The Viscount – Chapter Seventeen

THE VISCOUNT OF MAISONS LAFFITTE

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The music was audible as soon as he entered the iron gates and turned down the lane towards the house – a somewhat crumbling old manor that was set far back from the street, and encased in age-old trees. This was probably how the party was able to carry on in full swing without incurring a neighborly call to the police.

There were a few people outside of the house, and one or two of them nodded at Camille. But as soon as he walked through the door, Mitchell and Sandeep hailed him with inebriated loudness. “Camille! You made it, man.” He gave a small wave, and then walked over to Jerôme and shook his hand. “Salut,” he said.

“You got here just in time,” Jerôme said. I was starting to run out.”

“My dad wanted me to have dinner with Manon Duprey,” Camille said simply and without boasting. “I couldn’t leave until we were finished.”

Jerôme whistled. “Is she just as hot in person? You’re a lucky dude.”

“Yeah, but she’s my father’s girlfriend. So I’m not as lucky as you think.”

Somebody fell laughing into Camille’s back, pulled to her feet again by the guy she was with. She sloshed beer all over his shirt as she was pulled up, and then moved away without noticing it. He pulled his shirt away from his bare skin, and tried to wring it out.

“Hi Camille.” A girl with straight blond hair walked up to him, her skin tanned from makeup, her voice flirty. “I’ve never seen you at any of these parties before.” He had didn’t recognise her.

“I’ve been to one or two,” he mumbled, torn between surprise and annoyance.

“What?” she yelled over the music. She fell forward just a little bit.

“I’ve been to a few,” he said a little louder. Then he looked around, desperate to leave her company and find a place where he could get his hands on a drink – something to give him something to do. But he didn’t see the bar right away, so he just stood there.

“So,” she said with a glinting smile, her breath of combination of beer and cigarettes. “What do you say you and I head upstairs and find someplace to talk – get to know each other better? ” She linked her arm through his, and added, unnecessarily, “If you know what I mean.”

Camille looked her over. He was sure she didn’t attend Ermitage, though she seemed to know a lot of people at the party. Even in the dim lighting, there was something repellent about her. Perhaps it was the pride of his heritage, inevitably passed down in the genes, but he wasn’t even interested in a one-night fling with her. And despite his social awkwardness, he found it in him to refuse her offer.

“He may be the son of a Viscount,” she loudly to a friend as she walked away, “but he’s still a complete dud.”

Sandeep walked past him just then, having seen the whole thing. He jerked his head towards the departing figure. “She’s from Sartrouville. I have no idea who invited her,” he said. “Come on, let’s get you a drink.”

Camille turned to Jerôme and said, “I’ll be right back.”

Jerôme had a satellite of girls around him, but he didn’t seem interested in any of them. He was watching what was happening throughout the party with a keen eye. To someone more than just a casual observer, it was obvious that he was the one who kept all the plates spinning. “Make it quick,” was all he said.

When Camille returned moments later, drink in hand, Jerôme immediately disengaged from the girls and signaled with two fingers for him to follow. They walked up the winding staircase, carpeted with a faded oriental rug, and continued down a hallway that was decorated in shabby chic with old wallpaper, but well-chosen frames. Jerôme stopped, and rapped on the door in front of him.

“Entrez!” a voice called from within, but Jerôme was blocked from pushing the door open by a meaty hand. “It’s just me,” he said with a tinge of impatience.

Inside, the room was dark with a red lava lamp in motion, of all things, but which looked strangely compelling to Camille in his altered state. He hadn’t taken anything strong, but he smoked a bit of pot on his way to the party to calm his nerves. He had been tempted to use the white pill that he now knew was speed, but he wanted to save it for  the next week when the midterm exams would start. He was just starting to understand how awesome drugs were. The speed helped him to maintain good grades and get a lot done, and the pot – or hash, whichever he had one hand – kept him mellow and cool so he could talk to people without fear.

“Camille is here with the supply,” Jerôme said crisply. “Move over. And you – give me that scale. Let’s bring it out and weigh it.”

