The Golden Rock

by Theo Varlet

  “Parisians, people of France, in addition to the Erebus II, three other vessels are already sailing toward our ports, similarly laden with nuggets. The Banque of France is assured, imminently, of a new reserve of thirty billion gold francs. You have heard correctly, and I repeat: thirty billion in gold francs!”

  The loudspeaker fell silent, and cheers burst forth from ten thousand throats, an ovation to gold, reinforced by horns, klaxons and alarms of every kind.

  Then the traffic resumed, with its familiar hubbub, going to spread the news throughout Paris.

  Pride straightened me up. I no longer felt guilty. Thanks to the firm reaction of Monsieur Germain-Lucas to the grievances of the German press, my imprudence would not have the disastrous consequences that I had initially dreaded. It had only hastened a declaration that was bound to be made sooner or later, and which would certainly have caused the League of Nations to annul the international treaty of attribution to France, if it had been signed...

  To complete my reassurance, I turned around and went to the Place de la Bourse. In spite of the closing bell, a dense crowd around the gates of the monument was prolonging transactions. The news of the firm governmental attitude—that superb and unexpected audacity, inspired by the power of gold, in all likelihood, thrown down like a challenge to the world—had caused the market to bounce back. In a matter of minutes, the franc had not only recovered from its drop, but, transported by the surge, had surpassed parity.

  As I arrived to the corner of the Rue Notre-Dame-des-Victoires, the song of the Marseillaise bust forth, intoned by a crowd of stockbrokers, heads bare, and an old investment clerk in a threadbare woolen jacket said to me, with tears of joy: “Twenty-three seventy-five, Monsieur! Oh, the Boches have got it wrong, believing that they could knock us down with their premature revelation. On the contrary, they’ve inspired the true politics of frankness and audacity. 23.75! There are still fine days for France! Sterling is one franc twenty-five above parity. The paper franc is worth more than the gold franc!”

  XV. The League of Nations

  In Geneva, in the headquarters of the League of Nations, there is a general hue and cry, and Monsieur de la Meilleraie of France deserves some credit for continuing to stand his ground before his colleagues.

  A great crisis of altruistic and sublime virtue is raising all the delegates toward the summit of disinterest, and from up there, they are judging France’s actions severely.

  Here they are, at tea-time, in the great smoking room of the left wing, with which everyone is familiar, at least by way of photographs and the cinema. The oak-beam ceiling and the Gobelins tapestries give it a grave and official atmosphere, but the bay windows are open on the perspective of a lake as blue as a stretch of the Mediterranean. There are seagulls here, as in Nice. The sun, already low and oblique, is reminiscent of a theater projector. Without a certain ingrate and sullen element in the beauty of the landscape, one could believe that one is on the Côte d’Azur. The grounds have palm trees—in tubs, it is true—agaves, Peruvian candle-trees and bougainvilleas in flower, as in the gardens of Monte Carlo. Is not the Palais des Nations, too, a casino, where the chips laid down are replaced by the interests of peoples? A casino? Or a theater of society? An International Guignol.

  The time fixed for the signing of the treaty attributing island N to France is fast approaching. The delegates know that it will not be signed, and that nothing will be pronounced in today’s session but vain speeches. The president, Hieronymus Maeseyck of the Netherlands, will deplore the new facts that prevent the signature and put the matter back in question. He will propose the internationalization of the island as a “basis for discussion.” Hollow formulae will serve as a temporary mask of fictitious bargaining for the eyes of the world, until it has stopped listening and everything can be settled by diplomacy.

  One might think that one is in the hall of a club—let us say an English one—at tea-time. There are women, admittedly—stenographers, secretaries, journalists and telegraphists—scattered among the groups; but are not all these correct and detached men socialites talking about sports? What a sport, in fact, this is! The game does not deceive anyone, but it is necessary to follow the rules of play. The majority put on fixed smiles. Others, more skillful, force their features to express sentiments opposite to those that animate them. A few—the supreme ruse!—are frank and clear; they are assumed to be Machiavellian.

