The Eagles Gather

by Taylor Caldwell

  Henri said, smiling: “But really, such men are dangerous. And dangerous men are invariably fools. Or perhaps it is the other way around?”

  And now the factions were more active than ever. Armand’s faction courted Peter assiduously; Jean, himself, stopped his charming baiting and assumed a reasonable expression whenever he found himself in an argument with Peter. Nicholas invited him to his musty, ill-kept, disorderly old house for dinner, something he would not have dreamt of doing under ordinary circumstances. His old mother, Antoinette, was living in a villa in the south of France. He lived alone in the house where he had been born. Naturally untidy and uncouth, he had no rules to lay down for his servants, and they conducted his household in a raffish and negligent manner. Some of his relatives had told him candidly that the house stank, which did not annoy him. He did not like society, however, and particularly detested dinner-giving and dinner-accepting. He preferred his dank library, where the leather-bound books rotted on their shelves and the room was full of this smell, and of the odors of mice and stale air and strong tobacco, and where the dust lay thickly on the fine old mahogany and in the folds of dark blue velvet draperies, and the windows were opaque with dirt and grime.

  Peter went to dinner, against the laughing warnings of his relatives. He went on foot, for it was a fine June evening. Christopher’s household was already preparing to leave for Crissons, and he had received an invitation to spend several weeks there. He had seen Nicholas’ house only from the outside, and thought it very depressing, an old unkempt brownstone pile in the midst of frowsy, badly kept grounds. The yellow silk curtains were poorly hung and had a dirty look. The brassware about the door and steps was unpolished and dull, the windows were gray. When the door was opened for Peter he almost stepped back, for hot stagnant air, loaded with a variety of unclean smells, struck him like a weight in the face. The rank odors of dust and mice predominated, he decided, after a moment. The maid was blowsy, also, and poorly trained, for she left Peter standing helplessly in the grimy hall while she went away to announce him.

  The carpet he stood on was a priceless Oriental; the walls were paneled in the darkest and finest mahogany; the curving staircase was marble and gilt; the dirty floors were of exquisite parquetry. Magnificent portraits of Bouchards and Barbours were visible on the dim soiled walls of adjoining rooms. All this depressed Peter enormously. All this beauty and pride covered with the greasy film of neglect and decay! Sometimes, he reflected, the wrong done inanimate beauty was worse than any wrong done to a man.

  He heard that few visitors were ever invited here, and he did not wonder. The very atmosphere was full of suspicion and dislike, and antipathetic. The whole house seemed to lower sulkily at him; an air of surly surprise seemed to pervade the rooms. Here, he thought, everything is hated, every word is suspected. Perhaps it was not actual dirt that filled this house, but the patina that had exuded from the soul of the man who inhabited it.

  The dinner was badly cooked, and worse served. The maids were actually resentful of Peter’s troubling presence. Peter could hear their quarrelsome voices below stairs, and the angry slamming of doors. Nicholas did not appear to mind it. In fact, Peter detected a sympathy in him for the disgruntled maids, who had been so unbearably put out by this dinner. Nevertheless, Nicholas put on a heavy heartiness and excessive cordiality, which Peter found more and more embarrassing as the meal proceeded. He liked Nicholas very little. There was something about him, perhaps in his greenish brown coloring, his heaviness, his thick oily skin, his watchful and suspecting little eyes, that contributed much to Peter’s increasing uneasiness. He found himself having less and less to say.

  There were some who alleged that they liked Nicholas for his “candor, honesty, and lack of affectation. So blunt and forthright—” Peter remembered hearing this. He smiled bitterly to himself. Nicholas was blunt, without a doubt, and had a habit of reminding his audience that he had little use for what was called tact and pleasant diplomacy. “Just hypocrisy,” he would say. “Let a man say what’s on his mind. Can’t accuse you of anything then, can they? People are always looking for loopholes. To hang you. But if you speak your mind, outright, you’ve disarmed ‘em.” He prided himself on saying disagreeable things in the name of truth and “openness.” Peter remembered Shakespeare:

  “This is some fellow

  Who, having been praised for bluntness, doth affect

  A saucy roughness.…

  These kind of knaves I know, which in this plainness

  Harbour more craft and more corrupter ends.…”

