Emile wet lips that had gone dry. “How did you get these patents?”
Christopher shrugged. “Is that relevant? I’m sorry, but I shall not tell you. I have them; that is sufficient. It cost me practically every penny I had.
“But let us not digress so much. We all know that Germany is re-arming at a furious rate, and that Robsons-Strong’s Italian branch is manufacturing armaments for Germany, and Mussolini is gun-running them into that country. We know that Schultz-Poiret are madly competing, and that within a few short years Germany will be the most formidable military power in Europe. The Treaty of Versailles is completely a dead letter. Germany has at least 1,000,000 men under arms, with the furtive connivance and approval of Britain. And only yesterday, L’Echo of Paris soberly declared that Germany cannot remain disarmed in the center of Europe, though it did not go into the reasons why not! ‘Schultz-Poiret’s other Parisian newspaper openly approves a larger German army. And so, the arms race is on again, and in time there will be another war, vaster and more profitable than the last.”
Emile was still shaken, but he shook his head with a derisive smile. “I suppose you have a casus belli, too?”
“Don’t be childish, Emile.” This was Francis speaking, for the first time. He had moved in his chair, and had lighted another cigar. “Let us stick to business. The casus belli will take care of itself. Trust the patriots.”
“And the clergy, and the press—and the Bouchards,” added Hugo, laughing.
Then Christopher went on to tell his brother about the dummy president and dummy officers he had at the head of Duval-Bonnet. The local Chamber of Commerce was co-öperating, and minding its own business. However, money, and a very great deal, was needed at once. That is where Francis, Hugo and Emile came in.
Emile, growing more excited every moment, and flushing deeper, was yet suspicious. He kept glancing at Francis and Hugo pleadingly, hoping to exchange covert smiles with them at Christopher’s expense. But they did not answer his pleas. Finally he said: “But what about Jay Regan? You were always his pet, just as our father was. Why don’t you ask him to finance you? He would do it, on the strength of these prints alone, and then again, for friendship. He and his associates have always been Bouchard’s closest friends.” Christopher smiled sardonically. His motionless eyes studied his brother’s face with a sort of stony bleakness. “And Regan has always been one of our largest stockholders, too, and incidentally, of Parsons Airplane. Do you think he’d cut his throat with one hand and put on the bandages with the other? If he took such a chance, he would want the controlling stock. You know him. No, thanks.
“Now, this is my plan: Duval-Bonnet, that is, we, will incorporate for ten million dollars, and issue one millinn shares of common stock at ten dollars par. I will retain fifty-one per cent of the stock. You three can buy any amount you wish at eight dollars a share, before it is listed on the Stock Exchange. I expect the stock to reach fifteen dollars when the information about our big Russian orders has been released to the press. The present dummy staff will continue to operate. We stay discreetly in the dark.”
The storm had come up without their noticing it. Now the same savage crash that had so unnerved Estelle detonated over the great house. The walls shook. A few moments later the windows were streaming cataracts, and the trees outside were groaning.
But the storm was merely background for the storm that went on inside Francis’ sitting room.
For now it developed that Christopher was asking that the forty-nine per cent of the stock, to be purchased by the three others, be paid for in common stock of Bouchard and Sons.
Francis and Hugo already knew of this, and had made their agreements with Christopher. The interests of these two were with Kinsolving Anms; they had no particular regret in parting with a portion of their Bouchard stock. But it was different with Emile. His interests were bound up deeply with Bouchard and Sons. He was in a dreadful state. His cupidity, secret but malignant hatred for Armand, and envy, and inordinate lust for power and influence, had been fully aroused by Christopher. His vivid imagination had already ascended the mountain of probability, and had seen the distant and splendid landscape. Nevertheless, he rapidly passed from derisive skepticism to reasoning, from pleading to threats, from offers to counter-offers, and then back to threats again. Christopher, he declared, his face and thick neck a bright purplish red, could go to hell with his comic-opera company. He, Emile, would have no part in this.
