“Now, then, he can’t possibly live much longer. Everyone knows that. After his death, you can be president. It rests with us. So the question now is: are you with us or against us?”
Paul was breathing hoarsely, and the congestion in his face was alarming. He stared at Jules with an almost evil smile. “You are sure of yourself, aren’t you? You mention that Alice is his heiress, and as a woman she won’t take an active part in Barbour-Bouchard, and her husband probably will. But Uncle Ernest might leave everything to me, if I marry again, and have sons—”
“Who will not be his grandchildren, but the grandchildren of poor Uncle Martin, whom the Old Man didn’t like at all,” said Jules swiftly. He shook his head sadly. “No, I don’t think you need have any hopes there. Alice will be his heiress. And knowing that, I’m certain that he is not at all without complacence when he remembers me, and Leon, and Honore. Honore, especially, is the son of the only man for whom he ever felt anything approaching real affection and friendship, and we are all, after all, the children of his sisters. While you are, in the last analysis, the son of the one man he despised above all others. The Old Man likes his joke, and if he liked it a little better he might try to hoodwink us by suddenly making you his heir. But he likes cleverness better than he does his joke, and splendid and competent and powerful though you are, Paul Barbour, you are no match for the three of us!
“But we appreciate you, and want you with us. We want you to be president when the Old Man dies.”
“And what do you think will be his reaction if, and when, I repeat this whole interview to him?”
“He will admire us the more, be more amused, and think a great deal less of you, though none of all this is your fault, my friend.”
Paul was silent. He chewed his lip. God, how true this was! Only he knew how true. Suddenly he would have given half his life to have been able to defy these plotters; for one moment he would have been willing to ruin himself for the exquisite joy of defying them. And then he knew that expediency and self-protection were dearer to him than defiance, more valuable than self-respect and honor.
He stood up, and Jules, Leon and Honore rose also, politely. Paul paused in the action of putting on his coat and surveyed Jules with contempt, hatred and menace.
“The president of Barbour-Bouchard isn’t dead yet. And before he dies, I may have married Alice off to a man who might be able to outwit you.”
He walked out without another word, without a reply to Jules’ cordial “good night.”
Leon put on his hat and picked up his coat.
“And what, if I may inquire, my subtle brother, have you gained or found out from this interview with our noble cousin?”
“Ah!” exclaimed Jules gently, raising his brows. “Numerous things! Ever so many important things, which were not mentioned! One was Alice, and her marriage to François, which must be pushed at once. And another, and by far the most important, that our Paul is a coward. And that, my children, is what I wished to find out definitely.”
Honore shrugged, a little wearily. “I felt a trifle sorry for him. Jules, if you’re going to hang a man, I don’t see that it is necessary to apply the thumb-screws first. Hang him, cleanly, and have done with it. But you always did love thumb-screws.”
He and Leon went to the door together. At the threshold Leon turned, saluted with mock respect, and grinned. “Good evening—padre,” he said, and went out with his cousin.
CHAPTER CVI
But Paul was not really a coward, after all. He knew things his cousins did not know about himself and Ernest Barbour. For the past few years he had felt himself stripped, exposed to bewildering elements, watched from ambush. Jules had said that Ernest was not capricious, but Paul believed he was. A cruel, coldly amused capriciousness.
Ernest had given him full right to believe that he would be his major heir. He remembered a certain day shortly after his marriage to Gertrude, when Ernest had called him into his office. He had told the young man that the day would arrive when he would have to manage Gertrude’s share of his estate, Godfrey’s share, Reginald’s and Guy’s. Administrator and executive, and president of Barbour-Bouchard! He had said “my assistant.” “Eventually, take my place.”
