The Final Hour

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  He heard that cry. Through a wavering and darkening mist he came back to her, not slowly now, but walking with quick and rushing feet. She did not know that she lifted her arms to him.

  And now she was held close to him, passing her hands, over his shoulders, his arms, weeping wildly and terribly, clutching him as the drowning might clutch. He did not comfort her, but held her more tightly. He felt the smothering beat of her heart, her suffering. When he tried to release her frantic hold upon him, to calm her, she became less controllable. He was alarmed, and looked about him uneasily. Someone might have heard that awful cry she had uttered in her extremity.

  He released himself forcibly. He took her convulsed face in his hands, and by looking into her eyes he forced her to be calmer. She was weeping again, but with more quietness. She lifted her hands and clasped them about the wrists so near to her cheeks, and her fingers were like iron, biting into his flesh.

  ‘Henri!’ she cried, hoarsely. ‘You wouldn’t have gone away? Not really?’

  He held her again to him, tightly. ‘Yes, my love,’ he said, very softly. ‘I would have gone. Really.’ And then he added, more roughly: ‘Don’t do that again to me, Celeste, not ever.’

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  It was on that day in September, 1939, when a world ended and a strange, new and terrible one was born, that Antoine Alexis Barbour Bouchard was married to Mary Eloise Boland.

  The wedding was very quiet. As was pointed out in a hundred adoring newspapers, young Mr Bouchard had only recently lost his grandmother, the late Mrs Jules Bouchard, and young Miss Boland had been bereaved of her mother some two months ago. The marriage took place (for ‘reasons of family tradition,’ sang the newspapers) in the beautiful little old chapel of the Episcopal St. Mary’s-on-the-hill in Windsor. The chapel, which was not very old, had a very ancient and Norman look, all heavy grey walls and ivy and strong squat towers, to match the parent building, aggressively Norman and stately. The stained glass windows were excellent, with just reason. They had been lifted bodily from a real Norman church in France, and transported, at enormous expense, to their new setting by old Ernest Barbour, who had built the edifice. Here, he, himself, had lain in that rainbowed and mysterious light cast by the windows, and here other Barbours and Bouchards had slept on their cold satin pillows before they were carried to their last narrow niches in the cemetery. Here infant Bouchards had been christened, had later made their confirmations, had been married, had shifted in their solemn pews, yawned, stretched, dozed and plotted, had indulged their peculiar thoughts and their sadnesses, had pondered their lusts and hatreds.

  The Family was extremely delighted with Antoine’s choice. No member ever married inappropriately. Antoine had carried on the tradition in spite of past uneasiness about him. The Bouchard males had always had a penchant for great ladies. Miss Boland was a great lady. She was also, happily and appropriately, very stupid. Her figure was rather short and plump, like a dainty squab’s, and she possessed very tiny and pretty little hands and feet, plump also, and white as milk, dimpled of knuckle and beautifully tended. Like many young women of her figure, she had a round soft white breast, and swelling hips, and a short narrow waist. Her face, too, was round and soft and dimpled, and she smiled almost constantly with the sweetest of tempers, the dimples appearing delightfully in cheek and chin and about her lips whenever she smiled, which was practically always. She had a round pink mouth, a little round tilted nose, naturally rosy and blooming plump cheeks, and very large bright grey eyes surrounded by bronze lashes. From her low forehead rose the soft fine waves of her auburn hair, to blend into a gleaming knot at the nape of her short white neck. She was very pretty; she was very charming; she had the sweetest of tinkling laughs. She never said a thing of any significance, but neither did she ever say a word that was not tactful, gracious or proper. She was twenty years old, and she was also a virgin. She had never had a thought that was original or acute, pertinent or profound, unchaste or compassionate.

  Best of all, she was a great heiress. And she adored Antoine. All in all, therefore, the family could do nothing else but approve his choice. She was a typical Bouchard woman, and so, perfect.

  Miss Boland was the only child of her father, a ruthless old bandit who had had three previous wives before marrying Mary’s mother. None of these wives had borne him children, and so he had discarded them. Mary’s gender had at first infuriated him, but she had finally won him with her charm and sweetness and imbecility. She had not been more than a year old when he had begun to look about him for a suitable husband for her. When Antoine had appeared on the scene, he had been highly gratified. He was seventy years old now, and had begun to worry about his daughter.

