Dynasty of Death

by Taylor Caldwell

  It has come, thought Jacques, and darkness fell over his eyes. It seemed to him everything stopped inside him, that reality had dropped away and left only him and this mortal anguish that ran through his chest. The muscles of his throat closed, and his mouth dropped open. But Martin saw only that he appeared to be very calm, in spite of his whiteness, and he took courage. He sat down beside him, leaned over the arm of his chair eagerly.

  “Jacques, please understand. I’ve been to see Father Dominick. I told him. He says it is all right, and gave me his blessing. There was no use, he said, in forcing yourself to take up a vocation for which you were not fitted.”

  “You are not going with me?” Jacques whispered. He had begun to pant a little, as though his chest were incased in slowly closing bands of iron.

  “No, I can’t, Jacques. I have no vocation.”

  “You had a vocation a year ago, six months ago.” The whisper had become almost inaudible, and now Martin saw that his friend’s face was covered with a gleaming damp film, and that his skin had taken on a bluish tint. Impulsively, he took Jacques’ hand and was horrified at its icy coldness, its wetness and rigidity.

  “Jacques, please try to understand,” he pleaded, hating himself. “I was mistaken.” Jacques’ eyes fixed themselves on his unmovingly; there was death in them, and the expression of one who looks at his executioner. Martin wet his lips, forced himself to go on. “But now I find it was all a mistake. It wouldn’t be right to do it.” He had meant to urge Jacques to go to Quebec, himself, but somehow this now seemed intolerably callous to suggest. “Please forgive me. You wouldn’t want me to do anything that was not right, I know.”

  He wanted to drop his friend’s hand, but Jacques’ fingers, cold and trembling, had fastened themselves convulsively on his. A faint chill, a thrill of something he could not define, shot through Martin, and sweat broke out between his shoulder blades.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Jacques, and now he spoke almost in a normal voice. Martin was enormously relieved and grateful. He smiled. Jacques was behaving much better than he expected; he had been a fool to waste time in anxieties and apprehensions.

  “I am going to be married,” he said, coloring a little. “To Miss Amy Drumhill. You know, Mr. Gregory Sessions’ niece.” The mere mention of Amy’s name was enough to warm him and hearten him.

  He had been prepared for surprise and indignation on Jacques part; he had been prepared for expressions of coldness and contempt, for arguments that tried to turn his mind back to the old arrangement. He had even been prepared for the fine-drawn, high-pitched rages that he knew Jacques could whip up on occasion. But he was not prepared for what did happen, and his shock was all the greater.

  For Jacques had uttered one keen thin cry, as though he had been knifed. And then he huddled in his chair, sinking down into it until he seemed only a heap of maimed bones and broken shoulders. A sort of disorder, disintegration, fell on him, a wildness and confusion, a dispersing. His face became a ghastly mask superimposed on that shapeless heap of bones, a mask thrown carelessly and haphazardly upon it. From it, his eyes, dilated and glared in agony upon Martin. The firelight flamed upon him, throwing everything into shadow and vagueness but that mask and those eyes, and the bluish hands clutching the arms of the chair.

  Then before Martin, appalled, could speak again, Jacques’ broken body had struggled from the chair, and he had flung himself at Martin’s feet. He was clutching Martin’s knees, that mask, convulsed now, and streaming with tears, raised to Martin. There was a deathly strength in the hold of his arms; he sobbed, he grovelled, he beat his head on Martin’s knees. He would not let go; his arms were steel. But had they been only child’s strength, Martin could not have moved. Jacques was saying such strange and dreadful things. No, no, he was moaning, anything but that, Martin must promise him anything but that! He would die of it, just thinking of it. He must not marry. See, he must stay here, with Jacques, who loved him as no woman could love him, and he would promise, in the name of God, in the name of Mary, that he would never reproach him for breaking his promise; he would never speak of it again. He, Jacques, would be Martin’s slave—anything, O God! anything. But he must not marry. Please, he must not marry. He smiled through those tears, a child pleading for his life before an upraised axe. No, Martin must not marry! He would promise anything—do anything. They could go away for just a little while, if Martin wanted it, and talk and think and be together as they had once been. He had not long to live—he knew it. Just a little longer, and Martin would be free. Mercy. Mercy. He grovelled, crawled, moaned, in an abandonment of all dignity, an abandonment of all human pride, that the English Martin found shameful.

