Armand’s flush grew darker, and his eyes shifted. He said coldly: “I don’t know what you mean. It sounds foolish and sentimental, to me. This is the twentieth century, and Celeste isn’t a child. I don’t know what you mean!” He got up and went to the window, presenting his thick shoulders, broad body and short thick legs to her. He thrust his hands deeply in his pockets and jingled the coins in them. The sound must have comforted him, for he glanced over his shoulder at his mother: “Anyway, what could I do?”
She got up and went to him, putting her mottled hand on his arm. He looked down into her face sullenly, glanced away again.
“Armand dear, you can find out why Christopher wants her to marry Henri.”
She felt him start perceptibly. She saw his jowls tighten, though he stared obstinately out of the window. “Don’t be sentimental, Mother. It sounds like the Bride of Lammer-moor. If Chris wants Celeste to marry Henri it is because he feels as I do: that the match is a good one.” He paused, then turned swiftly to his mother. She was startled by the change in his face. His eyes were hard and glittering. “What makes you think he wants this marriage? And why should he, particularly?”
Adelaide regarded him steadfastly for a long moment or two before she spoke, and then she said: “I don’t know, Armand. But you can be sure that it is more than just a ‘good match for Celeste.’”
She went back to her chair and sat down. She watched him standing at the window, his back to her. She thought: Perhaps it was wrong of me to suggest treachery from Christopher. Perhaps it was wrong to sow suspicion between brothers, when there is no ground for it. But I would do anything to save Celeste.
Now Armand came back to his desk. He stood beside it, nervously fingering the paper knife; he would not look at his mother.
“The only thing I can do is to find out if Celeste is unwilling to marry Henri, or if she really cares about him. All I can do is to point out the advantages of a longer acquaintance—after all, she has known him only a little while, barely six months.” Now he looked at her with harassed eyes. “She is having dinner with Annette tonight, isn’t she? I’ll talk to her, if I can find an opportunity.”
After his mother had gone, Armand sat in deep and uneasy thought for some time. He gnawed his lips. He took up his pen a dozen times, laid it down. His secretaries came in, and he ordered them not to bother him for a time. Finally he got up and went back to Christopher’s office. Just as he was about to open the door he heard his brother telephoning: “Francis’? I’ve tried to get you all morning. Can you spare an hour tonight? I want to talk to you about something of importance which has just arrived. Yes. That’s right. At your club? All right. At nine, then.”
Armand closed the door silently, and went away. His heart was beating thickly. He said to himself: Nonsense; I am a fool. What could they do to me? I shouldn’t have let Mother poison my mind. It’s all nonsense. Probably some speculation they’re both in on. If I go on like this, I’ll be an old woman, too.
Then all at once he seemed to see his younger brother’s face.
He went into Emile’s office. Emile was dictating letters at his dictaphone, and he nodded pleasantly at Armand and indicated a chair, not stopping his flow of dictation. Armand sat down. He put his fingers together across his big belly and began to twiddle his thumbs. His eyes were more harassed than ever. Finally Emile had done. He turned to his brother and smiled affably. “Well. What’s on your mind? You look worried.” Armand did not know what to say, exactly. He pursed up his lips. Then he said: “It looks as though Parsons are going to lose that French order, too. Duval-Bonnet is after it. What are we going to do?”
Emile compressed his mouth and shook his head somberly.
“I don’t know. It’s the devil, isn’t it? Bob Stressman writes from London that they’re interested in Duval-Bonnet, too.” Armand moved restlessly, crossed his legs. “But we can’t sit back and do nothing! Can’t we hamstring them, or something? Can’t we investigate the patents, and find them fraudulent? Surely to God there are ways! We’ve tried to buy them out; we’ve tried to find out who is behind them. It’s come to nothing. But it’s never been our way to accept defeat, especially on anything as important as this. I tell you what: I’m going to New York to have a talk with Endicott James. We’ll have patents investigated. That’s always a good way to hamstring a new company.”
