Leon hunched up his shoulders and sank his neck into them. He glowered at the floor and bit the corner of his lip.
“Metaphors are very nice and vivid,” he said, “but the trouble is that they are not practical. They don’t tell you how to go ahead. I admit that I’ve watched Paul, but the thought of danger didn’t really occur to me until just now. And now, I see it very clearly. How are we, with net and nakedness, and just the spear of our relationship to Uncle Ernest, to get around that boulder, Paul?”
“It is necessary in a campaign to review the past and study all circumstances. Let us begin with Uncle Ernest’s children, who would naturally be his heirs. There’s Frey, who’s thrown off everything pertaining to his father, and now calls himself Godfrey Sessions. He lives in France, on what he gets himself from his compositions and on what Aunt May sends him out of her own funds. I have heard that he has said he will never return to America while his father lives. And you can be sure that none of Uncle Ernest’s money will go to him.
“There’s Reggie, who’s married that Amish girl and gone to live on a farm, and declares he wants nothing of his father’s money. There are people like that, I understand. He rarely comes to Windsor, and never when Uncle Ernest is at home. There was Guy, of course, but he was just a kid, and he’s been dead for years. So, we don’t need to count him at all, though I would have felt easier about Paul if the poor little devil had lived. (Incidentally, I have just learned that the Snedlow incident cost Uncle Ernest a cool five hundred thousand dollars, to shut up the miners and keep him out of prison. That was a ghastly thing: after driving the miners out of their shacks, so that they had to go to the next county and take shelter with friends or put up tents to keep them out of the snow, to set fire to the tents and the shacks and kill fourteen women and children! That’s carrying revenge a little too far.)”
“There’s no proof that it wasn’t an accident.”
“Perhaps not, but it stinks. Besides that, there’s not the sign of a proof that Guy was shot by the miners. They didn’t have one solitary gun among them.”
“What are you trying to say?” asked Leon uneasily. But he did not want an answer.
“Nothing. We were talking about Paul. Well, that leaves only Gertrude, who is Paul’s wife, and enceinte, poor creature, with what will probably be a little monster, considering his father. And Joey, the ape. We can count Trudie out. Joey, of course, will be president of the bank some day, now that Paul has practically become Uncle Ernest’s Prince of Wales. Joey’s a born banker, and will probably make this bank give birth to a dozen little ones. So, in one way, we can count Joey out.
“The whole trouble is this: Paul has evidently counted the Bouchards out. He doesn’t think much of me, and you, and François, and Etienne and Honore. Naturally, he feels he has nothing to fear from Philippe; and Renee is a girl and Andre and Antoinette are just brats yet, and there’s little danger from our half-brother and sister, Chandler and Betsy. Etienne is looking at the stage, ever since he carried a spear in ‘Cleopatra’ last winter in New York. I believe he said something about being promised a part in ‘Ben Hur’ in a few months. Probably as one of the horses. But he’s no fool; he’s got our French eye for the cash, and I believe Paul underrates him. However, a man can’t think of togas and Hamlet and balconies in New York and keep his mind on his business in another city. Honore will probably have to watch Etienne’s share. That brings me to Honore, who’d like to insert a knife in Paul’s back, also. As for our own dear little brother, François, he’ll never be any good so long as he thinks he is a poet. By the way, did you read his last sonnet?”
“Yes!” said Leon fervently. “But never mind François.”
“So, everything finally rests with me, and with you, and with Honore. I talked to Honore last night, as I have talked to you today.”
There was a little silence. Leon resumed his glowering at the floor. Jules negligently cleaned his nails. Then he sat up swiftly, putting away his little gold penknife.
“How would you like to take my place in the bank, Leon?”
Astonished, Leon lifted hard black eyes. “Take your place? But splendid, of course. I think I have a better head than you for banking, Jules. But what will you do?”
Jules stood up, pulled down his immaculate sleeves. “I’m going to see Uncle Ernest, at once. Tonight, you and I shall go to Uncle Eugene’s and have a quiet little talk with Honore.”
“I see,” said Leon slowly, as he stood up also. He glanced at the closed door. “By the way, you know we have an enemy in our camp. John Charles.”
