When the two Americans were alone in the taxi, the father chuckled, and said: “Look out for yourself, kid!”
“That really was a bid, wasn’t it?” inquired the youth.
“A royal command,” declared the other. “You can make a bigger deal than I can. All you have to do is arrange for a regiment or two of doughboys to help the British protect Batum from the Bolsheviks!”
VIII
Lanny settled down to his new work, which was studying the manners and customs of the Georgians. They had several delegations in Paris, and word spread, quite literally with the speed of lightning, that Professor Alston at the Crillon had been charged with deciding their fate. They all came at once—even though many of them were not on speaking terms with one another. They were large, tall men with wide mustaches, and for the most part wore their national costumes—some because they had no others, and some because they had learned that it was good propaganda. The costumes included long coats of hairy goatskin, high soft boots, and large bonnets of astrakhan. Their French and English were rudimentary, and those who spoke the difficult native tongue would become so excited that they forgot to stop and give their translators a chance. Their idea of persuading you was by a kind of baptismal rite; they would put their faces close to yours and talk with such vehemence that they enveloped you in a fine salivary spray, which went into your eyes and which good manners forbade you to wipe away.
When they couldn’t get hold of the professor, his secretary would do, so Lanny submitted to this rite for hours at a time. He had to meet various groups and individuals and sort them out, and try to discover what it was which caused them to sit glowering at one another. They all hated and dreaded the Bolsheviks, but differed as to the way to resist them and who was to rule after the victory had been won. There were aristocrats and democrats, land owners and peasants, clericals and Socialist intellectuals, all the warring groups, as in French politics. All were acutely aware of the treasure which lay beneath the surface of their country, and some were thinking what a noble civilization could be built with its help. But unfortunately these were idealists who lacked experience in oil production; on the other hand, those who had the experience were in the pay of some foreign interest seeking concessions. All these lied shamelessly, and Lanny, who hadn’t had much experience with liars, had to work hard for every fact he reported to his chief.
The plight of the little country was precarious. Toward the end of the war the Germans had seized it, along with the Ukraine; the armistice had forced them to vacate, and the French had sent a small army into the Ukraine, while the British had taken Batum on the Black Sea and Baku on the Caspian, and were policing the railroad and the pipelines by which the oil was brought out. But meanwhile the Bolsheviks were swarming like bees all about them, using their dreadful new weapon of class incitement, arousing peasants and workers against the invasion of “foreign capitalism.” They were now driving the French out of Kiev, and literally rotting their armies with propaganda. How long would the British armies stand the strain? Men who had set out cheerfully to unhorse the hated Kaiser considered that they had done their job and wanted to go home; what business had their rulers keeping them in the Caucasus to protect oil wells for Zaharoff the Greek and Deterding the Dutchman?
It was that way all over Eastern and Central Europe. The soldiers and sailors of Russia had overthrown their Tsar, the soldiers and sailors of Germany had driven their Kaiser into exile, and now the soldiers and sailors of the Allies were demanding: “What is all this about? Why are we shooting these peasants?” In Siberia the American troops were meeting the Reds and feeling sorry for them, exactly as Lanny had felt for those he had met in his uncle’s tenement room. The armies were disintegrating, discipline was relaxing, and officers were alarmed as they never had been by the German invasion.
So, of course, the elder statesmen in Paris were having an unhappy time; their generals in the field were pulling them one way and the great industrialists and financiers at home were pulling them the other. Coal and oil, iron and copper—were they going to let the Reds take these treasures and use them to prove that workers could run industry for themselves? There was a clamor for war in all the big-business press, and in the parliaments, and it turned the Peace Conference into a hell of intrigue and treachery. To be there was like walking on the floor of a volcano, and wherever you thrust your staff into the ground, it began to quake, and fumes shot out and boiling lava oozed up.
IX
The Georgian question, with which Lanny was occupied, was one of the hottest spots. Since the province had been a part of the old empire of the Tsar, the Georgians had been invited to send delegates to Prinkipo. President Wilson had proposed this conference, and the Council of Ten had unanimously voted it—and that had included the French. But now, what was this that the excited Georgians were stammering into the face of the shrinking Lanny Budd? They were trying to find out from him if there was going to be any Prinkipo, if the Americans really wanted it, if it was safe for the Georgians to attend. When the youth questioned them he learned that Pichon, the French Foreign Minister, had been telling them that it was all a mistake, there wasn’t going to be any conference, the Bolsheviks wouldn’t come and couldn’t be trusted if they did.
Lanny reported this to his chief, and both of them tried to find out more. It appeared that the French were advising all the Russian Whites in Paris to oppose the proposal and refuse to attend; they were saying that the Reds had fooled Wilson into believing in their good faith; but France was not to be fooled, and would continue to support the Whites with arms and money, and if they held on they would have their estates and fortunes returned to them. More than once French agents went so far as to threaten the Georgians that, if they supported Prinkipo, they would themselves be regarded as Bolsheviks and expelled from France. So these strangers in a strange land didn’t dare whisper the truth to an American until he had pledged his word not to name the source of his information. “What shall we do, Mr. Budd? Will President Wilson protect us?”