  To his father, Armand, Antoine had said: ‘She is really a delightful and satisfactory little creature. Her mother came of a family of prolific breeders, so you will probably be a grandfather half a dozen times over.’

  All in all, Antoine’s choice was universally approved.

  The wedding, though quiet, was perfect. Miss Boland looked like a rosy cherub in her filmy white veil, her embroidered satin gown with the train six feet long, her bridesmaids with their demure faces and their aquamarine gowns of buoyant tulle. Her cousin, the ambitious second vice-president of the Morse National Bank, was best man. She stood at the altar with Antoine, and through her veil her round and stupid and pretty face shone like a rosy moon.

  Because of the sinister and ominous event which had exploded in the world, the honeymoon was short and quiet. The happy couple returned to live in the great gloomy castle of Armand’s.

  Within less than a week, Armand was passionately fond of his new daughter. (As for herself, she ‘loved’ all the Bouchards, considered them the most brilliant, the most soigné, the most endowed and superior creatures in the world. She was very grateful to them for taking her into their closed clan. This did nothing to abate their approval, though after five minutes they found her tedious.

  She set herself to be indispensable to Armand, for she was really quite kind, provided she was not puzzled or compelled to think a situation through. She saw that Armand was sick and old, and this aroused some pity in her. Her own father was as tough and twisted and dry as an old and weathered tree. Here was a creature she could mother, and the maternal instinct was very strong in young Mrs Antoine. It was enough for her that he was sick and neglected, that everyone laughed at his ‘List,’ that no one considered that ‘List’ as important. Mrs Antoine found it very important. She spent hours each day with him, bent over the despised paper, seriously and gravely discussing with him various menus, and personally seeing that only those articles selected appeared on the table. ‘My love, I haven’t diabetes,’ protested Antoine, when another dish of sweetbreads or lean thin meat or broiled chicken appeared at dinner. ‘Neither have I an aversion to potatoes. And I loathe limp vegetables cooked in water and flavoured with mineral oil.’

  But young Mrs Antoine was very firm. As a result, Antoine ate dinner at home not more than twice a week. He was hardly missed. Armand and his new daughter spent a happy dinner hour discussing the menu for the next day. It was no wonder that he began to adore her.

  Within less than two months, she was happily pregnant.

  In a world that was sick to death, that lived in a nightmare of constantly shifting backgrounds of fury and madness and confusion and hatred, that was so twisted and blown by a thousand rumours, that presented a multitude of rising and falling faces lighted by the glare of a wild Walpurgis Night, that resounded with the shrieks and cries of faceless madmen, young Mrs Antoine lived a placid and insulated existence.

  ‘You are so restful, my sweet,’ Antoine would say to her at breakfast, as she prattled away on some pretty asininity. ‘You haven’t the brain of a mouse.’ He knew many women without the brains of mice, but they never seemed to realize it. They were full of seriousness, and discussed many problems with an air of intellect. It was delightful to find a woman who happily accepted the fact that she w
as a fool, was content with her rôle of amiable rump, and had a pretty little laugh that strove for no significant meaning.

  The gloomy castle on the river began to take on an air of festivity and gaiety, incongruous to its character. ‘Like an ancient giantess wearing a foolish little hat over one eye,’ Antoine would say. But sunlight now invaded the immense dark rooms. Potted flowers appeared on every window-sill. Antoine said nothing until his cherished Rubenses and Goyas suddenly disappeared, and he discovered that his cabinet of ancient and curious snuff-boxes had been tossed into the storehouse over one of the garages.

  ‘But those little boxes were so nasty, darling,’ said young Mrs Antoine, quite red of cheek, and with tearful eyes. ‘I looked at them. Some had such horrid little pictures on the lids. So musty and old, and not pretty at all. Besides, no one ever uses snuff now, so why do you want them?’

  The cabinet reappeared in the library, and Antoine kept the key. Mrs Antoine put a vase of flowers on it, and rearranged the draperies at the windows so that the cabinet was in constant shadow.

  And then, of all the Bouchards, Antoine suddenly found his wife unbearably fatiguing.

