Scruples

by Judith Krantz

  Sometimes of late. Bill had shown signs of what the Comtesse believed to be true beauty, but she told herself severely that it was too soon to calculate if they were a promise of things to come or simply wishful thinking on her part. It was enough that Billy stay thin, Lilianne cautioned herself.

  The Marquis du Tour la Forêt, who admired the courage of his niece in her limited financial circumstances, brought an offering of three bottles of champagne to accompany the dinner, and he gallantly insisted that Billy drink a glass as each bottle was opened, absolutely refusing to pay attention to her protests that she was not used to drinking wine at all. The table was expanded to accommodate the four guests, and while Danielle and Solange served the apple tarts, the Baronne Mallarmé du Novembre tried to engage Lilianne’s shy, young paying guest in conversation by asking her if the old rhyme about Boston was true: If the Lowells still spoke only to the Cabots and the Cabots spoke only to God?

  This is not a question that may be lightly put to a Winthrop. Not even in jest. Billy found herself, before she had time to smile yes or smile no or smile in any of the many ways she had developed for answering questions without speaking, launched into complicated and detailed explanations of the relative merits of the Gardners, the Perkinses, the Saltonstalls, the Hallowells, the Hunnenwells, the Minots, the Welds, and the Winthrops, in relation to the Lowells and the Cabots. She touched lightly on the family trees of the Wolcotts, the Birds, the Lymans, and the Codmans before her impassioned, champagned-gilded genealogical flight ended as something in Madame’s incredulous expression caught her attention and made her realize that she was speaking—was it too much?—was it too loudly?—no—in French!

  The barrier was down, never to rise again. One such breakthrough experience in a language is enough. It opened all the doors of Billy’s mind, destroyed all her hesitations, vanquished her timidity.

  Speaking French, Billy found herself another person than she had ever been. In French she had never been a freak at school, never been a poor relation, never been the last and the least of her cousins. Never, it seemed, been fat. Or lonely or unloved. She found that the lessons she had learned by rote, and just as quickly forgotten, came flooding back into her mind, filled with such obvious and logical reality that she gasped in distress at the ignorance of their meaning in which she had memorized them only a year or so before. She talked and talked and talked. To bus conductors, to Louise, to Danielle and Solange, to children in the park, to all the girls in her dance class, to ticket sellers in the Métro, and most particularly to Lilianne.

  Every day she stretched herself in French as she stretched her body in dance class. She greedily accumulated the minutiae of French life. It was perfectly correct to address a duchess simply as “Madame” after you had met her, but you must take care to address the concierge by her full name, “Madame Blanc,” each and every time you saw her; you could not live happily in France unless you knew how to build an efficient fire because the law required the landlord to heat the building only when the pipes were about to freeze; an unmarried girl must never expect her hand to be kissed, but if it is, she must never indicate that she has noticed the impropriety; at a buffet dinner the women of the household fill the gentlemen’s plates before they take any food of their own—at least chez Madame; and, astonishingly, the Comtesse considered herself a good Catholic, although she went to Mass only at Easter. Also, to send a flower arrangement is insulting because it indicates that you do not trust the recipient to be able to arrange cut flowers, but it is not as bad as writing a personal letter on a typewriter.

  Now she bought new clothes, with what the Comtesse thought was typical Boston caution. A few sweaters and skirts, several silk blouses, a tailored wool coat, and one simple black dress, which she wore with the exceedingly good pearls Aunt Cornelia had given her for graduation from Emery. Each purchase was made at the shop on the Avenue Victor Hugo with the advice of Lilianne, who initiated Billy once and forever into the small company of women who totally understand the vast gulf between clothes that fit and clothes that do not fit. Slowly she explored the mysteries and significance of cut and quality. Together they went to the collections at Dior, where the directrice, husky voiced, lanky Suzanne Luling, who was a friend of Lilianne’s, gave them excellent second-row seats only five weeks after the collection had opened, as soon as the serious buyers had come and given their orders, so that there was room for mere observers. They went to other collections, chez Saint Laurent and Lanvin and Nina Ricci and Balmain and Givenchy and Chanel, the seats less good, sometimes quite bad, for impecunious comtesses are not treated with much respect in the great couture houses; however, the whispered commentary that Lilianne poured into Billy’s ear was just as canny and sharp-eyed as if they had been looking with every intention of buying.

  “That number would never be for you, it is too sophisticated for anyone under thirty; that dress is too extreme—it will be démodé by next spring; now, that one will be good for three years; that suit is made of too heavy a tweed—it will bag; that coat makes one awkward; that color would make one look faded; that dress is perfection. If you were to buy only one number, that would be it.” Privately she wondered why Billy did not permit herself at least one Chanel suit. Even the fabled Bostonian practice of living on the income of the income of one’s income could surely, in Billy’s case, accommodate itself to such a small indiscretion during a year in Paris. It was a shame she did not profit by the occasion. However, the expenditure of money was not a subject that Lilianne felt she had the right to discuss with her paying guests, even so dear a one as this.

