The Eagles Gather

by Taylor Caldwell

  He rubbed his cheek against her bare shoulder. A quiver ran over her body, but she still looked out over the water, without turning. He kissed her firm flesh. “What’s the matter with you?” he murmured.

  He was surprised at the strength and clarity of her quiet voice: “Nothing is the matter, Henri. It’s just that I have so much to think about.”

  He laughed lightly. He took each of her fingers separately, worked them, released them. “What are you thinking about?” he asked indulgently.

  “You.” Now she turned and regarded him gravely. He was leaning on his elbow beside her. She looked down at his face, so harsh in its lines, so powerful and brutal. Her smile became vaguely frightened.

  “Me?” He raised his eyebrows, sat up, intrigued. “I hope you think nice things?”

  “Yes, I do.” Her voice was amusingly grave and determined. “I do,” she repeated. And then, a thin wildness breaking through her voice: “I’ve got to!”

  He was no longer amused. He said with some sharpness: “Why have you ‘got to’?”

  She did not speak for some time. He saw the quivering of her face. She seemed unbearably agitated, and oddly piteous. Her voice was even wilder when she spoke again: “I’ve got to be fair to you, Henri! It would be wrong not to.” Slowly and grimly he folded his arms about his knees and stared at the dark sea and the shattered golden path on it. He sat like a stone, not moving. She gazed at him, tears almost blinding her. Once she put out her hand to touch him, withdrew it as at the threat of a burn. She said at last, her voice trembling, shaken:

  “You remember, I said that I didn’t know whether I really loved you? I said I thought I did. Now, I want to be sure. That’s only fair to you, isn’t it, Henri?”

  He shrugged. He answered her in a tone she had never heard from him before, so sardonic, so inimical it was: “Oh, by all means, be fair to me, darling. But what has made you so uncertain just now? There isn’t someone else, is there?”

  He thought that she would reply eagerly, instantly, in the negative. But to his consternation she did not answer. He turned his large head and stared at her, infuriated. She was crying, as simply as a child, the tears running over her cheeks. But she said nothing.

  He caught his lower lip between his teeth and chewed it somberly. A cold black fury of hatred and rage began to boil in him. His brows drew together, and beneath them his eyes glittered. He could so control himself that he could speak meditatively, without emotion: “I’ve heard silly tales. But people talk. For instance, I’ve heard that you’ve been doing a lot of running around with that foxy idiot, Peter, with his cough. That isn’t true, is it, Celeste?” Now there was an unaffected note of incredulity in his words, and a rage that was beginning to break through.

  She threw out her hands with the foreign gesture that sometimes betrayed the origin of the Bouchards. “I don’t know!” she cried. And he knew she was lying. That infuriated him the more, but he waited in silence for her to finish. “I’ve got to be sure! I’ve got to be fair to you, Henri.” Now, in her distress, she put both her hands about his arm. “I promised Christopher I would be fair. And I promised him I wouldn’t say anything about it to anyone. You see? Now I’ve told you because I’m so stupid! I didn’t mean to tell you. But I did so want to be fair—” She was sobbing aloud. Her head drooped; her hair hid her wet convulsed face.

  He stared at her gloomily. He put up his hand and rubbed his chin. He let her cry, until her hands fell from his arm with a moving gesture of complete despair. Then, very slowly, his expression changed. He began to smile. He put his hand on her bent head, and shook it indulgently.

  “Don’t be a little imbecile, Celeste. Come on, wipe your face and blow your nose. Haven’t you got a handkerchief? I thought not. Here, take mine. That’s right, blow your nose hard. What a mess you’ve made of your face! Here, let me help.” He took a portion of the handkerchief and wiped her cheeks. She gazed at him with the humble suffering of a child, but with a dawning comfort. She tried to smile at him, and leaned towards him as if for strength and consolation. He put his arm about her, hugged her briefly, let her go.