Camille opened the backpack that was full of various packets wrapped in plastic. His supply had, indeed increased, as had his acceptance in the crowd – just as James had predicted. And now that he had promised that favor to James – still didn’t know what it was, but he was assured it was nothing illegal – he was able to get a certain amount of drugs for free, which was necessary because his father didn’t exactly give him an unlimited allowance.

Jerôme watched with an eagle eye as Camille brought the packets out one by one. He said, more to himself than to Camille, “I don’t know why the dealer insists on using you to bring the supply when I’m the one with all the contacts. He could save himself time and money.” He shook his head with disgust. Camille only shrugged his shoulders, mellowed by the combination of vodka and pot.

When the money had been counted out to him, and tucked in his inside pocket, Camille had the vague thought that he should head straight home and put the money in a safe place. To that end, he started walking down the stairs, taking his time to stop and look at the paintings with a fixed interest.

“Good evening, Camille,” he heard someone say. “Camille.” The voice was now lilting, brimming with laughter. He turned to look at someone he knew from his History class. Eléonore, her name was. Her dark brown hair was cut short to frame her face, and he had never seen such beautiful, large brown eyes as the ones that were raised to him just at that instant.

“Eléonore,” he managed.

“Ah, good! You’re not completely stoned then.” She smiled at him, and he continued to stare at her face, fascinated by the beauty of her eyes.

Her dimples peeped out at this, and she said with slightly raised eyebrows, “Alright then. Take care, Camille.” She turned to walk up the stairs, and only peeked at him once before walking down the hallway. He was relieved to see that she headed into the bathroom instead of going into the room where Jerôme was. He had the hazy idea that he would wait for her to come back down. In any case, it was so pleasant on the stairwell, he saw no reason to move.

* * *

The Viscount walked lightly through the hospital doors. He was unable to explain, even to himself, why he was even at the hospital again when his week of filling in was over. He had already handed over all his patients to Docteur Toussaint, except young Whitmore. He told himself that he was particularly interested in how this case was progressing from a medical point of view. He wanted to see how the young boy would fare cognitively once he woke up. He found himself hoping anxiously for the best, for his mother’s sake, as well as the boy’s.

“Bonjour Christian.” The Viscount smiled at the intern as he walked by.

“Bonjour Monsieur,” the young man returned. He ran to catch up. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon, but I’m glad you came in. I have a progress report for you to sign if you have a minute?”

The Viscount looked ahead to the door just ahead where Thomas was, and then stopped walking. He turned and answered, “Sure. Let’s go do that now.” They walked side by side in the direction of the small office the Viscount had borrowed during his short stay, and turned into it. He walked around behind the desk, and gestured to the chair that was just in front of it. He took the paper that was being handed to him, and pulled a pen out of the glass holder full of pebbles sitting on the desk. He read the paper quickly through.

“How is it going for you here?” he asked, keeping the questioning open-ended to avoid influencing the answers.

“Good,” Christian answered firmly. “I feel less hassled and … ignorant” – here he chuckled – “than I did the first week or two.”

“Have you given more thought to a specialty?” His mentor ran his finger down the page of ratings, and skimmed the questions that were at the bottom.

“I’m definitely interested in pursuing neurology, although I’m not yet sure whether I want to pursue pediatric.” He paused for a minute looking down. “This may sound faint-hearted of me, but I’m not sure I have it in me. The sight of the children suffering is harder than I expected it to be. Or – there’s something about a parent’s concern and grief that is magnified compared to other patients’ family members. Take Thomas, for example. Every time I go into his room, I see the anxiety and the despair that is on his mother’s face, even though she attempts to remain cheerful. It’s heart-breaking.”

The Viscount didn’t answer as he checked off several ratings, and scribbled notes in answer to each of the questions. He paused over the last one, wrote something quickly, then capped the pen and put it back. “You will be a good doctor,” he said with a smile. “You have heart. However, you’re wise to know your limits. Not everyone can handle pediatrics – we all have a cap to our effectiveness that’s linked to our personality, and, I suppose, our level of humanity.” A dimple appeared. “Of which some seem to think I have none.”

