Chapter 2
The Troubled Son
“A gilded bathtub filled with three thousand francs worth of champagne!”
Wincing, Bastien sat a few degrees straighter on his chair and wearily eyed the ledger his grandfather was holding before him.
“Edward of Wales did it, so I thought I’d try it too,” he offered. “He claimed it cleansed the soul.”
He didn’t know how well that second half of the statement held up to the truth, nor did he care.
He’d say anything to get out of his grandfather’s oppressive office and lose himself in some loud dance hall.
The room was unbearably stifling. Even the feeble ticking of his wristwatch against his skin was making him jittery.
They had been arguing back and forth for one straight hour and Bastien knew they had just started.
His parents were away, occupied with taking care of business overseas and Grandfather Ménard had made it his point to keep Bastien in check.
He was the only one monitoring the family accounts, the revenue from the Ménard vineyard, and, much to Bastien’s chagrin, his grandchildren’s spendings.
But one hundred bottles of champagne… Bastien could admit he had catastrophically messed up. Slowly, he brought his agitated stirrings to a halt.
“See,” he tried again, “I did consider raiding the cellar—don’t worry, I wouldn’t have wasted any of the vintages, I’m not a savage,” Bastien assured, waving a hand in the air. “But then I thought it would look too macabre. The blood of Christ and all that. God might have smitten me.”
Their vineyard produced enough to sell and stock up their personal wine shelves; his grandfather wouldn’t miss a couple of bottles. Though Bastien knew the choice in beverage wasn’t what had sparked up their argument.
His grandfather released a slow, deep breath.
“If the champagne wasn’t enough, you went and purchased a new motorcar.”
Bastien raised his arms to claim innocence. “Jacques got a new Arabian, it seemed only fair I’d get a new ride too.”
“A four thousand American dollar ride?”
“Haven’t you told me not to bargain over quality, grandfather? That was the best Cadillac they had.”
Monsieur Ménard pushed his glasses up his long nose, a gesture he did to distract himself from disowning his grandson on the spot. “I will pretend that you were in dire need of a new car. Do explain, though, all those women that were part of your…celebration.”
“Them,” Bastien grinned, “I paid with my charm.”
“Bastien—”
“Well it’s awfully pathetic bathing in champagne all by yourself, I needed companions.”
“Enough! I’ve heard enough.”
How his grandfather had found out about the party was still a mystery.
Bastien had asked Ana?s to keep quiet about it.
He knew Grandfather would throw a tantrum.
The expenses were abundantly insane, even for a wealthy family like the Ménards.
But Bastien had been brought up as a socialite and he couldn’t disregard the call of extravagance.
He had been raised to party, make nice with high-class society, and show the importance of their name through any means possible.
Maybe he had chosen an impractical way—which, more often than not, sullied the Ménard name—but he was only doing what he’d been told.
He got his answer when a crash sounded from the corridor and the door swung inwards, bringing in his step-siblings.
Because, if Ana?s who knew everything, had kept her mouth shut, then the only other person who had been invited and had declined, must have told on him.
Jacques staggered inside, struggling to keep Bastien’s Dalmatians from smearing their muddy paws all over him. Though his riding clothes were already irreparably stained green with grass and mud streaks.
“Call them away,” Jacques grunted as Hyde leaped to lick his face. “Bas!”
Bastien huffed a laugh, half scornful, half delighted. “I think I will enjoy this for a little while longer, brother. Hyde almost bit me the other day, I’m starting to think he’s feeling peckish for human meat. Maybe I’ll let him have a taste of you first.”
The paling look of horror on Jacques’s face was priceless. He deserved it. Bastien had hoped his brother would agree to his fun for once when he had extended the invite; that they would finally get along.
Instead, Jacques had chosen to go prattling to their grandfather.
“Bastien,” Monsieur Ménard warned.
“Oh, come on, I was merely jesting.” With a brisk whistle, Jekyll and Hyde obeyed, drawing away from Jacques and leaping down the stairs.
A maid’s shriek echoed beyond the hallway, but Bastien sheepishly bit down on his lip to keep from chuckling.
His Dalmatians might be chaotic at best, but they wouldn’t hurt a fly anymore than bite a chunk off of someone. Be that Jacques or anyone else.
