At this there were gasps of surprise, among the most explosive of which came from Sophie herself, who followed it with a look of round-eyed astonishment at her husband.
Monsieur Bonfante smiled tolerantly. "I will be happy to answer privately any questions you may have about any of the terms that affect you individually. In the meantime, are there any general questions?"
His query went unanswered so long that he put the will into his attaché case and prepared his face for the congratulations and smiles required of him. The beneficiaries rose and came to the table to thank him.
Claude Fougeray now made his first contribution: a long, gargling mutter. Head lowered and weaving ominously from side to side, he stared forward, pressed tensely into the tapestried cushion of his chair, like a jack-in-the-box jammed into place by its lid and about to burst the hook. "No," he said.
"Monsieur?" said the attorney with a smile. Mathilde had warned him about Fougeray.
Claude had placed himself apart from everyone, even his wife and daughter, up against the oaken wainscoting near the door, and one fist thumped rhythmically against the three-hundred-year-old linen-fold paneling behind him. His voice was strained, barely audible. "How do I know that’s really his will?"
Georges Bonfante had nothing against Claude. He was familiar with the old stories about him, although he himself had been a young man in Lyons at the time. He did not fault Claude for his behavior during the war; what choice did a sensible man have in those days? Nevertheless, he felt his temper begin to swell at the base of his throat. He was not of a retiring disposition, and he did not care to have his ethics impugned.
"It is a holographic will, monsieur," he said frostily. "Made in my presence."
"Holographic, holographic—"
"Made in his own handwriting," Leona Fougeray snapped from across the room.
"In my presence," Monsieur Bonfante repeated yet again, with admirable patience.
Claude shook his head stubbornly. "No, impossible. I know Guillaume; he told me long ago, before the war— The books would go to the Bibliothèque Nationale when he died." He panted twice, like a beast. "Besides, he hated America—ever since the First War, when they came over, so sure of themselves, with their piss-on-you American walk—"
"Piss-on-you American walk?" Ray was heard to murmur perplexedly.
"All this may be so," said Monsieur Bonfante sharply, "but you are speaking of Guillaume du Rocher as a young man, many decades ago. And I fail to see the relevance—"
"He would never leave his library to an American! Not his precious books!" Claude stood up abruptly, swaying on unsteady legs, propping himself with one arm against the wall.
"An American? But surely his cousin Sophie—"
"Not Sophie, her husband! Leaving them to her is the same thing as leaving them to him. Don’t you know what they must be worth? How long do you think she’ll keep them?"
"Now just hold on a minute there," Ben said, moving a step forward. With her eyes, Sophie appealed to him to stop, which he did reluctantly.
Monsieur Bonfante’s fund of patience was exhausted. "I advise you to hold your tongue, monsieur," he said to Claude in his firmest courtroom voice. "However, if you wish to contest Guillaume du Rocher’s will, there are legal means at your disposal."
It was a good time to make an exit, but Claude stood blocking the door, head down, breathing as heavily as a bull and giving the convincing impression that he would attempt to gore anyone who took a step. No one moved. Monsieur Bonfante had placed himself in front of the others and was watching Claude closely, a matador shielding his
peónes.
"Legal means…" Claude repeated, muddled and wandering. He squeezed his eyes shut and passed his hand over his forehead. "Legal…" His eyes opened and fixed cunningly on the attorney. "How do I know it was his
last
will?"
"I have been Monsieur du Rocher’s attorney for forty-two years," Monsieur Bonfante said coldly. "I assure you there was never a subsequent will."
"And never
talk
of another will?" Claude stretched his lips in a malicious grin.
"Monsieur, I don’t deal in talk." A fine close. Georges Bonfante snapped shut the latches of his attaché case with firm, incontestable clicks. "Ladies and gentlemen, I think our business here—"
"There was going to be a new will!" Claude said, his voice urgent despite the slurring. "What the hell do you suppose this council was going to be about?"
The others shifted and glanced embarrassedly at each other. Leona Fougeray, eyes blazing, appeared to be on the verge of throttling her husband. Claire looked stricken; pale and trembling. Ray took her hand in his and squeezed it.
"I want what’s mine," Claude whispered hoarsely. Two viscous tears rolled unevenly down his cheeks.
