The Final Hour

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  Annette’s nostrils dilated, and her upper lip lifted tensely. But her eyes did not leave her brother’s. Now they were deep with fear, though the courage brightened in them strongly. She said, very calmly and quietly: ‘I don’t know what you mean, Antoine.’

  Antoine did not speak, though he regarded her piercingly. Then he simulated weariness and sad disgust. He turned away from his sister as if the sight of her affected him with unbearable compassion. He said, with pent anger: ‘My dear. My dear.’

  Annette said nothing. He waited. But there was no sound from her. Then he pretended great repressed anger, and swung to her again. ‘Annette,’ he said, ‘you must know, of course, that that isn’t Peter’s child.’

  Annette was very still. He could see the shining of her eyes, so gallant, so steadfast. ‘Antoine,’ she said, ‘what a horrible, cruel thing to say about Celeste, your own father’s sister. And how unspeakably outrageous and cowardly. You wouldn’t dare say that to anyone else.’

  He laughed shortly, and ruefully. ‘My sweet little pet, everyone in the family talks of it, in the closest of whispers, of course. Family pride, and all that. You must have heard,’ he added, incredulously.

  ‘I never listen to lies, especially not vulgar and cruel lies,’ she answered, in a firm, unshaken tone. Now her eyes were vivid with scorn and indignation. ‘And I’m horrified, Antoine, that you should help spread them.’

  He smiled at her in elaborate disbelief, shaking his head slowly. ‘Never mind,’ he said, quietly.

  Annette’s lips felt cold and thick as ice. She said: ‘Go on, Antoine. I want to hear the rest of the lie.’

  He shrugged fatalistically. ‘All right, then. I’ll tell you. We all know that the child is Henri’s, your dear husband’s.’

  Annette did not stir or speak, but only looked at him fixedly.

  ‘You must know, my dear, that he has been meeting her for months, in a nice little rendezvous in New York, and elsewhere. You didn’t know, darling?’ he went on, with quickening compassion, which was not entirely simulated now.

  ‘I didn’t know,’ she said, steadily. ‘And, no one else knows, either. Because it isn’t true. Henri’s enemies are just trying to injure him.’

  Antoine studied her with meditative pity. Her face might be wizened, her gentle mouth withered and blue with pain, but her look remained clear and unshaken. Then he frowned a little. ‘His enemies? What do you mean, darling? Isn’t he the Iron Man, Old Stone Face Bouchard? Who could injure him? Hasn’t he quite openly declared that Gibraltar is a piddling little rock compared with him, or words to that effect?’ His mouth jerked in amused contempt, but his eye was suddenly watchful.

  Annette’s mind rose above her aching heart, and she studied her brother intently before answering: ‘Men like Henri always have enemies. You know that, Antoine. So, when something criminally libellous is said about such a man, one always wonders who hopes to gain by it, or what enemy is trying to ruin him.’

  ‘Do you actually think I’m Henri’s enemy?’ asked Antoine, with affectionate disdain and indulgent amusement. ‘What would give you that idea, Annette?’

  Now she could not endure looking at him, at the dark sparkling face which she loved. Tears as heavy and salt as blood filled her eyes, and her throat throbbed. But she said, softly enough: ‘I don’t want to think you are Henri’s enemy, dear. I only believe that someone has been lying to you, out of malice or malignancy, and that you are trying to keep me from getting hurt.’

  When she looked at him again, she saw that his sleek black head was bent and that he was examining a ring on his finger with immense concentration. She could not see his face.

  Then he said in a changed voice, not looking at her: ‘Yes, sweet, I am trying to keep you from getting hurt. You were always my little pet. I wouldn’t lie to you, or tell you malicious rumours. That’s why I investigated the thing, first. Do you remember when they came back last spring—Peter and Celeste? It was just a short time after, that their gay little affair started. He always wanted her, didn’t he? They were engaged once; I remember that. Then there was that split-up.

  Then she and Peter went to Europe, you and Henri married. You were very happy then, weren’t you?’

  Annette’s thin, white throat tightened, but she lifted her pointed chin higher. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I was very happy.’