“It’s your own fault for that foul smell,” Bastien muttered under his breath, pinching his nose when Jacques shot him a murderous look.
“The Prix de l'Arc de Triomphe race is in a few weeks,” he replied coldly, taking a seat on the leather armchair, opposite Bastien. “You know I’ve been training all week.”
“And renouncing baths is a new part of your pre-race rituals?”
Ana?s sauntered in a second later with a little hop in her gait, her riding boots tracking mud all over the carpet. “Pépé said it was urgent,” she chimed in, rushing behind their grandfather’s desk to give him a kiss. “We didn’t have time to clean up.”
She, at least, smelled better.
“Join your brothers, my flower,” Monsieur Ménard said. “This is a family meeting.”
Ana?s perched on the arm of Bastien’s chair. The strings of pearls she had wrapped about herself jingled annoyingly in his ear.
They all knew that when Grandfather said family meeting that meant—
“Someone’s in trouble,” she whispered in a singsong voice.
Bastien whipped his head around, giving her a menacing look. “Are you sure it’s not you, Mademoiselle Late-Night-Frolicking-With-My-Secret-Lover?”
“She’s not my lover,” Ana?s hissed, “so shush!” She jammed her elbow into his ribs for good measure, then focused all of her attention on their grandfather. “Why did you gather all of us, pépé? Is something the matter?”
“Seven thousand francs spent on frivolities! That’s the matter!” Monsieur Ménard shouted, shutting the account book with such force that the pages resounded a loud slap across his office.
Bastien flinched, but only momentarily. He knew the admonishments by heart and therefore he knew the outcome of his grandfather’s temporary outbursts.
That’s it, he would say. You will be cut off.
But the promise would hardly last two weeks before Bastien’s accounts would reopen and his inheritance money would flow out unrestrainedly once more.
Only this time, something felt off. There was a strange premonition permeating the air that Bastien couldn’t pinpoint, but it made his stomach twist with unease.
“And we are here to be yelled at on our brother’s behalf because…”
“You all need a lesson, Jacques. The three of you are unimaginably profligate.” He pointed a finger at Bastien. “Not to mention hedonistic.”
It wasn’t anything new. Bastien had always preferred going through life unbothered.
So what if rumours circulated about him?
They would continue to, whether Bastien did something to feed them or not.
So what if Grandfather didn’t like the way he acted?
He had never liked it even when Bastien was a child either, it wasn’t bound to change if Bastien suddenly turned into a saint.
Besides, Bastien found the gossip highly entertaining, especially when it bordered on crazy.
He liked it when the girls he had talked to once bent all sorts of ways just to catch a glimpse of him again; he liked it even more when he was dragged into dark corridors or empty coat rooms by the same girls, only to come out decorated with several lipstick marks all over him.
“You wanted me to be a socialite,” Bastien sulked, picking at a speck of invisible lint on his sand-coloured suit to make a grander show of caprice. “I am only carrying forth the order.”
“I do not order my grandchildren around, Bastien.”
“Right, my mistake.” He rolled his eyes. “You steamroll them.”
The old man let out a long sigh. “Be that as it may, or as you wish to look at it, but it is only for your own good. You need to learn how…”
Bastien tuned him out. He had heard the speech dozens of times. He knew every pause his grandfather made, even the gesticulations he included for emphasis, so he shifted his gaze towards the portrait-lined walls, and noticed that Jacques was doing the same.
It was strange how alike they acted sometimes; so much so that the differences in their appearance dissolved from their persons.
But the pictures in the office portrayed a different story.
There was always a distinct space of one meter between them whenever they were placed in close proximity to each other.
Eventually the space had been occupied by Ana?s’s cheerful self when neither their grandfather nor the photographer had been able to convince Jacques and Bastien to move closer.
The second distinction was the way they posed: Jacques (willingly) like a polished porcelain figurine, while Bastien (unwillingly) like he was being held at gunpoint.
He averted his eyes from the portraits and turned to his grandfather when Monsieur Ménard’s speech started rolling to a brief pause—his way to check if his grandsons were paying attention.
“Look,” Bastien started, trying to see if he could weasel his way out with a few excuses. “All I wanted was to have a little fun. Maybe it was a little excessive, but no one was harmed, so I don’t see how—”
“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?”