Claire, weeping, took a step towards him, but her mother held her back with a thin, rigid arm. "He’s made his bed; let him sleep in it," she said through clenched teeth.
"For heaven’s sake, the man is blind drunk," Jules said, his face pouchy with disapproval. "Why do we stand here arguing with him?"
"Oh, is he
drunk?
" René murmured in his wondering way, causing Mathilde to raise her eyes to the beamed ceiling.
Beatrice Lupis grunted. "Is he ever sober?"
"Sh," Marcel said decorously. "This isn’t your affair."
But Jules had snickered and Claude had heard. "You," he whispered malignantly to Madame Lupis, "don’t you dare… don’t you ever talk to me like …you fat-assed slut—"
With lithe and shockingly unexpected speed Marcel Lupis stepped forward. The long, olive fingers of his right hand snaked out and grasped the lower part of Claude’s face like pincers, "Be quiet, you," Marcel said with all the passion he habitually employed to announce dinner. But his eyes were like gray ice, and when he took his hand away, Claude was silent.
Claire burst suddenly into strangled tears and ran from the library, her hands to her mouth. Ray went after her. An instant later Marcel walked out, followed at once by Madame Lupis, and then by the others.
None of them looked at Claude, whose spongy face was the color of putty except where Marcel’s fingers had left ugly, bright-pink dents a quarter of an inch deep.
"RAYMOND, do stop pacing, and come and sit down.
Eat some breakfast. Have a croissant."
"Uh, I’m not hungry, thanks, Sophie. Uh, what time is it?"
"It’s 8:50," Ben said, watching him curiously.
"Well, either come and sit down anyway, or go outside," Sophie said. "You’re making me nervous."
Ray threw himself restlessly onto the loveseat near the two armchairs in which they sat before the big, bright leaded glass window. Their breakfasts—coffee, croissants, rolls, butter, and jelly—were on a small round table in front of them.
"That’s better," Sophie said. She and Ben continued to eat.
Ray crossed his left leg over his right. Then he uncrossed them and crossed his right leg over his left. He wiggled his right foot and sighed. He jiggled the coins in his pocket.
"What time is it now, please?" he asked.
"It’s 8:52," Ben said. "Approximately. Would you like to borrow my watch?"
"No, no, I never wear one. Sophie, just how are the Fougerays related to us?"
She glanced up from buttering a torn-off end of her croissant. "Astronomically. Geologically."
"Well, but how, exactly?"
She popped the croissant into her mouth and licked butter from her little finger. "Well, let’s see. Claude is Guillaume’s cousin, you understand. And Guillaume was some sort of distant uncle of mine, and you’re my nephew, so—"
"Sorry, hon," Ben said. "I hate to bring it up, but you and Guillaume were fourth cousins."
She looked at him. "Truly? But he’s so much older, after all."
"Doesn’t matter. Your great-great-grandfathers were brothers, and that makes Guillaume your cousin, not your uncle. And while we’re at it, Ray here’s your first cousin once removed, not your nephew."
"Don’t be ridiculous. He’s Jeanne’s boy."
Ben shook his head. "And Jeanne was your first cousin. Child of a first cousin is a first cousin once removed."
Ray had heard this argument before, and he was on Sophie’s side. She and Ben had always been his aunt and uncle, and that was that. "But what about the Fougerays?" he said. "How are—oh, just for the sake of discussion—how are Claire and I related?"
"Lord knows," Ben said.
"Oh, come on, Ben," Sophie said. "You understand these things. You’re a lawyer."
He laughed. "I’m a corporate lawyer. But I think—I
think
—Claire is the daughter of the first cousin of Ray’s fourth cousin once removed—Guillaume, that is—only from the other side of the family, so…"
"Good heavens," Ray said, "I’m sorry I asked." He sagged back against the seat. Anything, beyond first cousins had always been and still was an impenetrable mystery to him.
At that moment, Claire appeared, calm and cool in a belted trench coat. Wearing lipstick. Ray jumped up as if he’d been jabbed. After three steps he turned around to Ben and Sophie.
"Oh, thanks," he said. "Er…’Bye." And, with Claire, he was gone.