Now, Paul saw how nebulous, how cautious, all that had been, II Gertrude had lived, if they had had sons, if Godfrey and Reginald had remained in their father’s favor, if Guy had not been killed, his, Paul’s, position would have been secure beyond the slightest doubt. His sons would have inherited in direct line; he would have controlled the joint fortunes of Ernest’s own sons. He would have had Gertrude’s share. But he had no sons that would be grandsons of Ernest Barbour, and Gertrude, having died before her father, had no estate to leave her husband and her daughter. Frey would not receive anything beyond a pittance upon his father’s death, and Reginald, with his dour, dark severity, had voluntarily removed himself from his family and wanted nothing from it. And would get nothing from it. Only a few years ago, Ernest, with a bland frankness that had terrified Paul, had informed his nephew that he intended to leave the greater part of his fortune to Alice, as would May. The balance would be distributed in small bequests to other relatives, including Paul, and the rest bequeathed to the various public philanthropic enterprises in which he was interested. (Charity! At his age! Paul had thought with disgust and disappointment, not for an instant deceived into believing that Ernest had changed his character over-night.)
Paul had little doubt that he would be elected president of Barbour-Bouchard when Ernest died, or retired. But it would be in reality a hollow title, for all its magnificent salary. At one time he had hoped that he might be able to buy the stock held by the Bouchards; remembering this hope now, as he was being driven home in his carriage, he laughed drearily at himself for his own naïveté. As well expect wolves to give up the sheep they have slaughtered as expect the Bouchards to give up Barbour-Bouchard stock and Sessions Steel stock, or stock in any other of the subsidiaries.
Paul had long suspected Jules and Leon and Honore, but the sudden realization of what he thought of as their rapacious perfidy came as a heavy blow. He told himself that had they not been sure of themselves they would not have been as candid as they had been. But in this, Paul deduced from his own character, not knowing that there could be such a thing as audacity. He thought their boldness came from a consciousness of security and knowledge which they were keeping to themselves; had he shown such boldness, he would have had such security and knowledge, first. He was no match for their subtleties, which Jules well knew. Paul, riding home, was assailed on all sides by maddening fear, impotence and rage. All at once, with a sensation of physical illness, he thought: He has told them something, he has confided something to, them, he has encouraged them! He has betrayed me; done me in. But why? What have I done? I have done my best, which has been very good, as he himself has said. But since Trudie died, there has been a difference in his attitude toward me, a touch of malevolence, as though he believed in some way that it was my fault, that I should have made her love me and forget Philippe. But how could I? Who can do anything with women? I did my best, and I believe I was a good husband to Trudie. God knows I loved her, and still love her, and still can’t forget her! If anything, her death, and Guy’s death, and Joey’s death, should have sealed my position with him. But they didn’t. He has not been the same. Once, when I disagreed with him, he said angrily that I reminded him of my father. I’ll never forget that day, and the look he gave me. But things had begun to change before that.
Not that he likes the Bouchards any better, except, perhaps, Honore. Still, that’s just a sentimentality. But God help us when men like that get sentimental! However, he speaks admiringly of them, and calls them great rascals. He never calls me a great rascal, damn him! Whatever scurvy thing they do, he laughs, and says he could not have done it better, himself. Jules is quick-minded, and his schemes are preposterous and frequently theatrical. But damn it! they seem to work. They wouldn’t have worked twent
y years ago, but they work now. I can’t understand it; things have changed. I don’t know. But he doesn’t seem to, care that Jules is presumptuous, meddling in our own affairs; I can see through; his specious proclamation that we are all one Unit, and should work together. Jules’ business is the Sessions Steel Company, but he’s all over, like a flea. A Jesuit flea. God, I don’t know.
Jules was right. There was no mercy, kindness or loyalty in the man. Let Paul weaken, let him show fear, let him blunder, and he would do him in, not with malice or anger, but just with an impersonal contempt. Paul would be no further use to him.
Twisting his cane in his gloved hands, Paul weltered in his miserable thoughts. Never had he felt so betrayed, in so precarious a position, surrounded by such enemies, of which not the least was his uncle.
