Regan regarded him for some time with amused thoughtfulness before replying:
“Many, many years ago, long before you were born, Frank, Ernest Barbour came to my father with what seemed a preposterous proposition. It involved millions, also. The collateral was barely more than half the sum. He studied Henri’s ancestor very closely. Then, finally, he lent him the money. Reckless? Reprehensible? Practically embezzlement? Perhaps. Perhaps it was even foolish. But, he lent him the money. And so, I am following in my father’s footsteps; he was really an astute gentleman. And,” and he stared at them blandly, “Henri is also following in his ancestor’s footsteps.” Suddenly he shouted with deep rich laughter, slapping his huge thighs, throwing himself back in his chair.
There was no other sound in that office but his laughter, though hatred and murder and rage were there, awful and voiceless presences. Emile was sitting with his hands planted on his knees, which were spread far apart; he chewed his lip savagely, his black brows tangled together. Hugo stared at the floor. Francis faintly smiled, as though meditating. Henri waited, without emotion, his pale inexorable eyes gazing stonily at the opposite wall. Christopher still did not move; his very eyelids were motionless; he did not seem to breathe. He had been still so long that everyone was nervously startled when he did speak, in a low monotonous voice:
“We cannot accept these terms. We must do the best we can without the money. Duval-Bonnet is mine,” and then at last he looked from one to the other with the most terrible eyes. A spasm seemed to run over his emaciated body.
The others listened, then, one by one, Hugo, Emile and Francis slowly nodded, grimly but with determination. Then they looked at Henri.
He sighed, shrugged. He opened the case he held on his knee. He brought out a blueprint. He said in a heavy and regretful voice: “Then, I’m sorry I’ve got to do this. Look at this print. It contains several of the features of your patent, and was patented a year before yours. It is true it is not nearly as practical, and in fact other of its features nullify these important ones. But, you can’t use yours without violating at least one of these. And,” and he glanced at each one with merciless deliberation, “I own this patent.”
No one moved. Every breath was suspended. Every drop of color drained away from the faces of his kinsmen. He extended the print. No one took it; everyone stared at it as at something frightful which paralyzed him. Henri extended it to each man in turn; no one took it. Finally, with a contemptuous gesture he flung it upon Christopher’s knee. “I am surprised at you,” he said. “Your patent lawyer must be very inefficient.” Christopher took up the print. The others saw, with surprise, that his gaunt hands were trembling. For some reason this disturbed them enormously. They watched him, shaken. He went over each item in a ghastly silence. They could tell nothing from his haggard face.
Henri spoke again: “At the present time, you are violating my patent. However, I shall do nothing, if my proposition is accepted. I’m much interested in aircraft, and I wouldn’t mind setting up a plant of my own to manufacture it, myself. I’ve invested money in Duval-Bonnet. If the worst comes to the worst, I can insist that you turn over your patent to me.”
In the following silence the creak of Francis’ chair, as he sat back in it, was sharply audible. He regarded Henri with a curious expression. He said, almost with amusement: “I know I’m being vulgar to ask this, but here it is: Why are you doing this to us? After all, though I am afraid you might call this sentimental, we are friends and relatives. You are Christopher’s first cousin. You are going to marry his sister. Frankly, between us two, don’t you think you are being a bastard, stinker?”
Henri replied to him, but he looked at Christopher as he did so: “Yes, what you say is quite true, in a way. We are relatives. But apparently family feeling doesn’t run very high among us. For instance, Christopher’s nice papa put my mother into a position where her children are outside the Bouchard pale. Do you think that was very loving?”
No one answered him. Christopher carefully re-rolled the print, and quietly laid it on Regan’s desk. He looked more deathlike than ever. Now his eyelids quivered continuously.
Henri continued: “My great-grandfather made Bouchard and Sons. It was Barbour-Bouchard, originally. Everything that it and its subsidiaries are today is because of him. Yet Jules Bouchard, by trickery and mountebankery, by betrayal and misrepresentation, caused the name of Barbour to be stricken out, in spite of the fact that without Ernest Barbour the Bouchards would have amounted to nothing. Don’t you think that it is preposterous for you to be sentimental at this late day?”