Francis and Hugo enjoyed this raving and threatening and shouting very much. They sat back in their chairs, Francis with his frigid half-smile, and Hugo with his jovial politician’s grin. They knew very well that nothing on earth could persuade Emile to relinquish this opportunity. They, knew what passions the idea had already aroused, what turbulence it had brought boiling to the surface. They knew, too, that Christopher knew all this, and their enjoyment was all the more. For Christopher merely sat quietly, presenting to them his bitter razor-profile, his enigmatic smile. When Emile would pause for breath, Christopher’s sharp and unemotional voice would cut in, repeating the terms.
The daily masquerade of friendship between the brothers had been ruthlessly dropped. Christopher had never been deceived about Emile. But Emile, who had been vastly the better off, due to Jules’ will and to his own position as vicepresident of Bouchard and Sons, had sadly underestimated Christopher. No one had enjoyed Christopher’s humiliation at the hands of Jules more than he. No one had chuckled with more pleasure on learning the terms of the will. Too, Agnes had brought him an immense fortune. All in all, Christopher, in comparison, had been the “poor relation.” In consequence of all this, Emile’s manner towards his younger brother had always been more than slightly patronizing and tinged with good-natured chaffing. At times it had been positively indulgent, and his voice had frequently had a cavalier undertone in it. When Armand had given those very generous gifts to Christopher, impelled by his uneasy conscience and apprehension, Emile had internally raged. When Christopher made-a brilliant suggestion, Emile also applauded with the others, but there had always been a little mockery in his applause, and secret resentment. He never, as was his usual custom, made derogatory remarks about Christopher, but he would always laugh the loudest at the remarks of others. Christopher’s coolness and silence, intellect and subtlety, never failed to enrage Emile, for they made his own volubility, coarseness and ribaldry the more offensive. Once Agnes had declared that Christopher was the closest approach to a gentleman that the Bouchard family had produced, and Emile had another grudge to hold against his brother.
Emile had been under the impression that Christopher had a thick skin, or, with reason, had seen his own inferiority and had meekly accepted the results of it. Now, as he sat opposite Emile, unperturbed and enigmatic and full of aloof contempt, Emile saw very clearly that Christopher’s skin had not been thick, and neither had he realized or accepted any “inferiority.” Emile saw that Christopher despised him, and had nothing but malignance for him, and that he was enjoying this moment perhaps more than any other moment in his life. Instead of this enraging Emile the more, it frightened him, for he was a natural lackey at heart, and servile to those stronger than himself.
His hatred increased with his fright, and his cupidity was greater than both. Nevertheless, he clearly saw what game Christopher was playing.
“You want to get more control of Bouchard!” he shouted. “You slippery little rat! But I won’t give it to you! I’ll spike your guns; I know what you’re up to. And unless you withdraw your unreasonable demands I’ll feel justified in informing Armand about the whole thing.”
He had got to his feet. His big, but rather short, legs were planted far apart, his massive shoulders bent as though he were about to charge. His arms were long in proportion to his legs, and swung like the arms of an anthropoid in a rage. His short thick neck was thrust forward; his big jowled face was darkly flushed, and his small jet eyes glittered with malevolence and fury.
No one was pertu
rbed; Hugo continued to grin. Christopher merely looked at his brother with his “Egyptian” eyes. But Francis spoke coldly:
“I wouldn’t even consider telling Armand, if I were you, Emile. You own quite a lot of Parsons stock, don’t you? Yes. You see, if you tell Armand, we’ll have to move fast. We own some Parsons, too; we’ll dump that on the market. Worse, we’ll make our airplane plans public, and you know what news about the superiority of our bombers will do to Parsons stock right now! That little French order, for instance, is in a critical stage. No doubt it will be withdrawn immediately.” He shook his head sadly. “Let us see: just how much money will you lose in the ruin of Parsons? Too, too much, I am afraid.”
Hugo chuckled. “Whereas, if you are sensible, you will be able to buy a lot more of Parsons stock later. In the meantime, we’ll keep ours, and keep up its price, in spite of Duval-Bonnet.”
Emile directed all his attention now to Hugo and Francis. He made a gesture of despair. “But don’t you see? He is conniving to get control of Bouchard and Sons! I don’t know how he will do it, but I have a feeling he will—”
Francis shrugged. “Christopher in control of Bouchard will be an immense advantage for the company. Armand is a tub of lard. But Chris isn’t a superman, after all. Don’t flatter him,” and he smiled.