And here was Winston Churchill, powerful war minister, scholar, and orator, appearing before the Supreme Council to denounce the Bolsheviks and demand war upon them in the name of humanity, Christianity, and his ancestor, the fighting Duke of Marlborough. Here was Lord Curzon, whom his associates described as “a very superior purzon,” making his appeal especially for Georgia—his lordship had visited that mountainous land in his youth, and had romantic memories of it, and didn’t want these memories disturbed by dialectical materialism.
And Zaharoff! He appeared before no councils, for he was neither scholar nor orator, and had no ancestors to boast of; but he had powerful voices to speak for him. If you could believe Robbie Budd, one of these voices was that of the squat little Frenchman with the white walrus mustaches and black skull-cap who sat at the head of the conference table and choked off debate with his “Adopté!” Robbie said that “the Tiger” had been Zaharoff’s friend for years, and both his brother and his son were directors in Zaharoff’s companies. If you wanted to understand a politician you mustn’t pay too much attention to his speeches, but find out who were his paymasters. A politician couldn’t rise in public life, in France any more than in America, unless he had the backing of big money, and it was in times of crisis like this that he paid his debts.
X
A day or two after Robbie sailed for home, Lanny received a confirmation of his “royal command”; a little note from María del Pilar Antonia Angela Patrocino Simón de Muguiro y Berute, Duquesa de Marqueni y Villafranca de los Caballeros. She didn’t sign all that, of course. She requested the pleasure of his company at tea the following afternoon; and Lanny showed the note to Alston, who said: “Go by all means and see what it’s about.” So, looking his best in formal afternoon attire, the youth alighted from a taxicab in front of 53, Avenue Hoche, and presented his hat and stick to the black-clad butler, and was escorted upstairs to the drawing room with the Spanish masters on the walls and the elaborate tea s
ervice on an inlaid Louis Quinze table.
The duquesa’s daughters were as shy and as strictly brought up as Lanny had imagined them; they had large dark eyes and long lashes which they lowered like curtains when a handsome young American gazed too directly. They were clad alike in blue chiffon tea gowns, and blushes came and went in all four of their cheeks. It was evident that they found their visitor interesting; he had come recently from a far-off land which they saw enlarged and glorified on the motion-picture screen. It really seemed as if Lanny was considered what the French call a parti, an eligible person. He was expected to display his charms, and gladly did so.
He entertained three aristocratic ladies with stories of the leading personalities of the greatest show on earth. More than once it had happened that he had been waiting in anterooms when the great ones had come forth chatting, and he had heard what they said; also he knew the anecdotes which were going the rounds. Thus, Arthur Balfour and Clemenceau had appeared at some function, the former with his “topper” and all the trimmings, the latter in a bowler hat. His lordship in a spirit of noblesse oblige had remarked: “I was told to wear formal dress”; to which “the Tiger,” with his mischievous twinkle, replied: “So was I.”
Also the story of Premier Hughes of Australia, a labor leader who had fought his way up in a rough world; a violent little man who had become deaf, and carried with him a hearing machine which he set up on the table. He defied President Wilson, declaring that what his country had got it meant to keep. This delighted Clemenceau, for if Australia kept what she had got, it would mean that France might keep hers. So when they were arranging for another session, Clemenceau remarked to Lloyd George: “Come—and bring your savages with you!”
XI
Presently the master of the house came in, and tea was served; he too was interested in the stories, and it was like a family party. Until finally the ladies arose and excused themselves, and Lanny was alone with the old gray wolf.
It was really a fascinating thing to watch; most educational for a young man with a possible future in the diplomatic world. The perfection of a Grand Officer’s technique: the velvety softness of manner, the kindness, the cordiality, even affection; the gentle, insinuating voice; the subtle flattery of an old man asking advice from a young one; the fatherly attitude, the strong offering security to the weak. Won’t you walk into my parlor? It is warm, and the cushions are soft, and there is no sweeter honey provided for any fly.
What the munitions king wanted, of course, was for Lanny to become his spy in the Crillon; to circulate among the staff, ask questions, pick up valuable items, and bring them quickly to his employer—or should we say his friend, his backer, perhaps his father-in-law? Nothing was said about this directly; it is only in old fairy stories that the king says: “Go out and slay the seven-headed dragon, and I will give you my daughter’s hand.” In the modern world men have learned to convey their meaning with a glance or a smile.
Lanny had read of the Temptation on the Mount in two synoptic narratives. In that ancient trial Satan had shown all the kingdoms of the earth, but had overlooked the greatest treasure of all. Perhaps the high mountain had been a bad choice and it would have been wiser to invite his victim to the home of one of the rich and mighty of the kingdom, and let him see dark eyes peering seductively from behind the curtains of a seraglio.