  He had always admired his relative, Rosemarie Bouchard. She was a woman of wit and malevolence and swift vitriolic mind. He knew of her embroilment with Henri Bouchard, but he also knew that she had many other interests. She had some talent for writing, and small vicious ‘profiles’ of prominent people written by her often appeared in the ‘smart’ magazines, and even in the newspapers. At the present time, Rosemarie was in Washington, where she had many friends among the wives of Senators and officials of the State Department. She was writing casual columns for a newspaper syndicate now, and Antoine was delighted by her wit, her pungency, her subtle and perceptive remarks on the national and international situation. He visited her several times. It annoyed him that she was still so engrossed with Henri, but he slowly began to have hopes for himself. He returned from these visits much elated and soothed in mind, and was able to treat his little wife quite affectionately thereafter. After a stimulating dinner, a sweet frappé could be enjoyed.

  Rosemarie, in her turn, began to look forward to Antoine’s visits with increasing interest and pleasure. Their similarity of temperament and mind, even their physical resemblance to each other, piqued and amused her. Besides, she was very useful to him. She could inform him of the slightest rumour, the slightest change in opinion of the powerful in Washington. He began to take notes in his small artistic hand, as he sat with her in her smart apartment. He discussed with her many matters of importance, and though well aware that she was vicious and treacherous and greedy, he knew he could dispense with considerable caution during these evenings alone with her. They wanted the same things. They understood each other. They could help each other. By the early spring of 1940, they were in love with each other. She no longer saw Henri, even during her brief visits to Windsor, but she could tell Antoine many things about his hated kinsman which were of extreme value to him.

  Because of her free access to the salons of Washington, she was able to tell him many other things. Acting as his spy, she sought out politicians, newspaper owners, prominent lobbyists, powerful women, and, finally, was able to get on excellent terms with the gravely excited and highly placed men of the ‘New Deal.’ They all thought her merely a brilliant and intellectually inquisitive woman, charming in appearance, of excellent taste, and great sympathy. What they told her in their soothed egotism, was relayed to Antoine, with Rosemarie’s own subtle and excellent footnotes.

  When the America Only Committee suddenly burgeoned into prominence, Rosemarie appeared among the organizers, but only sub rosa. She was too clever to allow her name to be used. She knew that one faction of her family was supplying the huge sums necessary for its existence and its expansion. Because of this, she was sought after by the officers of the Committee. She wrote much of the propaganda which appeared in its smooth pamphlets. She wrote many of the radio scripts which were shouted over the ether by bought, suborned and traitorous speakers. Antoine supplied her with certain information and suggestions. It was understood, of course, that the Bouchard name must never appear in any fashion.

  Rosemarie, it was, who brought many Senators into the America Only Committee, by way of large cheques, promises or even delicate blackmail. Rosemarie never appeared at the German Embassy, and was even heard to express her contempt and disgust for the Third Reich, and Hitler. Nevertheless, it was rather odd that much of Goebbels’ choicest propaganda appeared in her scripts, cleverly changed and disguised, but still virulent.

  ‘Remember, the motif must always be “Americanism,” and very patriotic,’ Antoine had cautioned her. ‘And play up “Constitutionalism.” Everything must be very dignified and solid and respectable. You can let the clergymen be as vociferous as possible. Everything is excused under the name of religion. By the way, you must impress upon them that their own motif is “Christianity,” as opposed to atheism, Judaism and Communism. Also, it is necessary that we secure the services of some national hero, some prominent man. Look around for him.’

  Therefore, it was Rosemarie Bouchard who found the ‘national hero’ who could act as spokesman for the America only Committee.

  CHAPTER XXIX

  Captain August Jaeckle was of old German-American stock, and had been born in Wisconsin on January 2, 1900. He was now only approaching his forties, and was of considerable comeliness. He had that indestructible adolescence of face and figure so irresistible to women, for he was rather short and slight of build, and had fair thin hair on a boyish skull and a rather stupid and immature cast of feature. Even in old age, he would still possess that rather wizened adolescence; the mind behind that sloping smooth forehead had petrified into a schoolboyish fourteen-year-old. He was a great athlete, was frequently quoted on the necessity of teaching youth physical stamina and muscle-building, and his remarks on the classical trend of American schools were very strong and contemptuous. ‘That’s Europe,’ he would say, with profound scorn. ‘We’ve got to teach our youth to revere the body.’

