“After the reception, Mr. Barbour will lay the cornerstone of the new Martin Barbour Memorial Hospital, which will be one of the largest institutions of its kind in the State, and will be staffed by leading physicians of both Pennsylvania and New York. A fitting memorial, indeed, to the Barbour family! Mr. Barbour has interested himself in all branches of philanthropy, and this city owes its magnificent library, music hall, park, university, Home for the Indigent, stadium and orphanage to the Christian charity of this great man. Nor must we forget the Tuberculosis Sanitarium in the suburb of Lexington, and the Institute for the Study of Degenerative Diseases.
“Interviewed this morning by a representative of this newspaper, Mr. Barbour said, with his inimitable smile and graciousness: ‘On this, my seventy-first birthday, I extend to all my fellow citizens of Windsor my blessings and my hope that they will carry forward the things I have only begun. If I can leave them nothing more than my philosophy that Hard Work, Industry and Vision, Sacrifice and Faith are the bedrock of all success and accomplishment, I shall have left them everything.’”
CHAPTER CV
One fine day early in 1898, Jules Bouchard read and reread a telegram which he had just received from Washington.
“FIFTY PORTRAITS YOU DESIRED WILL BE DELIVERED AS ORDERED. JOHNSON AND I HAVE FINALLY SWUNG DECISION OF OUR PARTNERS FROM FIFTEEN TO FIFTY THOUGH CONSIDERABLE DIFFICULTY MIGHT BE ENCOUNTERED AT LAST MOMENT TO PREVENT YOU SECURING COPIES ANTICIPATED. YOUR AGENT WORKING HARD. MISTER DIAGO BUYING FIRST EDITIONS FROM OLD FRIEND WHO THANKS YOU FOR CUSTOMER. RUSH HIM FIRST EDITION DICKENS AT ONCE. HIS COPY VERY INFERIOR IT IS RUMORED.”
Jules displayed a lively interest in this remarkable telegram, which might indeed have gained the attention of such an ardent bibliophile as the President of the Sessions Steel Company. It was signed: “Gibbons Rare Book and Miniature Company.” Jules also was becoming a rather well-known connoisseur of art, especially in that branch pertaining to exquisite miniatures and portraits by the old masters. His library and his small gallery had already attracted considerable attention, and he had agents in all the capitals of Europe sedulously adding to his collections. Therefore, such a telegram, while gratifying, was not unusual. He received many such, including cables.
He still studied the telegram, his long thin brown hand, with its livid polished nails, fastidiously groping in a silver cigar box which he kept on his desk in the office. Finding by touch a long thin cigar, exquisitely banded and fragrant, he lit it with delicate firm gestures. The glow of the match showed his face, that Jesuitical face, long and lean, brown and seamed, with the brilliant black eyes under the full hooded lids. There were patches of white at his sunken veined temples, though the rest of his hair was as sleek and black as sealskin. His bony large nose, with its aristocratic high arch, jutted outwards, not arrogantly, but with something of an Indian austerity. A diamond sparkled in his dark-red satin cravat; another danced on the third finger of his left hand. His body, in the elegant black broadcloth he almost always affected, was lean and disciplined. At forty, Jules Bouchard was a fascinating man.
The more he read the telegram the more his interest and gratification increased. Finally, he lifted the telephone on his desk and called the bank. He was soon talking to Leon.
“I have very pleasant news about those books,” he said. “Could you spare me the time to run over here and discuss them with me, or shall I go to your office? No time like the present, you know.”
There was a pause, then Leon said: “Ah! But the Old Man is still away on his cruise. No use speaking of books until he gets back. Unless—”
“Exactly. I’ll call our friend, also. You’ll be here shortly? Good. You might call Honore. He’s interested in first editions, too.”
He then called the office of Barbour-Bouchard. Soon Paul was connected with him. Within the last few years a smooth social and business amiability had grown up, from necessity, between the two men. Nothing, therefore, could have been blander than Jules’ voice. “Paul? It is almost six o’clock and I suppose you’ll be leaving the office practically immediately. I’ve something of interest to tell you. Could you be here within twenty minutes? Good.”