“Sylvie would refute such a suggestion,” Christian said roundly, with an unaccustomed allusion to their personal connection. The Viscount simply smiled, and handed the paper back to Christian.

When he walked into Thomas room, he saw Chastity sitting in her usual spot. She looked surprised to see him, but  pleased. “Any changes?” he asked, walking over to take a look at the chart.

“It seems so,” she said. “Docteur Toussaint is encouraged – and so am I – that Thomas seems to be opening his eyes for longer stretches of time. There seems to be more of a deliberateness to his movements too.” Her eyes twinkled.  “He seems bent on getting the IV tubes out.”

The Viscount read the patient’s chart, noting the same progress recorded that she spoke of. “This is good news,” he said. “I’m very pleased to hear it. I hoped, of course, that we might start to see some changes by now, but it’s impossible to predict when these will happen, and what the final outcome will be.”

“I know,” Chastity said, “but I cannot give up hope.”

“And you absolutely should not,” he replied firmly. He looked at her. Her already slim frame was thinner than it was weeks ago, but she was starting to have some bloom to her cheeks again. He was distracted by the curly locks that fell from her loose chignon, and how she tucked them behind her ear. She wore pendant earrings that swung back and forth as she talked.

“You look well,” he finally said.

“I am well,” she replied – her smile brightening, which made her eyes sparkle. “I have good news.” The Viscount drew his eyebrows together, wondering if the good news had something to do with this father of Thomas’ that he had met only once – who did not leave him with a very favorable impression. He looked at her steadily, waiting.

She flushed and suddenly looked self-conscious. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. It’s only that my mother is coming to France.” His face softened at her news, and he was conscious of a feeling of relief.

“I never thought she would be able to get away because she works with my father in the dry cleaning business. She handles all of the accounting aspects, and my dad simply cannot function without her. But one of his retired friends, who’s a whiz at numbers, offered to take her place so she could come here.” Her voice was tremulous, despite her grin.

“I am so glad to hear it,” he said softly. “That kind of support is just what you need.”

“It’s true,” she said, her voice throbbing with suppressed emotion. “I have been trying to keep up my strength for Thomas, you know, and though I’m very grateful to Maude and Elizabeth … “ She smiled at him, “and to you – I should add, I would love not to have to be so strong all the time.” He nodded thoughtfully, looking at her.

After a short pause, he recollected himself. “When does she arrive?”

“Next week,” she said, and in a burst of good humour, walked over and kissed Thomas on the cheek. He fluttered his eyelids, and both of them watched him intently, but he didn’t move again after that.

“Can I bring you a coffee?” the Viscount asked, as he had the few times he had seen her since he brought her that first delicious espresso.

“I would love one,” she answered warmly. Her smile was reflected in her expressive eyes, and when she looked at him like that, he couldn’t see any resemblance between this woman and the one who taught his son – the one he had thought of as a viper.

He came back quickly, and handed her one of the tiny white porcelain cups, but then stopped short. “I’m sorry. I forgot the sugar.”

“I’ll run and get one from the nurse’s station,” she said in a voice that was almost merry. “They keep a stash there and have always encouraged me to help myself. They are so good to me.”

She walked off lightly, coffee in hand, and the Viscount walked over to Thomas and set his cup down on the bedside table. “Thomas.” He jostled the small frame gently. “Thomas. Your mother wants to see you.”

There was no response. He nudged him again more firmly, but his words were caressing. “Thomas. Open your eyes.”

There was a sigh, and Thomas opened his eyes; but he stared, unseeing, at the ceiling. “That’s better, Thomas. Can you see me? I am Docteur de Chabot.”

The boy’s eyes seemed to focus for a second, but then stared again, unblinking. The Viscount sat on the side of his bed, and held his hand. “Thomas, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand.”

There was a pause, and then, “Well very good, Thomas! You did it! That was a strong squeeze too,” he grinned.

Just then he heard the crash, and he turned to look, Thomas’ hand still in his. Chastity stood in the doorway in mute astonishment, her eyes going from the Viscount to her son, and the porcelain cup shattered at her feet.

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