  “Now, let’s be sensible about it, you little half-wit. I begin to see the light. I begin to see what all your funny questions were about: your asking me if I ever intended to get mixed up in the family business. You think it’s naughty, don’t you, you silly brat? You think the world would be a nice pretty place, with everyone cutting out paper-dolls and loving each other and singing gay little songs with each other, if it weren’t for the wicked munitions manufacturers, don’t you? Celeste, I thought you were a bright girl! But you aren’t at alL You think if we were all dropped in the bottom of the sea human nature would change. But it wouldn’t, not a bit. We don’t make wars. We just make the instruments of war. If men didn’t want to fight we’d go out of business in a week. But they want to fight, and they demand the weapons to kill. We make the weapons. It’s just a business. If men wanted to build peaceful ships, extend railroads, build cities, we’d have enough to do, and make enough profits, without war. But they don’t. They like to kill.”

  She did not answer. Her dropped head was in shadow. She was as still as though she were asleep, her cheek on his shoulder. He went on, more humorously:

  “I know you’ll say, after your coaching by our dear Peter, that it’s immoral to make profits out of men’s ‘vices.’ But civilization itself is immoral, if you come right down to it. What is immorality? They say it is the performing of acts hostile to the welfare of society. Well, civilization, with its diseases, its neuroses, its laws, its herding together, its unnaturalness, is hostile to the health and welfare of human animals. Therefore, those engaged in building houses that keep out the sun, those engaged in destroying weeds that kill cultivated harvests, those who make profits by the building of railroads and the movement of commerce, those who demand schools and universities and churches, all are immoral. The only morality, the only healthiness, is war, which is a natural manifestation. We ought to be glad for wars. They show us that man is still not completely enervated, completely dead, completely immoral or civilized.”

  He paused. The moon was brighter. The whole sky swam in milky radiance. The sea was lighted. The lighthouse threw sharp clear beams across the water. Celeste still sat in complete and immobile silence. Then, very slowly, she raised her head and looked at him with intense gravity and sadness:

  “But Peter says that men advance only to the degree in which they overcome themselves. Henri, what you say sounds true and unsentimental. Yet in some way I know it is really false. But I know so little. You’ve got to let me think it all out, myself. I’ve got to be fair—”

  He laughed loudly. “My God, more crimes have been committed in the name of fairness than anything else! But don’t mind me, my lamb. Go ahead and puzzle your little brains out of your head.” He laughed inordinately, while she sat and hatched him dumbly. Then he seized her and kissed her on the lips with violence. “But don’t think for a minute that I’m going to let you go, you idiot! I’m not! Not even if I have to wring your Peter’s scrawny neck for him and throw him into the garbage.”

  He stood up and pulled her to her feet. She seemed dazed. She put her hand to her bruised lips and stared at him over it. He took her chin in his fingers and shook it indulgently. “I’m not going to say anything, if that’s what you’re afraid of. Go on and be fair. But remember, your fairness had better be in my direction.”

  He helped her down from the rocks. He held her hand tightly. “Come on, let’s run. I bet I can outrun you any time.”

  They ran along the beach. Celeste’s hair blew back. Her mouth opened. She laughed, gasped. Her hand grew numb in Henri’s grasp.

  CHAPTER XLVIII

  Jay Regan leaned back in his chair, smiling genially. He said to himself: Things like this are an oasis in a desert of dry finance. His happiness increased as he saw the face of each man who entered his great mahogany-paneled office.

  Francis Bouchard came first,
with lean and elegant ease, smiling charmingly, as usual. Then came Emile, dark, stout and brutal, smiling also, but certainly not with ease. Then came Christopher. At the sight of Christopher, Jay Regan sat up in his chair. He had never openly admitted it, but he admired Christopher considerably. Here was a man who had been knocked down, and who was conspiring desperately to get up and sink a knife into those who had worsted him. Jay Regan liked men who did not crawl, even if they were murderous men without honor. Even if they were pale drylipped men with almond-shaped inhuman eyes, and full of malignancy.

  Last of all came young Henri Bouchard, and Jay Regan experienced again the quickening, the swift amazement, that he always felt at the sight of this youthful man. Each time the resemblance to his great-grandfather seemed stronger, more astounding. He ought not to be dressed in modern clothes, thought Regan. He ought to be wearing somber black broadcloth, a ruffled white shirt, a flowing black cravat. His hair should be longer, and a trifle lighter. He ought to be carrying gloves and a gold-headed cane. (For such was his remembrance, as a very young man, of Ernest Barbour.) He felt excitement again. Time was nothing. It was Ernest Barbour entering this room; it was Ernest Barbour in America again, the lusty America of brigands and feudal barons, who had made her strong and powerful, involuntarily, it is true, but still—

  “Sit down, boys, sit down!” he said affably, not rising, and shaking hands with each of them, from his chair. He beamed at them, folded his hands on his great paunch. “It’s a hell of a hot day, isn’t it? But this is Henri’s idea. Business, even if you fry.”

