ten days. That’s when the other shoe will drop. Perhaps I will find an opportunity to see Hubert alone and test the truth of Blondet’s insinuations. I don’t like the game he’s playing. Other than that, I’ll sit tight and attend to such work as I have. Margot? I really meant it when I told you last time: she and I have missed the boat. Why don’t you look her up yourself? A third front? There isn’t one. As you know I like women and I like sex. Nowadays in Paris, if I go to a cocktail party or some business reception with unaccompanied women in attendance, and that happens often enough, my batting average is quite impressive. And if she proves any good the first night, I’ll have her come back until we get bored with each other. None of them expect anything more and I don’t either.

  Pretty decadent, I said.

  Really, he answered, I thought that you of all people would understand.

  A couple of days later, following Henry’s suggestion, I had lunch with Margot at her apartment. She showed me photographs of little Henry, who didn’t look so little in the recent ones. He was attending a school in Gstaad, the name of which was familiar to me as that of an incubator for future playboys. Naturally, I told her that I had seen big Henry as soon as I arrived in Paris. Really, she said. Did he tell you that there is a good deal of talk about him? I shook my head. Yes, she continued, it hasn’t hit the papers yet, except for a tiny squib in the Canard, but people know—certainly the government knows—that he masterminded the hijacking of l’Occident. The deal hasn’t gone through yet. I saw a commentator on television who claimed that the minister of finance is still hammering at Hubert de Sainte-Terre and that pompous man who works for him in Paris, trying to get them to back off. But no one thinks anything will come of that, and soon the fat will be in the fire.

  I admitted that Henry had not mentioned being the subject of news and asked whether she thought he was at any risk personally. She made a face and said, If you play with fire….

  Henry had called it right.

  The foreign business of l’Occident was sold to the Sainte-Terre subsidiary on a Tuesday. That night Hubert gave a celebratory dinner at the Grand Véfour, apparently his favorite restaurant—unless he chose it tauntingly for its location, a mere stone’s throw from the Ministry of Finance. Grands-Echézeaux ’71 followed by La Tâche ’62 and Krug ’75 flowed like Stella d’Artois. Henry and I were at Hubert’s table. It was his idea to invite you, Henry told me. He said that since you witnessed my first triumphs you should likewise be present at this most recent one. I can’t imagine what he’s talking about.

  It was difficult for me to gauge the sentiment for Henry among the guests who filled the salon where drinks were served before dinner. I knew none of them except Blondet, who seemed to avoid me. At table, however, I found myself seated next to Gilberte, and she spoke to me about Henry with the same warmth as she had at her own house. The meal dragged on—Hubert had ordered one of those ménus de dégustation—and for me so did the conversation because Gilberte was very attentive to the man at her right, whose name I never caught, and the
woman to my left was a titled Englishwoman who spoke as though with a hot potato in her mouth. I understood one word in three and couldn’t be sure whether she understood me at all. At last we reached the baked Alaska. As soon as it had been served, Hubert stood up, stepped back from the table, rang a little bell that he had extracted from the pocket of his jacket, and announced that as a matter of chairman’s privilege he was going to offer the first toast, to our friend Henry White. The usual sort of approving and expectant noise followed. He stilled it, saying that he was far from having finished, and began a speech that was at first an orotund and pedantic ramble about his ancestors, their ancient seigneurial rights in Burgundy and sometime possessions there, not unrelated to the choice he had made of the magnificent wines we had all had the good fortune to drink. From there he moved on to a discussion of relations of force and mutual dependence between the Lowlands and Britain, as demonstrated by their having so often stood shoulder to shoulder in opposition to the French. In this connection he noted the presence at his table of his great friend and partner, Lord Cholmondeley. It occurred to me that he might be drunk. His face was certainly flushed. The resemblance to Goldfinger was disconcerting.

  I began to pay close attention when I heard myself named: Hubert was saying that he and his guests were honored to have among them a celebrated American novelist, a spinner of fanciful tales who showed in his fiction no less than in life a fine appreciation of both courage and loyalty. The friendship between this great writer and our friend Henry, whose roots, despite his Anglo-Saxon name and his mastery of Anglo-Saxon as well as continental law, were in Eastern Europe—indeed, it pleased him to think they could be traced to the land from which his own ancient family derived its name—this friendship proved, he insisted, that as a young man Henry must have possessed the gifts of impetuousness and verve without which profound friendships are impossible. Now Henry had given proof of a very different quality—prudence—his cri de guerre, his battle cry, but no, that was the wrong term, his murmured password has become “the better part of valor is discretion.” An admirable and apt one for a lawyer, he said; his own, however, also borrowed from the great bard, was and had always been “out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety.” Hubert continued to drive his point home. At the end, he said, I raise my glass to Henry.

  The days were long past when I would have thrown Hubert’s excellent champagne in his face or hit him, and I was of two minds about what I might do in Henry’s place, but, after I had seen my friend half rise from his seat and bow silently in his host’s direction, I realized that he had made the right decision. He wasn’t a brawler. He kept his mouth shut.

  The next day the French government opened fire, the account of its actions dominating that Wednesday’s evening news and page 1 of the next day’s Figaro and Le Monde. The Herald Tribune and The New York Times, the two English-language papers I read, caught up on Friday. The Ministry of Finance had launched an investigation into possible long-standing violations of currency controls by l’Occident and its top management. This was a threat of criminal prosecution aimed directly at Jacques Blondet. Another investigation concerned alleged collusion in such violations by other French banks with known commercial ties to Banque de Sainte-Terre. Although no announcement was made, Le Monde reported that Blondet would be made the subject of a tax audit covering all years not barred by the statute of limitations; the ministry, according to that reporter, suspected serious infractions. If there was fraud, the statute of limitations wouldn’t apply. Another article discussed likely measures to curtail the operations of Banque Sainte-Terre in France. Unfortunately they were insignificant.

