Benighted

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“Mr. Duplantier, please raise your head.”

A heavy breath escaped your nostrils as you obeyed the order. You stared at the high ceiling. Thierry, your butler for as long as you could remember, and also your tailor, was adjusting the collar of your three-piece tuxedo, made of vicuña wool, silk, and you had no idea what the hell else. Frankly, you didn’t care. You never had.

You were in the main foyer on the second floor of your family residence in Le Roucas-Blanc, standing on a small circular platform. In front of you, a large window opened onto the private terrace, overlooking the tranquil and beautiful Mediterranean Sea off the coast of Marseille. The sun was setting on the horizon, painting the sky in intense shades of red and orange.

“I really don’t want to attend that gala, Thierry,” you said quietly, clenching your fists nervously.

“I know you don’t want to, but you have no other choice, sir,” he replied. His voice was velvety and deep. “Your father is counting on you.”

You sighed and lowered your head when Thierry allowed you to. The man, well into his seventies, with long, graying hair, took his time bending down and adjusting the hem of your trousers. It was understandable that his body wasn’t in its prime anymore. Not like you remembered it ten years ago, when he used to chase you around the residence to scold you for your mischief. Back then you were happier, of course, because you didn’t know what it truly meant to be the heir to such a vast fortune, nor all the pressure that rested on your shoulders.

“He’s counting on me, but he doesn’t care how I feel,” you spat out, your gaze lost in the soothing sea.

“That’s nonsense, my young sir,” Thierry straightened with a grunt and draped the handkerchief he’d used to polish your shoes over his left shoulder. “Your father loves you. I know because I’ve known him for forty years.”

“What kind of love is it to force your son to attend silly galas and social events? He knows I’m a disaster.”

“They are your duties, sir,” Thierry remarked, now adjusting your sleeves. “Whether you like it or not. And you’re not a disaster. In fact, you’re a great man with a big heart.”

“That’s no good when you’re terrified in a large enough crowd,” you retorted. “Do you think an heir can be this awful at social events? What will the investors think of me?”

“You don’t need to be a social butterfly to be a good heir, Mr. Duplantier,” Thierry said, turning his back on you and taking a small trunk from the fold-out table he always used for occasions like this. “The stability of your family will be measured by how you perform behind your desk. You don’t need to be friends with anyone.”

“My father would say that’s ridiculous,” you replied absently.

Thierry opened the small trunk. From inside, he took out a watch: the rose-gold Patek Philippe Complications you wore for special occasions. After placing the trunk back on the table, he approached, took your wrist, and looked you in the eye. His gaze was paternal. Intimate.

“With all due respect, Arno, you take what your father says far too seriously,” he said, his voice so measured that it eased your tension. “His way of seeing the world is very different from yours, for his path was taken under completely different circumstances. You already have the path laid out for you, and your only task, my young sir, is not to stray from it, whatever method you use to walk it.”

The old man’s words pulled you from your reverie. You remained thoughtful for a second, your gaze lowered. The anxiety that gnawed at you didn’t disappear immediately, but you were able to see things from a different perspective. One that, perhaps, would serve as a mantra to which you could take refuge during difficult times.

It didn’t solve all your problems, but it was a start.

Thierry adjusted the watch on your right wrist and lowered the sleeve of your tuxedo. Unfortunately, you were now ready to leave.

“Your driver is waiting for you downstairs,” the old man said, taking a step back. “Allow me to accompany you, sir.”

You nodded.

“Yes, of course,” you stepped off the small circular platform, let Thierry take the lead, and followed him.

The Rolls Royce Cullinan that always took you places was waiting outside, parked on the street. It was supposed to be yours, but you’d never actually driven it. Thierry walked beside you and opened the rear door for you when you reached the curb.

“I wish you the best of luck, sir,” Thierry said. “Everything will go well today. You’ll see.”

Your old butler wasn’t one to break with formalities often, so it was up to you to break that barrier a little now and then. On this occasion, you did so by giving him a hug. Thierry didn’t reject it, but he was careful not to wrinkle your tuxedo too much.

“Thank you, Thierry,” you said softly, holding him tightly in your arms. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Thierry patted you on the back a couple of times.

“You’re a strong lad. You would have managed.”