Sophie and Ben looked at each other, each with a single eyebrow raised. "I’ll be damned," Ben said, and got a look on his face that usually meant a homily was forthcoming. But for once he couldn’t think of one.
HALF an hour later, Beatrice Lupis was laying out
café crème
and croissants for René du Rocher, who was seated in one of the pleasantly situated chairs in which the Buttses had had their breakfast. Mathilde was starting her first full day as mistress of the manoir by sleeping late. René was considering this unusual occurrence, wondering where it might lead, when four men in the dark berets and faded blue smocks that are the workman’s uniform of France appeared at the door.
"We are here to begin on the drains, madame," their spokesman announced when Beatrice opened the door.
"The drains?" Beatrice replied, and then smacked her forehead. She had completely forgotten. The ancient household drains had been showing their age in unpleasant ways for some time, but Guillaume, for reasons of his own, had chosen to ignore the problem so that the resourceful Beatrice had taken it on herself to have it attended to. Because no one even knew precisely where the drains were, the first step was the tearing up of the stone flooring in the cellar, and it was this the workmen had come to do.
But this was not the time for it. There was a turbulent exchange between Beatrice and the foreman. Guillaume du Rocher had just been laid in his grave, she pointed out heatedly; surely out of respect for him the work might be postponed for a week?
Certainly, the foreman replied, using his tongue to shift a toothpick from the left side of his mouth to the right. That would be possible, but four days’ masonry work had been contracted to begin
today,
and the equipment had been brought all the way from St. Brieuc. He had no choice, he was sorry to say, but to bill them for the contracted labor and equipment costs, whether or not the work was done. They would be happy to come back later, but they would have to charge all over again. It made little difference to him, he explained, and the toothpick moved back to the left. It was up to madame.
But it was monsieur who resolved the matter. René, aware that he was responsible for the
domaine
’s outlay as well as its income, came to the doorway and suggested that it might be best to permit the work, inasmuch as it was being paid for anyway. The men would be out of sight in the cellar, after all, and if they kept their noise to a minimum, used the back entrances, and were generally discreet, why, no impropriety would be done.
Beatrice deferred and led the workmen around the kitchen entrance. René was well-pleased with the results of his timely and authoritative intercession, but before his second cup of coffee had been drunk the foreman was back. His trousers and sleeves were powdered with fine gray dust.
"Monsieur?" He approached, a great deal more diffident than he’d been before; actually wringing his hands, in fact. Had he not left his beret in the cellar he would certainly have been twisting it. The toothpick was not to be seen.
"Monsieur…we’ve found…in the cellar …we’ve found…"
"What, what?" asked René, alarmed.
The foreman swallowed and took another step forward. "In the cellar …there’s a…a…"
"A skeleton?" Sergeant Denis stopped doodling. He sat straight up in his hard plastic chair and pressed the telephone closer to his ear with his shoulder. "Did you say a skeleton?"
"Yes…Well, that is, not a whole one. There’s no… no head."
"No head. I see. Monsieur du Rocher, is it?"
"Yes, René du Rocher." This time Denis wrote it down. "And you found it in the cellar?"
"Yes. That is, the workmen did. It was buried in the floor, under the stones. It’s been, er, wrapped in paper."
"And you’re certain it’s human?"
A pause. "Well, we
think
so. Mr. Fougeray, my—one of my guests—said it was."
"A doctor, this Mr. Fougeray?"
"Oh, no. He owns—er, he’s a butcher." "A butcher," Denis said, writing dutifully.
"He said if it wasn’t a person, then it might be a large monkey of some kind, perhaps a gorilla."
Oh, yes, Denis thought. A gorilla buried in the cellar of the Manoir de Rochebonne. Wrapped in paper. Well, it had been a foolish question.
"Monsieur du Rocher, please touch nothing—"
"Oh, no, of course not."
"—and lock up the cellar."
"Lock it up? I’m not sure there’s a lock."
"Close the door, then." Denis paused. "There is a door?"
"Yes. Well, I’m sure there must be."
"Close it then, and don’t allow anyone in. I’ll have someone there shortly."
"Fleury," Denis said when he replaced the receiver, "go on out to the Manoir de Rochebonne—you know the place?"
Fleury looked up from the well-thumbed office copy of
Lui.
"Near Ploujean?"