“Yes. He does good yeoman service for his brother, doesn’t he? And he hates our insides. I’ve caught him watching us. We’ve got to be cautious, for he’ll report every move to Paul. Sly, sullen devil! Don’t even think about what I’ve told you, Leon, if you’re within six feet of him. He can read minds.”
“If I’m not mistaken, that’s his shadow that’s been passing and re-passing that door ever since I came in here. Look there, now, on the glass! I can see his bullet head—”
Jules moved swiftly and silently to the door and pulled it open abruptly. A shortish broad young man of his own age stood there, nonplussed, slowly reddening. He had a crest of stiffish light hair on his head like his Uncle Ernest’s, and he also had light malevolent eyes and big features in which there was a certain coarseness. He was a caricature of what Ernest had been at his age, without Ernest’s intelligence and real implacability. In place of the implacability, he was stolidly, unoriginally brutal.
“Hello!” he said, finding his voice. “I’ve been looking for you, Leon. Someone was asking for that Truesdale entry.”
“Truly?” Leon’s voice was cool and impersonal as velvet. Jules stared down at his cousin with a mixture of contempt and politeness.
“I didn’t know you had charge of the ‘T’ entries,” said Jules.
John Charles flashed him a glance of hatred. “I haven’t. But Mr. Knight asked me if I knew where Leon was, and as I had seen him come in this direction I came after him myself, to tell him he was wanted.”
He walked away stiffly, his ears red, his shoulders seeming too square and big for his rather short sturdy legs.
“You see?” said Leon to his brother.
“I see. Apparently the sooner I act the sooner we will be safe. Remember: Don’t think around old Johnny. He reads minds.”
CHAPTER LXXXIX
When Jules arrived at the Barbour-Bouchard shops he was greeted with great cordiality by Paul Barbour. Paul had a new office which formed a barrier between the public and his uncle’s office. He had surrounded himself with clerks who kept him informed of the smallest details of the business.
He shook Jules’ hand, and showed his big white teeth in a friendly grin. “Well, what can we do for you, Jules? Anything wrong at the bank?”
“What could be wrong? No, I came to see Uncle Ernest.”
There was a little pause. Paul was taller and bigger than his cousin. He thrust his hands in his pockets very negligently, but there was nothing negligent in the eyes he fixed on him.
“Uncle Ernest?” His tone became regretful. “Lord, I’m sorry! He’s busy in there with a very important client. It may be hours.”
“I’ll wait.” He glanced about Paul’s office. “You have plenty of chairs here. You won’t mind if I occupy one?”
“Not at all. Not at all! But I warn you, it’ll be hours. Perhaps it would be better if I told him later that you had come, and I can then make an appointment for you. I can let you know in a few days—”
“Thank you. But I’ll wait. Leon’s taking my place at the desk until I come back. Besides, we’re not very busy.”
He sat down without a chair having been offered him. Paul stood, irresolute, just barely frowning. When he turned again to his cousin, Jules’ face was brownly inscrutable and composed.
“Very well, then, Jules. But I am afraid you are going to have to wait a long time.” He called a clerk by the touch of a b
ell. “Mr. Johnson, will you please tell Mr. Barbour that Mr. Jules Bouchard—” he glanced at Jules and the faintest sneer pulled at his mouth, “Mr. Jules Bouchard wishes to see him when he is at leisure.”
He glanced at Jules sharply. “But wait, Mr. Johnson. Jules, are you certain that this isn’t something I can handle instead of Uncle Ernest? Won’t you tell me about it?”
“I will not,” said Jules quietly.
There was a small silence. Paul nodded to Mr. Johnson. “Mr. Jules Bouchard, Mr. Johnson, would like to see Mr. Barbour when he isn’t busy.”
“Mr. Jules Bouchard begs to inform Mr. Barbour that it is a matter of the deepest importance,” added Jules solemnly.
The clerk was highly edified at all this, and looked exceedingly pleased. “Yes, sir, Mr. Bouchard,” he said, bowing, and hurrying away.