He rang for his secretary, a most efficient but silent young man, who came in with just the correct mixture of obsequiousness, worship and alertness. Jules smiled at him pleasantly. “George, I’ve got those Gainsborough miniatures! And those Dickens first editions! I told you I’d get them after all.”
Mr. George Dickinson pursed his lips with respectful dubiousness. “There’s been a lot of fraud lately in those things, Mr. Bouchard,” he replied.
“Do you think they can deceive me?” demanded Jules with a joviality that just missed his eyes. “I consider myself quite the expert now, George.”
“I hope you aren’t going to be swindled, Mr. Bouchard.”
Jules seemed a little amused. “I’m never swindled, George. You had your doubts about that Goya, too, but I proved you wrong.”
“Which Goya, Mr. Bouchard?” asked Mr. Dickinson, with a smile that apologized for an apparent boldness. “The first or second?”
Jules laughed. “Now, George, is that Christian? Is that kind? At any rate, you ought to thank me for a very good copy of a Goya. Do you know, if we keep on this way, you’ll have the world’s very best collection of splendid frauds, many of them much better than the originals from which they were copied? I tell you, the old masters are quite frequently rotten. Why, that near-Corot I gave you is genius, pure genius! Corot himself would have acknowledged himself beaten.”
Mr. Dickinson smiled thinly. “The difference, sir, of course, is only in the price.”
“Price? Why, damn it, I paid as much for the fraud as though it had been an original. Don’t be mercenary, George. Remember to appreciate art for art’s sake, not for the tag it might carry. But I didn’t call you in for an art discussion. I’m wondering if you’d drop by the house and tell Mrs. Bouchard I’ll not be home for dinner, and especially not for that reception she’s been planning on taking me to. So, as she is exceedingly fond of you, I’m sending you as my proxy, both to dinner and the reception. I don’t know what I’d do without you, George.”
The young man colored with his delight, which was a little marred at the prospect of sitting again at the table with Jules’ three exuberant young sons, Pierre, Emile and Christopher. He particularly detested ten-year-old Christopher, who had a cruel and disdainful face. However, he loved gentle fragile Mrs. Bouchard, who had poise, kindness and graciousness enough for a dozen women.
“Are you certain you’ll not be needing me here tonight, sir?”
“Not at all. To tell you the truth, I’m expecting an agent from New York within an hour or so, with the miniatures. Then I’m going to have a bite with Mr. Honore. Don’t tell Mrs. Bouchard that, however.”
After his secretary had left the room, Jules returned again to the telegram. When engrossed, he had a habit of delicately smoothing his lips with the tip of his right index finger; despite the daintiness of the gesture, it had a touch of the deadly about it. A Jesuit who loved the feel of his own flesh as he contemplated a new method of exterminating heretics.
He thought, almost irrelevantly: Señor Dupuy De Lome was right “A pot-house politician and caterer to the rabble.” When it comes to seeking the main chance and procrastinating, our dear McKinley can outdo the English. But his bumptiousness has finally overcome his pseudo-British policies. Once a bar-politician, always a bar-politician.
He opened a drawer in his desk and drew out a silver flask of Napoleon, poured a small crystal glass full. He drank it slowly, savoring each drop. And looked at the telegram, smiling.
The telegram, de-coded, had nothing whatsoever to do with portraits or books. It read succinctly: FIFTY MILLION DOLLARS WILL BE PLACED BY CONGRESS AT PRESIDENT’S DISPOSAL FOR ARMAMENTS. WE HAVE INCREASED APPROPRIATION FROM FIFTEEN TO FIFTY MILLION AFTER LONG DEBATE. HOWEVER PEACE LOBBIES MIGHT PREVENT WAR WITH SPAIN AT LAST MOMENT. ARE DOING ALL WE
CAN TO STOP THIS. SPAIN TODAY ORDERED ARMAMENTS FROM ROBSONS-STRONG. INFORMATION ON BEST AUTHORITY. SEND ROBSONS-STRONG INFORMATION ABOUT YOUR NEW MACHINE GUN WHICH WE HEAR IS BETTER THAN MAXIM PATENT THEY HOLD.
