Take all the ideas of the Blackless family and turn them inside out and you had the ideas of the de Bruyne family. Both families despised Leon Blum—the de Bruynes for what he was doing and the Blacklesses for what he was neglecting to do. A cousin of Denis had recently been chosen as one of the twelve members of the Conseil de Regence, the governing-board of the Banque de France, that mighty institution which had been founded by Napoleon and had governed French finance and therefore French public life for more than a century. Now a Jew with his so-called reforms was depriving this ancient and honorable body of its powers, insisting that the great Banque should be governed by the majority vote of its stockholders, more than forty thousand of them. It was a part of what the French were calling le New Deal, and Denis hated the French version exactly as Robbie hated the American.
It wasn’t just their money, nor yet their prestige; it was their culture, their ideals, their Catholic religion, everything they lived for that was threatened. They saw cruel despotism arising in Eastern Europe, based upon skepticism, upon the mob spirit, upon proletarian force, upon everything that was fatal to old aristocratic France. This evil power appeared to be burning like a volcanic fire deep under the soil of Europe; now and then it burst out in a fresh place, choking the land with sulphurous fumes—the fire department had to be rushed there in a hurry.
Uncle Jesse had said that Blum couldn’t choose between Communism and Fascism. Well, the de Bruynes had chosen, and without hesitation. Both Denis, fils, and his brother Charlot had had military training, and both were ready to use it, not in the service of their country, but in the service of their class. If Leon Blum continued to let volunteers sneak into Spain and carry arms to be used against Catholic General Franco, the two brothers were prepared to take up arms against Blum. They were not afraid of the possibility of being attacked by Hitler while such a civil war was in progress; on the contrary, they envisioned a happy confederation of Germany, Italy, France, and Spain, all serving as brothers-in-arms against the Jewish Bolshevists.
It was Charlot, bearing on his face an honorable scar earned in the class war, who outlined this vision. Lanny smiled rather sadly, and said: “Are you sure you can trust the Fuhrer? You know, he wrote in his book that the safety of Germany requires the annihilation of France.”
“He wrote that a long time ago,” replied the younger man. “Politicians often change their minds, and we have the best assurance on this point.”
Lanny wanted to ask: “What assurance?” but he thought it the part of wisdom to wait. The subject was changed, and before long the young devotee of the Croix de Feu remarked: “By the way, did you know that your friend Kurt Meissner is in Paris?”
“Really?” said Lanny. “Why didn’t he let me know?”
“He said he intended to. He asked about you very kindly.”
“How did you come to meet him?”
“He gave a recital at the home of the Due de Belleaumont.”
That was the palace which Irma had rented for a year, in order to launch herself in French society; so Lanny had no difficulty in envisioning a scene of great elegance. “Did Kurt play his own compositions?” he inquired, and they talked about these for a while. Lanny was content to wait for the item of information he wanted.
Presently the older brother remarked: “We had a little chat with him. You should ask him to tell you about Hitler and his attitude toward France. He knows the Fuhrer intimately, you know.”
“Yes, of course,” replied Lanny, casually. “Kurt would know, if anyoody.”
So it is that secret agents check up on other secret agents. It is known as “counterespionage.”
X
Lanny had to see Kurt, if only to keep from giving offense and awakening suspicions. Lanny hadn’t been to Germany in a year, and felt that he would never care to go again; but he knew that circumstances might make him change his mind and it was wisest to keep his German connections unimpaired. He had got Kurt’s address from Emily, and next morning he called up Kurt and invited him to lunch. Lanny mentioned that he had recently been in Spain, and of course Kurt wanted to hear all about it; Lanny told it objectively, as he had done with the French family.
“You see,” said the German, “what comes of letting the mob have its way. That poor country has been drifting into chaos, year after year. Now there has to be a surgical operation, and it will be painful.”
“I suppose so,” replied Lanny, submissively. “I have come to realize that the problem is too complicated for me. I am taking your advice and being an art lover. I was fortunate to get out with a valuable painting—and twice fortunate to have it well repaired.”
So he turned the subject away. Kurt would be sorry for his boyhood friend, considering him a weakling, which perhaps he was; the older man had always taken that patronizing attitude, but still retained his feelings of affection, realizing that Lanny was what circumstances had made him. Americans were an easy-going and self-indulgent people, especially those who had been born to wealth and ease. The Germans were different; rich or poor, they were taught to work; and now, having a glorious leader, they worked in a state of ever-renewed inspiration; So thought the one-time artillery officer turned composer, and when he played his thunderous music he was leading the Herrenvolk in their march of destiny into the new world order. Lanny understood this, and was willing to have it so.
Presently Kurt said: “What’s this I hear about you and Irma getting divorced?”
“It was no go, Kurt,” replied the other. “We have been unable to agree for years. Irma dislikes Europe intensely; but I have my home here, and nearly all my friends. I can’t stand her fashionable set with their empty minds. Irma’s uncle has been in London to arrange matters with me—and, believe it or not, he collects olf half-dime novels, stories about detectives and cowboys and Indians which he used to read when he was a boy; you can’t imagine what trash it is—there is nothing like it in Germany.”
