The Final Hour

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  Her voice was very soft and firm. But, somehow, Antoine felt a sharp sad contraction in his chest.

  ‘Yes, there was a reason,’ he said. ‘Our father loved you. You gave him what little happiness he ever had. What would he have done without you, Nita? And, I think I’ve loved you, too.’

  But she went on as if he had not spoken: ‘A useless, foolish life. Worst of all, it isn’t ended, yet. There ought to be something I could do,’ she continued, with soft vehemence, and he saw that she had clenched her little white hands and was pounding them soundlessly on the back of the chair. ‘Once, I thought I might do something with my music. But, there seemed no reason. Perhaps I didn’t have ambition enough, or talent enough. If we had been poor, something, perhaps, could have been done. I never had sufficient energy of body, and no one ever told me this did not matter. I was pampered and coddled all my life, until I came to believe that I was really something quite precious!’ And now she laughed, so softly and drearily. She shook her bent head, again and again, as if overcome with her sorrowful mirth.

  ‘No one is precious,’ she went on, while he watched her, full of pain. ‘No one deserves anything he does not earn. I’ve never earned anything. I’ve never given anything. I am just beginning to see— Now, I am stranded. And it is all my fault.’

  ‘No, darling, it wasn’t your fault.’ He went to her but did not touch her. ‘You had ill health all your life. And then, you married—him—and he did nothing to make you happy.’ ‘Happy!’ She turned to him with such swiftness, such impassioned wildness, that he was startled. ‘Why should anyone make another “happy”? As if happiness were something to be given, like a piece of jewellery or a Christmas present! No one can give another man happiness. It is something he acquires himself, something he buys himself with his own energy and his own desire. How dare we say to anyone: “Please, please, make me happy! I’m weak and stupid, and have no resources in myself, no valour or kindness or selflessness, which can make me happy!” How presumptuous! How disgusting! How greedy!’

  She was ablaze with her passion and anger, and trembling violently. He watched her, amazed.

  She continued, almost incoherently: ‘We blame others for our misery, and despair and impotence. If we are wretched, we never admit to ourselves that we were weak, or cruel, or contemptible. If we fail, it is never our fault, no. Perhaps we couldn’t endure to look at our own mediocrity and sterility, or ask ourselves if we ever, at any time, had anything to give. It is much easier, and much, much more comfortable, to blame it on parents, or husbands, or wives, or circumstance, or lack of opportunity. Then our ego isn’t hurt. We can think of ourselves as abused martyrs, whom no one ever loved, or helped, but only neglected.

  He said, irascibly: ‘Do you think you deserved the treatment you’ve received from him?’

  ‘Yes!’ she cried. ‘I had no right to marry him! I knew he was marrying me because Papa had bribed him, and that, in a way, he was weak, too, putting power above peace. I knew

  I was indulging his weakness. I knew he was being bought by Papa, for me. Yet, I was indecent enough to accept the bargain. But I didn’t have the courage, or the pride, to accept all the conditions of the bargain, and be contented that at least I had married him. No, I must want him to love me, too! I must begin to hope that he might find me endurable, might even come to want me for myself!’ And again, she burst into dreary and bitter laughter. ‘I wasn’t cheated by Henri. I cheated myself.’

  She walked away from him, distractedly. ‘Never speak to me of what he “owed” me, or how he “betrayed” me! He owed me nothing. He never betrayed me, because he never wanted me, had never promised me anything. He never pretended. At least, he was honest.’

  She stood by the dark windows now. She put her hands over her face, and stood like that, in sudden stark silence, not weeping.

  Slowly, Antoine sat down. He rested his elbow on the arm of the chair, and put his hand over his mouth. He stared heavily at his sister. Her words repeated themselves over and over, in his mind, like sick echoes. He felt an awful barrenness and disintegration in himself, which had nothing to do with her, and nothing at all to do with pity. All at once, he was enormously tired, and there was a choking dryness in his mouth.

  He said, mechanically: ‘Still, I don’t think you should divorce him. I think his share in this should be made public.’

  She turned to him, electrified, passionate. ‘Made public? What do you mean, Tony?’

