‘I was really a good man!’ he cried again, to the sombre darkness.
And then he knew that all his life he had wanted to be good, to be simple, to be kind. But he had been a coward. This very desire had been part of his cowardice. It had never been enough to overcome his native rapacity and avarice. He saw that he was an even greater criminal than Henri, than Christopher, than all the rest of his ominous family.
He had never had any faith in anything. He opened his mouth now, and whispered: ‘God.’ But the word meant nothing to him at all. It was an incantation without magic. His heart was beating with slow thick strokes, as if it were drowning.
Now he felt that the rooms of his house were crowding about him, the walls overhanging him like the walls of a cliff, that he was about to be crushed. He dropped his mouth wide open, and gasped. He said aloud, with fainting wonder: ‘My conscience was only fear for myself, fear of any possible consequences that might come on me because of the plottings and conspiracies of myself and others.’
His mortal terror increased. He felt death in him. He glared about him like an animal. When a branch of a tree brushed the window he started with a cry, and trembled violently.
And then he heard the distant opening and closing of a door, the footsteps of his son ascending the great gilt and marble staircase.
A great sweat broke out over his body. He ran to the doorway of his rooms, stumbling, staggering. He flung open the door, caught at the frame to uphold himself. He cried out, over and over, in a voice that ran through the corridors like the voice of a tortured man in flight:
‘Antoine! Antoine! Antoine!’
CHAPTER XXIV
Antoine, who had just had a most delightful and intriguing evening, and was now bemused in very pleasant thoughts, was considerably startled to see his father standing thus, with such a distraught and frantic face, with such a trembling potbellied body, in the doorway of his apartments. It was some time since Antoine had entered his father’s house.
The light in the lofty corridor was very dim and soft, and its uncertain diffusion gave an eerie and unreal quality to the apparition that confronted the young man. But he was amazed at the eyes, glaring, starting, catching the suffused light on their distended balls. He saw how his father clutched the frame of the doorway, how his knees were buckling. He saw his terror, which was overwhelming and frenzied, saw the opening gasping mouth and heaving chest.
He went to him quickly, exclaiming with unusual roughness: ‘What is it, Papa?’
But Armand did not move or speak. He only regarded his son in a kind of hypnotized horror, watched his approach in complete silence.
He thought in numb anguish: This is my son. But he is like my father. I have never seen this so clearly before. It is my father, looking at me, and I hate him. How can he help me? He would only destroy me if I told him. He would laugh in my face. My God! There is nothing I can say or do.
There was an appalled terror in his eyes as Antoine continued to advance towards him, and though he still did not move, he appeared to shrink, to dwindle.
Antoine, slightly alarmed now, took his father’s arm. It was rigid as wood under his hand, and trembled constantly. ‘What’s wrong? Are you ill? Let us go in. You must sit down.’
Armand stumbled as his son led him back into the great hot room, so dark and heavy. Antoine was forced to support him. He brought his father to a chair, and with unusual thoughtfulness lowered him into it. He turned on a few lights. Armand watched him, crouched on the edge of the chair, his shaking hands, overgrown with thick curling auburn hair, clenched on his fat knees, his head sunken in his shoulders. He resembled an old sick animal, gasping and undone.
‘Shall I call Dr Billingsley?’ asked Antoine, standing near him and eyeing him with reflective penetration.
Armand whispered: ‘No. No. It is nothing.’ He lifted his hands and pressed them against his face. He sighed. The sound seemed to come from the very depths of him. When he dropped his hands his expression was stark, abstracted.
Antoine hesitated. He drew a chair near to his father, and sat down. Still watching the old man, he lit a cigarette, put it with slow and delicate gestures to his lips, and blew the smoke thoughtfully upwards. That narrow black head, so sleek and small, that brown smooth face, those glittering black eyes and that subtle mouth, impressed themselves vividly on Armand’s tormented consciousness as they had never done before. Yes, it was his father who sat before him, not his son. This was Jules’ sleek elegance and fastidious composure, and now, as Antoine smiled a little, it was Jules’ smile, secret, faintly amused, quietly cruel.
