“A proposition?” Francis exclaimed, and so did Hugo and Emile, in chorus. But Christopher merely intensified his fixed regard of his cousin’s face.
Henri smiled at them very blandly. “Yes, a proposition. I won’t propose it just now. That would be premature. First, I’ll try to raise the money.”
He stood up. He had an engagement, he said. He left Christopher’s office. It was eight o’clock at night. The great mills were vomiting crimson smoke to the black sky. He hummed to himself as he left the building and got into his waiting car.
There was a prolonged silence after his departure. And then Francis, grinning not very agreeably, said to Christopher: “You know, if I were you, I’d hurry along that wedding.”
“Far be it from me,” said Hugo, “to disparage a dear relative of ours, who has recently gone from this room, but it is my business, as a politician, to cultivate my nose. And if that isn’t a strong odor of snake-in-the-grass trailing in someone’s wake, I’m just a bawdy-house ward-heeler.”
CHAPTER XXVII
It was Armand who came to his mother, an Armand pre-maturely aged and gloomy and silent. She was walking around the bare greenly shining grounds when he arrived, and he joined her. He glanced towards the house. It was a Sunday morning, and every polished window gleamed. “There’s no privacy in this whole damned place,” he said fretfully. He remembered that Jean had said that even the bathrooms had doors of transparent glass, and he smiled, sourly. “Isn’t there any place where we could be alone?”
Adelaide sighed. The poplar trees were stiff green wood standing in the sunshine. Every window of the house was uncluttered, and anyone behind them could see everything. No bushes, no arbors, no grottoes, no sheltering trees, no gardens. Just sunshine and emptiness and smooth grass, for acres. Armand, who was not usually sensitive to surroundings, and thought his own huge chateau a mess, felt himself as conspicuous as though he were naked. He had the feeling that every great bare window sheltered a spy. “Where’re Chris and Celeste, Mother?”
“They went with Henri and Edith for a canter,” she replied. He was relieved. And yet, it was impossible for him to talk confidentially with his mother, exposed like this, two unprotected figures on a desert of clipped grass. “Let’s go to your rooms,” he said abruptly. He took his mother’s arm. She seemed unusually feeble, and he noticed how thin and bent she was, and how her hair had whitened.
They went into the mansion. Here everything was as brilliant as the out-of-doors, and just as unshaded and unprotected. Armand came here very seldom, for it made him uneasy. He had a weakness for rugs that hushed footsteps, and for rich draperies that added somberness to rooms. Now he blinked in the unsheltered light that glanced back at him from smooth pale wood, bright steel, crystal, white cornices and polished bare floors. They went up white stairways, uncarpeted, with cool marble balustrades. But when he entered Adelaide’s room, quietly and thickly furnished, with giltframed portraits on the dark walls, and flowers in vases on every table and on Adelaide’s old-fashioned grand piano, he felt he could breathe more easily than he could downstairs in that glittering windswept air, which had seemed cold in spite of the warm sun.
Adelaide sat down with a gesture of exhaustion. She waited for her son to speak. She has gone beyond despair, thought Armand, with the new acuteness sorrow and anxiety had given him. He said abruptly: “Mother, everything’s settled about Celeste, I suppose? She is happy about this?”
Adelaide’s chin had fallen to her chest; she merely lifted her hand heavily, and then let it drop. Armand frowned. “Please answer me. It’s important. Is Celeste happy?”
And now Adelaide lifted her head and looked at her son with suddenly passionate eyes. “You’re so interested in her happiness, aren’t you, Armand? You never were before. Why do you care now?”
He flushed darkly, and bit his lip. “After all, she is my sister,” he muttered. He was surprised to hear his mother laugh bitterly, and when he looked at her, he saw that she was rigidly convulsed with her laughter. Her face was contorted; she was leaning forward in her chair as though in intense pain.
“Your sister!” she cried. “What have you ever cared about your sister? You were the only one of my sons who ever seemed to care about his father. You knew how your father loved Celeste. Yet, all these years, since he has died, you have shown no interest in her, and hardly noticed her!”