Paul’s large fair features had become suffused. He was struggling with himself. Jules’ eyes were wide open now, and innocent, brilliantly black under the full lids. “Jesuit!” thought Paul with ferocity. “I’d like to know what he’s got up his sleeve. I’ll ask John Charles tonight.”
Aloud he said, trying to regain his pleasantness: “I heard that Major Norwood had very little insurance on the warehouses that were burned last week. I also heard that he lost a great deal when the Union Atlantic Railroad failed. So, I am wondering if Aunt Florrie is embarrassed at all. If she is, I will be glad to buy any amount of Barbour-Bouchard stock that she owns. At today’s prices.”
Jules’ mouth puckered slightly, but his expression otherwise remained innocent. “But that is very kind of you, Paul. However, I am glad to inform you that my mother is not at all embarrassed.” He added, to himself: What a boor!
Paul had recovered his heartiness. “That is good news, then.” He paused. “How is Leon doing at the bank?”
“Splendidly.”
“John Charles speaks of him very glowingly.”
Jules did not answer.
“And how is Philippe? Gertrude was just speaking of him this morning, and wondering how he was.”
Jules regarded him fully. “That is very strange. Gertrude visited my mother yesterday and while there she read the letter we received from Philippe.”
Paul colored violently. “She probably forgot,” he said with indifference.
The door opened and a gentleman emerged with a brief case. Paul rose, greeted him with great respect. While he was doing this, Ernest appeared at the door and nodded pleasantly at Jules. “All right, Jules. I’ll see you now.”
Jules, imperturbable as ever, rose and went into the office. He closed the door carefully behind him. Ernest had already seated himself. He regarded his nephew with amusement. “What’s the matter? Is what you have to see me about so important that you are afraid of spies?”
“Yes, I’m afraid of spies,” replied Jules calmly. “Or, I should say, a spy.”
“Oh, nonsense. But sit down. How is your Mama? And everyone else?”
“We are all splendid.” He paused. “But Paul believes we are financially embarrassed. He offered to buy Mama’s stock in Barbour-Bouchard.”
Ernest raised his eyebrows. “He did, eh?” He studied his nephew. He had a high respect for him, though the young man rarely failed to amuse him. His amusement rose from a sort of acknowledgment of his subtlety, his devious ways and silences, which Ernest read without too much difficulty. He had often thought regretfully that Paul could do very well with some of that imagination and supple-mindedness. Nevertheless, probably because of his understanding, he did not trust Jules in the least.
The events of the past four years had changed Ernest considerably, had whitened his hair, had plowed his broad and heavy face, had made him at once leaner and more compact. But they had not made his expression more mobile or revealing. Across the polished space of his flat desk he continued to study Jules.
“I hope,” he said slowly, “that your Mama will consult me first before selling any of her stock.”
“She won’t sell,” said Jules. He flicked a white speck from his black broadcloth knee. “Uncle Ernest, I won’t take up much of your time. It is this: I want you to take me out of the bank. I want to come in with you.”
“With me? Extraordinary! I thought you were doing well at the bank.”
“Nevertheless, I want to come in with you.”
Ernest chewed his nail thoughtfully. “This is very unexpected. But where could I put you, Jules? I thought you had quite enough of the mills and foundries when you spent that year with your Uncle Eugene in the Kinsolving works.”
“I didn’t have enough. But I had sufficient to work out something.”
“Ah. Would you mind telling me what is behind this?”
“Nothing, except that I feel I can do better in the mills.”
There was a silence. Without trying to disguise his close scrutiny Ernest went over his nephew, feature by feature. He looks more like old Armand every day, he thought. But he is closer than Armand, and hasn’t one atom of his kindness or amiability. At the end of the long scrutiny he knew exactly why Jules had come. And was not at all displeased, but only amused. It might not be a bad idea, he continued in his thoughts. Paul has the force and the obstinacy, and Jules has the wit, the imagination and the adroitness. They’ll balance each other, watch each other. Only Paul’ll have to take care, or at the end he’ll find only eggshells in his basket. This French serpent is by nature a sucker of eggs. Ernest was very pleased at all this. Paul frequently annoyed him and irked him; he felt quite a malicious pleasure in anticipation of the effect of Jules’ introduction into Barbour-Bouchard. Latin brains and Teuton force: it would be edifying to watch them in juxtaposition, especially when spiced with hatred.
