Old Bones

'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.

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