Emile simmered in his rage and hatred and despair. But he was less panic-stricken now. It was absurd, of course, the idea that Christopher would be able to gain control of Bouchard. Emile gave a short bitter laugh. However, his apprehension persisted. He sat down. He chewed his lips and glowered at his boots.
He was silent for a long time, while the rain roared at the windows. When he looked up, he saw that Christopher had gone to the windows and was looking out at the dark windswept gardens. Something in his attitude reminded Emile of their father.
Emile spoke at last with sullen bitterness: “I see you rats have got me in a corner. All right! Count me in with you.”
He regarded them somberly. “But I think it’s a dirty trick on old Armand.”
The others stared at him unbelievingly for a moment. Then they burst into genuine shouts of laughter. Even Christopher, turning from the window, was convulsed with mirth. And after a few scowling moments, Emile joined them, at first sheepishly, and then loudly.
CHAPTER XV
Alice Barbour Bouchard, mother of Henri and Edith, “the exiles,” had married the youngest brother of Jules, François, in 1898. Alice was the granddaughter of the “Old Devil,” Ernest Barbour, founder of Bouchard and Sons, and a great heiress. The marriage had been manipulated by Jules Bouchard, for the purpose of pirating the control of Bouchard and Sons, which had originally been called Barbour-Bouchard. It had been a clever manipulation, and had made him several mortal enemies, which had not troubled him in the least.
François had always been a “miserable thing,” and had passionately believed himself a poetic genius. At any rate, he was nothing else. Young Alice, seventeen years his junior, had also believed in the authenticity of his genius. They had gone to live at Robin’s Nest, a beautiful suburban estate built by Alice’s parents. There an amazing change had come over Alice, “the starry-eyed little imbecile” (to quote Jules). She no longer cared to sit with her feverish husband, discussing his soul and his soul-malaise. She no longer wrote bad poetry, or any sort of poetry. She became the shiningly wholesome petty bourgeoise housewife. She bore François two children, Henri and Edith, and managed them adequately. She also managed her husband. She managed him so well that when Edith was fifteen and Henri was fourteen, François committed suicide, in February, 1915.
The suicide was a profound shock to all the Bouchards, though they had despised François, and had come to suspect his adequate, hard-eyed young wife. No one, in their awkwardness and resentment, seemed to know just what to do, except Jules, as usual. It was he who managed everything. It was he who plotted everything. And so it was, when he called upon his sister-in-law, five days after her husband’s funeral, that he had it all laid out in his mind, all the guns charged, all the maneuvers ready.
He had chosen a time to call upon his sister-in-law when he was certain she would not be receiving sympathetic friends and relatives. It was ten o’clock in the morning. Fifteen-year-old Edith and fourteen-year-old Henri were still at home, and decidedly bored at this enforced absence from their private schools. They had known very little of their chronically distressed and melancholy father, who had lived a somber life apart in his own rooms on the third floor, and who, when he appeared at the table at night, seemed fumbling and bewildered and dimly suffering. He never lectured them or crossed them, as did their mother, though occasionally, when they chattered too much at dinner, or quarrelled (at the instigation of their mother) he would scream at them suddenly and violently, as though they had intruded upon a slowly tortuous pain. At rare times he would speak to them, and question them about their lives and their lessons, but always with that distressed expression on his dark emaciated face, as though he were speaking mechanically over torment. But he gave little evidence of any affection for them; rather, they appeared to frighten him and make him suspicious. He was uneasy and hesitant with them, and knew they ridiculed him. Sometimes they infuriated him when they made a row in their own rooms, and he heard them, and when his blazing eyes and tormented face appeared at their door, and he shrieked at them, they gloated even in their fright and nervousness.
They were sharp children in many ways, mentally and physically. They had sharp cold eyes, sharp lips, sharp bony faces, sharp darting hands, sharp shoulders and sharp voices and manners. At an early age they had discerned that their mother both indulged and patronized their father. Alice had developed a very brittle and authoritative voice, which dominated everything in her household. It was never so brittle and authoritative as when speaking to François, whom she treated like an overgrown and half-witted child. Later, they discerned that she no longer indulged him, but patronized him and despised him. They took their attitude from her, and when in contact with their father, patronized and despised him also.