‘There must have been something,’ said Antoine. ‘You looked like the devil, for a minute. What frightened you?’
What frightened me? said Armand to himself, still staring at his son. He thought: It is you.
Despair choked him: He put his hand for a moment to his chest, and gasped again. He said: ‘It was just that I was alone.’
‘Ah,’ murmured Antoine. His eyes narrowed. They pierced Armand like thin black rapiers. He thought, contemptuously: The old fool. Wandering around this mausoleum like a dirty fat ghost. He never had any guts. What does he want? Something has frightened the life out of him.
He saw that Armand was still staring at him rigidly, and something in that fixed regard made him momentarily uneasy.
‘You look like my father,’ said the old man.
‘So I’ve heard,’ replied his son, smiling. He added: ‘Did that frighten you?’
Armand answered with sudden quietness: ‘Yes.’ Then his rigidity dissolved, his features twisted, his eyes were wild with terror again. He cried: ‘I’m sick! I’m dying!’
Antoine frowned. The smoke from his cigarette floated before his face, and his eyes gleamed through it, evilly, thoughtfully.
‘Nonsense,’ he said, quietly. ‘Billingsley told me only last week that you were doing splendidly. He did say, however, that you needed some interest in your life. You think too much of yourself, dear Papa. You’ve never had any hobby, or any amusement. You’ve gotten mouldy in this house. Green with mould. Yes, I can see you’re lonely. What can you expect? You live for Annette’s call every morning, and then you subside into inertia again. You never go out, except to visit her, and the family has long given up inviting you. You almost invariably refuse invitations. I understand that you don’t even take a drive in the mornings, as you formerly did. You’ve become so damned engrossed in your List that you’ve abandoned even those few interests you once had. Too introspective. You ought not to have retired so soon.’
His voice, silken, soothing, yet filled with smooth Jesuitical cruelty, held Armand’s distraught attention. He listened, not looking away from his son, rubbing his knuckled against his fat reddened nose or against his shaking mouth.
There’s something here, thought Antoine. His feral instincts were alert. For he had seen the sudden vividness in the old man’s eye at his last words. He repeated, watching him closely: ‘You ought not to have retired so soon.’
‘No,’ whispered Armand. He dropped his hands again to his knees. His head fell forward on his chest. His voice came to his son, stifled, almost inaudible:
‘No one tells me anything. I never know. I’ve been listening to the radio. They—believe that Hitler will march soon. On Poland. There’ll be war. We’ll be in it—’
Antoine shifted slightly on his chair. He dropped the hand that held the cigarette, and it was tense and still, the smoke curling slowly.
‘No. We won’t be in it. Did that worry you?’
Armand was silent.
‘Then, you have no need to worry,’ continued Antoine, smiling again. ‘I can give you my personal assurance. You never did like the idea of war, did you? Well, then, you need have no fears whatsoever. America won’t engage in any European mess. “Keep our boys from fighting on foreign soil.” That’s our slogan. For the first time in history the Bouchards aren’t interested in war for America.’
Armand lifted his head
, and again he stared at his son motionlessly.
‘Yes, I know that.’
‘Then, why were you worrying?’
But Armand said, gazing at him with the strangest fixity: ‘I never believed in anything. We were never religious, we Bouchards. We have never been Americans. Isn’t that very queer—never having been Americans?’
The fool’s in his dotage, thought Antoine. He smoked again, to hide his irrepressible smile.
Armand’s voice was faint and toneless as he continued: ‘French schools. German schools. We’ve never been Americans. We had nothing to do with America, or for America.’
‘We’ve built up a vast industrial network,’ said Antoine, again watching his father closely. ‘In a way, we’ve helped develop America. We’re in everything. That ought to make you proud. You used to be proud. I remember that, when I was a child. Steel, mining, armaments, chemicals, copper, cars, railroads, aviation—we’re in it all. Really, we’re American, after all.’
Armand looked away from him and regarded the radio with dumb steadfastness. ‘And that, too, of course.’