  ‘But she, and he, had no scruples at all about destroying your happiness, darling. None at all. I don’t know when the affair started, but I don’t think it was very long after Peter’s and her return. It doesn’t matter who told me. I was told. I investigated. I wanted to be sure first.’

  Annette’s head was still high, and her smile gallant, gently incredulous.

  He sighed, and the sigh was not all hypocrisy. ‘Their meetings were very frequent. You know, the Iron Man is quite a fool if he thought he could hide permanently. He never has his photograph in the papers, so he thought he was safe. Celeste, too, has been away a long time, so she wasn’t easily recognized. But such things, like murder, will out.’

  Annette drew a deep but repressed breath. ‘Do they still meet, Antoine, according to your kind informants?’

  He frowned, flashed her a black and glittering look. ‘I think they stopped meeting sometime last January. At least, that is what I’m told. Why, I don’t know, except that Peter became ill, and I suppose she wanted to play the devoted wife again for public consumption.’

  Annette asked quietly: ‘You had some object in telling me these lies, Tony. What do you expect me to do now?’

  He was relieved. He became alert and vital once more, taking her hand and holding it strongly. ‘I want you to divorce him, Annette. Go to Reno, if you want it that way. Or, better still, get a divorce in this State on the grounds of adultery.’ He watched her with intense keenness now.

  But Annette was not shaken. ‘For adultery,’ she repeated. Her eyes were strangely brilliant as she looked at him. ‘Naming Celeste as co-respondent?’

  Antoine’s eyes narrowed on her, fixedly. Suddenly, he saw Christopher’s face before him, evil, razor-sharp, deadly. He hesitated. ‘Well, no, perhaps. That would be too much of a scandal. But, when you told him you were going to divorce him, you could threaten that you would bring in Celeste if he tried to fight the suit. That would stop him.’

  ‘But you have said that Henri and Celeste haven’t met since January, Antoine. You couldn’t prove anything now, could you?’

  He was puzzled, even in his inner excitement, by the sharp note in her tone, her intensity. ‘No,’ he admitted reluctantly, and with obscure uneasiness. ‘You are right, there. We couldn’t use Celeste very easily just now. They’re guilty, just the same, and this child is Henri’s. But you needn’t let him see that you know you can’t use Celeste. If you threaten him with her, threaten to drag her, as well as him, through a divorce court, he won’t cause you any trouble. I can assure you of that.’

  He heard her slow, deep breath, saw how she relaxed in her chair. She began to speak, very firmly and softly:

  ‘Antoine, I never thought you were really cruel, or merciless, or vicious. I don’t want to think so now, even if you are trying to make me think it. You seem to have forgotten that the Bouchards aren’t merely relatives by marriage, but relatives by blood. Celeste is our aunt, the sister of our father. Henri is my husband, your brother-in-law, but he is also a blood relative of ours. His father was our great-uncle; our grandfather, Jules, was Henri’s uncle. Papa is Henri’s first cousin; Henri is our second cousin.

  ‘Wait,’ she said, as Antoine began to smile with hard malice. ‘You’ll say all that doesn’t matter. But it does. And, I believe you know it does. Even if you don’t, I do. I have family pride. I have family affection. Even if what you told me were true—and I don’t believe it—I would remember first of all how closely we are all bound to the family. I believe you would remember that, too, unless you had some more important motive.’

  She paused. Antoine had suddenly drawn closer to her; hi
s eyes fastened upon her alertly. ‘What motive could I have, my dear, except wanting you to be protected?’

  Careful, she thought to herself. She forced herself to smile, to lay her hand on his. ‘Darling, you and I have always loved each other, haven’t we? I’m grateful, Tony. But do you honestly think it would make me happy to be dragged through a divorce court, to see my relatives smeared, and to give Henri’s enemies a chance to hurt him? Even if Celeste were not hurt? You see, dear,’ she added, and now her voice shook a little, ‘I love Henri very much. I wouldn’t do the slightest thing to injure him.’

  He was silent. His dark and narrow face was gloomy, and there was a vicious expression about his mouth, as if he had been furiously disappointed and frustrated.

