He heard Alexander’s booming voice roaring dimly in the background. No one was listening much, except his big handsome blonde sister, Alexa, and his mean little wife with the sliding pious eyes. He struck the table a suety blow and glared at them all.
“The trouble with all of us is that we no longer have the saving grace of the Lord Jesus Christ in our souls. We aren’t satisfied with frugality and simplicity and humbleness any more. We’re effete, that’s what we are! We want our bodies to be pampered and our minds to be amused. We’re loose-fibered and morally decadent.
“What’s happened to us Americans? Once we were cleareyed and heroic and patriotic. Now our people don’t care a bit if Europe doesn’t pay back our financiers the tremendous loans it borrowed during the war. No sense of responsibility! Wall Street practically beggared itself, and do our farmers and our workers care? Not a bit! They run around in their cars and go to the movies, and think they oughtn’t to work ten or twelve hours a day, as their ancestors did, and they don’t care whether our patriotic financiers get their money back— with interest,” he added. “And then those who fought in our armies think they ought to have pensions and bonuses and disability allowances for fighting for their own country—
Henri had been eyeing him with contempt. ‘‘Maybe they think a wooden medal isn’t sufficient recompense for a wooden leg,” he said.
Alexander glared at him. “That’s the whole thing! You’ve expressed their sentiments exactly. Glory and duty and patriotism aren’t enough for them. They want—”
“A share in the profits, perhaps,” interposed Henri.
Jean, who had been slumbering gently in his chair, was aroused. He sat up and surveyed the two antagonists with a grateful expression.
Alexander struck his hand passionately on the table again. “Why should they want profits? Eh? Who are they? They ought to be grateful to God that they live in America!”
“I imagine,” said Henri, smiling, “that it’s just as uncomfortable to starve in America as it is to starve anywhere else. But don’t mind me. Please go on.”
Alexander regarded him with bloodshot and bulbous eyes. “I didn’t think I’d hear such things from you, Henri. But I suppose, like a good many other people, you’ve been infected with Jew-Communism.”
Henri assumed an expression of bright childish interest. “Communism? I never heard of it. What’s Communism, Alec?”
Alexander fumed. He reddened. “What’s Communism? Why, it’s—it’s—I tell you what it is! It’s the damned working class thinking it’s as good as we are—and thinking it ought to have—what you said—a share in the profits. And besides, Communists believe in free love, in sleeping with every woman that catches their eye—”
Henri laughed. “I didn’t think that was peculiar to Communists. But you interest me. Please go on. Have we any Communists in America?”
“Have we! Just about every damn mechanic and shopgirl in the country is a Communist. First thing you know, we’ll have all our churches blown up, and private property confiscated. By 1930, we’ll all be ruined. Government ownership of everything and the Red Flag of Moscow flying from every public building! I know! You are all just sleeping with your eyes open, and refuse to see. And the Jews are the cause of it all.”
“Now that is very interesting. My information was that there were practically no Jews at all in the Soviet government—”
Alexander snorted. “Just lies! Russia is all Jews. And Mongols.”
Edith moved restlessly. She wished Henri would stop baiting this old fat magenta-faced fool. It was boring. The night was pleasant, and the room was hot, and she longed to get out. She glanced about the table. The women were dozing with open glazed eyes. But the men were listening with pleased faces and chuckles.
Henri was already bored. He eyed Alexander with a stuffed expression. He yawned. But Alexander was just getting into his stride.
He asserted that Jewish bankers were ruining the world. When Henri blandly expressed surprise that Jay Regan and most of the important others were Jews, Alexander glowered at him, and continued his tirade.
Suddenly he was back at his old plaint that there was no discipline or stability in America. The people were getting fat and lazy, and impudent. They formed unions. They lacked respect for property. They lacked morality. For some reason the subject of morality was one to which Alexander kept returning, like a fat avid fly to a jam jar. He licked his lips; he moved his bloated belly. Henri, quite interested now, leaned his chin on his clenched hand, and watched intently.