  I tried to get hold of Henry, but his secretary told me he was away and couldn’t be reached. She offered, however, to make a date for lunch on Monday, the first day he would be back at the office. We agreed on a restaurant near the Madeleine. I called Margot to ask whether she had spoken with him or knew where he was. The butler told me she was out of town.

  Monday came, and I was at the point of leaving my apartment for the restaurant when Henry called. He said he was glad to catch me. The police were attempting to search Wiggins & O’Reilly’s office for documents relating to the legal advice that he had given to the Banque de Sainte-Terre. That was a scandalous move, and he wasn’t planning to tell them anything or surrender a single scrap of paper. Let’s have dinner tomorrow, he said, assuming that I’m not in jail for disobeying a lawful order of the forces of the law. I asked whether he was joking. Not entirely, he said, but I’m not worried either.

  There was some roast chicken in my refrigerator. I had lunch, worked until late afternoon, and then watched the news. The lead national story concerned the arrest of Jacques Blondet on charges of numerous currency control violations including illegal export of gold coins. His lawyer appeared on the screen, very vehement about the outrageous nature of the proceedings, including the refusal to release his client immediately on bail.

  XXXII

  THE NEXT DAY’S PAPERS were once more full of l’affaire l’Occident. Henry called in midafternoon and said that Blondet had been released on bail that morning and that with the assistance of the president of the Paris bar association he had succeeded in getting the police out of the Wiggins & O’Reilly office empty-handed. The prosecutor made some noises afterward about seeking testimony from him as the stage manager of the transaction, but, in Henry’s opinion, that was pure bluster. A lawyer couldn’t be obliged to reveal the advice he had given to a client unless he had been advising him on how to violate the law, something that he had never done and certainly hadn’t done in the Occident case. Still, he wanted to postpone our meal again, until the following evening. Hubert was coming to Paris late that evening and had asked him to a meeting at his office first thing next morning; Blondet would be present as well. Henry thought he had better prepare and go over policy issues with New York.

  The following morning in Le Figaro I read an editorial on the tawdriness of the government’s attempt to take revenge on Blondet only to obscure its own mistakes in drafting the nationalization law. There was a mention as well of the obloquy to which the prosecutor would be exposed after the ill-considered and futile raid on the Paris office of a famous international law firm. Le Monde had relegated l’Occident to a short paragraph in the business section. All this boded well for Henry, I decided, and called his secretary to say that we would have dinner at Lucas Carton and that he was my guest. It was, in my opinion, the one great restaurant in Paris where tables were sufficiently far apart for truly private conversation. Arriving at the restaurant five minutes late, I found him at table, staring grimly at his martini. How did it go? I asked him.

  He told me I would be able to judge for myself after he had had another drink and we had ordered dinner. As it turned out, he had two more martinis before he began his story.

  I’m sick of these people, he said. It was the usual setting: Hubert’s private office, he on the sofa next to the telephone—I’m not sure whether I ever told you that he can’t keep his hands off it—Jacques Blondet in the armchair at a right angle to the sofa also within reach of a telephone, and I in an armchair directly across the coffee table from Hubert. Hubert asked the Cambodian fellow who serves coffee at the office and also occasionally runs errands to tell Madame Ginette—that’s the head secretary—that he won’t take any calls. Of course we all know that if his private line rings he’ll answer anyway. But we’re used to it. Hubert leads off with a speech about how I have always had a special place in his business life as well as in his heart and how he has relied on me implicitly. I nod modestly. But, he says, I have disappointed him bitterly. He remembers—and so does Jacques—having asked me repeatedly whether the Occident transaction was legal, and my assurances that it was. And yet Jacques has been arrested and actually spent the night at the Santé. Could I explain that? I answer that indeed I can, quite simply. Jacques hasn’t been arrested because of any illegality in the Occident transaction; he was arrested—take y
our choice—on his own merits or for his own misdeeds. That’s not how I put it, but you get the idea.

  But didn’t it happen because of the Occident? Hubert asks. Most probably, I answer. The government is furious at you both, and it might not have had any interest in currency control violations if you hadn’t pulled a fast one. That’s what I tried to warn you about: the government would be out for blood.

  At this point Jacques jumps in and says, That’s all very well, but you didn’t tell Hubert and you didn’t tell me that anyone would go to jail.

  I guess I’m still not getting the message across, Henry continued, so I say, beginning to feel annoyed at this point, Look Hubert, the government isn’t even trying to set the Occident transaction aside or to prosecute you for engaging in it. They know they can’t. But they’ll get you on anything they can make stick. You can bet that the tax inspector auditing Jacques’s tax returns has been ordered to crucify him. And you, Hubert: Who doesn’t know that you drive your Lamborghini too fast? I wouldn’t be surprised if a police car were staked out somewhere near your house with strict orders to nail you.

  There’s a moment of silence after that, during which I ask for another cup of coffee. Hubert presses a button, and the Cambodian reappears, brings the coffee, and leaves. Finally, Jacques repeats, You should have warned us that someone could be arrested. I would have never taken that risk. I was beside myself so I didn’t answer; I just sat there. Hubert too says nothing. We remained in silence for a few more minutes, and then I say, addressing myself to Hubert: Surely you agree that you and Jacques have done business in France long enough to know that the government can apply many legal and extralegal pressures to get its way or to punish. I tried to warn you, even to the point of telling you I wouldn’t implement the deal. You basically told me to shut up. I don’t see what more I could have done.