He laughed a little, roughly. “Yet really, I am doing nothing to you that any other business man would not do. I am merely securing a loan. The money is being lent to me. In fairness, I am demanding collateral, to safeguard Mr. Regan. I’m sorry I had to put pressure on you, but it was really your own fault. I could have put up my own bonds, as I said before, but I am retaining my bonds for Christopher’s use in that little matter with Armand which I understand we are going to take up later. I think I am being damned fair,” He added: “I have already given my word that I’ll still none of the stock assigned to me. I already intend to give half of what I have bought to Celeste, as a wedding present.”
Christopher gazed at him steadfastly, and knew what an enemy was this. But some of the corpselike look was leaving his face. There was still Celeste, who was going to marry Henri Bouchard. So, to the stupefaction of his kinsmen, he said quietly: “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps I would do the same. Anyway, we can’t do anything, it seems, but agree to your terms.”
Immediately there was an uproar. But it was an impotent and raging uproar. The Bouchards knew when they were beaten. This uproar was merely the venting of this fury. Christopher slowly stood up. He had to clutch the back of his chair to keep himself from falling. But his expression and manner were composed. He regarded the others with contempt.
“Shut up. It’s done. Stop your damned yelping. You haven’t been hurt. Yet.” He slowly turned to Henri, and his eyes were deadly. He repeated: “Yet.”
CHAPTER XLIX
Georges and Peter sat in the former’s study, discussing Peter’s book.
“It’s no use, Peter,” said Georges. “I can’t, and won’t, change my terms. You use a pen-name and keep in the background, or no business between us.”
“You own quite a lot of stock in Bouchard and subsidiaries, don’t you?” asked Peter bitterly.
“Yes,” replied Georges calmly. “I do. But don’t get the idea I’ve got a sinister motive in insisting upon a pen-name. I haven’t. It’s just that I consider it extremely bad taste for a member of a family to tear the other members to pieces. Maybe I’m sentimental; but I do like a little loyalty, occasionally. Why do I publish this book, then? Ah, but I’m not sole owner of the company! I don’t shape the policy, entirely! Besides, it isn’t generally known that I am the president.”
“Why do you agree to publish the book at all?”
Georges smiled. “I like it. I think it’s sensational. I love your style and your enthusiasm, and your goddam sincerity. I believe you have facts. Facts are always violent, and violence sells books.”
“Is that all? Is that really all?” demanded Peter, with increasing bitterness.
Georges shrugged. “My dear boy, don’t go sentimental on me! A long time ago I was the passionate adherent of my wife’s father, Professor Fitts. He had—reverses. He couldn’t adjust himself to them. He became prematurely senile, and then, at last, he was killed.” He paused, then added almost gently: “You see, I adjusted myself.” He laughed: “But don’t you adjust yourself! An adjusted writer is a ruined writer.”
Peter was silent. He felt ill with frustration and bitterness and despair. For the past week or so a heavy despondency had hung over him, weighing down his body. He had not heard anything from Celeste, and knew he would not hear. Sometimes a sick rage against her rose up in him. He found himself viciously deriding a loyalty like hers,
which sacrified a lover for a brother. There was no one to turn to; his relatives despised and disliked him. His mother hated him. He was a pariah. When he found himself indulging in selfpity he was infuriated against himself, and ashamed. And yet, there was no one who was his friend, except old Etienne, who was never clearly aware of anyone but himself.
He saw all about him men with devoted and loyal friends. As a rule these men were no better than others; some were more greedy, more treacherous, more cruel, more rapacious. Yet Peter had to admit that their friends were sincere in their affection. He found none of their vices in himself; he found no evil in his mind, no selfishness in his desires. Yet, everyone seemed to hate him. Was it because he was “different”? He recoiled in disgust from that thought. The “different” people were invariably stupid, posers, dull, inferior and maladjusted. Was it because he was “good”? He was more disgusted than ever.