Emile regarded him seriously, and again shook his head. “I’m sorry, Armand. We’ve just tried that. Christopher wrote to them last week. Didn’t he tell you? Here is Endicott James’ reply,” and he opened his drawer and withdrew a letter. “You see, they admit they can do nothing, though they’ve searched all the records.”
Armand read the letter gloomily, then flung it aside. He stared at his brother. “Then, let’s compromise with Duval-Bonnet Get them in with us. After all, we can offer them a lot.”
Emile smiled oddly. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. We’ll just have to increase the quality of Parsons’ own craft, that’s all. It’s the very devil!”
There was a pause. Neither spoke. Armand gloomily studied his boots. Then he looked up, unexpectedly. He caught the most secret and most inimical expression on Emile’s face. It all happened in a flash.. The expression changed to one of sympathetic interest and smiling humor. But Armand was profoundly shocked. Something seemed to drop in his chest, then turn over. He thought: He’s in it, too, with Chris. But what in the name of Christ is it?
He heard himself saying: “There’s a rumor around that the engagement between Celeste and Henri is going to be announced soon. Is there any truth in this?”
Emile answered pleasantly: “I don’t know yet. You know as much about it as I do. It will be a fine marriage for the little girl, won’t it? Keeping everything in the family.”
“I’m not so sure,” replied Armand slowly, feeling his way through words as through brush. “Celeste hasn’t had much experience knowing other men. She’s been too sheltered. I think she ought to take her time. I’m going to advise her about it tonight. She’s having dinner with us.”
Emile said nothing, but Armand’s sharpened eyes saw a subtle change in the smile. It had become less pleasant. He got up. “Well, anyway, Emile, don’t fail to look into the Duval-Bonnet matter more, will you?”
He went to the door. He had just reached it when it opened from the other side and Christopher entered. When he saw Armand he smiled, but did not speak. His transparent nostrils distended just a trifle. He backed away.
“Never mind, never mind,” said Armand, shouldering through the door. “It’s nothing important. I’m going, anyway.”
The door closed after him. Armand stood outside, against his will. He tried to move away, but could not. He heard nothing inside the room. There was the most complete silence. After a few moments he colored painfully, observing the interest with which Christopher’s secretary was regarding him. Stiffening, he walked away from the door, and went back to his own office.
Once there, he sat down heavily, his lip thrust out. He put his hands in his pockets and jingled the coins. He sat in thought for a long time. Then he picked up his telephone and called his mother. She answered almost immediately, and he thought her voice sounded agitated and weak.
“Mother, I’ve been thinking over what you said. I’ll surely talk to Celeste tonight. Don’t worry—”
She answered faintly: “Christopher just called a minute ago. He said that he wished Celeste to stay at home tonight, as Henri had mentioned coming after dinner.”
There was a short pause, then Armand said: “Ah. I see. I almost expected that. You were right, Mother. Never mind, never mind. What did you tell him?”
“I told him that Celeste was not at home.” Her voice dropped almost to a whisper. “But she’s upstairs, having her music lesson. I told him she was away at lunch with some friends, and would probably not return until late tonight, as she would probably go on to your home. So he has left word with your wife, Mary, to tell Celeste to return to Endur immediatel
y, when she arrives.”
Again there was a pause. Armand spoke again, clearing his throat: “I see. I see. Mother, will you please tell Celeste that Annette is not feeling well today, and would like to have her come over this afternoon? Then she can remain afterwards, for dinner. In the meantime, I’ll call Mary, and explain that it is all right for Celeste to remain.”
He hung up. He felt quite sick.
It had been pure fiction, contrived by Christopher, of course. For Henri knew nothing of the alleged invitation to call at Endur that night. Had he known, it would have been impossible for him to have gone. The reason for this was that at that precise moment he was in the offices of Washington’s richest and most unscrupulous patent lawyers. He was having a very confidential and interesting interview with Mr. Thomas Burke, senior member of the firm. On the table before them were spread all the blueprints of Duval-Bonnet’s marvelous bombers.