  And then he collapsed in a heap, suddenly silent and lax, as though he had died. The fire crackled, roared, moaned uneasily. Through the thick oaken door Madam Bouchard’s loud boom came only faintly.

  Martin could not move; a cold paralysis lay along all his muscles. He told himself that he dared not move, or he would be violently sick. But he began to shudder slowly and heavily, and he could hardly breathe. He was too innocent, his life too narrow and removed from the turbulence of living, to guess the full import behind Jacques’ agony. But his instincts of fear and flight were aroused and screaming in him. A sudden dull horror possessed him; he would have given his life to have been removed from that room, from the mad grasp upon him. He would never come again! Never again! He never wanted to see Jacques again. Chills of loathing increased his shuddering. He could think of nothing but escape, nothing but flight. This was a nightmare. Soon he would wake up and be safe, and alone.

  The thought was so piercingly sweet, so desirable, that he moved his feet involuntarily. But Jacques held them, his face pressed to them. The movement of his own body, however, aroused Martin to coherent thought and reality. He looked down at that broken heap, at the wretched maimed body, at the grotesque legs twisted on the floor, at the terribly humble head on his feet. Pity assaulted him, disgust for himself. Poor Jacques loved him, was afraid that his marriage to Amy would separate them. How foolish, how silly. This poor broken creature, who would never love a woman nor have a woman love him!

  He bent down and gently disentangled Jacques’ arms. He had no difficulty now—the arms fell from his legs as though they were dead. Martin lifted him as though he were a child, put him in his chair. Jacques head fell on his chest; his eyes were closed as though he had fainted. But behind his eyes the strange and dreadful things went on.

  “Jacques,” said Martin gently, bending over him, “I won’t ever leave you, even when I am married. You will visit us, and we will come to see you. Nothing will be changed. There will just be three of us, instead of two. You don’t know Amy, how sweet and kind she is. She understands everything.”

  Jacques had begun to sob again, as though he had not heard, silent sobs infinitely pathetic and desperate, as though he had given up all hope. He did not look at Martin, and his eyes remained closed. Timidly, he groped for Martin’s hand, brought it to his wet lips and kissed it, very humbly, and let it go. There was something of renunciation, of leave-taking, in the gesture.

  Martin heard himself incoherently promising, consoling, urging. The sickness was on him again, but his pity impelled him to comfort his friend. And Jacques sat with closed eyes and sunken head silent now, unmoving, as though he were sleeping after a shock.

  Martin sighed and moved away a little. Jacques was breathing regularly; once he moaned and shifted himself, as if finding a more comfortable position in which to sleep. Martin, holding his breath, moved back to him, bent over him anxiously. He was assured, with vast relief, that Jacques had fallen into a sudden sleep of exhaustion. He brought a blanket from the bed, arranged it gently over Jacques’ knees and legs. Then, sighing again, he tiptoed from the room.

  The door closed softly behind him. The minute it did so, Jacques’ eyes opened, deep and sunken. He did not move so much as a finger, but he stared into the fire for a long time, more than an hour
, until the logs fell apart in the last blaze of light, and the room began to chill.

  CHAPTER XXIX

  Martin could not force himself, during the next few days, to see Jacques. Finally he went to Father Dominick and told what had taken place between him and the young Frenchman. The priest listened intently, and as Martin proceeded, his eyes narrowed, became thoughtful, fixed themselves curiously upon him. When Martin had finished, he muttered to himself: “I had thought as much. What a singularly innocent young man this is!” And he became even more curious, almost incredulous. However, he said with great kindness and concern: “It frequently happens that cripples are touched with selfishness. Their lives are necessarily narrow and circumscribed, and whosoever they love becomes unusually dear to them. I suspect that our poor young friend is jealous.” And again he stared curiously at Martin.