Antoine frowned. ‘Radio? Probably.’
Armand had begun to nod his head slowly. The nodding continued. He did not seem to be able to control it.
Then a rush of words came from his dry lips, a whispering rush so faint, so choking, that Antoine had to lean forward to catch the sounds:
‘Tell me something about it. No one ever tells me. I don’t know anything. What will happen? If Hitler wins—over there—what will happen? To America? What is happening in the world? You’ve got to tell me.’
Antoine was silent for a few moments. The glare of terror was again in Armand’s eyes. He had begun a soft pounding of his knees with his clenched fists.
Antoine shrugged. ‘Don’t you read the newspapers? You listen to the radio, don’t you, Papa? Then, you know as much as we do. Suppose Hitler takes the Corridor, takes Poland? That’s no concern of America’s. Europe has always had its confounded quarrels. And always will. Britain may attack him. I don’t know. Incidentally, I’m not much interested. Just now, we are concerned with America.’
And then he noticed a heap of newspapers beside his father’s chair, all open at the financial pages. He laughed lightly. He pointed to the papers with his thin brown finger.
‘Is that what was worrying you? The Stock Market? Well, I agree with you it’s in bad shape. However, we are expecting a rise.’ Armand said nothing. Antoine continued in a curious silence: ‘Naturally, you would be concerned. After all, you still own fifty-one per cent of Bouchard stock. So, if the Market has been disturbing you, I can assure you, personally, that it won’t disturb you much longer.’ He waited a moment. He said, more quickly: ‘It has been worrying you, hasn’t it? The Market?’
‘Yes,’ said Armand. The strangeness of his look increased. ‘You think the Market will rise? It usually drops for a while, after the outbreak of war. Why do you think it will rise?’ He actually knows nothing, thought Antoine, smiling internally. He shrugged lightly. ‘Why shouldn’t it? We’re bound to make money. It is really very simple.’
‘The Neutrality Act?’ said Armand, again in a whisper. Antoine laughed. ‘Oh, come now. You can’t be that ignorant, Papa. There’s South America, and Holland, and half a dozen other avenues.’
‘For Germany?’
Antoine paused. He narrowed his eyes intently. ‘Yes. Who else? There’ll be nothing for Britain, or France, either, if we can help it.’
Armand moved even farther to the edge of his seat. There was a passionate intensity in his regard. ‘We’ve never done that before. We’ve sold to both belligerents, in the past. Why Germany now, and not—the others?’
‘Because,’ replied Antoine, slowly and carefully, ‘we want Hitler to win. I thought you knew that, dear Papa. Hitler is our only hope, all over the world.’ He spoke as one speaks to a dull child, choosing simple words. ‘We’ve got to get rid of democracy, or Communism. They amount to the same thing. Labour is getting out of control, under this filthy New Deal. We’ve got to have a new outlook, a new philosophy, in America. Not just business as usual. We want the business of controlling America absolutely. We’ll get it, too. With Hitler’s help.’ He reached over and patted his father’s knee. ‘Then watch your stocks rise!’
‘You mean, fascism in America?’ murmured Armand.
‘A nasty word!’ smiled Antoine. ‘Let’s say, rather, the control of America by businessmen. By managers. That’s only sensible, isn’t it? Hitler has promised to assist us. The yellow weasel has given us his word, for all it’s worth.’
‘How can he “assist” you?’ Armand’s voice was clearer now, and louder.
Antoine hesitated. ‘There are ways,’ he replied, pleasantly.
He stood up. Armand still sat in his chair. His uplifted eyes were very bright as they contemplated his son.
And now he hated Antoine as he had never hated anyone before, not even his father for whom he had had a peculiar frightened regard under the hatred. He was frozen with his renewed terror. He pressed his hands together, and a long shiver passed over his body. He thought: It’s, too late. I can’t do anything. I don’t even know what to do, or whether I want to do it. It’s all very confused. I ought to have kept up, known what was going on. No one ever tells me. I don’t know anything.