“Ah,” said Jules. He wiped his lips with a fine monogrammed linen handkerchief. The door opened and Leon came in, strong, shortish, brown, almost burly these days, as he approached the forties. There was a bronze-like look about the rigidity of the folds of his broad face, and a bronze-statue appearance in the deliberate blankness of his eyes. He deposited his “bowler,” cane and gloves on Jules’ desk, and threw his velvet-collared overcoat over a chair.
“I was afraid you might not get here before Atlas-in-pantaloons arrived,” said Jules. “Read this.” He pushed the telegram across the desk to his brother. Leon read it. He put it down, and smiled with pleasure. “Fifty millions, eh? Not bad at all. And now, if the Boers can just be persuaded the British are robbers, which they are, of course—Is Honore coming? I couldn’t get him, but left a message. I thought he might have rung you up.”
“Not yet. I hope your message reaches him before he leaves for home. By the way, I’ve cabled the Old Man.”
“Paul’ll cut your throat for this!” Leon exclaimed in enjoyment.
“Probably, unless we hang him first. By the way, how is the matter of François and little Alice coming along?”
Leon pursed his rather thick lips. “Damn it, I’m sorry for the poor little girl. Not only is François seventeen years her senior, but he’s an ass into the bargain.”
“His poetry,” suggested Jules, “is not too bad. Someone has compared it favorably with that of François Villon.”
“Damn his poetry! That is really a very nice little girl, for all she is Paul’s daughter. And I don’t think Trudie would care much for her daughter marrying François.”
Jules smoothed his lip with his finger. “You forget, Trudie loved Philippe, who was only one step, in his way, beyond François. At least, one can’t imagine François being noble for his poetry or anything else, and dying, off on some island in a leper’s hut, for the sake of it. Yes, Trudie loved Philippe, who was not even as worthwhile as François.”
“What makes you think she cared for Philippe?”
Jules moved his silver cigar box an inch. “I know she did. Everyone knew it, except you, you dunderhead. And then when she heard he had died, she died, too. I’m not being romantic; I know. And I’ve listened very carefully to what our poor old Major has had to say about the last time Trudie came to our home and heard of Philippe’s death. Poor old fluffy-mind: he betrayed something quite interesting, in his innocence, but I seem to be the only one who understood it.”
“Understood what?” demanded Leon irritably, picking up the telegram again and scowling at it.
“That the Old Man left-handedly killed Philippe, and incidentally his own daughter. But all this is very old. What we are interested in just at present is François and Alice. This marriage has got to take place.”
“You forget that Paul may decide to marry all of a sudden. Then he’ll have children, perhaps sons. Where will we be then?”
“In a very good position. Paul’s children won’t be the Old Man’s grandchildren. They’ll be Martin Barbour’s.”
“If you think the Old Man is not aware of your scheming—”
“But he is!” Jules was smiling, his white teeth glittering. “He loves schemers. That was the trouble with all his own children: none of them were schemers or realists. Weaklings, all of them. Had they schemed, had they returned his duplicity with worse duplicity, had they circumvented him, he would have taken them all to his heart. They could have had anything they had wanted: Trudie could have had her Philippe, Frey his music, Reggie his Amish wife, if they had schemed, and the Old Man would finally have laughed and forgiven them. But he hates simpletons—”
“And that’s why he’ll object to François, who is a simpleton.”
“But, remember, we are behind François and little Alice-in-Wonderland. We’ll forward the romance of these innocents. We’ll do the scheming for them. Only last night little Alice visited us, and was all for blurting it out to her father and grandfather, about François. I persuaded her to keep her pretty little mouth shut. As for François, he never remembers anything from day to day anyway, and so there’s no danger of a premature declaration from him. You know, sometimes I think he is a better egotist than any of us, even the Old Man. He never thinks of anything whatsoever but himself, and his damned sonnets.”
“Did you read that one about My Lady’s Breast?”
“God, yes! Little Alice, who has hardly any breast at all yet, was quite confused when he read it to her last night after dinner. But don’t underestimate him: he’s a damned good eater, for all his poetry, and there’s always hope for a man who can demolish a roast the way he did. When his stomach’s stuffed he becomes almost sensible and practical. That’s why he could see my point when I suggested that he and Alice elope next week. I’ll buy the tickets myself.”
“Elope?” Leon stared, and his dark face flushed. “Look here, you’re going too far, Jules! The Old Man will kick us so far that when we return the ‘Bouchard’ will be rubbed out of Barbour-Bouchard!”