  Peter had had difficulty swallowing the cool soup, on which had floated half-congealed pellets of grease. He had got through the fish course without any undue casualties, though the fish was not at all fresh. But the meat course was the worst, for the roast was tough and fibrous, the vegetables watery. The linen cloth was of the finest and most delicate, the silver ponderous and beautifully moulded and engraved. But the cloth was also rumpled and stained, the silver black with tarnish. The crystal chandelier that hung from the carved ceiling was so gray and greasy with dirt that the light struggling through it was gloomy and uncertain. Nicholas had inherited the treasures of his father’s house, and had grossly neglected them. Antoinette’s beautiful Haviland and Bavarian china was chipped and dulled. Near by lay a frowsy hound, with red hating eyes, which were fixed on Nicholas. The latter kept tossing him fragments of meat from the edge of his knife, some of which fell on the rich rug. Catching the meat, the dog would beat the floor with his tail; dust would immediately rise, and then float away in the torpid air. Beyond the clouded windows was the somber and tangled green wilderness of what was once one of the finest gardens in all the State. The pent heat was intense and acrid.

  Peter knew, before the meal was over, that he did not hate Nicholas so much as loathe him. Had the older man suddenly displayed talents and virtues beyond belief, Peter’s loathing would not have diminished. He wanted only one thing: to get out of here. He knew he was neither wanted nor liked, and that Nicholas had not the slightest personal interest in him. Why, then, had he been invited to dinner? He did not know. But he kept casting about in his mind for the answer.

  But Nicholas was shrewd. It was his business to understand men, and he had long ago, probably at the soup course, decided that Peter was no innocent. This disappointed and disgruntled him. He had considered Jean and Armand fools for “beating around the bush. Why don’t you come right out?” Now, he felt no inclination to “come right out” himself. However, his conviction of Peter’s lack of innocence did encourage him in one respect; disingenuous men always saw which way a profit lay. It was easier dealing with disingenuous men; they never cluttered up the business atmosphere with a lot of foolish and noble phrases. Nicholas hated and suspected nobility, remembering his Uncle Andre.

  When coffee was served, he felt his geniality beginning to crack. His face was stiff with unaccustomed jovial smiles. Moreover, he perceived that Peter was both bored and not deceived, and curious. He forced his face into a broader smile, pushed a wooden box of cigars in Peter’s direction, thus forcing up a fold of cloth and upsetting a beautiful crystal water-glass.

  “How’s your mother?” he asked abruptly.

  Peter was surprised. He had never heard old Ann Richmond speak of Nicholas at all, but as “that dirty man.” Moreoever, he doubted that they had occasion to meet more than once or twice a year. He replied: “Very well, thank you. Of course, she is feeling her age. I don’t believe she is going on the yacht with Francis this year. She says she prefers to go to France, and visit your mother.”

  Nicholas chuckled richly. “Like to see the old devils after a week, wouldn’t you? Probably tearing each other’s hair out. Nothing like two women, especially two old women, to make things lively for each other. This France business! We —the men—are the Bouchards, not the women. And a hell of a lot of French there is in us! Just about enough to stuff in a thimble. But let them have their fun. Being plain American isn’t goo
d enough for the chicken-brains. They’ve got to go French on us!” He bit off the end of a cigar and spat it out. Funny. ‘The Bouchards.’ French-Americans, they say in the papers.” He ejaculated an obscene word, and chuckled again. Ought to sue them for libel. We take our sex straight. Plain American is good enough for me. All those fake illustrious French ancestors our women dig up! Counts and Countesses, and Princes and monseigneurs, and ladies-in-waiting to that fancy Austrian whore, Marie-Antoinette—goddammit, it’s enough to make you puke!”

  He shook expansively. Peter, in spite of his disgust, had to smile. He remembered Georges’ wife, Marion, and how she looked at one with large serious eyes and would say: “Yes, I believe Georges’ great-great-grandfather’s grandfather was Louis the Fifteenth’s most intimate friend—the Due de Crissons.”