  When he did not answer, she came to him rapidly, and stood before him, her little hands clenched, her blue eyes fiery. ‘Tony, what do you mean? Tony, I’ve thought you cared a little for me! But, you’d do this to me? To your sister?’

  ‘Don’t talk like a fool, Annette. What have you to do with it?’

  But she said, in an even wilder tone: ‘I want peace, I tell you! I want to forget everything! Yet, if you ever tried to hurt him, to malign him, Tony, I’d have to defend him, to deny everything you said! You think I wouldn’t? I would, Tony. I swear to it. Wherever I was, I would return to help him. Don’t you think I owe him that much?’

  Now his deep and volatile rage rose to the surface ‘“Owe him”? What do you owe him? Do you know about our father’s will? Don’t you ever wonder how he might have influenced our father? Don’t you ever suspect that he might be robbing us?’

  ‘Robbing us?’ She stopped, and smiled whitely. ‘Are we destitute? Only a week ago, Henri told me that in my own right I am one of the richest women in America. And I know that Mama left you two-thirds of her own estate, to come into your hands after Papa’s death. What more do we want, Tony? What more do you want? You are married to a rich woman, Tony. What more?’

  He was silent. But very slowly, the black and fiery embers of rage died in his eyes. He said dully: ‘It’s useless to explain to you, Annette. You’d never understand.’

  He stood up. They regarded each other speechlessly.

  Then, with a faint sound, she came to him, and laid her head on his chest. ‘Tony,’ she whispered. ‘Be good to me. Love me a little. I’ve always loved you so. Don’t forget I’m your sister. Help me, Tony. You are all I have.’

  Instinctively, he put him arms about her, and held her to him tightly, his compassion like a hot knife in his heart.

  CHAPTER LXI

  Jay Regan said to Henri Bouchard one early September day: ‘Not more than three months, I would say. And not directly from Hitler. I’m looking towards Japan.’

  Henri nodded gloomily. ‘Yes. But who, besides ourselves, knows this, or will see it?’

  The old man smiled delicately. ‘My dear Henri, you mean: Who would believe us?’

  Henri laughed shortly. ‘Well, put it that way, if you must. “Who would believe us?”’

  ‘Frankly,’ said Mr Regan, ‘I don’t blame them. If I should go to Washington, to the White House, and say: “Mr President, stop staring eastward. The danger is there, yes, waiting. But the first blow will come from the west,” what would be the result? Mr Roosevelt would look at me long and steadily, in a certain disconcerting way he has, and then he would smile a little. That would be all. He would redouble his attention eastward, more firmly convinced than ever that the danger lies there. No, my dear Henri, a reformed thief is always under suspicion that he has not really reformed, or that he has an ulterior motive at all times.’

  ‘We have,’ remarked Henri, grimly. ‘But it also happens that our own ulterior motive is coincidentally connected with the safety, and survival of America. Couldn’t you convince the President of that?’

  Mr Regan shook his head, and now his smile was caustic. ‘When he saw me, quite accidentally, in Washington about a year ago, he said: “Well, Jay, how’s tricks?” I would say that his expression wasn’t exactly amiable, though the remark was ambiguous enough. Mr Roosevelt is a very subtle man, Henri. He also asked about you.’

  They laughed together for a moment. Then Mr Regan said: ‘The only ones, besides ourselves, who know, are our enemies. And you can be
sure that they are not talking too much. We can do very little except make our own plans for inevitable day when America will be caught napping. You know, Henri, I’ve never consulted military men very much. I’ve left that to our lobby. Now I wish I knew a few admirals. I might persuade them to watch the Philippines, and Hawaii.’

  Henri brooded on the matter, while Mr Regan watched him closely. Then the old man said: ‘My boy, you’ve done well. You have the explosives ready, and the arsenal filled. When are you going to move?’

  ‘Not until war has been declared. Or a year has passed since Armand died. I don’t know why he added that. I didn’t know. Unless,’ and his smile was grim, ‘he didn’t trust me all the way. Though he did say I could give the signal.’