  He advised him to remain away from the Bouchard house for a little while. In the meantime he, the priest, would visit Jacques, try to make him understand, try to help him take a more unselfish view of the matter. Martin was enormously relieved. Everything, he was sure, would now be all right. When he had gone the priest shook his head, made a wry mouth, and thought: “A terrible business. A very terrible business. It will be better if they never meet again, for some day our poor Jacques might not be able to contain himself, and will give his friend a very great shock.”

  In a few days he reported to Martin that Jacques was unexpectedly calm and reasonable. He had listened to everything that the priest had said, had smiled a little, agreed, begun to talk of other things. But he had not asked that Martin come to see him. Martin was perplexed and hurt at this, and was very uneasy for the next two weeks. But when he encountered Armand, the latter was as casual and friendly as ever, so Martin came to the conclusion that Jacques was merely sulking or trying to recover. He told himself that he missed Jacques, and was ashamed that he could not believe it, that he felt delivered and released, and inordinately happy. All things had been so wearisome to him, so pale and unreal; only his dreams had had substance. Looking back at his dreams, he was amazed that they had ever satisfied him, and he came reluctantly to the conclusion that he had been under a sort of enchantment that had robbed him of living.

  He had had no idea that things could be so pleasant. Gregory Sessions seemed to have taken a great liking to him; this was no delusion on Martin’s part, for Gregory found something touching in this young man’s eagerness and ardor, simplicity and integrity of outlook. Gregory had never been like this, even when he had been young, and had met it in all his life in only three persons, his sister, Amy, her daughter, and Martin. Like Ernest, he thought somewhat enviously: how peaceful it must be to see things straightly, never to set snares to catch your own feet! But at other times he came to the conclusion that such an attitude of mind was similar to the unconsciousness of a very young child’s mind. It was because Martin had never really recognized and accepted reality, he thought. He knew that only two kinds of men have such unconsciousness, the fool and the ascetic, and sometimes he wondered which Martin was.

  Gregory, too, found life exceedingly enjoyable these days. Martin had served up a piquant situation, unwittingly, for his pleasure. There was Ernest in love with Amy, so much in love that each day he seemed to become a little more flat and pale of cheek and harder of eye. Gregory delighted in watching the unending fight behind that eye and iron forehead; he delighted in the torment with all the exquisiteness of a Torquemada. He knew Ernest too well to fear that he would destroy everything for a mere passion, so his pleasure and hatred could glut themselves without apprehension. He told himself that it served Ernest right, that he was suffering as poor little Amy had suffered, but he was sufficiently self-analytical to realize that the truth went deeper than that. It was characteristic of him that he was amused at the result of his own probing of his own mind.

  Amy chose the furniture Hilda and Joseph bought for her. Her taste was simple yet perfect. The house Ernest had given Martin was not like the Sessions house, long broad rooms with delicately frescoed wall borders and wide fireplaces. The rooms were longitudinal and none too light, with high narrow mantelpieces. It was, she said, a “shouldering” house. So she chose rich yet delicate colors that brightened the darkish rooms, replaced the black marble fireplaces with white marble, had the hideous wallpapers removed and replaced them with papers painted in soft tiny nosegays or long pale stripes. Her furniture was simple dark mahogany, with none of the satin damasks and plushes and tufted cushions of May’s preference. Gardens were set out in old-fashioned beds, to soften the girdling grimness of the elms about the land. Ernest declared that the house had entirely changed its character; he was lavish with praise. He looked at Amy’s happy rosy face, listened to her laugh, smiled at her soft chatter, all with an affectionate blandness that hid everything but a faint knot between his eyes. He helped May choose the brocades for the windows and the rugs, and quarrelled with both young women good-humoredly when they questioned his taste. During all this, he would glance up and look at Martin, and be alternately amazed at the splendor of his brother’s face and carriage and contemptuous of his simplicity. At other times, his hate was like poison in his mouth.