  As his remarks were always distinguished by profound stupidity, the American public considered him a very oracle. They delighted in photographs of him. His vapid serious countenance, with the small and somewhat effeminate features, his lock of light hair falling over his forehead, his air of innocence and grave dedication, his large pale-blue eyes shining with fanaticism, he appealed overwhelmingly to American women and to a certain type of American man. It did not matter to them that he was a fool and an ignoramus, that he was a poseur and a passionate seeker after the cheapest publicity (in spite of his loudly declared aversion for ‘the press’). He was a hero. He personified ‘American youth.’

  He was a hero, indeed.

  For August Jaeckle, at the meagre age of seventeen, had nobly lied about his birthplace, and had enlisted in the American Army in May, 1917. Two of his brothers were already serving in the Navy. ‘I used to cry, after Mother had kissed me goodnight,’ he was fond of saying with a sweet reminiscent smile, and that shy air of his which convulsed middle-aged women with tender ecstasy. ‘I couldn’t stand it, thinking of George and Heinrich standing four-square on their battleships with the wind in their faces, while I was wasting my time in the Shinehaha High School. Mother tried to console me. I was her youngest, her “little boy.” She couldn’t bear to think of me joining my brothers in the defence of our country. It was even worse for her when George was killed at sea. She used to cry. But there was something in me (perhaps it was my father’s voice—he had been killed in the Spanish-American war, you know, just before I was born) that kept urging me to serve my country. George Washington and Lincoln had always been my heroes. So, one day I kissed her good-bye. She had no idea that she wouldn’t see me again for nearly two years. But I knew. She thought I was going off to my classes. But I went to the recruiting station.’

  At this, he would smile again, lovingly, with great tenderness for the vision of that valiant school
boy marching off to the wars, with his mother’s kiss still damp on his boyish cheek. His eye would become moist. His voice would tremble. He would draw a deep shaking breath into his immature chest, still unmanly at the age of thirty-nine. He would almost whisper: ‘Mother!’ At this, it was not unusual for susceptible ladies to control sobs. Everyone knew by now that Mrs Jaeckle had died of pneumonia, during the great influenza epidemic, without ever seeing again her valorous young son already in the trenches in France.

  Everyone also knew that August had become a hero almost overnight. Single-handed, he had wiped out a machine-gun nest of fifteen Germans (also boys), and taken twenty prisoners, and had marched them back to his own lines with a stern and exalted look upon his face. No one but August knew that it had been a little Jewish sniper, caught with him and ten others in a shell-crater, who had really wiped out the machine-gun nest and died a few minutes later of a bullet in his heart. Happily, a hand-grenade from another isolated shell-hole had demolished the other witnesses to this act of supreme marksmanship and heroism, leaving August quite alone, and quite mad with terror. He had risen from his own shell-hole, screaming, and in his rush to his lines had come across the twenty Germans cowering in still another shell-hole. Exhausted, starving, diseased and hopeless, they had surrendered to him with cries of joy. For a few feet, in fact, they had literally pursued him, begging him to take them prisoner. He had finally come to his senses, and had obliged his ‘captives.’

  Always, there lived in his craven and stupid and frightened heart the fear that someone, somewhere, might know of the little Jewish sniper. In consequence, and by virtue of the involved mechanism of self-defence which operates so darkly in the human soul, he had become a rabid anti-Semite. He had never been at all religious during his school days. But now, he became a militant ‘Christian,’ a vicious and fanatical enemy of everything that was irreligious. The defence mechanism operating vigorously, Russia became to him a symbol of ‘anti-Christ.’ He hated all things that smacked of Communism, which, in some peculiar fashion, was a symbol of Judaism to him. Sometimes, at night, when the face of the little Jewish sniper would rise up before his inner eye, stern, reproachful and contemptuous, he could not sleep. He would walk the floor, sweating, weeping, wringing his hands, his whole being afire with hatred. It was then that he would give vent to the foulest and most obscene cries, in a low and whispering voice intense with madness.