Antoine was smiling down at him. ‘I’d advise you to go out more. Annette and I have our own interests. We aren’t children any longer. I heard you refused Estelle’s invitation to dinner on Saturday. Why don’t you reconsider it?’
‘I will,’ said Armand, obediently. ‘Yes, I think I will.’
When Antoine had gone, Armand sat crouched in his chair, his head thrust forward, his teeth gnawing his lips. There was a frightful struggle raging in him. Though he did not move for nearly an hour, his forehead, his balding skull, were damp and glistening. Finally he stood up, almost fell, so weak had he become. He fumbled for his telephone, and though it was nearly midnight, he called his lawyer and made an appointment for the next day, in New York.
CHAPTER XXV
Henri Bouchard sat alone this hot August day, at his desk in his great Bouchard offices. The heavy doors were shut, and he had told his secretary that he must not be disturbed for at least an hour. The bronze-coloured curtains were partially drawn against the blinding light that radiated through the windows, and there was a sombre, almost pious, hush in the room. Here and there a sunbeam struck with hot golden silence on the edge of some metal on the. desk.
Henri was smoking. He rarely smoked alone. It was his only sign of some profound inner uneasiness and perturbation. He sat at his desk, not moving, dressed in his favourite dark grey, which had earned him Antoine’s name of the ‘Iron Man.’ He stared before him, his large pale face stony and immovable, his pale eyes fixed. He lit cigarette after cigarette, but hardly put them to his lips. They burned out slowly between his fingers. Sometimes his eyes dropped momentarily to the neat heap of papers before him, and would remain there for long moments in a kind of sombre trance.
At the end of each fifteen minutes, he would take up his telephone, his private direct wire to Wall Street, and listen carefully to the swift metallic voice which informed him of late developments in the European situation. He would replace the receiver, not a muscle in his face moving, would light another cigarette, and stare again at the papers.
One report had reached him that morning: ‘The American people remain apathetic during this mounting crisis in Europe. Only among certain groups is there any deep interest. It is the consensus of experts that the inertia of the people is due less to fear of future events than to a static ignorance and indifference. One expert believes that the indifference can be laid at the door of past efforts on the part of professional pacifists and isolationist Senators. Others, more informed, more attuned to the public mind, believe that Hitler has made himself so exceedingly popular with the American people, with his anti-Semitism, anti-democracy, and ruthlessness, that they coul
dn’t be aroused against him except on the occasion of a direct attack upon America. Hitler, no doubt, understands this, therefore he will refrain from such an attack, aware that in its absence he can rely upon the American people’s apathy to place no obstruction in his path of conquest.’
At this, Henri had smiled grimly. He smiled again, as he recalled the report. But what could one expect of a nation of first and second-generation European slaves, who must feel abysmally uneasy in the presence of a liberty created and loved by a handful of Britons in the far and bitter past? How would George Washington deal with this cringing nation of swine and slaves? Would he recognize, in these sullen Teutonic faces, those dark swarthy Mediterranean wretches, the people whose blood he had shared, whose language he had spoken, and with whom he had fought and suffered? If he could come among them today, would he not despise them, understanding the threat implicit in them for America, and the survival of America? Rome had learned the deadly lesson, that one dare not admit among a free people the children of besotted and superstition-ridden slaves. The vandals at the gates of Rome had not been the Goths and the Visigoths.
These were strange thoughts for Henri Bouchard. He smiled contemptuously when he thought them. But he could not dispel the uneasiness in him, the hatred, the aversion and anger. What was America to him? It was true, that except for the slight strain of French blood in his own blood-stream, he was of the race and, outwardly, of the religion of those who had founded America. His heritage was British. But never in his life had he known one thrill of patriotism or passion for America.
He lifted the sheaf of papers, stared at them, thrust them away from him. Jay Regan, the aging and dying financier, had sent them to him by special messenger. He told himself that it was his rage against his relatives who dared conspire against him that so disturbed him now. Was patriotism, after all, only jealous fear and envy and ignorant hatred? He finally concluded this must be so.
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