It seemed to Alexander that lack of morality and Communism were linked up with big wages and peace. Just how, he did not explain. But like all his kind, he believed what was nearest his desires. The only time the people were orderly and disciplined and meek and patriotic and moral and cleareyed was during war. War brought them strength and humility and self-sacrifice. They didn’t talk about sharing the profits then! It was enough for them that they were given a uniform and a band.
Henri laughed. He indicated Jean and the others with a wave of his hand.
“Then, you have very little to worry about, Alec. The boys here are already cooking up some more wars.”
Alexander paused. Jean laughed; Nicholas grunted some pleasantry. But Armand smiled a smile that was more a grimace. Then Alexander smiled. “Yes,” he said, “we’ve just got a new order, as you know, from Japan. Well, it’s about time they got after those Chinese Communists!” He became gloomy again, however. “But what about us? The American people are too selfish and unpatriotic to fight Japan.”
“Don’t worry,” said Henri. “The boys will get together with their patriotic pals in Europe, and they’ll find a devil for the people to hate and destroy. I don’t know who it will be, unless they can build up Germany again, and get a crackpot German leader to threaten the world, or democracy, or something else.”
Alexander scowled. “You talk loosely, Henri. But that’s because you aren’t connected actively with us.” Jean glanced at Alexander with warning dismay. Nicholas glowered. Armand bit his lip. But the stupid Alexander went on, oblivious.
“You’re just a rich young man. You don’t know the responsibilities we carry. You would, if you would only take an interest. But that’s neither here nor there. We were talking about something else. I like Germans; I always did. But I hate Britain and France. They’re riddled with Communism, and they induce Russia to destroy Germany. What? Nonsense? How can you know, Henri, when you have no active part in anything? We don’t foment wars. In a way, armaments manufacturers are really the protectors of the people’s morality; they keep the national backbone stiff and virile. They’re the physicians who administer purges to sick nations. They inspire manliness and keep patriotism alive. Germany was always a warlike nation, that’s why Germans are so superior to the effete French, who like peace. That’s why we’ve got to help Germany, which is a moral nation. And that’s what we’re doing. We’ll make Germany strong! And then—”
“We’ll fight her again, eh?” asked Henri, yawning.
Alexander smirked. “Perhaps. The people need to be stimulated to patriotism, in America. Perhaps when Germany gets to talking about her mission in the world, and they commit a few more atrocities, and threaten other nations, our lazy people will see their danger, and forget their unions and their profit-sharings and movies. We’ll make Germany so strong we’ll have to fight her!”
There was a slight movement next to Henri. He glanced up and saw that little Annette was standing. She stood, all tremulous, like a frightened creature preparing desperately for flight. She looked swiftly about the table, her lips parted in a smile of pain, her eyes distended. The men rose. She pressed her hands together. The women, aroused from their lethargy, rose too. There was a mass migration into one of the drawing rooms.
Annette sat down, not near her father, as usual, nor near Henri. She sat alone, her hands pressed together on her knee. All the color had gone from her face. She looked ill and frantically lonely. Yet,
when someone moved towards her she rose and sat down again at some distance. Everyone forgot her. She sat there in a corner, white-lipped, her eyes staring ahead. But Henri, across the great room, watched her, intrigued, more than a little moved, and full of pity.
Henri heard Armand speaking to him. Armand was asking him if he would come into the library for a few moments. When they were alone in the library, Armand, in silence, offered Henri a cigar, which he refused. Armand seemed ill at ease and unable to open a conversation. He sat down, crossed his knees, his expression more and more apprehensive and uneasy. Then he said hesitatingly: “You mustn’t listen too much to Alec. He’s the family clown.”
“You mean, he doesn’t know when he is telling the truth?” Armand flushed. He stared at his boots. “He’s a fool,” he said. He examined the end of his cigar minutely, while he continued: “Henri, would you like to take an active part in Bouchard and Sons?”
Henri smiled “My great-grandfather founded the whole business. Yet I can’t stir up interest, I’m afraid. Not in a petty position, at any rate.” He watched the other man closely.
