The Final Hour

by Taylor Caldwell

  But Annette did not smile. There was a strange whiteness about her lips, which were rigid and still.

  After a long time, she asked, steadily: ‘Will all this finally hurt Antoine? Very badly?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said ruthlessly, watching her. ‘Very badly, indeed. It will ruin him.’

  She did not speak. She only looked at him with anguish.

  ‘If you do this, it will encourage Antoine to be a little less cautious. He will move more quickly, and openly. That is what we want. He is concealing too many things. Time is short. We can’t wait. He’s got to lay himself open.’

  She was silent. He hated himself, strangely, for what he said next. ‘Look, my dear. I won’t need to tell you what my success means to America, to the world, to all of us. You’ve got to imagine it. Coming down to a deceptively simple statement, it means this: Either I go under, or your brother. You understand now. You’ve got to decide between us.’

  She felt the enormous implications of the things he had left unsaid. It seemed to her that the great warm room was full of significance, ominous and most terribly important. And in the midst of this vast implication, this universal grimness and fury, she heard his words again: ‘Either I go under, or your brother.’

  She felt such a huge pain in herself that momentarily, and with abstraction, she wondered whether she could endure it and five. She was very still. She saw Antoine’s face before her. A whole lifetime ran before her inner eye. She remembered herself and Antoine as children. He had been so gay and glittering and full of amusing ways. She had been so neglected, and only Armand and her brother had cared for her. Armand had been too old; he could not understand much. But Antoine had understood. He had torn himself away from his delightful affairs very often, in order to amuse her and encourage her, and make her laugh. She saw the gay little things he had brought her, to make her smile in her many illnesses: a monkey on a stick, that had squealed and run up and down with a flirt of its tail, a mechanical dog that squeaked and turned over in the most absurd way, a music box that tinkled, that opened to reveal tiny dancing figures, a little book that had no leaves inside, but exploded when opened, a little mechanical man that strutted when a key was turned, and presented arms. When she had been too listless to read, he had sat beside her for hours, patiently ploughing through classic romances, patiently helping her with her French, and telling her naughty but sparkling anecdotes in that language. She never saw him, even now, without smiling at the remembrance. He had always made her laugh. He had never sympathized with her. He had always pretended that she was ‘faking.’ When she would force herself to rise and sit in her chair, Antoine brought her no flowers, but only the silliest of gay magazines filled with the most improper cartoons. When she attended dances and parties, he was always there to escort her, to bring her corsages, to pretend that she was the most beautiful girl in the room. He had bought her records of her favourite arias, and had sung them with the great singers, in a voice that was remarkable for its depth and feeling. She could see him so vividly now, his dark sparkling smile, his extravagant gestures, his dancing eyes; she could hear his voice, resonant with real beauty and feeling.

  She closed her eyes on a spasm. She was not unaware that Antoine was an evil man. But she had forgiven him that, always. Because she had loved him, because he had loved her. She had pretended that real evil could not truly live in such a laughing and vivacious young man, that what he did he did out of sheer deviltry and gaiety of spirit. Now, she saw him.

  She opened her eyes sluggishly to see Henri watching her intently, with a gloomy and cynical look.

  ‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘I see it’s too much to ask of you. But I want you to forget what I’ve said to you. You owe me that much.’

  He stirred heavily, as if to rise from his chair. But she was quicker than he. She sprang to her feet. She knelt down beside him. She clutched his arm, in the rough sleeve, with desperate hands.

  ‘No!’ she cried. ‘I’ll do what you want, Henri! It doesn’t matter. I’ve got to do it. It isn’t only for you—’

  She could say nothing more. All the strength went out of her. She sagged on her knees. She dropped her head on his arm, less in surrender or love than in utter prostration.

  Henri looked down at the little head on his arm, and his face tightened with compassion and sadness. He lifted his hand and placed it gently on that head. She did not stir; she seemed to have fainted. He felt the soft ringlets under his fingers, so childlike and defenceless, and their softness crept into his nerves and touched his heart with a poignant sorrow.

  CHAPTER XXXVII

  As when the young Henri Bouchard had walked towards him across the rich and sombre carpets of his office, and old Jay Regan had had the startling and confused thought that Ernest Barbour (long dead) had come to life and was approaching him, so now the old financier had a similar and equally confused impression that this present young man was Jules Bouchard, resurrected, subtly flamboyant, glittering and smiling.