“But just what do you think you can bring to the business, Jules?”
“This: during the year I worked with Uncle Eugene I studied everything. The cannon we make would be all the better for a better steel. What we have now crystallizes too easily, and is too brittle. Crumbles after considerable use. Moreover, steel is going to be in tremendous demand eventually, for use in street-car tracks, rails, bridges, buildings—”
“Buildings?” interrupted Ernest.
“Yes. I believe a time is coming when steel will be used in tremendous quantities, especially for tall buildings. Iron doesn’t meet requirements. But the steel we have now is not good enough, and is too expensive to make.”
“Go on.” Ernest had not thought the usually secretive Jules could make so long a speech nor speak so clearly.
“I’ve worked out something in steel. I didn’t speak of it before, for several reasons. They’ve got something like it in England now, and I admit I got an idea from that source. But what I have in mind is a little different. Just enough different—”
“To get by the patent laws?”
The saturnine grimace that pulled Jules’ mouth was usually what passed as a smile with him. “To get by the patent law,” he agreed. “England has already patented her own new steel. But, frankly, I believe what I have in mind is better, though based in part on the English patent.”
“Very, very interesting.” Nothing could have been more patient than Ernest’s voice. But the cigar he had been smoking died in its tray. “Would you mind giving me an idea what this new steel is?”
“Not at all.” Jules lowered his already low voice. “But, of course, this is in confidence, Uncle Ernest?”
Ernest smiled. “Do you think I might rob you?”
But Jules was not embarrassed. He went on, as though Ernest had not spoken: “My plan is to produce steel by the decarburization of molten gray iron by air-blasts, which will oxidize out and carry off the carbon, other impurities, and the silicon. Then it can be cast into ingots.”
Ernest dropped his eyes and fixed them on his desk. There was a long silence. Jules, anxious himself now, watched his uncle’s face. He could gather nothing from its heavy smooth powerfulness, its total absence of mobility. “You have the formula?” he asked absently.
“What makes you think it is practicable?”
“I am certain of it. I’ve studied the English formula very carefully, and the steel is already being produced there.”
They smiled at each other slightly and simultaneously.
“I’ve heard of the English steel,” said Ernest. “Your formula will have to be—ah—very adroit, very clever, if it can evade the patent rights and also retain the qualities of the English steel. May I see the formula?”
“Why certainly, Uncle Ernest. I shall be very glad to work it out in your presence in the Sessions mill—when I have been established there.”
He stared at his uncle coolly, his narrow brown face calm, the sunlight glinting on the sleek thin hair that covered his well-shaped, small bony skull.
Ernest burst out laughing, with acknowledgment and approval. “You don’t trust God or the devil, do you, Jules? But that’s perfectly all right. I admire you for it.” He put a fresh cigar in his mouth, and Jules lit it for him. “Thank you, lad.” He puffed at the cigar for a few moments, and regarded Jules through the smoke. “Of course,” he added genially, “I understand perfectly why you wish to come here. I don’t hold it against you, Jules; in fact, I admire you for it. A man’s entitled to all he can get. You have proved that you will get what you want. But you’re not a bulldozer. Some people—are. However, slyness is frequently better than bulldozing. You don’t mind if I call you sly, do you?”
“Not at all,” replied Jules courteously.
“Sometimes slyness is called adroitness and quick-wittedness. However, I knew you’d prefer a simpler if less polite definition. You’re a sty devil, Jules. I like sly devils.”
“Paul,” said Jules, smiling faintly, “is strong and competent.”
“‘Brutus,’” added Ernest, “‘is an honorable man.’”
He got up and began to walk up and down the room, his hands behind his back. Without looking at Jules, he spoke slowly: “Paul is my daughter’s husband, the father of my grandchild. He’ll naturally inherit most of what I have. I want you to understand that clearly. Sometimes it is better to make issues very clear, so there’ll be no misunderstanding, no pot-shotting, no guns in the dark. My son Joey will own most of the bank stock. That’s taken care of.” He stopped and swung on the silently listening Jules. “What, then, do you expect to get from this?”
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