  The three older men smiled at this witticism. They, thought Regan with enjoyment, would like to fry Henri personally. Henri was sitting beside him. He put his big beefy hand affectionately on the young man’s shoulder for a moment.

  “Really,” he said helplessly, “I don’t just know why Henri insisted upon your all meeting here, and having me present. But he is a very remarkable young fellow. Perhaps I, as well as you, am going to be much entertained.”

  Christopher’s gray motionless eyes gleamed for a moment. His thin colorless mouth jerked almost imperceptibly. Jay Regan, watching him keenly, decided that Christopher had aged very much in the past year. He was haggard, gaunt, his dry skin wrinkled like old parchment. But all his malevolence, all his hatred and bitterness and cold rage, flared fiercer and stronger than ever behind the emaciated flesh. He is finishing himself off, thought Regan, with a dim twinge of too open compassion.

  “Let’s get down to business, eh?” asked Henri, raising his eyebrows humorously. “We’ve got to get back to Crissons and cool off in the sea. Why does anyone stay in New York in the summer?” He held a slim black leather case on his knee, on which his strong broad hands lay quietly.

  “This,” Francis reminded him gently, “is entirely your own idea, Henri. If we stew, you’re part of it.” And his eyes fixed themselves upon the young man with a smile but without noticeable friendliness.

  Emile frankly inserted his handkerchief between his bull’s neck and his collar. He fanned himself with his hat, and said, simply, “Whew!”

  But Christopher said nothing at all.

  Henri spoke without preliminaries:

  “As Mr. Regan has lent me twenty million dollars, I thought it only fair that he should see, for himself, all negotiations. That is why I asked you all to meet me here. Mr. Regan, I must admit, hardly saw the necessity. He,” and now Henri’s large broad face changed with a wry humor, “has only lent—me—a considerable sum of money, and there, he believes, his usefulness ends. I don’t think so. Mr. Regan’s father was my great-grandfather’s close friend, and there has always been a close communication between the two families.”

  “Yes,” admitted Jay Regan genially, “thieves do like to keep an eye on each other.”

  Again they all smiled, all except Christopher, who sat like a mummy, and as motionless.

  Hugo Bouchard, who had warned them he might be a few moments late, now was admitted, all buff expansiveness and excellent teeth. He shook hands with Regan very cordially, slapped each of his relatives on their sweating backs, expressed himself colorfully about the heat, demanded of Henri the reason for this infernal meeting, and sat down at last.

  He lifted his hands, let them fall on his big knees, and laughed. “I’m helpless among fellows like you,” he said. “I’m only a politician, not a big-game burglar. But here I am! You asked me.” He winked at his brother, Francis.

  Francis said: “Henri is new to business. He likes everything to be above-board. That’s why we’re here. Isn’t it?” he asked with lightning-like suddenness of Henri.

  But Henri was not caught off guard. “Of course!” he answered frankly.

  He resumed: “Some time ago I told all of you that I was pretty certain I would be able to get a loan of twenty million dollars. I also mentioned at that time that when I succeeded in negotiating this loan I would have a proposition for you. That is why I have asked you here: to hear the proposition, to accept it or reject it, as you see fit.”

  A prolonged silence followed his words. Consternation, suspicion, apprehension, all passed like shadows over the listening faces about Jay Regan’s desk. But Christopher showed no emotion at all, except for a more baleful light in his eyes, a grayer shade upon his flesh. Then Francis laughed a little. His lean face was suddenly damp. He wiped it with a fine linen handkerchief. Emile’s big florid face had turned purple. Hugo was no longer smiling, but had become exceedingly and nastily alert.

  “‘Reject it!’” repeated Francis lightly, waving his handkerchief playfully at Henri before putting it away. “How could we reject it? Don’t agitate us too much in this goddam heat, my child.”