  He betrayed an uneasy thought by the twitching of his broad and heavy lips. So, thought Regan, you are wondering what sly and nasty little afterthoughts are also included in the body of the will, about which you hadn’t been informed, either.

  Dead men, he observed to himself, frequently take the most treacherous and cruel revenges, which they had been impotent to take in life.

  ‘I don’t know why he didn’t trust you, in everything, as you seem to imply,’ said Regan. He waited, but Henri made no comment. His square strong hand tapped with only the slightest restlessness on the other’s desk.

  Then Regan said: ‘I’ve heard a rumour, Henri. That Mrs Henri is going to divorce you.’

  Henri looked up, alertly, frowning. ‘Where did you hear that?’

  Regan shrugged. ‘Frankly, I don’t remember. It was the slightest rumour. Is there any truth in it?’

  Henri hesitated. Then he replied, his pale and relentless eye expressing nothing: ‘Yes. I see it’s no secret. No one has been told; it has been entirely between myself and my wife. And I’m certain she has told no one yet.’ He added: ‘If its around, now, what is the general reaction?’

  Regan shrugged again. ‘A little uncertainty, among the large stockholders. You know how temperamental the Market is. Of course, if Armand’s will were known it might have a lot of influence, particularly, I might add, if the contents were favourable to you.’

  When Henri did not speak, and only stared penetratingly at his old friend, Mr Regan continued: ‘If for instance, the presidency of Bouchard & Sons passed to Antoine, with Armand’s fifty-one per cent of stock, and your wife were to receive several large blocks of stock in the subsidiaries, adding her weight to her brother’s, that would have, at least, a disturbing effect on the Market, and particularly on our friends, who know Antoine’s—sympathies.’

  Henri did not speak, though his eye flashed with an ugly look. Regan said: ‘You are certain that what you have told me about the will is correct?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Henri, with a quick impatience which betrayed his uneasiness. ‘I was there, when it was drawn up. I know all about the trust funds. I know the witnesses. The attorneys are my friends. They have assured me that nothing of the original draft was changed. But,’ he said, after a moment’s sombre reflection, ‘they did not tell me whether anything else was added, later.’

  ‘Well, then, in the main, everything is as you have said. I will pass the rumour around, judiciously. Anything that might have been added is of no importance, of course?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Henri, with annoyance. ‘It could only be of personal importance.’

  ‘Well, good God, man! Why don’t you order it opened, then? And see?’

  Henri bit his lip. He said: ‘I don’t know. I think, for our own sakes, that opening it just now would be premature. I’m waiting for war. Armand was of the opinion that if a year passed after his death, and we were not in the damn mess, then the chances were that we never would be. That is why there is that other condition. So,’ he added wryly, ‘I’m torn between wanting to see what the infernal will has had added to it, if anything, and the necessity for waiting.’

  Mr Regan rubbed his chin. ‘Suppose there is some codicil about a divorce, eh? What then, if your wife has already divorced you?’

  Henri turned to him directly. ‘I have persuaded her to wait, until the will is opened. I persuaded her that she owed that to her father’s memory.’ And he smiled now, a smile that was excessively nasty.

  After a little, Mr Regan said, idly: ‘There might be some provision about your not remarrying, in the event of a divorce, or of your wife’s death.’

  ‘Then,’ said Henri, very quietly, ‘there shall be no divorce, and no remarrying.’

  Mr Regan stared at him a long time. ‘You know,’ he said, finally, ‘you are really marvellous. Really marvellous, Henri.’

  He thought of Jules Bouchard’s daughter, waiting in loneliness and obscurity and shame on Placid Heights, and he smiled inwardly. Jules’ beloved daughter, who must await the will of a dead man, who must await the word of a living man who loved her much less than he loved power.

  I hope, thought Mr Regan, that Jules is enjoying this. He had always hated Jules very much.

  CHAPTER LXII

  It had been in August when Agnes Bouchard had informed Celeste that Annette intended to divorce Henri. Celeste had made no remark. She had merely regarded Agnes in silence, then, after a few moments, she said: ‘I can hardly believe it. Why? There seems no reason.’