The only hope Paul now had was that his uncle would continue to live and take an active part in the Company, and that in some way, not yet worked out, Paul would accomplish magnificent things beyond the really fine things he had already accomplished. But the greatest hope of all was a marriage for Alice, a marriage to a young man carefully chosen. But what young man? At one time she had seemed taken with a young chap from New York, a relative of Percival Van Eyck, extremely wealthy in his own right. He would have no objection, perhaps, to turning over to his father-in-law at the current market price, the stock of Barbour-Bouchard which belonged to his wife. Perhaps a pseudo-sale, or something of the sort. It could be managed, with a little manipulation. And then Paul had the most brilliant idea of all: Lucy’s son, Thomas! A perfect match: Thomas was four or five years older than Alice, a millionaire in his own name, due to a fortune left him by his paternal grandmother. Thomas had seemed smitten by Alice last Christmas, and wrote to her at least twice a week even though she rarely answered any of his letters. Her objection to him seemed based on some notion of hers that he was “beefy” and “dull” and talked of “nothing but horses and Lillian Russell and his money.” Only yesterday, when she had received a letter from him she had tossed it aside disdainfully with the remark: “That silly fat thing who thinks lobster a la Newburg the world’s most exquisite emotion!” Paul, thinking rapidly, recalled that Alice held the opinion that Thomas had no “soul,” whatever the hell that was, and that he was “gross, greedy, and thinking of food when he wasn’t thinking of his stables or his dogs or telling an anecdote about Wilson Mizner or Diamond Jim Brady.”
But Thomas was exactly what Paul needed. Rich, weak, self-indulgent, good-natured, easily hoodwinked, easily led, credulous, kind, loyal, anxious and almost piteously eager to please and help, full of admiration for his Uncle Paul, honest and simple—he was made to order! He was just what Alice needed, also, Paul thought. A darling little thing, but too ethereal of tastes. Paul knew his daughter well enough to guess that this ethereality was mostly childish affectation, though deadly serious. She had been convinced, in turn, that she was a literary genius; a composer, a musician, a painter and a sculptor. Now, it was all poetry. Almost every day she was stuffing sheets of the vile stuff into her muff and dashing over to Florabelle’s house, where she usually found François at home and benignly willing to criticize. François, that feverish, dry-mouthed, brown-faced French monkey! Still a bachelor, still emaciated, still hysterical and effeminate, petulant and womanish-voiced, with his nervous fluttering hands, irritability, egotism and vanity! A poet, by God! But hardly the companion for an impressionable dear little idiot seventeen years his junior. However, the passion for poetry would go the way of the literature, the music and the painting, and there would be an end to the constant excited talk of François’ “genius,” and the dramatic gestures and the shining eyes. Paul was not worried about that; as yet he was blissfully unaware of Alice’s real if temporary adoration of François, and the plot laid against his peace and paternal affection by the Bouchards.
No, he reflected, smiling fondly and with relief, Alice had no right to criticize her cousin Thomas. She was none too bright herself, for all her affectations and passionately declared love of “Art.” Paul rightly suspected that his daughter had a fluffy mind, and was full of poses, innocent affectations and silly little mental snobberies. He also knew that she was a selfish little wretch, conceited, deliberately childish, silly, unfeeling, greedy for sensation and all prettinesses, opinionated and exigent. But he did not deplore these things; in a young creature like Alice, so lovely and sparkling and gay and small and exquisitely made, they were ornamentations, he thought. No one expected a pretty woman to have any brains; brains in a lovely daughter were really a detriment, especially to a scheming and ambitious father. He did not deplore at all his daughter’s dabbling her little feet in the great ocean of the Arts; one expected these things in women, and he preferred her succeeding passions to the pursuits of other women, such as the cause of suffrage, tea-drinking, bridge-playing, gossiping and flirting, late hours and parties, extravagances and general foolishness. Women seemed to be in a ferment these days, restless and whining, belligerent and unpredictable, feverishly dashing about like cockroaches, their loud voices everywhere, their feverish faces in the public prints, their big plumed hats bobbing in places where twenty years ago it would have been preposterous for them to appear.