The dark flush deepened on Armand’s cheeks. He said, trying to make his voice quiet and hard: “Christopher is her guardian, not I.”
She laughed even louder, and now with wildness. “Your father knew all of you very well, didn’t he? He knew, for instance, that Emile would rob his sister, if he could, and that you would probably only stand by. Can you deny that; Armand? He hated Christopher, but he knew he was the only one who would protect his little sister, and that is why he made him her guardian.” She stood up; her thin old figure seemed to vibrate with violence. “Armand, you never were a real man. Your brothers are. They take what they want. They never had any conscience. But you weren’t man enough to take what you wanted, and think no more about it. You had a conscience, and you never stopped thinking about the awful things you had done. You’re a weakling, Armand. You had the capacities for goodness, and you violated them. You aren’t even a fine villain.”
His face, while she had been speaking so to him, had turned the wet dusky color of a man who is dying of apoplexy. His pale lips shook. He could not speak.
His mother, exhausted again by her brief and terrible passion, sat down. She put her handkerchief to her eyes. “A woman,” she said, in a faint hoarse voice, “accepts the man she loves and marries, no matter what he is. But she never accepts the wickedness of her sons. I’ve done with Emile and Christopher; I don’t feel they are my sons any longer. But you were close to me. From the first, I knew you weren’t wicked. But it didn’t take me long to know you were a coward. And so, at the last, I realized you were worse than they are. You’ve done violence to yourself all your life. And now you’ve got to pay for your crimes against yourself with the misery of other people.”
She took away her handkerchief, and stared at the stout thick body of her son, and then at his face. She said in a loud voice, as though in wonder: “But you aren’t really concerned with Celeste, are you, Armand? It’s just yourself, isn’t it? You’re afraid of Christopher!”
Armand turned away. He felt ill. “No,” he said quietly, “it’s not that.” He was standing by a window; he suddenly twisted a fold of the deep crimson velvet of the draperies in his damp hand. “It’s not that,” he repeated.
His mother was silent. But he could feel her gaze fixed on his back. Then he heard her approaching him. She laid her hand on his arm, and tried to peer up into his face.
“Armand!” Her voice had changed again. It was the voice of a mother, urgent, pitiful. “What is it, then?”
He looked down into her face, and pain seemed to leap about his heart. He wanted to say: It is Celeste. But he could not. He had never lied to his mother in all his life, though he had frequently deceived her and evaded her. So, he could say nothing at all, his big stout face merely growing darker and colder and more distracted.
She had lived long enough to know that this expression only appeared in the eyes of those despairingly concerned with one who is much loved. She knew it was not Celeste. Then who could it be? Her thoughts ran to Annette. But little Annette had no part in this marriage. However, Adelaide said: “Is something wrong with Annette, Armand? How is the child?”
She knew she had guessed rightly, by the change in his face, the look of misery. “Not very well, Mother,” he said, hesitatingly, warily. “No, it’s not tuberculosis. It’s—it’s just a sort of nervous and mental collapse. I’ve been-—upset about her. Don’t worry, though. We’re going to see her next Sunday—“
They sat down opposite each other, and regarded each other in a long silence. Beads of sweat stood out on Ar-mand’s dusky forehead. He kept mopping them away. His fat th
ighs strained at the seams of his trousers. Moisture gathered at the roots of his graying auburn curls. Adelaide saw nothing of his middle-aged heaviness and grayness; she saw only her son, who was frantic with wretchedness which she could not alleviate.
“Armand,” she said gently, “why don’t you go away? You have so much money. Why do you want any more? Why don’t you go away with your family? Money has never given any one of us any peace, has it? You’ve got enough. Go away, Armand.” She added to herself: Go away, my dear, where you can live at peace with yourself.
He tried to laugh, but it was a painful and smothered sound. “Mother, I don’t want any more money. I don’t care about that.”