  But when Agnes would have cynically elaborated, Celeste changed the subject. She asked Agnes if she would care to see little Land, who was now walking a few steps by himself. Agnes followed her up to the nursery, where the serious strong baby was standing in his crib, and calling his mother impatiently. He stared at Agnes with his pale bright eyes, and smiled a little. Agnes did not particularly care for children; however, she liked Land as a person, not as a child. Her own grandchildren, she would say, were mere ‘blobs. Protoplasm.’ But this child, with his gravity, the determined tilt of his chin, and his strong straight stare, filled her with respect. She said: ‘Hello,’ as she would have said it to a contemporary, and he smiled quickly in answer.

  Celeste looked at him tenderly. She lifted him in her arms and kissed him with sudden passion. She buried her face in his warm neck, so that Agnes would not see the tears she could not prevent from rising to her eyes. But Agnes, who was both astute and subtle, was quite aware of them.

  Celeste had suffered in her life, but nothing had been much worse than the long dead period of waiting which now ensued for her. She would not allow herself to acknowledge why she waited, or why she watched every road that led up Placid Heights. When her heart bounded at the sound of a car winding over the gravelled driveways, when a door opened and she heard a masculine voice, she would try to control herself with desperate sternness. When her relatives called upon her, she tried to pierce behind the veil of friendliness that masked their faces. No one spoke of any pending divorce. She dared not ask, or hint. She could only wait and watch. If it were true, she thought, he would have. come. He would have been the first to tell me. And then, with sudden icy coldness, she would think: If it is true, why doesn’t he come? Can it be that he will never come again?

  She had not seen Annette since Agnes had told her of the rumour. Annette had called her on the telephone frequently, but Celeste, however she tried, could tell nothing from her voice. Annette, as usual, had been only loving and serene, asking about the baby, repeating her endless invitations, which Celeste never accepted, and promising to drive up shortly to see her. But for some reason, when Celeste replaced the receiver, she found that her hand was cold and damp, and trembling.

  Within a very short time, her new colour, her new vitality, her new plumpness, began to disappear. A strained and haggard expression deepened about her eyes; her lips whitened. She had been fond of driving through the early autumn countryside with little Land. Now, she sent him with one of his nurses and remained behind, sitting under the trees near the house, so that she could watch the hot and shimmering roads that climbed the hills. When she would see the dust of an approaching car, her heart would swell in the point of suffocation. But when she could identify
it, her mouth would go dry, and burn with the bitter acid of disappointment.

  Slowly, as time passed, a dull yet fiery core of pain settled in her chest, a core that was also the wildest and deepest anger, and shame. She tried to reason with herself that the rumour was most probably false, that no divorce was intended, at least not until Armand’s will was opened. But Agnes, she remembered, was not given to scandalmongering. She never repeated anything that was entirely without foundation. Now Celeste bitterly reproached herself for her ‘damnable’ reserve. Why had she not allowed Agnes to elaborate on the subject? Why had she risen so precipitately and urged Agnes up the stairs to the nursery? She remembered the sudden roaring and swimming of her senses after she had heard the the rumour. She had felt the tightening of all her veins, the trembling of her body. Her rising had been flight, in truth. But why? She hated herself for the instinct which had made her run from the room, with Agnes following closely behind.

  I was always a coward, really, she thought to herself, with self-hatred and self-contempt. Yes, Agnes was right, that day. She said I was a coward. I am. I always was. If I had had any courage, at any time, much of what has happened would never have been, and so much suffering would have been saved, for myself and others.

  Again, like a vivid nightmare, she remembered that day, so very long ago, when she had watched Henri leave her for the last time, before her marriage to Peter. She could see herself again, at her window, and the way his shadow followed him under the poplars. And then, feeling her mournful child eyes upon him, he had turned, and lifted his hand in a final salute, smiling back at her. Then it was that the wildest passion had come to her. She had wanted, with every beat of her heart, every instinct, to throw open the long french window, to run to him across the grass, crying to him to wait, and not to leave her. She had remained, rooted there stiffly and coldly, like stone, while her spirit had pursued him, calling to him desperately.