Armand colored so deeply that his face was crimson. But still he did not look at Henri.
“I wish I had a son like you,” he said simply. “Antoine will never be a business man. His pet relative is old Etienne. I shouldn’t be surprised if he’ll turn out to be a damned actor, eventually. He writes to chorus girls. I’ve got only Annette—”
Henri was silent. Armand sighed. “Come to the office tomorrow. We’ll talk it over.” He stood up, met Henri’s eyes gravely and steadfastly. “My little girl is a woman now,” he added.
They went out together. Annette, in her far and dimly-lighted corner, was weeping.
CHAPTER XXIV
Adelaide knew that she had been utterly and finally betrayed by everyone.
She was no longer frantic. She was merely hopeless. After a few attempts, she made no more efforts to approach Celeste. Between herself and her young daughter a wall of ice had arisen, through which they glanced briefly at each other’s distorted images.
Adelaide knew that nothing but a miracle or death would prevent Celeste from marrying her cousin, Henri Bouchard. Celeste had taken on a rich maturity; all her soft features had become definite and sure. The pure strength of her face was more in evidence than ever. She did not avoid her mother, physically. In fact, she was gentler, yet in some way, harder. She spoke of Henri, when she had to, quietly and decisively, and refused to discuss him with Adelaide.
Now that it was early spring, Henri called for Celeste almost every morning to go riding with him. She would appear at breakfast, trim, slim and lovely in her riding clothes, the crop on the table beside her. She would eat her breakfast with her mother, speaking very little, and smiling amiably whenever Adelaide spoke. Her hair, pushed up under her hat, allowed, by its absence, the firm modelling of her cheeks and chin to show to great advantage, the steadfast cool light of her blue eyes. Before that reserve Adelaide could only endure silent despair. She watched her daughter’s every gesture with the sharpness of sorrow and hopelessness. When Henri was announced, and Celeste would rise hastily from the table, Adelaide saw how she colored, and heard her light laugh, quick and breathless and eager. Henri would come in easily, in his riding clothes, his crop in his hand. He would greet Adelaide politely, but hardly seemed to see her. He saw only Celeste, standing beside him, her cheek bones suddenly stained with fresh scarlet, her mouth smiling, her eyes confused.
Adelaide was sure that Celeste was in love with Henri. But Henri himself was not so sure. Other women had never kept him in doubt. At first, he thought it was natural coquetry on Celeste’s part. But later he knew it was complete innocence.
Sometimes Christopher would join them on their rides. But lately he had not. Henri did not seem surprised. He only smiled to himself. He knew a great deal more than anyone suspected.
He had not gone to see Armand at his office, giving as his excuse that he must have time to think certain matters over. However, some deep sadistic impulse in him drew him to Armand’s house and Annette. Annette did not repel him as she had done originally. He liked to talk to her, and listen to her play on her harp. He thought it a very pretty sight, and he was amused at the girl’s betrayal of passion for him. But he also pitied her. If it gave her pleasure to see him, and talk to him, then he would not deny her, he told himself reasonably. But under it all was his bottomless hatred for all the Bouchards, and even for Celeste, in spite of the fact that he was in love with her, and in love for the first time in his life.
He was having an excellent time among his numerous relatives. He was much wooed and sought after, for he could be charming when he wished. His female relatives, particularly, betrayed a touching solicitude for him and his sister, though they secretly disliked the dark and reserved Edith. But it was the relatives of his blood, the male Bouchards, who interested him most. He knew their intrigues, their envies and malignancies and greeds and plottings. He allowed them to believe he knew nothing. He enjoyed, enormously, their attempts to secure him. He listened to their whispered stories about each other, their innuendoes, their unfinished and jeering phrases. Edith, suspecting much about them, was sometimes appalled. She could not understand Henri’s private laughter and enjoyment or baitings. She did not hate her relatives; there were a few she liked. She had acquired quite a fondness for poor little Annette, for instance. And then, when she finally understood what had brought Henri back to Windsor, and what hatred prompted his every action, she felt revulsion, and even horror.