  The woman of infinite sophistication and the nineteen-year-old girl often strolled together along the Rue du Faubourg-St-Honoré, analyzing and judging each object in each shopwindow as if it were one vast art gallery and they were the most discriminating of collectors. Billy absorbed Lilianne’s standards of quality. Since the Comtesse had no means to satisfy her tastes, she could afford to approve of only the very, very best and then, only after the most judicious comparisons.

  It had never been a part of the Comtesse’s reception of paying guests to introduce them to suitable young men. In the first place she did not know a great many young Frenchmen and in the second place it would have added an unnecessary complication to her life. As it was, soon there would be her daughters to launch in worldly life, a prospect she dreaded, since she was not of the matchmaking disposition and they would be girls with nothing to offer but themselves and their ancient blood.

  However, a temptation entered her mind as she thoughtfully surveyed the young woman who now occupied such a special place under her roof; a tall, slim girl of unmistakable distinction, yes, a girl of beauty, a girl who spoke French no American could be ashamed of, a girl who was connected with all the great fortunes of Boston, a girl who had come to her recommended by the venerable and enormously wealthy Lady Molly Berkeley.

  If Boston, Lilianne told herself, had sent her a baby hippo who couldn’t even ask the time in French, why should she return this girl, whom she had transformed, to what must obviously be an uncongenial and sad environment? Billy, unlike other girls she had sheltered, had never shown the first signs of homesickness. If those rich merchants of Boston didn’t know how to bring out the best in their own daughters, they deserved to lose them.

  Why not, after all, keep Billy in France? Why not introduce her to several of her nephews and perhaps one or two of their friends? All of them had one thing in common: Their families had been impoverished by the war to varying degrees and these young sprigs of the old aristocracy had been reduced to working for their living just like everyone else. World War II had finished, for much of Old France, a decline that even the guillotine had been too selective to accomplish.

  In any case, Lilianne assured herself, whether anything came of it or not, it was surely not normal for Billy to still live like a schoolgirl months after her nineteenth birthday, with no company but that of other women, dance students, and old family friends. (The Co
mtesse had, naturally, a private life of her own—she was still a young woman, voyons—but that was a very discreet one indeed and no paying guest, no matter how close she became, was ever to be included in it.)

  Yet when she suggested to Billy that it might amuse her to meet a few young men, Billy’s response was violent.

  “No, Madame! I beg of you! I’m so happy the way I am, my life is perfect just exactly as it is. There is nothing more embarrassing than a blind date—or whatever you call it in French. I know you’re being kind, but, truly, I’m not interested at all. The family is more than enough for me. Don’t ever talk about it again, please.”

  Nothing she could have said would have consolidated Lilianne’s nebulous plans more firmly. This would not do at all. What was the purpose of a transformation if there was no one to admire it? What if Cinderella had not gone to the ball? She had been right in thinking the situation was not normal. How could Billy be truly the credit to her that she deserved after all her efforts if the girl was without a single male admirer? She had not, after all, been preparing her for the religious life. Obviously, this Boston virgin must be outwitted. One must arrange it—it was no more than one’s duty.

  Comte Edouard de la Côte de Grace was Lilianne’s preferred nephew. Unlike the physically undistinguished heritors of many great names, he carried about him a genuine hint of nobility, an air of another time. He looked truly like one of the last of the grand seigneurs, although Lilianne had to smile at some of his pretentions. Edouard had great height, a superbly aquiline nose, thin, arrogant lips, and an expression both stern and, when he chose, humorous. At twenty-six he still lived at home with his parents since his salary at L’Air Liquide wasn’t enough to enable him to maintain his own place in the style he would have accepted. However, his future in the giant corporation was assured in the long run through family pull, since he had, on his mother’s side, as one said in slang, du piston.

  One afternoon Billy returned from her dance class almost too late for tea. She had chosen to stand outside on the platform of the No. 52 bus during the half-hour trip, in spite of the bitter cold of early February, because it was such a clear and brilliant evening that she didn’t want to miss a minute of Paris. Her cheeks flamed and her lips stung. Her hair was loose around her flushed face, blown about by the wind, and she dashed into the apartment on Boulevard Lannes with her long, eager stride, holding herself tall, laughing with anticipation of a cup of hot tea. In front of the blazing fire, feet planted wide apart, stood Edouard de la Côte de Grace, clad in full morning dress, tailcoat and striped trousers, warming his backside with all the assurance of the Sun King.

  “This is my nephew, Comte Edouard de la Côte de Grace, Billy,” Lilianne said casually. “Edouard, this is Mademoiselle Billy Winthrop, who lives with us. Billy, you must forgive the figure Edouard sets—he doesn’t always dress this way at this hour. However, today he is going to be initiated into the Jockey Club and he has come to show himself off to his old aunt before he goes to drink an entire bottle of champagne, all by himself, mind you, so that then he will officially be a member of the Club. What folly! It was thoughtful of you, Edouard, to drop in to see me before this curious ceremony, rather than afterward.”

  And so it began. Utterly beguiled, drenched in the glamour of Edouard, in love for the first time in her life, Billy surged into romance with reckless abandon, an impulsiveness that disturbed Lilianne de Vertdulac in spite of her smugness at the success of her plot.