He found Georges’ affectionate but immovable decision one of the bitterest things in his life. He had convinced himself that there was some cynical decency in Georges. Yet, at the last, his first thought was for the “family.” He had the most profound doubts of Georges’ professed loyalty, Georges who had an aversion for nearly every Bouchard, and who laughed at them all very heartily. Georges’ decision violated some illusion in Peter, and he could not get over it.
He had to give in. He agreed to take an inconspicuous pen-name. Defeated, he left Georges’ study and went for a lonely walk. He was suddenly sick to death of living. The world of men seemed to him a horrible place, full of creatures who leered at each other, tore each other to shreds, violated, tormented, hated, murdered, betrayed and despoiled each other. He felt a terrible spiritual nausea, a turning-away of his consciousness. To live in such a world was to live in a humid jungle, where laws were chains of grass about the necks of beasts. There was no gentleness in them, no mercy. Only lust and greed and hatred.
He thought again of Celeste, and even the thought of her was like a spasm of sickness. He turned away from her. Of course, he had not expected her to write or to communicate with him for a month. Yet the memory of her, shining upon her brother, averting her head from her lover, was an agony. As the days went on he slowly became convinced that she would never write him, or recall him, even at the end of the month.
He slowly turned back to the house. A maid informed him that Georges wished to see him. Eagerly, hoping for a reconsideration, he hurried into the library. Georges was sitting there in the dim, leather-cool room talking to a visitor. For a few moments Peter did not recognize the visitor, coming as he did from blazing sunlight into cool dusk, and then he saw it was Henri Bouchard.
All his blood seemed to rush in a dark thick wave to his heart. He could not speak, though Henri was now standing up and smiling at him coldly. Georges still sat in his chair with an uneasy expression, for all his apparent indifference.
“Hello,” said Henri. “I came especially to see you, Peter.” Peter still could not speak. In the dusk his face was white and drawn and extremely stern. Georges stood up. “I suppose you two would like to be alone,” he began. But Henri lifted his hand.
“No. Please stay. I’ll only be a minute. I would like you to hear what I have to say. There’s no secrecy about it.”
Georges sat down again, more uneasy than ever. He shot a glance of furtive pity at Peter, who had fixed his eyes intently on Henri’s large harsh face.
Henri was silent for a moment. He studied Peter without emotion. A faint derisive smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Then he said: “I’ve got only one thing to say to you, and I think you are sensible enough to listen to it. I want you to keep away from my girl.”
Georges’ long thin nose wrinkled distastefully. He thought this very bad form, even vulgar. Gentlemen did not speak so ruthlessly.
Peter’s features slowly became rigid. He regarded Henri steadfastly.
“Do you mean Celeste? If so, she isn’t your ‘girl.’ She doesn’t want you. She is going to marry me.”
Henri stared at him incredulously for a moment, then he burst out into contemptuous laughter. “She wants you! Why, you damned idiot, she wouldn’t look at you twice, if you’d keep away from her for a week! Why the hell should she want you, you bloodless, cowardly fool? I’m not going to waste words on you. I tell you now, keep away from her, or I’ll break your neck. I mean it, now. I’ll literally break your neck.”
“Look here,” began Georges, angered, and sitting upright in his chair. But Peter lifted his hand to quiet him. He still faced Henri.
“I like coming to the point. And so, I’ll tell you something now, myself. Celeste doesn’t want you. She told me that. She took you only because she was a child who didn’t know any better. She was pushed at you, by that white snake of a Christopher. Now she knows better. I know you’d like to tell me that Celeste sent you. But your coming here is proof she didn’t.”
His voice and manner were quiet, contrasting sharply with Henri’s loud harshness and brutality.
Henri laughed again. He looked Peter up and down slowly and contemptuously. “She wants you!” he said meditatively. “Why?”
“Ask Celeste,” replied Peter. A gray shade of exhaustion had deepened on his face.