She admired Celeste’s beauty, but she saw more than that in the girl. She saw a firmness and ihtegrity which was also at rock bottom cold and immovable. Everyone spoke of Celeste’s shyness and innocence. Edith saw them also, but she saw under them a layer of pride and reserve greater than her own. The intimacy of marriage would do away with the shyness and the innocence, Edith thought, apprehensively. And then Henri would discover a wife who would oppose him if she suspected him engaged in opportunism or double-dealing. She would oppose him grimly and unremittingly, and would always find him out. Henri, a man, would soon adjust himself to it. Celeste would never be adjusted, or reconciled, and therein would be her endless misery. She would, through the stripping of her defenses, expose herself to a thousand wounds from every side, and would see at last the faces of all her relatives, and the face of the world.
And yet Edith knew that her own happiness was bound up in the eventual marriage between Henri and Celeste. Therefore, against the prickings of her own conscience, she aided and abetted Henri in his courtship of their cousin.
One morning, in April, Henri decided that he would ask Celeste to marry him. He called for the girl later than usual. They rode away in silence towards the park, which was embellished with the bronze statue of his great-grandfather, Ernest Barbour. It was their usual riding-place.
A soft green mist floated in the trees; blades of brilliant green were pushing through the brown earth. The sky was the color of polished silver. There was no fecundity yet, but the air had a warm and overpowering smell of life. The statue of Ernest Barbour, bronze and formidable, shone in the bright pale sunlight. Henri and Celeste rode to the base of the statue, and then dismounted. They sat negligently on the railing around it and stared contentedly through the brown tree-trunks and across the freshening grass. No one but themselves seemed to be in the park this early morning.
Henri smoked. The horses stood by, lifting their heads, sniffing the air. The sunlight made a brown moire pattern on their sleek bodies. Beyond the gates of the park cars were beginning to glide towards the city. Birds fluttered and scolded and chattered among the thin trees. The sun was warm on the faces of the silent young man and girl.
Celeste seemed to dream. She sat lightly on the railing, her slim knees crossed in their riding breeches. The pure strong modelling of her cheeks and jaw was almost aggressively revealed. Her lips were parted, and her eyes stared ahead. Her hands gripped her riding crop, not loos
ely, but competently. The collar of her shirt was open, and Henri could see the whiteness and softness of her young neck.
All at once the young man felt the most overwhelming desire for her, and a tenderness he had never experienced before. He felt his heart beating thickly in his throat; the beating suddenly swelled over his whole body; and his face so like that of the statue above him, flushed darkly. He put his hand over Celeste’s, and when she involuntarily tried to draw it away, his fingers tightened. She did not turn to him but color swept over her face, and her lips closed tightly as though she were holding her breath.
“Celeste,” he said, trying to keep his voice very light, “when are you going to marry me?”
She did not answer; she still stared ahead. There was an intensity and fixity about her features which intrigued and slightly alarmed him. Her eyes did not blink, and only her dilated nostrils showed the effect of his words upon her.
He kissed her hand, holding it first against his lips and then against his cheek. It was cold and soft, and then, to his surprise and gratification, she pressed it almost fiercely against his cheek, then snatched it away. She was looking at him now, laughing with little catches of her breath. But her eyes were shining and full of tears.
“I didn’t say I was going to marry you,” she said. Her voice was somewhat hoarse. They looked at each other, smiling, in silence. Celeste was not trembling, yet her slender body seemed to pulse, visibly. With a swift abruptness, Henri put his arms about her, pulled her to him, and kissed her full on the mouth. He felt her resist, and then felt her sudden surrender. A squirrel stopped before them, sat up on his tail, and surveyed them with his little savage eyes.
Henri released the girl. She fell back from him, and began to laugh again, faintly, with embarrassment. “Did anyone ever kiss you before, darling?” he asked, his eyes fixed on her mouth.