And then there was another silence. At last Armand got up to go. He stood before his mother, hesitating. Then he said, speaking quickly, as though hurried: “I don’t think Henri is the man for Celeste. You were always right about her; I always knew what you meant even when I pretended I didn’t. If there is any way—“
Adelaide smiled mournfully. “There’s no way, as long as there is Christopher.”
They heard voices outside in the early June sunshine. Armand went to the window. The riders were dismounting from their horses. He could see Celeste’s young face, radiant, brightly tinted, shining with excitement and happiness. He saw Henri help her to dismount. For one brief furtive moment the young man held her in his arms, and Armand could see her expression. He turned away, the blackness of complete hopelessness overcoming him.
“Don’t tell them I was here. I’ll wait until they are inside. Please call my car for the back entrance.” He picked up his hat, and hesitated again. “Mother,” he said, almost gently, “perhaps we’re wrong. Perhaps Celeste will be happy.”
And then he went away.
Adelaide was alone. But none of them came up to see her, though they must have known she had not gone out. She so rarely went out, anyway. She waited for a long time, though she knew in her heart that no one would come.
At last she began to cry. She was always crying these days.
I have no children, she thought. I am childless. Perhaps, in every mother’s life she thinks: I have never given birth.
CHAPTER XXVIII
Estelle Bouchard was arguing discontentedly with her husband.
“Frank, I just don’t know what we’ll do! The children will be so disappointed. Rosemarie has already invited some of her friends for the cruise.”
Francis replied sarcastically: “That is really too bad, isn’t it? Well, the brats can be disappointed all they want. The fact remains that we can’t go away on the yacht for more than two or three weeks. After all, Celeste is marrying the latter part of October, and we’re invited to Crissons. That comes first, these days. Besides, I can’t spare the time.”
Estelle was diverted. “Is business so good, then? What wars are you all plotting?” and she smiled.
“Don’t be an idiot. We don’t plot wars, I’ve told you a thousand times. We merely supply the instruments for war, if nations are damfool enough to want to murder each other. It’s no concern of ours. Anyway, we weren’t talking about that. We’ll be on the yacht for three weeks, at the most. Then Crissons. I’ve got to get back here, immediately.”
Estelle had been thinking of very little these days but the coming marriage. Her disappointment was profound. What on earth could Henri Bouchard see in that foolish unsophisticated little creature? Rosemarie, the clever child, called her Little Dorrit. Rather bitter, but Celeste truly did belong in Dickens’ nineteenth century, and not in the twentieth. She said aloud: “Celeste’ll have everything. I don’t know what on earth we’ll get her and Henri.”
“We’ll give them a check. I’ve yet to see the time when money wasn’t the most acceptable gift. Though I admit it isn’t showy,” replied Francis.
But Estelle’s thoughts had gone elsewhere. “I loathe Crissons,” she said. “The banks of the Dead Sea would be the proper place for it. Why doesn’t somebody remind Christopher that there are trees in the world? Lots of trees.”
“Take it up with him personally. He likes you.”
Estelle smiled. Her leathery skin flushed quickly. “Well, I like Christopher. I only wish, though, that he was a little more human. But I suppose he has quite a lot to endure, with Adelaide. Sometimes I wonder at his patience.”
They were eating Sunday breakfast in a room full of June sunlight. Estelle glanced through the windows with satisfaction. The great landscaped grounds swept away to the river. Estelle’s attention suddenly focused. “There’s a cab, a station cab,” she said. “Who on earth—? So early in the morning, too. Are we expecting anyone?”
“No. I hope not.” Francis stood up to peer. The cab wound through the grounds. Francis uttered an exclamation, and frowned in his peering concentration. “But it can’t be!” he muttered. He flung down his napkin and almost ran out of the room. Estelle followed. Francis was racing down the stairs like a youth. But the butler was already at the door to admit the stranger. Estelle stopped on the stairs, and strained her eyes to see, in the duskiness of the reception hall. Francis was at the foot of the stairs, waiting.
