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France does not hear the news until he is in England on business – in gloomy London, in September, alone with his banker in a sadly misguided attempt to puzzle out the ownership of his old properties in England. It is raining outside the upstairs office in the building where they have met. And it is cold and miserable, especially for September, which should be warm and crisp. France decides at that moment that when all of this is done he will go visit his sister in Provence where it is much warmer than here. He thinks that when all of this is done, the sorting out of his properties, he will go visit England. He has not seen the man in a long time, and though they write letters (always, as long as he can remember), he has not received nor sent one in a very long time.
The banker, Mr. L. Blackbourne, is human and ancient, has known France (or Francis Bonnefoy, as he goes by with ordinary people) forever; is extremely competent. He knows what he is doing. But he can’t do this.
Mr. Blackbourne rubs his eyebrow in an irritated sort of way. “M. Bonnefoy,” he says apologetically, “these documents – while it is admirable that you have kept them for this long, and in such good condition – are irrelevant. You have no legal claim to the properties at hand.” He nods resolutely. He has said his piece. France hesitates, because one of the best things about Mr. Blackbourne is that he does not ask questions. He does not ask why, despite having known Francis for twenty years, Francis has not aged. He does not ask why a young Frenchman owns so many properties in England (according to outdated, medieval documents). He keeps whatever questions and concerns he surely must have to himself. He is immensely valuable, and France will be sorry to see him die when the time comes. It is not often that a human has such discretion. Francis is a talkative, tactile man, and as such, reticence is a trait that he treasures in others.
He speaks. “There is nothing that can be done? I will act as my own descendant, if it must be done. We may share a name.”
Blackbourne purses his lips and looks at the documents once more. “Will you leave the documents with me? I am sure you have other business in the city to attend to. I will do what I can, M. Bonnefoy.”
France smiles broadly, and presses Blackbourne’s hand in his. “Thank you, Mr. Blackbourne. The properties mean a great deal to me. They possess much sentimental value, as I’m sure you understand.” Mr. Blackbourne has a small photograph of his daughter on the desk in the cold dark room – the only bright spot in the place. France knows that the girl was married recently – just after the death of her mother. Mr. Blackbourne must miss her very much.
Blackbourne pulls his hand away, and nods. He is suddenly businesslike. “What other business have you while you’re in town?”
France nods. “I think I shall call upon an old friend while I am here. Arthur Kirkland.”
Blackbourne frowns. “Mr. Kirkland? Young gentleman, big eyebrows, infallibly polite?”
France has to stifle a laugh by turning it into a cough at someone describing England as ‘infallibly polite’. “Yes,” he says, coughing, “that’s the very one.”
“He must be an old friend, then,” says Blackbourne, thoughtfully, “you cannot have heard from him recently.”
This piques France’s interest. “No, I have not spoken with him in some time. What do you know?”
Blackbourne shrugs. “Well,” he says, “the man departed for India some time ago. I would have thought he’d let someone beside his banker know.”
France is seething. But he keeps his face calm. It is so like England to pull a stunt like this! To run off to India – of course it is India. The man has always had a pathetic weakness for tigers and spices (not that France doesn’t, of course, but he is not such a baby about it). And not to let France know. How unbearably rude. England, he reminds himself, is a degenerate barbarian who has a bad habit of denying his true romantic nature. “Thank you, Mr. Blackbourne,” he says, remembering himself. “I must go.”
-
He goes home to Paris afterwards in a rage, a few days long trip, and he feels tossed around and queasy from the passage across the terrible trench, which was as unpleasant as ever. He sends a telegram to Calcutta, confident that it will reach the man.
“Arthur,” It reads, “When were you telling me of this fools errand in the Far East you are a fool stop I will not be forgiving you for this stop”
It is signed, simply, “Francis”. His grammar, he knows, is atrocious, and he hopes that it will upset England.
He is not in the mood to drop in on Marianne, who will without a doubt be drunk on wine and who will without a doubt not pity him in the slightest. It is one of the less-than-wonderful things about women, he thinks, that they do not understand the importance of a treasured enemy to a man. He will eat and sleep until he is over his anger, and then he will go to Martinique.
The day before he is bound to leave, he receives a package from India. It is the mounted and stuffed head of a tiger, its face captured mid-snarl. He is pleased with the gift. His anger for England dies down a little at the present, which must have been difficult to ship and cost the little man dearly. As he admires his new tiger – which he christens, immediately, ‘Luc’ – a photograph falls out of the package and hits the floor with a tinny little clang. It is a photograph of England, standing over the body of the very tiger now mounted in front of France. He looks insufferable, and has his arm around the shoulder of a young Indian man, who looks almost as smug.
Francis drops the picture on the floor. It makes a satisfying crack when it falls, which is probably the glass breaking. He sets the tiger down violently. His anger rises up like an ocean inside of him – how dare he, he is awful, England is an evil, black-hearted, disgusting waste of space - and France pulls his luggage out the door himself, and pictures the warm sun and sugar plantations.