Yes, Alice, for all her scurryings and breathless eagerness and artistic phrases and affectations, was an “old-fashioned” girl, innocent and affectionate and altogether charming, not to say useless and vapid. Thomas was exactly the sort she should marry, and marry him she would.
But Paul knew that crudeness would be fatal. Like all shallow and senseless small creatures, Alice was obstinate; to tell her that she must marry Thomas, whom she affected to despise because he had no “soul” or “depths,” would be fatal. Because she was weak, she had the strength of the weak, and nothing in heaven or earth could move her when she set her pretty pink mouth. Paul knew he must be adroit and careful; he must use guile, not reason or demands for obedience. He recalled Florabelle, and unwillingly admitted to himself that there was something very like his aunt in his daughter.
By the time the carriage was driving up the long wide curving sweep toward Robin’s Nest, Paul’s fears and apprehensions were appreciably allayed. He would outwit those damnable Bouchards after all! He was filled with a delightful exhilaration, a feeling of new strength and competence and power. He could give his mind, now, to the impending war and the appropriation of fifty million dollars to finance it. One of the things that Ernest had admired about Paul was his ability not to let personal matters and grudges interfere with prospects of profits, and in thinking of the war at this time he forgot Jules’ arrogance and interference and the negligence of his own agents, and thought only of military contracts and Honore’s new explosives and the new projectiles.
The winter twilight was engulfing Robin’s Nest as Paul stepped out of his carriage. As always, he glanced up at the house, which he privately thought far superior to the Sessions house. He smiled, as usual, as his glance climbed from the lower stories to the wide eaves of the roof. It was his home; he had the Barbour love of security and steadfastness, the Barbour worship of strong and visible property. Here was a house to be proud of, sturdy and beautiful, artfully made to appear ancient and longstanding, ivied in the summer, sheltered by evergreens in the winter. A man could bring up his children here, and his grandchildren, and their children, and each year the house would grow more a part of the family tradition, more its home, more a background for all its history—its deaths and its lives, its comings and its goings, its joys and its sorrows. An invisible ivy would grow over it, and the trees of invisible memory would rise higher about it with each decade.
“Above all things, a man needs a house,” he thought, with one of his unusual flashes of insight.
When Gertrude had been alive, there had been a polished cool graciousness about the interior of the house, a gleaming shadow over the floors and the walls, a quietness and almost airless dignity, long spacious vistas and glimpses of white marble, a certain chaste austerity
which yet had been restful and finished. Elsa had changed very little in the house, yet in some mysterious way it had changed indeed, becoming somewhat stodgy in places, heavier, mellower of gleam, warmer, more stolid, but decidedly more home-like and comfortable. The same walls and floors and staircases and portraits and furniture and rugs and mirrors, but a deeper if less artistic humanity. Paul felt more at home in the atmosphere his sister had created; when Gertrude had been alive the air had always seemed slightly chilly, and a trifle too quiet.
He sent the perfect butler up to Elsa’s private sitting room with the request that he would like to see his sister immediately. Miss Alice, he was informed, was visiting and had not yet returned. Yes, he believed she was at the home of her aunt, Mrs. Norwood. Paul frowned, surrendered his coat and hat and gloves and cane, and walked heavily into the library. He never read any of the books on the shelves in the great dim silent room, with its tremendous arched windows and mighty fireplace, but he liked the library. It gave him confidence, recharged his batteries of security. Elsa, stout, big, florid-faced, came into the room, and he kissed her warm firm cheek. Her hair, dressed in a huge pompadour, was streaked with gray. She wore a competent white starched shirtwaist and a thick black skirt with heavy rows of braid at the bottom. On her left breast was pinned a plain gold watch. Behind flashing glasses her eyes gleamed alertly.
Dynasty of Death Page 101