A young man, apparently in his late twenties, was entering. Behind him came the cab-driver, carrying luggage, of which the butler relieved him. But before he could ask the visitor’s name, Francis uttered a shout.
“Peter! My God, where did you drop from?”
Estelle ran lightly down the rest of the stairs. “Peter Bouchard! How splendid!” She shook hands with the younger man. She had never had her husband’s aversion for his youngest brother, and her smile, therefore, was genuinely pleased. “We were wondering what had become of you. It’s been years!”
He had just returned to America, he explained. Upon his arrival, he remembered he had relatives. “So, here I am. For a few days,” he added. He had a kind, quiet smile, at once reserved and candid.
It developed that he had come directly from the station, and had not had breakfast as yet. Francis seemed pleased at his brother’s return. He insisted that Peter be his guest. And of course, it was all nonsense, he said, about Peter not remaining in Windsor. “Time you settled down here and were one of the family.”
He had an amiable if offhand manner of speaking to the younger man. A patronizing manner. He and Jean and Hugo had never had much of an opinion about Peter’s intelligence, competence or personality. Francis knew that regular checks were sent to Peter at a banking address in London. But beyond that, none of the family knew anything more, and cared distinctly less. They knew, for instance that Peter had been gassed during the war, and that he had a chronic cough and poor health; however, none of this had concerned them much. The less he embarrassed them with his “imbecility” the better they liked it. There was something about him that reminded Francis, Jean and Hugo of their father, Honore, and this was sufficient cause for their dislike if they had no other.
He had lived with them as a child in their father’s house. But they had had no more contact with him than if he had been a stranger in another country. There had been no point of contact, no small space of ground on which he could meet them. They never knew that he despised, rather than detested them. They had never frightened him with their exigency, their avarice and faithlessness, but they had depressed and saddened and angered him. He felt that there was something noxious about his brothers, something that seemed to devitalize the very air. And so, he had avoided them as much as possible, found their ridicule and dislike not even annoying. At rare intervals he had quarreled violently with them. Before his enlistment he had been strong and athletic, and some of his most pleasant memories were of the times he had whipped his brothers. He remembered, wistfully, what exultation he had felt in punching Jean, particularly, and then in knocking Hugo all about the room. Though he knew Francis liked him little better than did the others, there had been a sort of understanding between the oldest and youngest brother, patronizing and treacherous on Francis’ part, but amiable and even kindly on his. Peter knew very well
that Francis derided him as much as did Jean and Hugo; he knew that no more than Jean and Hugo would Francis ever help him, if he needed help. And yet, there was a fugitive liking between them, a liking that sometimes approached pale affection. Francis, secretly, sometimes regretted that Peter had so little “sense.” He would have liked to have a brother in his confidence whom he could trust, a brother faithful to him but competently faithless to everyone else.
Jean and Hugo had no such weakness. Francis had once said that if they had been women they would have rouged their faces and combed their hair before they looked at themselves in the mirror. They trusted no one, not even themselves. But there were times when Francis wished he had someone to talk to, someone with whom he could be himself, without being eternally afraid that the confidant was gathering information about his weakness in order the more completely to betray him.
Francis had been subject to these twinges more or less frequently when Peter had been at home. Then he had forgotten them. In the midst of enemies, a man’s senses are constantly alert. Now, as he sat opposite Peter at the breakfast table, he was conscious of them again. He said aloud: “It is time you settled down here and were one of the family.”
Peter smiled. Francis remembered that in Peter’s youth his smile had been either sad, scornful or cold. But now it was both gentle and ironic, tinged with an impersonal bitterness that was without meanness or rancor. Francis thought: It’s funny, but I never noticed before how much he resembles me. A curious warmth pervaded his dryness, like autumn sun on dead leaves.
“What inducements have you to offer?” Peter asked.
“What? Inducements? Why, your family!” and Francis grinned.
Peter said nothing. Estelle leaned towards him. “Come on, Peter, stay home. Isn’t there a girl? We’re a very close-knit clan, you know.”
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