Dynasty of Death

by Taylor Caldwell

  And Paul, always the expedient, and now desperate, turned his mind to the placating of his mother. It never occurred to him that he did not need to placate her: he knew he had insulted her grossly, had literally shut the door of his house to her. Reasoning from his own point of view, he thought that she would feel resentment against him, would desire to humiliate and hurt him, as he himself would desire to humiliate and hurt any one who had affronted him so outrageously.

  Amy’s unexpected marriage to Ernest had jolted her children so profoundly that it was weeks before their slow minds and preconceived beliefs could take in what had happened, and could accept the fact. They had always had a poor opinion of their mother, whose whimsicalities and unpredictable amusement had aroused only the contempt of their tenacious and humorless minds, and the distrust of their simple stolidity. Besides, as Paul had told his sister Elsa a hundred times, “men did not marry their mistresses.” They accepted the phrase with their smug simplicity, their naïve belief in the authenticity of their own conclusions. When events calmly refused to live up to these conclusions, they were so upset that it seemed as if the wildest disturbance had occurred in the complacent house of their minds. It was a long time before they could adjust themselves, during which interval they felt indignation, outrage, bewilderment and incredulity. Then Elsa settled down to a bitter acceptance, John Charles laughed shortly, Lucy became amused and expressed a shrugging admiration for her mother, and Paul felt a violent apprehension as to what Amy’s attitude toward him might now be. So, to Amy’s grief, mortification, compassion and distaste, he courted her good will.

  He was much elated and relieved when she received him with her old calm affection and interest, her old concern for his welfare, her old un-complex kindness. She conducted the interview as though nothing whatsoever had ever happened between herself and her son. He did not see a great lady who was suffering because of him; he thought he saw a simple woman who had not had the backbone to be offended or resentful and was only too glad to be accepted again by her son and through his condescension able to feel respectable once more.

  John Charles, showing marked signs of the Barbour expediency, blandly announced to Paul that he intended to take up his residence with his mother in the Sessions house. He smiled at Paul’s suddenly suffused face, packed without any appearance of embarrassment, and moved. To Paul’s intense shock and rage, he saw that his younger brother had calmly become his enemy, not from any personal change in his attitude toward him, but from a certain something which Paul felt was the more menacing and disturbing.

  After three years, he was still actively grieving for Gertrude, he was constantly fearful of Jules’ and Leon’s and Honore’s increasing influence and power, he was more and more aware of his brother’s impersonal enmity and implacable growth in importance. Also, he had failed, through no fault of his, in a mission with which Ernest, not with much hope, had intrusted him in Washington: that of exerting sufficient influence, bribery and coercion to prevent the passage of the Alien Contract Labor Law. He had gone, armed with all the Barbour prestige, power, political influence and ability to suborn integrity, and he had failed. Though Ernest amusedly assured him that it was not his fault, that it was bound to pass because the people were demanding it vociferously, that there were too many influences behind the bill to prevent its defeat, Paul again reasoned from his own character and believed that his uncle was beginning to despise him and that he would never forgive him.

  Then, completely if temporarily demoralizing him, his Uncle Eugene Bouchard died, quite suddenly, and Honore Bouchard, as one of the executors of his father’s will and one of the heirs of the dynasty, took on the suddenly giant stature of an enemy who had appeared deceptively small in the distance, but who had now approached within a few paces.

  CHAPTER XCVIII

  Only Honore Bouchard knew why his father died, and he never told any one, not even his mother, not even the woman he was to marry, not even the priest whom he visited at long intervals.

  One morning, as Honore was experimenting in the factory on a new explosive, which he believed would be ten times as powerful as the one Barbour-Bouchard now manufactured, a clerk approached him and told him his father wished to see him. The British had recently been experimenting with “cordite,” which they fondly believed was a deep dark secret. The formula was guarded with ferocious care, yet in some way, with which only Ernest Barbour and his nephew Jules were acquainted, the formula had become known to Barbour-Bouchard. The “mystery” cost Ernest over half a million dollars, which he did not regret. The formula had been turned over to Honore, who was now testing it. Already Barbour-Bouchard, on the strength of the discreetly broadcasted hint in Russia that the Company was in possession of the secret of British cordite, had received enormous advance orders from that country for this explosive. Honore had in mind a certain process by which the power of cordite could be increased, and within a few days Barbour-Bouchard expected to begin the manufacture of this “black plague.”