  He had seen Antoine Bouchard fleetingly on many occasions, but only at a distance, and had exchanged not half a dozen words with him in the past. He had been troubled, then, at the resemblance between the young man and his dead grandfather, Jules, but never so startled, so instantly frightened and ominously depressed, as he was now.

  My God, he thought, it isn’t possible! Yet, here was Jules again, suave, graceful, dexterous and subtle, with the well-remembered small skull on which the hair resembled that of a sleek seal, the narrow dark face, brown and somewhat puckered, the dry wily lips, smiling now to form the sparkling dark smile which was a replica of Jules’, the Machiavellian eyebrows, tilted and quizzical, the small sharp ears close to the head, the light swift walk and the whole air of mocking ingratiation. And, most of all, the vivid evil eyes, so full of laughter and gaiety and cruel refinement.

  Jay Regan was not in the habit of rising to greet guests, for he was too old now, and had always been too formidable to bestow this honour upon lesser giants. But now his surprise, and his strange, ominous, and suppressed terror, caused him to rise involuntarily. It was as if a ghost had invaded the cathedral purlieus of his office. He stood there, leaning on his polished desk, staring, immovable as a mountain is immovable. He was at once a younger man, and an ancient one, feeling his age, his weariness, his disgust and fear, all through his flesh, which had awakened to an earlier middle age.

  He and his father had been so intimately connected with the Bouchard family that he began with no formalities: ‘It’s Antoine, isn’t it?’ He hesitated. Then he lifted his large and solid hand, veined but like heavy meat, and extended it to Antoine.

  Antoine was all deference, all old-fashioned grace and admiration. ‘I’ve never really known you, Mr Regan. I’ve seen you only a few times, casually. It’s been a long time since we met, hasn’t it?’

  Regan was silent a moment. His shelved and ambushed eyes studied the young man sombrely. ‘Yes,’ he said, with strange slowness and emphasis, ‘a very long time.’

  He sat down again. He placed his hands, palm-down, flat and heavy upon the desk. A dull aura, as of heat and perspiration, spread out about them in an outline, on the darkly polished surface. His mountainous bulk appeared collapsed and full of weight. His chest and belly became one huge round mound, and the great domed head was set upon that mound like the head of some ruined and immeasurably ancient Buddha, overcome by the centuries, overcome by evil.

  Antoine sat down. He gave off an atmosphere of elegant but deadly vitality and delicate exuberance. Everything about him appeared to crackle. ‘He will explode, one of these days,’ the irrelevant thought came to old Regan. The young man was very gracious and deferential. He allowed a thoughtful look of admiration and respect to increase the sparkle of his eyes. Seeing this, Regan smiled to himself. What was the devil up. to? For the first time in a long while he felt an answering alertness and aliveness; his old sluggish blood quickened, his old piratical instinots stirred again, refreshed.

  ‘I w
ill be frank with you, sir,’ said Antoine. ‘Very frank. I owe that to you, for I know you have no time to spare for elaborate preambles. So, I am prepared to be candid.’

  Aha, thought Regan, happily. ‘I will be candid,’ had been one of Jules’ most dangerous expressions, calculated to make the serpent coil upon itself in cautious expectancy. Regan said, abruptly: ‘Your grandfather and I were great—friends. You remind me very much of him. We did a lot of business together.’

  Pleased with this opening, Antoine said quickly: ‘Yes. So I know. And that is why I hope we can do—business—together, as you did with my grandfather. Very serious business.’

  He paused, delicately. He assumed an expression of embarrassment. Regan leaned towards him, delighted, feeling young again.

  He put on that large aspect of paternal benevolence which was considered very charming. ‘And how is little Mary, Antoine? I had luncheon with her father only last week, and he spoke of the coming event.’

  Antoine assumed husbandly indulgence. ‘Mary is splendid, Mr Regan. We expect the event about June. I haven’t yet decided whether it is to be a boy or girl. Frankly, I prefer a girl.’

  ‘What? No dynastic ambition?’

  ‘I’m thinking of the brat’s intelligence,’ said Antoine, with another of his gay smiles. ‘Sometimes Bouchard males aren’t very bright, you know.’