  They are chatting in twos and threes, coming and going, changing groups as if fluttering randomly.

  Herr Durkheim of Germany—a corpulent giant with a sandpapered cranium—is the most sought-after. It is his nation that has discovered the covert foul and blown the whistle on it. He is sanctimonious and benign, full of hypocritical virtue. Germany will do anything to receive the mandate of the island instead of France, the unwarranted usurper. The normal right of the first occupant cannot apply in this circumstance; the bolide is not res nullius;20 it is a gift offered by the divinity to all humankind, and all people have, in principle, a right to it—but they cannot exercise it themselves; it requires a unique mandate. Thus, why not give Germany the mandate to the tiny island, in exchange for its lost colonies?

  “Yes, why not?” opine, one by one, over their varied beverages, the delegates of Austria, Bulgaria, Hungary, Denmark, Norway and others who are hoping for a slice of the cake. Even Signor de Sussi of Italy does not say no; he is drinking his iced orangeade through a straw, meditatively.

  Monsieur de la Meilleraie, who is courting Messieurs Etterbeck of Belgium and Wronski of Poland is only too glad see the brick-red monocled face of Sir Arthur Gray of England—a perfect gentleman—coming toward him. Sir Arthur, who was once scornful of the flaccid politics of France, had been gripped by a new respect on seeing her capable of playing this neat trick on the nations and supporting her gesture proudly. He talks to Monsieur de Meillerie about a possible understanding; France can keep its ill-gotten gold, and even continue to exploit the bolide…on condition that it shares the property—the word “mandate” will be used, for form’s sake—fifty-fifty with England.

  Monsieur de la Meilleraie perceives all the merit of the plan. He knows that, even with the support of Belgium and Poland—not to mention Czechoslovakia, Rumania and Yugoslavia—France cannot resist the covetousness of all the other nations, even divided between themselves. With England for an ally, on the other hand...

  And Belgium bravely offers a piece of the Congo, in exchange for a part in the projected syndicate.

  But here comes T. M. Ferrick of the United States—not a delegate, but an observer, although the difference is immaterial, weaving through the groups in his overflowing socks, an enfant terrible with a fine Yankee insouciance, to put his feet in the platter. His government has just cabled him as follows:

  The bolide has fallen to the west of the fortieth degree of west longitude from the Greenwich meridian—which is to say, nearer to America than to Europe, and, in consequence, in United States waters, Canada being discounted by virtue of the generalized Monroe doctrine; therefore, the bolide belongs to the United States.

  Q.E.D. As a gesture of consolation, France can keep the gold she has already taken and its war debts will be written off. Besides which, the United States will not exploit the gold of Île Féréor; they are uniquely concerned with the iron. They have enough gold for their needs, and do not want the price of gold to drop by virtue of an excessive superabundance.

  But who can take America seriously, gravely wounded by the cyclone, no longer having more than twenty seaworthy ships in its Atlantic ports? And the dreadnoughts that remain—those dreadnoughts with the bizarre wrought iron turrets—are in the Pacific, where it is convenient to leave them, for is there not Japan to consider?

  Here, Japan, honorable Japan, is Baron Kaki, always polite, extremely polite—too polite. Honorable Japan affirms that it has no interest in this bolide. It would certainly have the right, like everyone else—is not the Lord Mikado the Son of Heaven, and did not the b
olide fall from the heavens?—but has no use for the gold, since Japan is on the silver standard! Whatever is decided, Japan will say yes, very politely, and remain very wise in its own coinage.

  Should they really believe Baron Kaki? Is there not some hidden agenda in his brain, behind that smiling mask, so polite, forever polite, protesting his universal cordiality?

  There are many other delegates too, but, being small fry, they are not playing the game.

  While waiting for the session to start, the delegates kill time, denoting an inspiration by raising a foot—a madrigal, might one say, for one of those genteel scribes?—or scribbling a few lines with a pen on a notebook taken from a pocket, which they will have taken into the nearby code-room.