  Nicholas was still chuckling: “Funny, you get the money, and you immediately get ancestors. What the hell! Didn’t they eat and have bowel movements like the rest of us? Didn’t they whore around with bitches, just like their lackeys? What’s about the aristocracy that ain’t human? Anyway, we haven’t any ancestors.”

  Peter laughed. “It doesn’t do any harm, and it makes the women happy. What more would you want?”

  “Nothing. Nothing!” Nicholas waved his hand with a gesture that magnanimously allowed all sorts of pleasant follies to the piteous human race. “Anyway, I suppose we men should be grateful. It does give us a laugh.” He added: “Whatever’s good about us came from old Ernest Barbour’s side. Nothing like the English for all around piggishness and guts and go.”

  They went into the musty drawing room. Peter knew immediately that no one had been in this room for months. When Nicholas roughly rolled up a blind, to let in the last beams of summer twilight, rolls of woolly dirt fell off the slats, and made him cough and curse. They sat down. Peter’s hands came in contact with the wooden chair-arms, and he immediately withdrew them, fastidiously.

  Nicholas still talked. Peter’s disgust grew. Why doesn’t he come to the point? he asked himself. For by now, he knew there was a point. He was not offended for he had long ago realized that men rarely do anything kind or cordial without the meanest of motives.

  Though Nicholas talked on, his eyes were narrowing. He knew that Peter knew there was a point by now, and he was wondering whether he had better be “above-board” and come out with it, and what were his chances of success.

  He said, watching Peter’s face intently: “Made up your mind yet what you’re going to do? I mean, are you staying here? Or going to New York? Everybody who has a book swelling in them somewhere usually goes to New York. I suppose it’s just as well. Better pile up the offal all in one spot,” and he laughed deeply, disclaiming any intention of offending. Peter could not help coloring, and he hated himself for his stiff voice: “I don’t know where I’ll go, yet. I like New York. I may live there. But, after all, Windsor’s my home, you know.”

  Nicholas waved his hand. “That’s right. Better stay in Windsor. Settle down. Get married. Or something. Can’t say I think much of marriage. Women interfering in everything. Think they ought to run your business. Well. Anyway, it might be the best thing: to marry and settle down.” He paused. Grinned. “Better not poach on private property. Lots of good unclaimed ground lying idle.”

  Peter’s slight coloring turned to dark scarlet. “What do you mean?” he cried angrily.

  Nicholas studied him thoughtfully before answering with a deprecating purse of his lips: “Tut. Why get excited? I’m not a man to go around sticking my nose into other people’s business. Got enough trouble of my own. But others will talk, you know, and I’ve heard rumors—”

  “About what?” Peter had got to his feet. He was thoroughly enraged. But Nicholas shrewdly commented to himself on the fact that the young man’s face was becoming more and more suffused.

  “About you and little Celeste, the little white bunny,” he replied frankly. “She’s got a tag on her, hasn’t she? Sit down, Peter, sit down. After all, we’re family, ain’t we? I’m an old bachelor, and perhaps that’s why I’m interested in the rest of the family. And do you know something? I wouldn’t like to come up against young Henri. He’s got a bad eye, and from the look of him, a black soul.”

  Peter’s nostrils flared out; he exhaled loudly. But he said nothing, but only stared at Nicholas with rage.

  Nicholas sighed. “I thought you had sense. After all, I’m not a stranger, am I? Well, let it drop. We won’t speak about it any more, eh?”

  Peter said tightly: “You started it. Finish it, please.”

  Nicholas raised one hand helplessly, let it drop. “How can I, with you preparing to bite my head off? I try to help, and you rush at my throat. Sit down, and calm yourself. I was only joking. Sorry I started the damn thing. I only heard that you were hanging around the little white bunny too much, that’s all. And Henri’s beginning to notice, they say. And I repeat: I wouldn’t want to come up against him. He’s bad stuff, Pete. Bankers and politicians can smell bad stuff a long way.

  “I was only about to say, if you had let me finish, that it would be a good thing for you to marry. And stay here. A good thing, if you didn’t start messing in other people’s souppots. See what I mean? Even if the soup is sour, and you think you can sweeten it.” He added: “And it is damn sour, you can be sure of that. But then, what can you expect, with Christopher pushing the child into that marriage, probably against her will?”