  Regan paused. But his whole great old face broke into a thousand secret laughter lines, as if a mirthful web had been spread over it. ‘Such as,’ he suggested, gently, ‘Robert Bouchard?’

  In spite of his insouciance, Antoine was startled. He betrayed this by the merest narrowing of his black eyes, the merest tightening of his mouth, and then only for an instant. Then he was smiling again. ‘You are omniscient, Mr Regan, as well as omnipotent.’

  Regan spread out his hands in gentle deprecation. ‘To both allegations I enter my complete denial. I am, let us say, only—observant, and affectionate. The Bouchards and the Regans have been very closely knit.’

  But Antoine was very thoughtful. He studied the immense old man opposite him. His insouciance was shaken, and for a moment or two he felt gauche. The old fiend, then, was not in his dotage, nor fumbling nor easy, as Antoine had hoped. The power of Wall Street was still a terrible power. Antoine saw that his planned campaign would have to be considerably revised and adjusted to the real Jay Regan. He revised rapidly in his mind. In the meantime, Regan, who understood so many things, understood this also.

  ‘Bob and I are great friends, even if we are relatives,’ Antoine said, and despised himself immediately for this naïve witticism. Nevertheless, he also immediately saw that this apparent naïveté might deceive Regan, and make him less cautious. So he added, with a sprightly air: ‘After all, the younger generation is coming up. We’ll inherit Bouchard eventually, you know, and we must pick our companions in advance.’

  ‘And your henchmen, and vassals, and allies, too,’ added Regan, with the most affectionate and friendly of airs, as if he felt the most kindly feelings for this young man.

  Antoine laughed. ‘Well, yes. Of course! I’m not impertinent, I hope, in suggesting that I’d like to have some assurance that the great Mr Regan might be an ally, later?’

  Regan was silent. Very slowly, he fumbled for a cigar in the silver box near his hand. He cut the end, put the cigar into his mouth. Antoine, without haste, rose and struck a light for the old man. Regan puffed with concentration for a few moments. Through the grey smoke his Buddha-eyes stared at Antoine with timeless wisdom and unblinking shrewdness.

  ‘I believe in striking directly at a thing,’ said the devious Antoine. ‘So, I might as well tell you now, Mr Regan, that

  I’ve heard that you’ve refused my brother-in-law, Henri Bouchard, a considerable loan.’

  He leaned back in his chair, and smiled elegantly. Regan took the cigar from his mouth abruptly. He held it in his fingers, and the smoke coiled near the sides of his head like incense. He was immovable. The tiny ambushed eyes glittered for an instant under his brows. What the devil! he thought to himself. He did not stir, but there was a sudden huge tautness about his body, and a stillness.

  ‘May I ask who gave you that information?’ he said.

  Antoine lifted his hand airily. ‘Now, that would be violating a confidence, sir. Please forgive me, but I can’t tell you. I only know that I received it. Could I ask you, without impertinence, whether this is true?’

  But Regan was silent. He was like grey granite in his chair. His mind darted, conjectured, wondered. Had Henri disseminated this lie, and, if so, for what purpose? He said, finally: ‘It isn’t impertinent for you to ask, Antoine, but it would be indiscreet of me to give you any definite answer, wouldn’t it? Suppose, now that you go on from there?’

  Antoine leaned towards him with sudden seriousness. ‘You know my situation, Mr Regan. I am Secretary of Bouchard. My father, though retired from active participation, is still the power of the company. You will see, then, how this concerns me. If there is anything—wrong, it becomes vital for me to know, you see.’

  ‘I’m afraid, then,’ said Regan, softly, ‘that I’m not the one to ask. Did you really believe I’d tell you, Antoine? Come now, you can’t really believe I’d tell you who negotiated a loan with me, or why, can you?’

  He went on, smiling humorously: ‘Why don’t you ask Henri? After all, he is your sister’s husband. I presume you are on good terms.’

  ‘Oh, excellent terms, certainly,’ replied Antoine, stinging all over his body, and cursing himself for ineptness. ‘But, it’s a delicate matter. As I told you, however, it is a matter of vital concern to me, and if I was stupid enough to ask you that question, I hope you will understand that it was only because of my natural anxiety.’