  Honore felt some irritation at being called away from his work, and he merely brushed off his clothing and hands sketchily and went into his father’s office. The young man walked with a peculiar “sea-going” gait, because his strong short legs were slightly bowed, and he had a manner of thrusting his reserved and handsome square face a little ahead. When he came into Eugene’s office, Eugene sniffed audibly at the acrid smell that attended his son.

  “It gives me the most atrocious headache, Honore,” he said, but he smiled. “You must not concern yourself,” he added, as Honore frowned with a quick anxiety, “I am always having headaches. Sometimes I think I am having the petite mal.” He spoke in French, the language he always used to his family, and which they used in return.

  Honore sat down and scrutinized his father earnestly. His irritation at being brought from his work disappeared. It was not his imagination, then, that told him that his father was failing. Eugene had grown perceptibly thinner, and his face, always dark, seemed to be disintegrating and falling away behind the sallow seamed skin. Honore, his alarm quickening, saw how bony his father’s forehead had become, and how it shone with a smooth yellow lustre, like a skull. His lips were purplish, and livid about the edges, and his nose appeared unusually prominent and pinched. His hair, once Indian-black and wiry, was harsh and almost white. For a long time his family had been uneasily noticing these things, but Eugene had scoffed, first with amusement and then with annoyance, and insisted that his health was most excellent. Today, Honore, with a sick plunge in his chest, told himself that death was impressed indelibly on his father’s face.

  He exclaimed, forgetting everything else: “You are ill, my father! You must go away and rest! You must think of my mother, and all of us.”

  At the mention of Dorcas, Eugene’s expression changed for an instant. Then he smiled his kind reserved smile and shook his head. “I am growing old, my child, that is all. Old age is a disease for which there is no cure. It is true that in myself I do not feel old, but unfortunately I cannot convince my flesh that this is so.” Again his expression changed, darkened and became stern. “But I did not call you in to me to discuss my sensations, Honore. I called you here to demand an explanation from you.”

  “An explanation? For what?” Honore was still searching his father’s face with anxious eyes, and spoke absently.

  “For this strange alliance between yourself and Jules and Leon.”

  Honore was jolted to attention. He came completely to the surface, and eyed Eugene with great caution and intentness. “Alliance!” he repeated, with apparent bewilderment. “What alliance? Who has been telling you this story?”

  “What story?” Eugene’s eyelids narrowed and a gleam shot from them. “What makes you think there was any one to tell me a story? Ah, my Honore, you are not so subtle! You are too honest, in spite of a relentlessness you are trying to cultivate and which I observe with sorrow.” He paused. “Now, you must tell me about this alliance. I am most interested.”


  “I do not know what you are talking about!” exclaimed Honore, coloring.

  “You know precisely what I am talking about!” replied Eugene angrily. His breath shortened, and the livid tint deepened about his mouth. Father and son glared at each other like two aroused antagonists. Then, after a few moments, Honore shrugged, became sullen.

  “I cannot understand all this,” he said. “Jules and Leon are my friends, as well as my relatives. Our personalities are congenial; I have always been closer to them than to any other members of my family, with the exception of you and my mother. But, you are surely not objecting to my friendship with my cousins! You are surely not objecting to Jules and Leon?”

  Eugene, a little taken aback, plucked at his lip. “But, certainly not! I do not know whether you are being subtle in this, Honore, or simply childish. I am exceedingly fond of Leon, especially, though I candidly admit that I neither like nor trust Jules. Few people do, and I am sure that Jules himself would be the last to be surprised at this. Your Uncle Ernest has called him a Jesuit, but even Ernest, who has named him aptly, never saw more than one or two Jesuits in his life. I have! And I see how exquisitely the name suits Jules. He is subtle, expedient, suave, crafty and conscienceless. The real Jesuit uses these things to serve his Church, and so feels justified, as probably he is. But Jules serves no one but himself. I see that he loves his brother, and also loves you. But I do not doubt that should the occasion arise, should the pressure of greed be great enough, he would betray both of you, coolly and efficiently.”

