Old Bones

FIVE

Georges Bonfante tapped his sterling silver pencil methodically on the surface of the table and waited with a forbearing smile for the last few to settle down. The milk-and-waterish young man with the awful pre-knotted bowtie-that would be the distant cousin from America. Monsieur Bonfante discreetly shielded the small smile he permitted himself. A bowtie, by the good Lord, a green, polka-dotted bowtie and a brown suit, factory-made and fifteen years out of style (if it ever had been in style). Yes, that was certainly the American. Well, if he hoped to emerge any the richer from this little session, he had a sad disappointment coming.

Monsieur Bonfante watched keenly as the young man chose his seat. Monsieur Bonfante was a student of human behavior, and he had already made his prediction. Yes, just as he expected; at the side of the thin, drab young woman who kept her hands in her lap and her eyes on her hands, the Fougeray girl. The observant Monsieur Bonfante had seen them come into the salon together earlier, and had not failed to notice the pathetically timid smiles they exchanged. Well, well, they would make a fine pair, like a couple from a children’s story book: Mr. and Mrs. Mouse. Perhaps they would live in a burrow somewhere and come out to eat Swiss cheese. And have many fine mouse-children.

He tapped his pencil a final time, smiled authoritatively at the faces turned attentively towards his own, opened his attache case, and removed the folder.

From an old-fashioned metal case covered with flocked black silk he removed his reading glasses. "What we have," he said, "is a holographic will of great simplicity, written and signed by Guillaume du Rocher in my presence on January 19, 1978." He cleared his throat and began to read aloud.

"‘This is my will, and I hereby revoke all prior wills. I direct that all my funeral expenses be paid out of my estate. To the University of Rennes I give my collection of mollusks and all materials pertaining to it. To Beatrice and Marcel Lupis I leave an annual allowance of twenty thousand francs for as long as either of them shall live.’ "

This allowance was not as munificent as it would have been in 1978. It would provide butter on the spinach; no more. For their spinach they would still have to work. Nevertheless, it was received with a grateful murmur from Marcel and a pro forma dab of Madame Lupis’ handkerchief to a rough and perfectly dry cheek.

Monsieur Bonfante smiled once more at his attentive audience. "‘To my cousin Rene du Rocher, or to his wife Mathilde in the event of his death, or to their descendants in the event of both their deaths, I leave the rest of my estate, except for the following stipulations.’ "

He looked up again to catch a relieved Mathilde preening herself. The will could hardly be a surprise to her, but until it is read one never knows. Now she was wondering what the estate was really worth, what it would mean to her. Well, he could tell her and no doubt would. It meant she and Rene were rich; they now had a handsome home, the means to maintain it, and a yearly income roughly fifteen times Rene’s comfortable pension besides.

"‘This bequest,’ "he continued," ‘is contingent on the stipulation that the beforementioned Marcel and Beatrice Lupis be allowed to continue in their positions for as long as they wish.’"

"Of course, of course," Rene murmured to them. "Be delighted to have you."

"‘In addition,’ " Monsieur Bonfante read on, "‘the following property is excepted: all of the contents of the room in the Manoir de Rochebonne known as the Library, including all books, furniture, ornaments, and carpets in it at the time of my death. These I bequeath to my well-loved niece Sophie Butts, nee du Rocher.’ "

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 attache 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 Bibliotheque 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 peones.

"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.

Beatrice deferred and led the workmen around the kitchen entrance. Rene 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 Rene, alarmed.

The foreman swallowed and took another step forward. "In the cellar…there’s a…a…"