  He put aside her hand, stood up, looked away from her, and said, steadily: ‘All right, Annette. If you aren’t interested in protecting yourself, I shall have to do it without you. I’ve some family pride, myself, pride in you as my sister. I’ll tell my father what I know about your Henri, and his sister.’ Annette sprang to her feet. She caught her brother by his arms and held him with astonishing tightness and strength. Her eyes, more brilliant than ever, looked at him with indomitable power:

  ‘Antoine, if you do that, I will tell Papa that you are lying, that you have some ulterior motive. And I know you have; you must have. It isn’t your sister that makes you want to do this. I will tell Papa to investigate your reasons. I will investigate them, myself. I will tell Henri that in some way not known to me as yet you are trying to injure him. Do you know what I will ask Henri to do? I will tell him to sue you for libel, and make it a lot of money. I will tell him what you’ve said to me today. Henri hasn’t the family pride we have. He doesn’t like you, Antoine, I can tell you that. He wouldn’t stop for a minute out of any consideration for you as my brother.

  ‘And, do you know something else? Papa will listen to me. He has always loved me so much. He likes and admires Henri. Do you think he will stand with you, and your lies, against my faith in Henri, and my love for him? Do you think he would do anything to break my heart? The only thing you would accomplish, Antoine, would be to ruin yourself. Papa would throw you out. Henri would sue you for libel. What would you do then?’

  He stared at her with naked hatred and rage. He struck her hands down. Now she saw all his evil, his relentlessness. But his voice was very quiet: ‘Don’t be melodramatic, Annette. I wouldn’t go to my father without proof that Henri and Celeste met for months, before the mysterious January When they severed diplomatic relations. My father has pride, even if you haven’t. He will do something, I assure you.’

  ‘Not if it will make me miserable, or break my heart,’ she answered, as quietly as he. ‘Not if I tell him I know you are lying, and if Henri tells him so. And we will. He would rather believe us than you. Your proof means nothing. Even if it did, it still wouldn’t mean anything.’

  His hatred was a frightful thing to see. ‘I believe you are as nasty a trollop as your lovely auntie. You must be, to protect her like this.’

  Annette did not speak. But she began to smile, a gallant white smile, undisturbed.

  Now his control broke. ‘Why do you want to protect her, and him? You haven’t any decency, Annette. No self-respect or pride. You know he despises you, that he would be glad if you were dead, so long as you died after your Papa died, and so didn’t inconvenience him. He has had a dozen women, since you were married. He pushed them in your face. Do you think he ever cared a damn for you? He married you to get back the power of the Bouchards. I’ve seen him looking at you, and I’ve wanted to smash him in the jaw.’

  ‘Why didn’t you, Antoine? Because you know he would have smashed you out of existence if you had raised your hand against him. And let me tell you something else: if I go to Henri and tell him what you’ve just told me—these lies—and what you have proposed I should do, that would be the end of you. Wouldn’t it? Henry wouldn’t stop at anything to ruin you. He’d go to Papa, with me. And then, Papa would move, too, if Henri asked him.’

  He could not speak. He could only look at her with the face of an evil stranger, hating, terrible in his still rage. His black eyes glittered, and there was a dull sallow pallor under his dark skin.

  Annette waited. Her heart felt squeezed with anguish at his look. A light cold perspiration broke out on her upper lip, and a dimness floated before her. But her resistance against the fainting of her body was still unbroken. However, her voice was weaker when she began to speak again, though it did not falter:

  ‘I’m not as cruel as you, Antoine. You see, I love you, too.

  I won’t tell Henri what you’ve said to me today. We can both forget you said it. You’ve forgotten Christopher, too. He would join with Henri, and Papa, to ruin you forever. I will try to forget everything.’

  She picked up her gloves and bag, and moved towards the doorway. He watched her go. Such a small frail figure with such a high brave head and steady step!

  He was mad with rage and disappointment. His plan of months was destroyed. He clenched his fists. Annette, reaching the door, turned her head and smiled at him, gently, piteously. She lifted her hand in a soft gesture, and went away.

  He could see the blue shining of her eyes long after she had gone, and the most curious constriction tightened in his chest.