There was something like it in Germany, and Lanny had been on the verge of saying: “Such stuff as Karl May writes.” But something in his quick mind had flashed him a warning. Karl May was the favorite author of Adolf Hitler, and from his enormous output of sensational fiction the Fuhrer had got most of his impressions of life in America. That would have been a “boner,” indeed, and an amateur secret agent thought to himself: “I must learn not to talk so much!”
XI
Lanny had always been interested in Kurt’s musical compositions, and now when he asked about them Kurt offered to play for him. They went to the composer’s apartment, and Lanny listened and admired dutifully, as he had always done. Incidentally he observed the place, and noticed a shaven-headed Prussian man-servant who looked like an S.S. drill sergeant and who watched the American guest with covert attention.
They talked about the Fuhrer, the most interesting and important topic in the world. Kurt had been to see him recently and had been honored by his confidences. Lanny had heard a report that the Fuhrer had called in a facial surgeon and had his somewhat bulbous nose reduced, in order to make him more worthy of that immortality he was planning; but Kurt didn’t mention this and Lanny didn’t ask. He didn’t say anything about the recent decree increasing the term of military training from one year to two, thus at one stroke doubling the size of the future German Army. He didn’t say anything about the rate at which the Siegfried Line was being rushed to completion, so that Germany could count herself impregnable on the west.
No, Kurt talked about the magnificent new buildings which Adi was erecting in both Berlin and Munich; he had planned every detail himself. “An extraordinary man,” declared the Kompomist, and the art expert replied: “There has never been one like him.” There might have been a double entendre in this, but Kurt would not suspect it.
“The whole aspect of the world has changed for me,” he declared. “You know what a broken man I was at the end of the Peace Conference here in Paris; but now I have hope and courage—and the same thing is true of every man and woman
in Germany. The Fuhrer has given me the promise of realizing those dreams which you and I talked about when we were boys. Do you remember?”
“Indeed I do, Kurt. We sat up on the height by the Church of Notre-Dame-de-Bon-Port, and we were ready to re-mold this sorry scheme of things entire.”
“Well, it is going to be done now; there will be a new internationalism, with peace and order to last a thousand years. There is a new religion being born in Germany, and you ought to be one of the first to understand it and help to spread it. You saw so clearly the inequities of the Versailles Diktat—why don’t you see now what the Fuhrer is doing, not merely to rectify them, but to bring all the nations together and prevent another wasteful war?”
The question was put up to Lanny straight, and he had to find an answer. “I don’t know,” he said. “I guess the world has been too much for me, and I’ve rather run away from the problem of late years. You’ve come out of your ivory tower and I’ve gone back into mine. I’ve persuaded myself that I’m rendering a service to America by collecting examples of the best taste of Europe, so they can some day be the means of starting new art movements in that crude and materialistic nation. I have seen a few signs that my efforts may not be entirely wasted.”
Such was the style of conversation which Lanny had adopted, not merely with Kurt, but with most of the fashionable persons he met. He had invented it at the time he was trying to save the Robin family, and he had found it equally satisfactory to the smart worlds of Berlin, Paris, and London. Kurt, more subtle than the rest, would suspect Lanny’s sincerity when he said he was trying to uplift America; Kurt would be sure that what Lanny was doing was making money so that he could live the life of Beauty’s smart friends. Kurt knew this life intimately because he had been in the midst of it for eight years as Beauty’s lover. He would think that Lanny was hopeless, but he would stay on friendly, even intimate, terms with him, in order to use him for the purposes of Kurt’s inspired Fuhrer.
Lanny would stay on intimate terms with Kurt, in order to watch the Nazis and know how they worked, what patter they were using. Lanny would make a mockery of friendship, of music and art and all the fine and noble emotions which these were supposed to generate; he would do it because Kurt was doing it, and he had to fight the devil with fire. Kurt would go into the ornate Empire drawing-room of the Due de Belleaumont which had been Lanny’s for a year, and there play the music he had composed in his repressed but fiery youth. Because he was or had been an artist he could still feel those emotions—but now always for a purpose, so that he could lure the duc and duchesse into trust of Nazism, and thus prepare a civil war which would leave France at the mercy of her ancient deadly foe. Every note that Kurt played and every word that he spoke—the noblest and most inspiring words, peace and order and justice, appeasement and international security—all these would become poison for French veins and bear-traps for French feet. Such was old Europe and its culture!
24
TRUE FAITH OF AN ARMORER
I
Zoltan had gone back to Biarritz to consult with one of his clients; now he returned, inspected the Comendador, and pronounced him completely cured. There was a smooth new canvas in back of the picture, and in front the surface was level and the paints so well matched that no one could possibly tell where the holes had been. The older and more experienced man said: “Don’t try to sell this painting by mail, because no one will believe how good it is. Let them see it, and invite them to guess where the holes are before you show them the photographs.”