  Ernest’s marriage had been important, and a little serious, in spite of May’s gaiety and fashionable friends from New York and Philadelphia. After all, wealth was marrying wealth, and it was a noteworthy occasion. More than a little stateliness and serious thought had entered into the ceremony. But in the case of Martin and Amy it was very different. To be sure, it was more than likely that Martin would share equally in the fortune that Joseph Barbour would leave, and there was nothing to indicate that Ernest would inherit the major share; but nevertheless the impression was abroad that Martin had little and would probably have very little more. And Amy was a penniless girl, who could expect nothing in the way of a substantial dowry from her uncles. So in their marriage there would be a childlike pleasure, simple laughter, unreserved affection, joy and lightness. Everyone could enjoy himself without thinking of the fortunes involved, and how to install himself solidly in the regard of the young couple. There was exquisiteness and delicate gaiety in this marriage, something touching and sweet.

  The marriage, by Nicholas’ request, was put ahead two weeks, as he was about to begin his electioneering, so the last weeks were a flurry of merriment and excited protests, dressmakers and tailors, cooks and furnishers.

  It was only two weeks before the ceremony when Jacques Bouchard committed suicide.

  CHAPTER XXX

  It was a lovely and tender spring evening when Jacques Bouchard decided to put an end to his life. It was a Sunday night, and everything was still and filled with rosy and violet haze. Even Oldtown was less raucous this evening, and the church bells rang in clear and lucid peals over the whole city. Over black massed trees the skies were like a wide and dreaming meditation, and the air was full of a sweet movement.

  Armand Bouchard had just purchased a fine open carriage, capable of seating five people. It was a solid vehicle, not too expensive, but heavy with fringe and gay and black leather, silver harness and brightly painted wheels. Armand had hired a youth to take care of the new fat dappled mares, and their gray tied tales bunched over haunches that gleamed and rippled, and their manes were as fine and soft and curling, Armand declared, as any woman’s hair.

  It was such a fine evening that nothing would satisfy the family but a drive before darkness came. But Jacques, at the last moment, decided not to go. His mother protested, threatened, pleaded, but he gently urged that he was tired and would rather read or sleep. She announced she would remain with him, but with rare peremptoriness he refused her company, declared it would distress him if she deprived herself of the pleasure just for his sake. There was a lot of room, he said. Why couldn’t they stop by and take one or two of the Barbours for a drive? He turned his gentle and penetrating eyes upon Eugene, smiling. Eugene flushed darkly; it annoyed while it obscurely pleased him, that Jacques had guessed his adora
tion for little Dorcas.

  So Madam Bouchard, grumbling and scowling, lit the candles and the lamps, and then they all went off on the drive, leaving Jacques entirely alone in the house, for the two maids had gone to church.

  Despite the warmth and loveliness of the evening, a few embers lay on the hearth, and Jacques sat before them, regarding them fixedly for a long time. His face was impassive and motionless, but all at once slow tears fell from his eyes, rolled unheeded over the crooked rise of his chest. Then, when a pale cool curve of silver which was the new moon shone through the window, he rose, got paper and pen and ink, and wrote two short letters. He laid them on the table near by. He then fumbled for his crutch, climbed painfully up the stairs to his room. He went to his high chest of drawers, and drew out a long black pistol. On its side was stamped: Barbour & Bouchard. With great calmness, almost absent-mindedly, he examined the chamber, saw it was filled. He went to his bed and sat down upon it, and looked through the open window at the brightening curve of the moon.

  At the opposite side of the room was a low stand covered by a fine cloth of exquisite linen and bordered with hand-made lace. On this stand stood a tall and elaborate silver crucifix. Before the crucifix stood a low unlit candle in a red glass holder.

  Jacques looked away from the moon, and looked at the crucifix. The room was almost dark, but a faint gleam was on the silver. He stood up and dragged himself heavily to the little altar, the pistol in his hand. He lit the candle before it, and stood watching the golden flicker make a haze in the darkness. For a long time thereafter, he gazed at the crucifix, at the distorted silver countenance and the tiny silver thorns on the bleeding head. Then he said: “But You knew nothing of this.”