  CHAPTER XLVII

  On the trivial, noisy, bickering stage of American preoccupations and concerns broke the great and disordered drama of the fall of France. Far and wide were scattered the little squealing men and women, the trumpery furniture of a cheap comedy of errors, the ribboned lamps and bowls of artificial flowers. The orchestra, which had been blaring forth gay discord, shrieks and thumps, was drowned out by the sudden thunder of the death of a nation, as the rocks of its great foundations dropped into the sea. Now the coloured lights faded in the lightning, and showed the silly human creatures pressed against their gaudy and substanceless backdrop, their mouths fallen open, their eyes astare with terror. They felt the shaking of the earth, its long shuddering tremors that slowly rolled away. The thunder that had sharply roared in the serene skies at the fall of Norway, Denmark and Holland, had startled and frightened. It had swiftly passed, leaving only a faint rumbling in the distance, which had soon died, also.

  But this thunder shook the very walls of America; this wind beat against its every window; this lightning filled every room, showing the cowardly, the stupid, the ignorant, the frightened, or treacherous faces. Here and there the flash struck on a fearful sad face, a stern face, a warning face. But these were few.

  ‘It is a good thing,’ remarked Antoine Bouchard, cynically, ‘that we’ve a Republican Convention coming up to take the cattle’s minds off France, or God knows what might happen. They might even force Congress into declaring war on Germany!’

  This fortuitous circumstance, and the renewed and febrile activities of the infamous organizations supported or invented by the Bouchards and their associates, served to distract the frightened and quaking souls of the American people. Despite the heroic epic of the evacuation of Dunkirk, despite the triumphant and gloating perfidy of the French men-of-power (who had long plotted this frightful debacle), a perfidy that was quite open and quite dreadful in its cynicism, despite the last desperate call upon the men of compassion and justice in the world made by a few noble Frenchmen, the Bouchard organizations were soon successful, through their agents and their newspapers and speakers, in convincing the American people that in some mysterious fashion all this was ‘propaganda’ designed to make America the victim of British ‘imperialism,’ or to enrich ‘war-mongers and international bankers.’ Certain clergymen completely ignored the awful tragedy which filled the air of the world with its cries, its dissolution, its falling walls, and with a dexterity amazing in its bold impudence, imputed the death of France to British ‘imperialism,’ and even darkly hinted that perhaps the fate of France had been conspired for the sole purpose of ‘putting American boys on foreign battlefields.’
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  Nothing was too vulgar, too stupid, too fantastic, for certain clergymen and their brother plotters to impute or openly declare. Nothing was too foul, too obscene, too degenerate, too wild, too insane, for certain newspapers, speakers, Congressmen, radio commentators, to broadcast on the shivering air of America. There were some, like Mr Cornell Hawkins, who declared that the very enormity of the lies of the traitors and the maniacs would make the American people burst out into angry and cleansing laughter.

  But the American people did not laugh. The majority eagerly believed the lies. More especially, now, because the Bouchard-supported organization boldly spread out the black flag of anti-Semitism. Here, now, was a victim that could be tormented and destroyed without the shedding of a single ‘American boy’s’ blood. Here, now, was a scapegoat on which the American mob could expend its terror, its fear, its souldeep agitation, which had been aroused at the spectacle of the collapse of Europe, and be diverted from the affrighting truth.

  While thousands of young Britons struggled, drowned and died on the beaches of Dunkirk, while the iron treads of thousands of German tanks rolled over the dead bodies of the betrayed, the noble August Jaeckle, his fair lock of hair falling over his mad and shallow blue eyes, raved from a public platform in Chicago:

  ‘We can’t shut out from our ears the thunder of the future! Germany is invincible in Europe! Britain will soon fall!—Hitler has no designs upon America. He has said this over and over. Three thousand miles of water separate us from the old bloody battlefields of Europe. Don’t let our international bankers and foreign agitators and warmongers betray us into a war that can only end in a stalemate, in ruin and bankruptcy, and cost us the lives of a million American boys!’

  There were some men, like Mr Hawkins, who were struck dumb with shame at the spectacle of a vast American public wallowing and writhing in an orgasm of fear and hatred, shouting out, not against Hitler, but against a few courageous Americans who were heroically trying to arouse their countrymen to face the enemy boldly and resolutely. In New York, and other large cities, grave-faced scrawny young Communists paraded about with signs on which were printed: ‘No foregn wars. The Yanks are not coming!’