Later that afternoon, the uneasy Armand called Nicholas Bouchard at the bank. His cousin’s harsh voice changed to one as friendly as possible. Armand hardly knew what to say at first. Then he said abruptly: “Nick, I’ve heard that my sister Celeste’s engagement to Henri may be announced very shortly. My mother thinks the marriage unsuitable. She—she implied that Christopher might be interested in the marriage, without regard to the little girl’s own happiness. She implied he might possibly be engineering this marriage—. What do you think?”
There was a considerable pause. Then Nicholas spoke, roughly and cautiously: “Jean was here this morning. What we said might interest you. I advised him not to mention it to you yet. Until we knew more. I think, though, you ought to know all we know, now. Don’t say anything more. You can’t tell what sneaks you’ve got there in your office.”
CHAPTER XIX
Annette Bouchard was playing one of her own compositions for her young aunt, Celeste. The big quiet room was all gray shadow, except for the dim scarlet of the fire. The reflection of the snow outside lay along upper wall and ceiling. Little Annette herself was only a small shadow. But her delicate moving hands seemed to catch the spectral reflection of the snow on themselves, and they shone with a pale luster in the indefinite gloom.
Two young girls were sitting in Annette’s own sitting-room on the fourth floor of the great mansion on the river. Annette had a suite of four rooms, in which she lived like a recluse with her personal maid. Her mother, a pinched, busy, acid little woman, had nagged and complained for years about the solitary habits of her daughter. But without any appreciable results beyond Annette’s occasional surrender at a dinner party. However, even Mary Bouchard had been forced to see how the girl had suffered at her own debut, and so, beyond fixed social obligations, she let her alone. Annette had furnished her apartment herself. For some strange reason this frail little creature, who looked like nothing else but a small hurt bird, liked massive dark furniture about her, furniture solid and heavy and cumbersome. Her huge bed had mahogany carved posts almost as thick as her fragile body, and was topped with a canopy of lace and velvet. Her footstools were as high as her knee, her chairs built for men. She moved amid this ponderous splendor like a child in an adult world.
Annette was not deformed, though that was usually the first impression of strangers. Rather, she was undersized and underdeveloped, and walked so diffidently and so shyly that her little shoulders were always a trifle bent. Her poor little body was flat as a small board, and as fleshless. Her limbs were infantile, her hands like a young child’s. She had a sweet reedlike voice, and an embarrassed laugh. Congenital ill-health had stunted and withered her body, but had not touched her mind and spirit. Her tiny triangular face, white and somewhat worn as with suffering, was only the background for her large and beautiful light blue eyes. Her other features were delicate as transparent porcelain. Her hair was a very light color, almost ashen, and streamed down in ripples on her shoulders like the hair of an Alice in Wonderland. All her movements, however, were quick and resolute. Beside her, Celeste, small of stature herself, appeared robust and full of vital color. Annette had always been her father’s darling. She had not walked until she was four years old, and Armand had carried her in his arms whenever he was at home. In all the world, he loved no one but this fragile little creature, not even his handsome young son, Antoine, who resembled Jules Bouchard, his grandfather, quite astonishingly.
Annette had had the finest teachers. Long ago, she had shown a passion for music. She played many instruments, but preferred her gold-and-ivory harp. On this she would play for hours, improvising, humming an accompaniment, composing. Armand knew nothing about music, and cared much less. Yet he could sit by the hour watching his little daughter as she played, and found nothing more fascinating, nothing more delightful. At these times the heavy, somewhat brutal, more than merely ruthless, expression of his face would lighten, soften, and something would replace it, something somber, melancholy and tired. He could forget everything, from the hatred and envy that surrounded him, to the exigencies and sleepless anxieties that were his by virtue of his control of Bouchard and Sons. When he would watch the little fingers of his daughter feeling their way through the murmuring strings of her harp, and shaking out thin and airy drops of sound on the air, he would suddenly believe that nothing in the world was important at all, nothing except tenderness and protection and peace. Sometimes he would ask himself the ancient, world-worn question: Why do I do what I do? Of what value is it? Who ?wants what I have? Let them have it.