  All of Billy’s occupations became new ways of becoming worthy of Edouard, her mind and her emotions focused entirely on him. She could not believe her luck when he took her out shooting rabbits on the weekends or invited her home to dinner with his parents. Once he even invited her to have a drink in the bar of the sacrosanct Jockey Club, the most exclusive men’s club in the world.

  For Edouard’s part, he was well pleased. This little American of Lilianne’s was far more attractive than he had expected, considering the fairly decent quality of her birth. It had been his rueful experience that the other girls of great fortune he had met were not girls he found physically possible, or he would have married one several years ago. Billy would be quite suitable in the role of Comtesse de la Côte de Grace, provided that the arrangements were correct, of course. He found her both suitably innocent and properly in awe of him. With the right coiffure, the right clothes, and the right maquillage, she would become a striking woman of the world. When his father and his uncle died, and she became Madame La Marquise de la Côte de Grace, she would be ready for the dignity of the name. He thought of his hunting lodge, so badly in need of repairs—to be reduced to hunting on foot!—he considered the family château in the Auvergne, waiting to be restored to its former beauty. It was clearly time to settle down.

  Part of the bargain Billy had struck with Aunt Cornelia was that she would write weekly from Paris. She had deliberately been very vague about her weight, intending to surprise and stun all Boston when she returned. She rarely mentioned Edouard, except in passing, but by spring, Cornelia sensed that something was going on between Billy and this young count, although what it could possibly be she found difficult to imagine. One day in May two letters crossed each other.

  Dear Cousin Molly,

  Thanks to your great kindness in finding our Honey a place with Madame de Vertdulac, who has been quite wonderful to her, she’s been having a marvelous year! From what she writes, I believe that her French has improved immeasurably—I am so glad! She has even taken up dance class, which can only do her good! Recently she had mentioned one name rather frequently—that of a Comte Edouard de Côte de Grace, who seems to be squiring her about Paris. Do you happen to know anything about him or his family? I must confess that I’m as surprised as I am delighted that she should have found a young man, since the dear girl was not a great success in Boston in that particular way. I have always hoped she might be a late bloomer—unlike you, dear Molly! I would appreciate any news you may have for me.

  With much love,

  Nelie

  Nelie my dear,

  I have just received a most puzzling letter from Lilianne de Vertdulac. Apparently your young niece is having a serious romance with Comte Edouard de la Côte de Grace, whose family I know fairly well, although not intimately, and Lilianne believes it might turn into an engagement at any moment! All well and good, he comes from the very top drawer, as my maid would say, but, my dear, he is no more well off than she is, except for his job. Great expectations but nothing for years, as I understand it. The extraordinary thing is that Lilianne is apparently unaware of Honey’s exact circumstances as she spoke of a marriage settlement. She actually seemed to think that Honey’s father would have lawyers!!! who would want to meet with Edouard’s fathers lawyers, should it come to that.

  Reading between the lines I got the strong impression that she believes Honey to be an heiress merely because she is a Winthrop. How frightfully French of her. There are so many Winthrops. But then, how was she to know that? Edouard’s family is very proud and very grand, even for the English. They seem to take themselves very seriously, and I’m quite sure, in fact certain, that Edouard must marry an heiress. There could be no question of his marrying for love alone unless he were prepared to badly disappoint his entire family—he is the only son, you know. What am I to tell Lilianne? I’m quite distraught over this matter. Has Honey, perhaps, a trust fund that she will come into in the future? You spoke of a small inheritance, as I remember, but was there anything else—or could there be? I’m still American enough to disapprove of the dowry system on principle, but when in France—In any case, do write me immediately and tell me exactly how things stand.

  With love to you—as ever—and to dear George too—

  Molly

  refused to go to the Christmas Cotillion or to join the Vincent Club. Not even when her nephew Pickles failed to make A.D. at Harvard. In fact, this was actually worse than the time her son Henry seemed to be falling in love with a Jewish girl fro
m Radcliffe—even if both of her great-grandfathers had founght in the Civil War! She cared more for Honey, she discovered, than she had realized.

  Three weeks before Lilianne received Lady Molly’s enlightening answer to her letter, Edouard had made the decision to assure himself of his prize American virgin. Had Billy been French, he might well have waited until after the wedding, but since she was American, and not Catholic, he felt that the event might be conducted with a bit more promptness. However, the occasion of Billy’s initiation into lovemaking was a ceremony both solemn and painful. It took place on his bed in his rather bare bedroom in the tumbledown hunting lodge, with its empty stables and uncared-for garden. Billy would always remember that the ceiling of the room was draped with dusty cloth striped in dark blue and red, like one of Napoleon’s battlefield tents, that the furniture was heavy Empire and unpolished, and that her pain was as extraordinary as it was unexpected. Her main memory, however, was of her amazement that a stiff penis pointed upward, rather than straight out, horizontally, as she had always imagined it would. Edouard assured her that it would be better for her the next time, but, he told her, even for a virgin she was the tightest woman he had ever had. She felt supremely proud of that for some reason she never understood.