Traitors.
Bastien, however, had little patience to deal with his brother—today of all days—so he pushed past him, jabbing Jacques with his shoulder as he did so. “Better her than you, Judas.”
“Aww, Grandfather said we ought to behave.”
“Yes, well, he’s not your grandfather, is he?”
It was a weak remark, childish even, but he couldn’t be bothered.
Jacques, by comparison, had come prepared. He let out a low hum, a single utterance that sent a prickling sensation through Bastien’s nerves. His generosity appeared to have waned since the last time they had talked. Though the way Bastien had treated his brother’s peace offering hadn’t been exactly cordial either.
“At this point, I’m afraid he is more related to me than he is to you, Bas. But I’m getting ahead of myself.” Jacques glanced at his wristwatch. “You’ll find out what I mean after your meeting. He’s in his office.”
Bastien bristled at the sound of that. Locking him out of his accounts hadn’t been enough it seemed, and neither had kicking him out of the mansion. Bastien wouldn’t be surprised if his grandfather had removed him from the family tree altogether.
At least that sort of punishment would carry its own upside: not part of the family, no family dinners.
Bastien shrugged off his jacket and trailed up the stairs without another word to Jacques. Dust motes swirled in the air as he climbed the staircase, swiftly greeting the two maids polishing the railing. Monsieur Ménard’s office door stood slightly ajar, letting a streak of light run an amber line down the carpeted corridor.
“Yes, yes. I told you to go through with it already,” he snapped at someone inside.
Bastien grimaced. If his grandfather was already fuming, there was a good chance he would burst into flames at the sight of him. Bastien had half a mind to retrace his steps and return later once his grandfather’s anger had subdued a smidge, when one of the maids who was tasked with the flower arrangements for tonight’s function dropped the vase of white orchids she washolding. It rocked against the floor with a loud thud, though luckily it didn’t break.
“Forgive me, Monsieur Ménard,” she whispered, hurrying to stop the vase from toppling over. Bastien waved a hand, not thinking much of it. But his nonchalance dropped the second he noticed who the maid was. Something in his chest stirred uncomfortably. He’d only been away for four weeks, almost a month, and his mother’s maid, the one who had practically raised him after Adalene’s passing, was already stepping into formalities.
Everything around him suddenly felt foreign. Agnes, the hallway, the carpet he was standing on, the carpet he had tripped over thousands of times when he was younger. Even the air inside the house had changed. It didn’t carry the familiar scent it always had. Even before the soirées could start and all he could smell was detergent and aromatic flowers; even after the guests were gone and all that was left was the lingering cigarette smoke and the sugary sweetness coming from the cake frosting and the champagne that had been consumed all night long; even then, underneath all those other layers, it had held that specific scent that was now missing.
“Come now, Agnes,” Bastien said with a lightness he didn’t feel at all. “Having changed my diapers when I was a baby surely gives you the right to disregard proprieties. Don’t call me Monsieur Ménard. It makes me sound old.”
Agnes gave the gap in the door a weary look, her round cheeks reddening like apples. “You know your grandfather dislikes that.”
“It will be our secret,” Bastien insisted. “Just don’t tell my grandfather I was here and—”
“Bastien?”
Merde.
Agnes pressed her lips into a line and patted his back for courage. She shuffled away, letting Bastien face whatever it was Grandfather had summoned him for.
“You can come in now. I’m done with my visitor.”
Footsteps scuffed along the carpet on the other side, and a wry voice uttered a few sharp parting words. Bastien watched as the man took his leave without waiting for a reply, creeping down the stairs at his leisure. Once he was by the door, Jacques smiled, offered a greeting as though he knew exactly who the man was, and saw him outside.
The burrowing feeling in Bastien’s stomach intensified as he entered the office without much choice.
“Did you finally realise how boring this mansion is without me and decided I should move back in?” Bastien prompted without preamble.
Monsieur Ménard was just lighting his pipe and gave the match a vigorous shake to put it out. Then beckoned Bastien to seat himself.
“I see I haven’t broken down that spirit yet,” he remarked, still not looking at his grandson.
Bastien despised his grandfather’s inability to start his admonishments with along story short. It was always a remark that hinted at something, then some sort of metaphor he could never fully understand, and finally, the point. Right now, they were only a third of the way through.
Disregarding the offer to sit, Bastien began wandering around the office, running a finger over a figurine, nudging a basket of newspapers with his shoe, rolling his eyes at Jacques’s latest trophy propped on the table. “You cannot break something that’s already broken, grandfather. I’m afraid you might have to pulverise me.”
“You are not broken, my boy.” Monsieur Ménard shook his head. “I have yet to figure out why you insist on acting likeyou are. These debaucheries, these excessive spendings, this—thislife”—he sighed heavily—“we never brought you up with that sort of thinking.”
Bastien made a disgruntled sound that might have been a disturbing laugh. “What? This isexactlythe life you wanted for me. It certainly was the life you wanted for my mother. And when she said she disliked it, you shunned her. I’m just showing you why she didn’t like it.”