Once he asked Annette impulsively: “How would you like to go away with your Dad, somewhere far off, on a long vacation? Just you and me?” She had exclaimed with delight, and had left her harp and had run to him, to climb on his knee like a child. Yet, the next day, almost the next hour, he was embarrassed. When next he saw his daughter, he had been sheepish and uncomfortable, wondering how he could evade his proposal. But she had merely looked at him, and waited. When he said nothing, she had said nothing, either. She never mentioned it. At first he was grateful, hoping she had forgotten. Later, he decided she had not forgotten. Her silence was more painful to him than complaints or disappointment.
Celeste sat by the window, half listening to Annette’s improvising and composing. Every note was soft and rounded, fully formed in itself, never blurring into another. They left the strings like silver bubbles, breaking on the quiet air with an almost visible brightness.
Annette spoke, her voice seeming to accompany her music: “What are you thinking about, Celeste? You sit there like Sister Anne. Who are you waiting for?”
“Nobody.” Celeste moved the curtain with her hand, and affected to be absorbed in a study of the darkening sky. “It’s almost Christmas. What would you like for a present, Annette?”
When Annette did not answer, and the music softened almost to a whisper, Celeste turned and looked at her niece in surprise. Annette’s head was bent, the hair falling over her face, which was in complete shadow. Her hands continued to wander among the strings, hesitating, trembling. “Annette! What’s the matter? Did you hear what I asked you?”
Annette lifted her head. The spectral light was on her face, now, as it was on her hands. She was smiling. “Yes. I heard. Celeste, do you think I’m too young to fall in love? After all, I’m not much younger than you.”
Celeste stared, then laughed. “Why, Annette! Who is it? Do I know him?” She was so intrigued that she left her seat and went to the other girl. She sat down beside her, on a footstool. “Tell me, Annette. Who is it? Of course you’re not too young. You’re much older than most girls of your age, you know.”
Annette still smiled. She looked at Celeste with a sort of gentle light quivering on her face. She appeared almost beautiful. “Yes, dear, you know him. But please don’t ask me, just yet. You see, I’m afraid you might laugh. No, you wouldn’t really laugh, would you? But I want to keep it a secret for just a little while. Please? You see, when I keep it a secret, just to myself, I don’t mind the possibility of his not caring about me. But if someone else knew,
and he never could care about me, it would be just like—like making matters worse—”
“But who could help caring about you, Annette? Do you think Armand would mind? Is that the trouble?”
Annette laughed softly. “No, I think he would be glad. He likes—him. At least, I think so.” She struck the strings suddenly with a loud but muted sound, so that it seemed like a pang given articulation. Then her hands fell from them, into her lap. She sagged a little, as though tired. But she was smiling. “I’m glad you think I’m not too young. You see, he treats me like a baby.”
Celeste was both excited and surprised. She had never thought of Annette as one who could grow up, and marry, and live a normal life. When she had thought of the future, she had seen herself married to a shadowy but worshipped husband, probably with several children. But through all the years of the future she had seen Annette, unchanging, in this room, with her harp, always young and fragile and sweet, waiting to hear Celeste’s stories of her children and her husband and her maturing life. Now, it appeared that Annette could have desires and hopes and passions beyond this quiet room with the harp and the old heavy furniture. She decided it would take some time for her to orient this new picture of her niece. But when she tried to conjure up a vision of Annette as a wife and mother, with a home of her own, perhaps in another city, her imagination balked.
Feeling guilty, Celeste curled a strand of the ash-blonde hair about her fingers. Annette smiled at her sideways through her beautiful blue eyes. “You won’t, of course, say anything to anybody, Celeste?”