After a few seconds, you stepped away from him, gave him one last appreciative nod, and got into the car. The driver started the engine seconds later.

By the time you arrived at your destination—about ten minutes later—it was already night in Marseille.

The car pulled up to the esplanade of the Palais du Pharo, built by Napoleon III in 1858. Outside, there were fewer journalists than you’d expected, but you noticed the place was packed inside. You weren’t sure if so many people or such a large venue were really necessary to begin with, but wealthy people loved inviting other wealthy people, as well as their families. It was no wonder the crowd was so large.

Your driver got out and opened the door for you. After a deep breath, you stepped out of the car. Immediately, two men stood beside you: your bodyguards. You knew them both; these two in particular had been serving your family for three years. Mario on the left, Antoine on the right.

The sound of the Rolls Royce door closing behind you was drowned out by the flurry of camera shutters that erupted the moment you started walking. Thankfully, the press hadn’t completely surrounded the esplanade. However, the few photographers keeping watch behind the barriers seemed to multiply with every passing second between flashes. You walked, feeling the lash of the Mistral breeze; a frigid, dry, salty air that stung your forehead and threatened to muss your hair.

It was downright torturous, but after suffering permanent damage to your damned retina from the flashes and turning down a few interviews—not you, really; Antoine was in charge of doing it for you—you reached the steps of the Palace. The enormous structure loomed ominously before you, like an imperial colossus made of limestone, bathed in amber light that highlighted its black mansard roofs.

You began to climb the steps, feeling the weight of the gazes of the newly arrived guests who turned, curious, to see how a bigger fish than themselves was making an appearance. It was no secret to you that you were rather unpopular with the elite. The only thing that reassured you, at least, was that the motives were purely superficial, since you had never actually done anything to anyone.

As you crossed the threshold, the port’s chill gave way to a dense, dry air. The main hall stretched out beneath a black and white marble floor, a polished checkerboard pattern that reflected the gleam of the chandeliers on the ceiling. The walls, moreover, were paneled in dark oak halfway up, and the upper portion was upholstered in silk tapestries in pristine cream tones.

You ascended the interior stone staircase. Upon reaching the main floor, you entered the Salons Napoléoniens, a suite of interconnected rooms that formed the historic heart of the building, its walls adorned in white and gold. The wooden parquet floor led you to the Salon Eugénie, where the greatest number of important figures, and probably your father, would be found.

Of course, you weren’t wrong.

Pascal Duplantier occupied the center of the long, rectangular room, beneath the main crystal chandelier, letting, as always, the flow of people orbit around him like his own personal asteroid belt. Behind him, through the immense arched windows, the lights of Fort Saint-Jean and the entrance to the Old Port were silhouetted against the black of the Mediterranean Sea.

Your heart raced for a split second. You tried to blend in and lose yourself among the guests, but he spotted you quickly. You stopped dead in your tracks. Your father’s chin tensed slightly, then he bowed his head to his inner circle and walked toward you.

Standing just inches from you, Pascal placed a firm hand on your shoulder, almost a grip. One of the many ways he asserted his authority over you, forcing you to keep your shoulders straight.

“It’s good that you’re here, son,” he said, giving your shoulder a light shake. “You look quite handsome. You’re wearing the…”

“The watch you gave me?” you cut him off. “Yes, of course.”

A smile spread across his face from ear to ear.

“Splendid, because I have a couple of people I’d like to introduce you to.”

Pascal stepped aside and gave you a gentle nudge to get you moving.

“But…”

Unwilling to accept any objections, your father steered you through the crowd until you reached one of the marble fireplaces at one end of the ballroom. A group of four people stood waiting in silence, observing your arrival with an uncomfortable and barely disguised scrutiny. You were forced to converse with them for a couple of agonizing minutes, but eventually—and once your father gave you leave—you managed to slip away.

The relief of escaping your father’s circle was immediate, yet you knew that your peace wouldn’t last for very long. Sooner or later, someone was bound to approach you; it was always that way. And while it wasn’t something that particularly bothered you, you preferred to speak with as few people as possible.

The gala was being held in this room as well as two others—one of which was larger and more centrally located. You headed there, toward the spacious bar that had been set up, politely greeting those who respectfully approached you. Some seemed eager to prolong the conversation, but you cut them all short with a wide array of excuses you had long since mastered.