  That is the corner of the Palais where all the official nonchalance re-enters the circuit of quivering worldly activity—for diplomacy is functioning at top speed and everyone is conferring with his government. The clerks in the code-room are worked to death. All the keys of the telegraphy section crackle like a major power station.

  Each of those special wires transmits its messages incessantly in both direction, harassing the molecules of the metal—and at the other end of each wire departing from Geneva, humankind’s artificial brain, out there in the nerve-center of each country, gold fever is increasing its temperature by the hour. The hypnotic bolide is shining on the horizon of all avarice.

  XVI. Frédérique

  If I had conserved any remorse regarding my indiscretion, I would have lost it while dining in the Avenue de Villiers with Jean-Paul and the governor of the Banque. Both were jubilant at the unexpected denouement brought to the situation.

  “Still impossible to foresee the good and bad that will emerge from events,” said Monsieur Hautôt, sticking his fork into an anchovy. “If the secrecy that we considered indispensable hadn’t been broken, Germain-Lucas wouldn’t have reacted that way; he would have continued the politics of his predecessors. Without that German seaman-reporter...”

  “You believe that, then?”

  “Why not? It’s quite probable.”

  “Pooh! I telephoned Commander Barcot in Cherbourg this morning. No sailor has escaped from the military prison, so there’s been a leak somewhere. The warders? The ship’s officers?”

  I was on tenterhooks—but my embarrassment did not last. The conversation soon chanced course. The two men of action that I had before me scarcely worried about the past, especially when it was irremediable, as in the present case, and there was not even a lesson to be learned therefrom. They were entirely occupied with the future, and the present, insofar as it was destined to produce the future.

  According to then, a Franco-Britannic accord was certain. England would gladly form a kind of syndicate with France for the exploitation of the island, in which the friendly and allied nations would co-operate to the extent of their means. It was the only possible solution, the only one advantageous to France that had any chance of prevailing at the League of Nations.

  Nevertheless, the relevant deliberations would take a few more days, and it was necessary to obtain the maximum profit from that interval.

  No time had been lost thus far. A wireless message that afternoon announced the safe arrival at Île Féréor of the two transport vessels, the Girondin and the Saint-Thomas, that had left Brest on the same evening as our arrival in Cherbourg. They had begun to take on their cargoes.

  By a fortunate coincidence, almost at the same time, the transporter Cornouaille, which Monsieur de Silfrage had contrived to have sent to the island with the destroyer Espadon, had just returned to Cherbourg with gold in its holds, and was moored alongside the Erebus II.

  Secrecy no longer being necessary, the unloading of the two vessels had begun. The first truckloads of gold would arrive at the Banque the following afternoon. In order to be prepared for any eventuality, two more destroyers, the Émeraude and the Béluga, were preparing to sail for the island from Toulon that night.

  That was all that I learned that evening. We were only on the cheese, but the clock was already showing five to nine, and impatience was urging me to go and see Frédérique. I excused myself, pleading an indispensable and urgent meeting, and took my leave just as Monsieur Hautôt and my friend were broaching the subject of the study mission that it was necessary to send out as soon as possible, in the probable case that the negotiations with England would conclude in the formation of a Franco-Britannic condominium.

  “Would it amuse you to be a part of that?” Rivier asked me, while accompanying me as far as the vestibule.

  I was about to say no, because of Frédérique, but I changed my mind. After the treason that her father had committed in hr regard—I no longer had any doubt about that—who could tell whether she might not leave him…that she might agree to accompany me!

  “You’re very kind, Jean-Paul,” I said, “but you’ve caught me off-guard. I need to think. Give me two hours.”

  “That’s only fair. And if you have useful friends for whom you need to find a place—even the Jolliots—there’ll be room for them in the plan...”

