“My coffers were harmed,” Monsieur Ménard asserted.
Bastien exhaled loudly and hopped to his feet. “You’re a tycoon. You have enough money to bury half of it with you when you die and still leave us some in your will. What coffers—”
But he knew he had made a mistake when Monsieur Ménard turned to Jacques. “Do you agree with your brother?”
Jacques parted his lips. “I…well…youarerich.”
Bastien lifted a brow at the sudden support. A bit late, he thought, to be taking his side. All these years of quarrelling with each other over the simplest matter just because Jacques said yes while Bastien decided no, because Jacques thought it was wrong and Bastien insisted everything that felt wrong was right—why pick this moment?
“But one hundred bottles of champagne for courtesans to bathe in…” Jacques trailed off. “One might think you’ve become mentally unsound, brother.”
I spoke too fast.
“Mentally unsound, inclined towardsles raffinements de la vie”—Bastien stretched—“semantics, really.” Then levelled Jacques an icy stare. “Not that you’re any mentally sounder. All those splurges on jewellery for Celine?”
Jacques clicked his tongue and rose too. The chord was plucked. Bastien was mocking him with the same refrain at this point, but why learn a new one when it already worked so well. This one was easy. Celine herself made it easy.
“She is to be my fiancé soon. What’s your excuse?” Jacques demanded evenly, even as his hazel eyes darkened into brown. “Unless you plan to marry all twelve of your darlings?”
A shrug. “They might not behandpickedby Grandfather but if it’s love—”
Before he could finish the jibe, Monsieur Ménard brought his hand down on his desk. Even the wood flinched this time. “Enough, the both of you.”
Jacques and Bastien started in unison: “But he—”
“Sit down,” Monsieur Ménard demanded. The office fell into a silence broken only by the sound of tires rolling over the gravel in the driveway outside. “No more fights, no more spending, no more nonsense.” He eyed them both, warningthem to remain quiet, then checked his pocket watch. “Let us get back on the subject and settle this before I leave.”
“Let me guess,” Bastien started. “You’re going to cut me off again? Don’t you think that little game has grown old?”
“Yes, in fact I do, Bastien. That’s why I’m cutting you off until you pay everything back.”
The suggestion didn’t register immediately. Though, it wasn’t a suggestion, not really.
“What do you mean bypay you everything?”
“Every. Single. Franc. Everything you spent imitating Edward of Wales.”
Before Bastien could let out an incredulous laugh, Jacques did so first. “As much as I wouldloveto see that happen—”
Anaïs broke her silence to continue her brother’s thought. “—Pépé, you don’t really expect him to—”
“I am being serious, Anaïs.”
She clamped her lips shut at the sharp tone.
Bastien wished some phantom force could do the same with his jaw. Instead he was standing there, gaping, trying to take everything in. The threat of being cut off had never included any deadlines before. It had always sounded casual, provisory, just to keep Bastien’s feet on the ground for a while.
Now it sounded real.
The unbidden laughter finally escaped. “You can’t possibly—”
“I can, Bastien. And I am. If you want to act like a child, that is perfectly fine with me. I will treat you like one.” His grandfather walked to a mirror hanging on the wall and began fixing his tie. “The careless spending and dallying with strangers every night will come to a stop. So will the weekly appearances in scandal sheets. You will find a job, any job, it matters very little, as long as it’s honest work, and you will restore allthe money you’ve spent. Otherwise, your accounts will remain frozen indefinitely.”
Bastien hesitated for a moment. Bit down on his cheek to stop his next remark from leaving his lips. Anything else he’d say would only fuel the fire.
“Any other options?” he forced out.
Monsieur Ménard eyed him from the mirror. “You could sell something.”