  “You apparently do not admire Jules, my father,” said Honore, with the satirical dryness that distinguished him.

  Eugene made an irate gesture. “My feeling for Jules has nothing to do with it. Body of Christ! you force me to blurt out what I have heard, like a child who can be trusted with nothing! Paul Barbour was here to see me this morning.”

  “Ah, I see!”

  “I do not admire Paul Barbour. Jules, that phrase-maker, has called him a boulder on cannon-wheels! That is very apt, uncomfortably apt. He imitates, probably unconsciously, his Uncle Ernest. Now, Ernest’s power is always conscious and directed, but Paul’s is unconscious and directed only by his desires. You see, I listened to Paul, not because I liked him and was prejudiced in his favor, but because, knowing Jules, I saw that there was a great deal of truth in what he was saying. He told me that you and Jules and Leon were uniting, very competently, in an alliance whose sole purpose is the securing of control of Barbour-Bouchard and the ousting and ruining of himself. He gave me proof. Naturally, I was horrified. I detest treachery above anything in all the world. Not only was the whole thing dangerous and untenable, but it was also repulsive. Perhaps I am sentimental in my old age, but I was more concerned with the treachery. Success, the worth-while things in life, are never obtained by treachery and scoundrelly tactics—”

  There was a little silence, then Honore asked quietly, lifting his eyes steadily and looking piercingly into his father’s face: “Are they not?”

  Eugene’s mouth fell open slightly, then his face was suffused by a tide of purplish red. An expression of acute mental and physical distress twisted his features. He stood up suddenly, then caught hold of his desk. His breath was short. Honore, alarmed for him, stood up also.

  But Eugene was not enraged. “You are quite right, Honore,” he said painfully. “Quite right. I am becoming sentimental, because I am ill and old. And I am frightened. A great deal—of this—what we have all become, never rested easily with me. I—I have been led, not because of the unscrupulousness of—any leader—but because I must really have been weak. I suffer from inertia. Even my ambition was merely the spinning of a top set in motion by some one else. I suffered, and I perversely thought my suffering was weakness. I see that my acquiescence was the real weakness. I—I am blaming no one, not even myself. I was made so. At a certain time in life a man ceases to blame himself or any one else. It is the life. But I would spare my sons that suffering. You—none of you are of the stuff of which the Anglo-Saxon is made, that combination of brutality and viciousness, justification and morality. I want no ‘alliance’ that will lead any of you to my distress, my ignominy, my foolish regret. No man of any honor could endure the thought of such treachery—”

  Though Honore was full of compassion for his father, he could not help asking: “Could Uncle Ernest endure it?”

  The color slowly subsided from Eugene’s face, and he sat down as though every bone in his body ached. His head dropped a little. “Yes,” he murmured, “Ernest could endure it. I understand you. He would be amused, and admiring. He would say: ‘Cocky young devils, let’s see where they are going!’ And if he thought you were unscrupulous enough, rascally enough, his admiration would grow, especially if you showed wit, which you no doubt do, and he would actually help you. But, God! what am I saying—” and he put a thin brown hand to his forehead.

  Honore sat down, exceedingly moved, for he loved his father very much. After a little while, he said, very gently: “I will not dodge adroitly, my father. I will be frank with you. Jules and Leon and I have discussed all this for a long time. Jules holds a large block of stock, now, in the company and its subsidiaries. His family, his mother, hold a large block; he will have his share too, some day, of that. Leon holds stock. I and my brothers and sisters are your heirs. Your holdings are enormous. We have talked all this over. And, with justification, we have come to the conclusion that Paul Barbour, ingratiating himself as he is doing with Uncle Ernest, will, after Uncle Ernest’s death, be the controlling power in Barbour-Bouchard. He is dogged; he has no fierceness or vehemence, but he has the weight and the solidity of boulders. He is not clever, but we have seen that he is out to take from us what is ours, and to destroy our opportunities, make us mere figureheads in the Company. Our ‘alliance’ was merely self-defense.” He paused. “And in the natural course of events our self-defense has become a deadly and irresistible offensive. As you would say, ‘it is the life.’”