  In the hall at Claridge’s, the attitude of the porter seemed to me to be embarrassed; I thought that he gave me a strange look when he replied to me that Professor Hans Kohbuler was in his apartment. In addition, two individuals posted at the bottom of the staircase—men with bowler hats and large shoes, whom I would have taken, anywhere but in a palace, for agents of the Sûreté—looked me up and down.

  Elevator…third floor corridor…room 204...

  I was nonplussed on seeing appear, instead of Frédérique or her father, a fellow with a bushy red moustache. He too was in “in it.”

  The intuition of a catastrophe shot through me. The sentiment of my culpability reawakened—but I did not retreat.

  “Professor Hans Kohbuler?”

  “Here. Come in.”

  The man stood aside, and swiftly closed the door. Through the open door of the antechamber, in the brightly-lit drawing room, I saw Frédérique standing, in a jade green robe. She was livid.

  I advanced into the apartment, and, once having crossed the threshold, instinctively turned my head.

  Inside, to either side of the door, two more plain-clothes policemen examined me sardonically, and one of them ostentatiously clinked something metallic in his pocket, which could only be handcuffs.

  Without paying any heed to the man—evidently a commissaire—installed at the American desk, I went straight to Frédérique and took hold of her hands.

  “What’s happening, Frédérique?”

  “They came to arrest my father, an hour ago. He’s committed suicide. And I...”

  “Come on, Mademoiselle,” the commissaire interjected, in a curt tone. “Enough chat. And you, Monsieur, will you tell me who you are, and what your relationship is with Hans Kohbuler.”

  I gave my name, and told the simple truth: that I had only met the professor once, at a friend’s house.

  The man relaxed, and consulted some papers. “That’s all right. You can go. But you’ll have to remain at the disposal of the law. The examining magistrate will summon you.”

  At that moment a policeman emerged from the next room and deposited a package on the desk beside other similar ones.

  “Here’s another ten wads of bills, Commissaire. I ought to tell you, too, that on putting my ear to one of the telephone receivers in there, I’ve just heard everything said in here. There’s obviously a hidden microphone in here.”

  With his professional flair, the policeman’s gaze followed the trajectory of beams of light beneath a gilded rod that dissimulated them, went straight to a wall-ornament in the shape of a chimera and introduced an inquisitive index-finger into the perforated mount.

  “Here it is!”

  My latent doubt on the subject of Frédérique had just vanished. As for her, I read a tragic bitterness in her dry but burning eyes—the shame of having had such a father. She even murmured: “The wretch!”

  Meanwhile, at t
he name of Jean-Paul Rivier, which I invoked energetically, the commissaire moderated his tone. He became less aggressive, and a telephone call to the Avenue de Villiers, which he permitted me to make, rendered him entirely pliable once he had heard through the other receiver the great financier’s voice reply to me in familiar terms and place himself entirely at my disposal.

  It would not have taken much for the commissaire to do the same! He concluded: “Don’t worry, Monsieur. You have time to act. My enquiries won’t be finished before midnight, and Mademoiselle won’t be sleeping in prison—I give you my word on that.”

  I abandoned Frédérique with less apprehension and ran to the Avenue de Villiers. Monsieur Hautôt had just left; Rivier was alone, and I was able to plead my beloved’s cause freely.

  Jean-Paul did not conceal the difficulty, even for him, of the service I was asking of him.

  “The old rogue!” he said, at the name of Hans Kohbuler. “I warned you. Why didn’t you confide in me? We might have been able to spare that amiable child from arrest, and you from anxiety. No matter; never let it be said that you invoked me in vain for your Dulcinea. I owe you that, and much more.”

  Gratitude was not a vain word for Rivier. He employed all his energy in having Frédérique liberated. The role of simple supernumerary played by Hans Kohbuler’s daughter—a role rendered evident as soon as the enquiry began—permitted that favor without any risk of harm to the law. Kohbuler’s death, moreover, by rendering a trial unnecessary, facilitated the intention that existed in high places to hush up the affair.