  ‘Very natural,’ acceded Regan. He waited a moment, then cautiously picking his way in the complete and midnight darkness, he added: ‘If there is any way I can assist you, Antoine— If there is anything that is giving you anxiety, I’d be glad to help. Naturally, I am interested in—er—all sides of the question.’

  And now he allowed himself to look disturbed. He allowed his hand to drop and betray just the slightest tremor. He allowed a look of old disintegration to creep over his features. He said slowly: ‘I’ve always had a deep admiration for Henri. When I was a very young man, I saw his great-grandfather, Ernest Barbour, in my father’s offices. I—I had thought he resembled Ernest. Sometimes I’m not so certain. The physical resemblance is there, but—’

  The ‘but’ hung in the air with tremendous significance. Then, thought Antoine, exultantly, it is true!

  He laughed lightly. ‘I never knew old Ernest Barbour. But, judging from the stories I’ve heard of him, any resemblance between him and Henri is purely coincidental. Or, I should say, physical. It seems to me that old Ernest’s pure and simple plan was to benefit old Ernest, and the hell with the rest of the world. He had no senile patriotisms, no sentimentalities, no fears or qualms, or hazy idealisms. He knew what he wanted, he set out without fear to get it, and he always did get it. And the devil take the hindmost. Now, Henri, unfortunately, isn’t like that, though he occasionally gives that illusion.’

  ‘You mean, Antoine, that he does consider the hindmost? Well, I, for myself, have never known an occasion when the hindmost ever benefited the superior man, or ever showed him the slightest gratitude. Come, now, I don’t believe that of Henri. He hasn’t gone sentimental.’

  Antoine’s spirits and cunning were rising. Now Jules, thought Regan would begin to feel some wariness, and would begin to think. But this young rascal has an even stronger strain of Latin blood in him, which leads him to believe that practically everyone is a fool. Or, could it be a Teuton strain?

  ‘Not sentimental,’ said Antoine. ‘I can’t accuse him of that. I’d say that he was scared to death. He was one of the great instigators of the plot to rearm Germany, in violation of the Versailles Treaty. Through international cartels, through his association with I.G. Farbenindustr
ie. But I know that you understand all that. He thought, and quite correctly, too, that it was necessary to build up a strong and dictator-controlled Germany against the spread of bolshevism, and Hitler was his man. He was, and still is, the man for us, and will soon attack Russia. That will rid us of the Communist threat.

  Later, we shall deal with labour, especially after Roosevelt is disposed of neatly.

  ‘I’m sure you know our plans. The business of the world, and the world’s business, is inevitably in the hands of the great industrialists and corporations. That is why labour must not, and cannot, have any voice in the future. Hitler will win this war, he must be helped to win it. We have given him promises, and he has given us his own promises.’

  He stopped, delicately. ‘You agree with me, Mr Regan?’ Regan assumed an expression of embarrassed concern. He stared at Antoine with reluctant and furtive admiration. ‘I’m not committing myself, my boy. Go on.’ He said to himself: Jules would have known better.

  ‘A democracy controlled by labour simply cannot exist any longer,’ Antoine said. ‘After Hitler has signed a negotiated peace with Britain—after he has attacked Russia, and conquered her, we will enter into certain agreements with him. In the meantime, we shall have come to control labour, have elected our own choice as President, and shall see our way to a fascistic sort of government in which labour shall have no part, and shall be compelled to obey our orders. That is our plan. But you have known this for some time.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Regan, thoughtfully. ‘But, I’ve lived a long time, and I’ve been thinking. There is a certain imponderable something in human life. What if Britain refuses to sign a negotiated peace, no matter what happens? What if Hitler gets bogged down in Russia? What if we enter the war, ourselves? You know, there are quite a number of “warmongers” here. All of this, of course, is only speculation.’ Antoine smiled slightly. ‘Don’t think we have overlooked the imponderables, Mr Regan. Suppose, then, that Britain does not sign a peace, and that Hitler encounters extreme difficulties in Russia? Suppose we enter the war, under pressure from irresponsible politicians, or in some other way? We have our plans, too. For instance, Bouchard & Sons made a net profit out of World War I of two hundred and fifty million dollars. We then bought twelve million shares of a certain motor corporation, and now completely dominate it. We have an extremely large branch in Germany at the present time, and we are supplying motors to Hitler, and very excellent motors, too.