  Henri’s large heavy lips twitched, but whether it was with contempt or amusement no one could tell. Like Ernest Barbour, he was no sadist. He was merely exigent and opportunistic.

  “I’m glad you said that, Francis,” he said calmly. “Now, here is the proposition. As you have said, I’m new to business, therefore my proposition may sound somewhat crude. But don’t mistake me; I mean it. The terms will have to be met.

  “Twenty million dollars have been lent to me. I am to lend it, in return, to you. That was our original agreement. Yet you must realize that I am entitled to collateral. This money will have to be paid out of future earnings, with interest. You can secure permission to issue additional stock to refund this money. But I would not advise it, as it would jeopardize our position. I would suggest, on the other hand, that all of you assign enough additional stock to me as collateral to make my holdings 55% of the common stock. I will deposit this stock with Mr. Regan, and promise that I will not sell any of it. But you must appreciate that with the assignment of this stock to me I am to be consulted on the future policies of this organization, so that I may at all times know the condition of Duval-Bonnet. After all, I was entrusted with the twenty million dollars, and Mr. Regan’s interests must be protected, too. Especially considering that he will have no collateral except this deposit, which will be in my name.”

  He added, in the profound silence of the room: “I could have put up part of my bonds as collateral. But Christopher, I believe, will need these bonds in a little matter we have talked of before.” And he smiled unpleasantly.

  No one broke the silence. Behind his white mustache Jay Regan was smiling peculiarly. He, unlike Henri, had a touch of sadism. The old robber baron was delighted; his ancient pulses were throbbing. He looked at each appalled and hating and infuriated face. He saw murder in four pair of Bouchard eyes. He could not keep his glee decently hid. But no one was looking at him. Each man saw only Henri Bouchard, who sat, quiet and composed, and as cold and motionless as a rock, waiting to hear what his kinsmen would have to say.

  Then Francis began to smile malevolently. He touched his forehead in an ironic salute to Henri. He whistled. “Fifty-five per cent of the common stock!” he exclaimed lightly. “In other words, you would have the control of Duval-Bonnet.” He added, laughing: “Nice
!”

  Henri shrugged. “Only nominally, of course,” he said indifferently. “Only until Mr. Regan has been repaid his twenty million dollars, with interest.”

  “Your tenderness about Mr. Regan’s money is very touching,” said Francis. “He does not seem particularly apprehensive. But each man’s honor is his own, and I wouldn’t for the world violate yours, my dear Henri.”

  Emile, apparently about to have a stroke, was regarding Henri with violence and rage. “You’re a louse,” he said in a thick strangled voice. He seemed to have some difficulty with his breathing, and panted hoarsely.

  Francis raised his finger with affectionate reproach. “Emile! I’m surprised at you. After all, as Henri says, this is a business proposition. Business is very sacred, especially when it is mixed with honor. Let us be calm.” He turned to Christopher, who had taken on a corpselike and immobile appearance, so that only his virulent eyes showed life. “Well, what have you to say, Chris?”

  Christopher’s nostrils distended, but he said nothing. He looked only at Henri, and there was something appalling in that look.

  Hugo began to laugh disagreeably. “Remember, Frank, that I said I smelt a distinct odor of snake-in-the-grass on a certain day. I was right, it seems. The odor is now a stench; the snake-in-the-grass is out in the open at last.” He grinned at Henri. “Bravo! The family has now produced a bigger burglar than the other burglar!”

  But Henri was apparently not much disturbed at this display of family affection. His eyes had narrowed. He looked slowly from one to the other. One might almost have said that there was a grim satisfaction in his expression, a somber and vengeful satisfaction, merciless and bitter.

  Francis turned to Regan. “Mr. Regan,” he said in a friendly voice, “in the event that we consented to turn over 55% of the common stock of Duval-Bonnet to Henri, he would deposit it with you. Now, even 55% at the present time is not worth, by a terrific amount, twenty million dollars. Would you mind telling us, or would you? why you have lent this money to our little cousin, Henri, without his bonds? I realize this must be an embarrassing question, but you see, we are in rather an embarrassing position, ourselves.”