  Eugene rubbed his forehead, still concealing his eyes. “I can see your point of view, yes. And in the main, I do not quarrel with it, knowing it to be mostly true. But I can also see that Jules is not truly concerned with mere ‘justice.’ He is very obviously using you, for he knows such an appeal would have weight with you. No, he is not concerned with justice. He is cruel and rapacious.”

  “You would object less to this plan of ours if Jules were activated by ‘justice’ only?” demanded Honore with involuntary impatience.

  Eugene dropped his hand. “Yes,” he said simply, “I would. You observe,” he added with his painful and whimsical smile, “how old I have become!”

  Honore got up and began to walk the floor, his hands gripped together behind his back. “It is very odd to think of justice or any other virtue in connection with the making of armaments!” he said with a sort of plaintive contempt.

  An odd expression, subtle and darkening, stood in Eugene’s eyes. “So, you feel that, too!” he muttered, too inaudibly for Honore to hear. He said aloud, withdrawingly, “you must not speak childishly, my son. There is no question of virtue in the mechanical business of barter and sale. A fair product at a fair price.” He was bitterly conscious of quoting some of Ernest’s recent newspaper statements. “Your Uncle Ernest has provided the better product, so he has become the wealthier and the more powerful man. Virtue has not entered into it—”

  Honore whipped about, very suddenly for a young man of his sober character. “No, it has not! Oh, I am not blaming Uncle Ernest; I admire him, for a man of force and genius. But it has not been all fair business at a fair price, and I am certain that you know this, my father. Armaments are something beyond mere innocuous business. Quite coolly, I realize they are a nefarious one. But I do not care for that. Our business, our wealth, our profits, flourish on death. A very nasty idea, to any one who is weak-stomached. We grow fat on blood. I am very willing to grow fat that way, and have my profits, but that does not blind me, any more than it really
blinds Uncle Ernest, even when he has been most reasonable and logical in his newspaper statements. Only you, my poor father, have been blind. Perhaps willingly so, for you could not endure looking. Forgive me, but I must speak, and you must hear.

  “You have known of the work our representatives, and Jules, have been doing in Europe, the ‘war scares’ they have incited, the newspapers they have suborned and filled with lies, the setting of one nation against another, all to stimulate the purchase of armaments. You know how we, and others like us, have served two masters, with good profits from both. You know that we have been responsible for wars in Europe, and that our chief business is to play on hatred and greed and fear and prejudice. In the terrible game we play against mankind our first chessman is Stupidity. Uncle Ernest knows all this, and he says blandly: ‘What of it? Our profits are enormous. All things are justified in the name of profits.’ He is only what the French mean when they call a man a cynic—”

  Eugene struck his hand violently on his desk, livid with something else besides rage. “Yes, I know all this!” he cried in a voice so strained that it was almost whining, like a drawn violin string. “You are a young fool to think I did not know! Am I not Ernest’s partner, can I not read! But Europe must always fight; the peoples are so dissimilar; they are natural and hereditary enemies. It will always be so, as it was in the past. It needs little stimulation over there for one race to hate another, I assure you. I have lived there. So, we cannot condemn—ourselves, too much for that. We can, without much strain on our consciences, take the profit that must inevitably go to someone. Sometimes, though, I have thought Ernest might have been just a trifle too clever—” His voice sank into one of dull reflection, as though he had begun to talk to himself. “We, through Schultz-Poiret, sold guns and explosives to both France and Prussia in ’70, to both Turkey and Russia, and—” Again he struck his hand violently upon his desk. “But, Europe is like that, and I do not care! No one of intelligence could care. C’est la guerre. But, in America, it is different—”