"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 attache 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? " Rene 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 cafe creme and croissants for Rene 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. Rene 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. Rene, 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.