  Peter sat down very slowly; he did not take his eyes from Nicholas’ face. He asked quietly: “What is it all to you?” Nicholas shrugged. “Nothing. Candidly, nothing. I was just talking, like a fool. Ought to have known enough to mind my own business. But I was only making conversation; it’s the privilege of relatives, isn’t it?”

  Peter continued to gaze at him fixedly. The color left his face. He was now exceedingly pale. After a long time he said: “What makes you think Christopher is pushing Celeste into this?”

  Ah, thought Nicholas exultantly, we’re getting somewhere now! He answered frankly: “I just know. I told you, bankers can smell bad stuff a long way off. I don’t know what Christopher’s got on his mind, but Celeste is mixed up in it, with Henri. Christopher’s dirty weather in any man’s language. We were kids together, you see, that’s how I know. And from what I’ve heard and seen myself, little Celeste’s up a tree. I’m sorry for the child. My mother would say she was going into a ‘decline.’ Like Armand’s Annette.”

  Peter averted his head, but not before the watchful Nicholas had seen the expression of somber misery on his face. “It isn’t for anyone to interfere,” he muttered. Nicholas affected not to have heard.

  “The girl’s helpless. She never did have much brains. Christopher’s always been able to push her and pull her wherever he wanted her. Too bad. A nice little thing, too. Yes, I’m sorry for her. She’ll have a hell of a life with that cold-blooded cannibal, Henri. She already looks as though she knows what’s in store for her.” He shook his head dolefully: “Too bad Jules is not alive. Armand and Emile are no good; they wouldn’t pull their little sister out of a fire if they thought they’d burn the tips of their fingers. Old Adelaide’s a loss, no matter how you look at her. The girl hasn’t a friend in the world. And by God! she looks as though she could use one!”

  Peter turned to him again, and again he fixed his eyes piercingly on Nicholas’ face. “You’ve got a motive in telling me this,” he said. “What is it?”

  Nicholas pretended sudden ire. He pulled himself up in his chair. “Jesus, I haven’t any! Why should I? What’s it got to do with me who marries who? But you get me to talking. That’s what happens when you talk indiscriminately.”

  But Peter said slowly: “And you think Christopher’s pushing Celeste into this?”

  Nicholas waved his hand, and glared at him. “Look here, Fm not going to say another word! I’ve put my foot in it enough. What the devil does it matter to me, or to you, who she marries? Let it drop.”

  Peter got to his feet
again. “Yes. Let it drop.” And he went out of the room. Nicholas did not move. He listened, smiling. The door closed. He heard Peter’s footsteps in the darkness outside. His smile broadened. After about five minutes had passed, he went to the telephone and called a number. As he waited he hummed hoarsely. Armand answered him.

  “Well!” cried Nicholas. “I’ve found out more in two hours than you half-wits have done in weeks! Pete’s been here for dinner. And what I’ve found out! He’s mad about the little girl, but he hasn’t touched her because he didn’t know that Christopher’s behind the marriage. What? Of course I told him that! Who’s going to contradict it? Christopher? Hah! Now he’s all burning up to rescue the damsel from the big, bad wolves, the wolves being Christopher and Henri. He feels he’s got to move very cautiously. It’s evident they haven’t discussed it, though, and maybe he didn’t notice how the girl’s been pining away. But he’ll look, now!”

  CHAPTER XXXV

  Upon leaving Nicholas’ house Peter walked directly to the nearest telephone. He called Celeste. The butler answered. No, Miss Celeste was not at home. Nor Mr. Christopher. But Mrs. Bouchard was at home. A moment later Adelaide’s faint apprehensive voice came to him. Peter spoke quietly and quickly: “I want to see you, Adelaide. May I? At once?” He hailed a cab and was driven rapidly to Endur. The house was already full of a deserted air, for the next day the household was leaving for Crissons. Peter went upstairs to Adelaide’s rooms. He found her there with old Thomas Van Eyck.

  Peter was not prepared for the presence of the old man, and hesitated. But Adelaide said: “Do you mind, Peter? Thomas knows everything.” She gave the young man her hand and smiled at him gently. Her sad eyes lighted up when she looked at him. Old and tired though she was, there was a new look about her these days, of hope.