They knew that he had once written poems. There was a red morocco copy of them in their mother’s sitting room, as late as Henri’s seventh birthday. But after that they were no longer in evidence, nor was a copy to be found. Once, about a year ago, Edith had asked idly about her father’s poetry, and Alice had smiled a little tightly, as though acidly amused. Sometimes, when a maid reported that they were making a great deal of noise in their rooms, Alice would appear with great irritation, and in a loud and meaningful voice, and with a glance at François’ doors, would tell them to be quiet, and did they wish to disturb their father, who was no doubt composing a magnificent poem today? Before she was out of their hearing, they would giggle in the hallway, but Alice would never glance back admonishingly, and the giggling would continue until their governess, in despair, would literally drag them away.
The governess, Miss Hathaway, had been dismissed six months before François’ suicide. She had been a member of the household since Henri had reached his fourth birthday and the nursemaids had been dismissed. Jules Bouchard had known her quite well, for she was a youngish woman of dignity and breeding, who ate with the family at home dinners. He had admired her very much, for, though she was not at all pretty, and was in her middle-thirties, she yet had a species of beauty. Her skin was a pale clear tan, vibrant and colorless, and she had a wide full mouth, darkly red, firm yet gentle. Her eyes were brown and disconcertingly clear, and very intelligent.
For the rest, she had straight gleaming brown hair, which she wore in a smooth pompadour above a wide low brow. She was tall, too thin for the prevailing style, and invariably wore clothing exclusively of the Gibson Girl type: sleek shirtwaists, high boned collars and serge skirts, and sailor hats. The Bouchard children made much fun of this outmoded dress of Miss Hathaway’s, which was very conspicuous in a day of luxuriant hairy puffs and curls and “bangs” and fringes, “peek-a-boo” georgette blouses and satin camisoles,
polished kid boots with thin tall heels, slit hobble skirts surmounted by flaring wired peplums, and gay toques aswirl with drooping ostrich feathers. She seemed grotesquely out of date in an era of tangoes, “bunny hugs,” “turkey trots,” and two-steps, Teddy Roosevelt and big red automobiles, ragtime and Irene Castle, militant suffragettes and “parlor socialism,” and all the glitter, the bold rouged faces, the noise and raucous clamor, and intense vulgar fever that had taken possession of America in the first decade of the Nineteen-hundreds. This was probably because she was a lady, and ladies were already going out of style with gay speed. No one could imagine her reading the new “daring” books or attending the new and delicious “problem plays.” Neither could anyone imagine her as having (O delightful and naughty and thrilling word!) “sex.”
Alice had never liked Miss Hathaway, but everyone assured her enviously that she had a treasure in this graduate of Vassar and daughter of a minister who had died in poverty but with a reputation for great learning. Moreover, Miss Hathaway’s ancestors had been among those who had founded Windsor, and though her father’s house had been dingy and small and leaking, it had also been firmly fixed in the very center of Oldtown. Everything about her was impeccable, which was partly the reason for Alice’s dislike.
She had been dismissed rather abruptly, for Alice explained that the children no longer needed her. They went immediately to private schools in Windsor, and next year it was arranged that Edith was to go to a finishing school in New York. Miss Hathaway had apparently not sought another post as yet: she was in the dingy leaking old house, living with her father’s old maiden aunt, reported to be over eighty, whom Miss Hathaway supported, assisted by a very meager annuity left her by her father.
Jules was taken to Alice’s sitting room on the second floor, where he found her just finishing her breakfast coffee. Her tray was still before her, and the silver coffee pot and silver service and fine china gleamed in the mingled light of red fire and sun. The large luxurious room, with its white bearskin rugs and pale green damask furniture and gold satin window draperies and rich thick rugs, was warm and quiet and fragrant with the scent of coffee and bowls of roses. Outside, dry bitter snow lay on the window ledges, and there was a view of black trees coated in crystal and snow-patched brown lawns and curving driveways.