Jules smiled. “Bouchard and Sons,” he said in a musing voice. “I like it.”
Leon snatched a cigar from the box, bit off the end, spat it out savagely. “Your scheme, Cardinal Richelieu, stinks. Putting aside the human sacrifice of a perfectly nice little girl, what do you think Paul will do about it?”
“He’ll do whatever the Old Man says. You think it’s a dangerous step. So do I. That bloody Englishman hates us because we’re French, in spite of the fact that we’re also his sister’s children. But he loves intrigue and scheming and ruthlessness more than he hates us. And as I said before, he knows what we’re up to, and has probably already warned Paul. So, don’t let your conscience persuade you that we are taking gross advantage of someone or something.”
“Well, there’s Alice.”
“She could marry worse than François. She’s just the innocent, starry-eyed and idealistic type to marry an artist, any artist, even one that writes as foul poetry as does François. If she doesn’t annex him, she’ll be scampering off to some damned painter or musician or novelist who is being grossly misunderstood by the world. The maternal type, who also believes in Art, and ‘simply adores it,’ to use her own words. So, it’s much better to keep the Barbour money in the family than to have it wasted on art galleries and artists. Don’t pity the child too much. A pretty little piece, I admit, but an absolute little fool.”
“You’ve forgotten Aunt May. I think her enthusiasm about François is well under control.”
“But she hasn’t forgotten Trudie, who wanted that ass of a Philippe. Stop worrying, Leon.”
“I’m not worrying about Alice. But I don’t want to lose what we’ve already got.”
“We won’t. Remember, we’ve bought back several nice blocks of stock in Barbour-Bouchard which the Old Man and Paul had been kind enough to present to certain amenable senators. We three own thirty-five percent of the stock in Barbour-Bouchard and fifty-one percent in the Kinsolving Arms Company, and forty percent in the Sessions Steel Company, not to mention respectable percentages in the Galby Lumber Mills, the United Utah Railroad, the Pennsylvania State Railroad, the Eastern States Railroad, the Pennsylvania Anthracite Company, the American Chemical Products Company, and a few nice blocks in the Bellowes Oil Company. Should we three, for instance—liquidate—Barbour-Bouchard might not recover.”
The door opened and Honore entered with his peculiar sea-going gait and thrust-forward head. Though only thirty-eight, he appeared older than his cousins, possibly because his hair was prematurely gray all over, and his expression was somber even when he smiled. He resembled Leon more than any one else in all the family, but he had Eugene’s reserved kindliness of eye and his father’s own appearance of integrity and faint uneasiness in the presence of those who w
ere blithely unscrupulous. His broad shoulders, always so powerful, had taken a great deal of flesh upon themselves, and he appeared much heavier than he really was.
“Ah,” said Jules, at the entrance of his cousin.
“What are you two devils plotting now?” asked Honore, smiling at them, but the faint uneasiness becoming definite in his expression.
“Plotting? You wrong us, my dear Honore. We brought you here for a conference. We are expecting Paul. Read this telegram.”
Honore, nervously lifting the tails of his coat, sat down; he read the telegram, his long, broad brown fingers stuffing his pipe meanwhile.
“Fifty millions, eh?” he said thoughtfully, looking at Jules. “More than we expected. But what if the war doesn’t come off?”
“It will. Do you think we’d let fifty millions get away from us? You might as well give orders to hire a few hundred more men immediately.”
“Just for a change,” said Honore, “I’d like to believe that wars are really caused by injustice, and could possibly be righteous. But don’t mind me: I said ‘just for a change.’ Sometimes I’m childish that way.”
“Looking at it that way,” Leon pointed out, “Spain has been rather rough on Cuba, you know. And England is a notorious bandit, so you could hardly call the annoyance of the Boers unjust. And Japan has been irritating Russia to a nasty and justified state, the dirty little yellow curs!”
“Well, we’ve helped their feelings along, don’t forget.”
Leon shrugged. Jules smiled at his cousin through slits of eyes.
“Cheer up, Honore.” He opened his desk drawer and tossed a sheet of white vellum toward the other man. “I’ve just received a secret draft of the Czar’s prospective letter to the European Powers.”
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