Lanny had inspected what Zaharoff had to offer and he knew that it was good. These young women had been brought up in a convent and were unspoiled by the world; their hearts were in a susceptible state, and Lanny could have made himself agreeable and stood a chance at either. He had only to bring his daily meed of news and the way would have been made smooth for him; he would have been left alone with the one of his choice and they would have looked at engravings together, played music, strolled in the garden, and whispered the secrets of eager young hearts.
Of course Zaharoff may not have meant it seriously; but why not? He might have done worse. A youth who was pleasing and intelligent, who had got himself a start in the great world, and with a fortune behind him, could have gone to the top in diplomacy, politics, finance. And what more could the youth have asked? Either one of the young women would have made him a good wife. He was sure they were Zaharoff’s daughters, and therefore the taint of insanity was not in their blood. He had seen that the old man was food of them, and would make a helpful father-in-law; it wouldn’t be long before Lanny would be in control of the greatest fortune in the world.
All he had to do was to be as tactful as the munitions king himself. He didn’t need to say: “I accept your offer and will betray my trust.” No, no; his speech would have been: “I appreciate your position, and how greatly you are inconvenienced by the blundering of the diplomats. If at any time I have information that will be of use to you, I’ll be most happy to bring it—of course purely as an act of friendship, and without any thought of reward.” That was the way Robbie hired his agents—those of the high class, who got the biggest pay.
XII
Such things were being done all the time in the great world; and why didn’t Lanny accept? Was it because he knew how his father despised Zaharoff? Not entirely; for Lanny’s father despised President Wilson, yet Lanny had come to think that President Wilson was in many ways a great man; not equal to his present tasks, perhaps, but far better than the politicians with whom he was dealing. Lanny was coming to think highly of many of the Crillon staff; he had even permitted himself to have good thoughts about the Bolsheviks he had met, although his father couldn’t find words enough to denounce them.
Was it because he wasn’t impressed by the young ladies? He couldn’t say that, because he hadn’t seen enough of them; and young ladies are always interesting to investigate, at the least. You met them everywhere you turned here in Paris, where so many of the young men were in the ground with white crosses over them, or else living in barracks along the German frontier, or in Salonika and Odessa and Syria and Algiers—so many places you couldn’t keep track of them.
Was it perhaps because Lanny had in his heart an image of an English girl with broad brow and smooth, straw-colored hair and a gentle manner reminding him of his mother? That girl was married now to the young nobleman in the British War Office. Did she love her husband? Was she going to be a true and faithful wife? Or would she continue getting her ideas from “free women”? Lanny knew that the women had at last got the ballot in Britain, so Rosemary wouldn’t have to carry any more hatchets into the National Gallery. When she wrote, it was one of her brief, uncommunicative letters; he would have to go and see her, before he would know how to think about her in the future.
Nobody could have been more polite than Lanny to his elderly host. He said that nobody really knew whether there was going to be any Prinkipo conference; the French were working against it—Lanny smiled inwardly, well knowing that Zaharoff was one of the hardest of the workers.
“There’s no doubt,” the youth added, “that President Wilson means what he says, the American troops are going to find a way to withdraw from the fighting.” And when Zaharoff brought up another subject, he replied: “I really don’t know what’s going to happen at Batum. The British can’t seem to make up their minds. Have you heard the bad news as to the troubles of the French in the Ukraine?”
All that was sparring, of course; and Zaharoff knew it. He knew what it meant when Lanny explained that, unfortunately, on the few occasions when he did get advance news of the Crillon’s intentions, it was always confidential, and so his lips were sealed. The munitions king realized that he had wasted his afternoon. He didn’t show any signs of irritation, but brought the interview politely to a close and parted from the youth on terms which would make it possible for the duquesa to invite him again.
But she didn’t; and Lanny didn’t see those shy and well-bred young ladies for quite a while—until he met one of them as the wife of an English ship owner who was said to be helping Zaharoff secretly re-arm Germany. He learned that the other one had married
a nobleman and gone to live in Constantinople, where she had become celebrated for the protection she offered to the pariah dogs of that city. The wheel of fate had made a circle, and a portion of Zaharoff’s fortune had returned to the place from which it had made its not so creditable start!
29
A Friend in Need
I
The Supreme Council was now going ahead under full steam. They were hearing the claims of the small nationalities, and it was proving a tedious process. As the Americans reported it, Dmowski, presenting the case of Poland, began with the fourteenth century at eleven o’clock in the morning, and reached 1919 at four in the afternoon. Next day came Beneš to present the claims of the Czechs, and he began a century earlier and finished an hour later.
Professor Alston had to be there, for no one could say at what moment an American commissioner might beckon to him and ask some question; Lanny had to be there, because of the heavy portfolios, and also because the professor’s French couldn’t cope with the outbursts of Clemenceau, who used not merely the slang of the boulevards, but that of the underworld—many of his ejaculations being so obscene that Lanny was embarrassed to translate them and the recorders of the proceedings had to be told to expurgate them.