That would mean a trip to New York and perhaps to other places. Lanny had been thinking about it, for now while Irma was in Reno would be a pleasant time to spend with Frances. He said: “I’m thinking of asking twenty-five thousand dollars. I have a reason for wanting that much.”
“You may get it,” Zoltan replied; “but perhaps not at the first try. You may find someone who would like to have a painting with a story attached to it.”
“I have my victims already picked out; my plateglass friends in Pittsburgh, the Harry Murchisons. I sold them a Goya and a Velasquez, and they have made themselves quite a reputation with those works. Their business is picking up again and they ought to have plenty of cash.”
Lanny sent a cablegram to this couple, saying that he had something special to show them, and in due course he received a reply that they were at their camp in the Adirondacks, a pleasant day’s drive from New York. They would welcome him with open arms, they said, and he guessed this meant that they had heard the sad, news about Irma. He engaged steamer passage—it was the time of year when tourists were flocking back to their homeland, but he managed to get a berth in a stateroom with another man. He cabled his mother and father that he was coming, also Fanny Barnes. He bought a handsome old Spanish frame for the large painting and had it carefully packed in a box put together with bolts. He hired a station-wagon to drive him and the treasure to Le Havre, for he wasn’t going to take chances of any more mishaps to that old gentleman with the delicate constitution.
II
Lanny went to call on Trudi and tell her his plans. He couldn’t say how long he would be gone, but it would be a month at least. He was taking an old master and hoping to exchange it for a specimen of the very newest model of the Budd-Erling pursuit plane. They were continually being improved in speed and firepower, and this was number nine; it was unlikely that Goring’s Condor Legion would have anything to match it, and quite impossible that Mussolini would. Lanny had a letter from Alfy, saying that he and his chum, Laurence Joyce, were in a training-school perfecting their flying-technique. Lanny said: “I’ll ship that plane to Paris and let them fly it to Madrid.”
It was going to be needed. Lanny had a letter from Raoul, who had been summoned to Madrid to aid in a press department set up by the new government. He was frantic because of the action of the French Cabinet in keeping this government from getting arms. The war had settled down to a sort of siege of the central and eastern parts of the country, the rebel troops holding the greater part of a circle, on the south, the west, and the north. The outcome would depend upon supplies from abroad, and so the diplomatic and political struggle was crucial.
The Spanish government had plenty of money; not merely gold in its vaults in Madrid, but also in the Banque de France and other capitals. It had standing contracts with arms-manufacturing concerns in France; but these concerns, now nationalized by act of the Blum government, would not be permitted to fulfill their contracts. The British government likewise had forbidden the export of arms to Spain. Meanwhile the Italians and the Germans were sending shiploads, and when the warships of Spain stopped these vessels and searched them, the Nazi and Fascist newspapers raved at what they called acts of piracy!
Lanny had left Spain under the impression that the battle was about won; that it would take only a few weeks to drive out the invaders and restore order. But now he saw that it was going to be a long and bloody struggle, and he feared greatly for the outcome. The ruling classes of Europe had picked Franco as their man, and they meant to put him in. How many lives it cost and how much misery was nothing to them, for their grip upon the old continent was at stake. Lanny divined that it was going to be another of those sickening tragedies which he was fated to watch; first Il Duce, then Der Fuhrer, and now El Caudillo—each wading through slaughter to a throne.
III
It was hard for two dreamers of social justice to think about their own affairs in the midst of events such as these. But people have to eat and sleep, even while battles and sieges are going on, while disappointments and defeats are being suffered. Lanny said: “I have several families across the water and I’m always glad to see them; but I’ll be thinking about you, Trudi, and how lonely you must be.”
“I am pretty lonely,” she responded. “But whenever I have an impulse to brood, I remember those poor comrades in the concentration camps. I try to think of some new way to help them.”
“Every day I live, Trudi, I perceive mo
re clearly that ours is going to be a long hard fight. We have to plan our lives for that—not for a few weeks or months, but perhaps for a lifetime.”
“Oh, Lanny!” she exclaimed, her voice low and trembling. They were sitting by the one window of the little attic studio, watching the twilight settle upon the rooftops and the innumerable chimneypots of Paris. There was still light enough for him to see that there were tears in her eyes, something which happened frequently when he broached that tragic theme. She knew it was true, but she couldn’t get used to the thought.
“Every time I go away,” he said, “I wonder if you will be here when I get back, or if you will break under the strain of living like this.”
“What else can I do, Lanny?”
“You know what I mean, dear.” He tried to think how best to make approaches to a saint. “I cannot see what harm you and I should be doing to any person in the world if we allowed ourselves a little happiness as we go along. It might be that it would take something from the intensity of what you write; but if it caused you to last longer, the sum total of your accomplishment might be greater.”
He said it with a smile, as was his habit, and she who found it so hard to smile had to get used to that way of taking life. “Lanny, do you really think I am the woman to give you happiness?”
Wide Is the Gate (The Lanny Budd Novels) Page 58