There was a long silence in the room. In that silence Henri’s pale eyes narrowed and gleamed. He still smiled that derisive smile. Finally he said: “You want me to take you seriously, don’t you? But, you see, I don’t. I know what you are! You’re a treacherous, sneaking coward who hasn’t the guts to fight for what he wants. You’re incompetent and fishy and impotent. You hayen’t an ounce of decent loyalty. You and the damned book you’re using to club us with! In a better society we’d be able to hang you for this! But you can’t meet us on equal grounds, so you write scurrilous lies about us, you muckraker!”
Peter listened very quietly. His eyelids widened; they were filled with a steadfast blue light. Georges noticed for the first time that Peter had the square-cornered eyes of the martyr and hero. He watched their intense blaze, which seeemed to have something of fanaticism about it. He stood up, and turned to Henri.
“You and your kind,” he said contemptuously, “invariably believe that restraint is cowardice. It isn’t. I’m sorry I let you in here. Go on, now, get out!”
But Peter said to him sharply: “Please don’t interfere, Georges. I’ll handle this myself.” He paused. “Henri’s out of date. He likes melodrama too much. For instance, he thought of himself as a strong true-blue Harold charging in here to warn a would-be seducer to keep away from his sweetheart He belongs in a nickelodeon, with his talk of breaking necks. The-Face-on-the-Bar-room-floor school of acting. I never did like it, even when I was a child. I don’t like it now. I especially don’t like it in Henri, who ought to know better.”
A thick red flood ran over Henri’s face. Georges, surprised and delighted, opened his mouth in a startled smile.
Peter shrugged. “Henri’s doubling up his fist. In a moment he’s going to push it under my nose. Then I’m supposed to recoil, because I weigh about thirty pounds less than he does, and he knows how to punch. I don’t. I only learned how to kill.” And now the light was blue flame in his white face.
Henri stared; the other man’s eyes hypnotized him. He had never before seen the flame of pure hatred in anyone’s eyes. But there it was, steadfast, a little mad, but bitterly cold. He had to take pause, singularly disturbed. He had expected fear, recoil, uncertainty, shameful silence. But he had not expected this. He thought to himself: I believe he would kill!
Ernest Barbour faced Martin Barbour again across the width of a century, and again he felt impotence, the inability to inspire fear, which is the most demoralizing experience in men of his type. At the final ruthlessness he would have to stop. But men of Martin’s kind never stopped, once they started.
He did not know what to do or say next! He literally did not know! The thick red blood still surged in his face. He was conscious of a horrible embarrassment.
Pete
r was speaking again, in a very low voice: “You talk about meeting all of you on equal grounds. I can’t. Because I’m not a rascal, I think. I’m not a liar and a thief. Perhaps this makes me inferior to you. I don’t know. Anyway, I don’t want to meet you on equal grounds. I’d have to step down too far. But I’m wasting too much time with you. So I’ll tell you just one thing: I’m going to marry Celeste, unless she, at the last minute, decides she wants you.”
He went to the door, without hurry, without a backward look, and went out. The door closed silently behind him. Georges began to laugh uproariously. Henri’s suffused face lighted with rage. He swung on Georges, doubling his fists again. This made Georges laugh with such violence that he fell back in his chair, helplessly. For a few moments it seemed that he would choke. Finally when he could get his breath, he exclaimed; “Go on, get the hell out of here!”
CHAPTER L
Christopher, standing by his bedside table, held a small white pellet in his hand. He regarded it with sombemess. It was a sedative. He had had to take them regularly, these nights. By nature, he hated a weakness which demoralized self-control. But three nights of utter sleeplessness, during which he had felt that he was going insane, made him take the weaker which was at once the wiser course. For a few hours, at least, he could forget the frightful situation in which he found himself.
He swallowed the pellet, lay down in his bed, folded his arms under his head. The warm summer moonlight seeped through the Venetian blinds. In that hot dusk his fixed colorless eyes gleamed like polished stone. There was no sound but the sound of the ocean, sighing restlessly and eternally in the night. Christopher turned his head alertly. In the next room lay Celeste. As he thought of her, his face took on a pale shimmer.
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